wanderer from birth

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Argentina

2011-08-15T23:36:00.000-07:00

I happen to be reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy at the moment. I’m not very far along yet, but from what I’ve read so far, Chris and my experiences hitchhiking from Mendoza down through Patagonia were nothing like intergalactic travel. For one thing, towels were not absolutely indispensable to our travel. For another, without exception everyone who picked us up did it knowingly and were generally very friendly.

This was a first for both of us—hitchhiking, that is—not friendly people or towels. Of course if you try hitchhiking in America today you are likely to either get arrested or dead. Gone are the days of Kerouac and his transcontinental peripatetic shenanigans, more’s the pity. But going along with what I said earlier about closing your eyes and pointing to a spot on the map/letting the wind take you where it will, I’ve long felt hitchhiking to belong to that exotic, carefree breed of travelers and ‘mad ones’ who, let’s admit it, we’ve all sort of envied at one point or another. You know the kind—the ones who get by selling trinkets and crafts in South American city squares, trinkets they’ve taught themselves to make on the road. Okay, secretly we also despise them just a little for being such ridiculous clichés and maybe for smelling a bit bad. But there is an undeniable admiration for those who live their lives without the fear of running out of money or not having a plan.

So when we walked to the edge of Mendoza and started down the shoulder of the highway south, Chris and I didn’t really know what to expect. We were pleasantly surprised to get our first ride within 10 minutes from a family in a red pickup. It was exhilarating! For those of you who maybe have hitchhiked since you were young pups nursing at your mothers’ breasts, it may not seem anything to write home about, but, well…shut up.

This was actually in another truck later on, but let's assume it was my first ride. Note the excitement that would be visible on my face if it were turned to the camera.

There are some pointers and/or road etiquette you should know if you ever happen to be hitchhiking in Argentina (let’s face it, there’s a pretty high likelihood of that), such as: all the people of Neuquén City are evil and if you are trying to get a ride on its city limits, good luck to you. Another gem can best be illustrated through a sample of conversation that might have taken place between Chris and me and sounded something like this:

Me: Hey, Chris, this guy’s pointing to the left. Whaddya think that means?

Chris: I don’t know, you’re the one who’s lived here for a year. What’s wrong with you?

Me: Shut your face.

Chris: Hey! He’s slowing down, I th-- [I should probably have mentioned beforehand that I would be facing backward to make eye contact with passing motorists and Chris would be facing forward, we didn’t just enjoy stating the obvious to each other, nor is this a terrible attempt at expositional dialogue]--ink he’s gonna give us a ride!

Me: Badass!

[we both start to run. much heavy panting and laboring under 50 lbs. of mostly extraneous baggage. car turns at crossroads and speeds up, fast receding into the distance.]

Me: Oh. I guess it meant he was turning left.

Chris: Balls.

Of course, we later discovered that pointing left did not at all mean that the potential hitchhikee was turning left, regardless of whether he or she did happen to be turning left. This became abundantly clear along stretches of highway where there were no turns in sight. After the sixth or seventh time this happened we started losing it. “Yah!” we would shout, jabbing our finger in a similar motion as the bemused people in the cars stared back. “Take that, you pointer, you! ” Sometimes their gestures varied, and it looked like the motorist was making a little tornado with their index finger as if to say, “Well boys, looks like we’re in for a twister. I’m afraid you’re S.O.L. Better luck next time,” or maybe “our bathroom drain was clogged for the longest time like you wouldn’t believe, but we finally managed to clean it out and now whoo boy! You should see the water go down. Looks sumpin’ like this.” We much later discovered that both were pretty well-known gestures in Argentine hitchhiking culture to mean “I’m not going far, just stopping up the road here. Sorry.” We did feel a bit like jerks for our vigorous finger pointing and yells, but hopefully they just thought we were epileptic or had nervous tics.

Our second ride was Hugo, a trucker of few—and I do mean few—words.

Another memorable ride was this wonderful, older couple who drove us as far as their home town, and invited us into their house for some cold lemonade before we hit the road again. Then there was the man who played Frank Sinatra on his stereo for a solid hour and a half. “Era el mejor cantante, no? Ya no hay artistas así, por Dios! Ojos azules se llamaba, sabías?” He’d apparently lived in the States for a while. “Bikers feel…”, he told me at one point, with great emotion and a dramatic pause. I was waiting for the punchline, thinking he didn’t really seem like the joke-telling kind, when it dawned on me: Bakersfield.

The couple who’d invited us into their house lived in a small town called Zapala, to the west of Neuquen City, a two or three-hour ride to San Martín de los Andes, our first destination in Patagonia.

“Whaddya think, should we try to get a ride to San Martín or just take the bus?”

“Hmm, maybe we try for a couple of hours and if no one picks us up we’ll get a bus. Sound good?”

“Alright.”

So we waited at the edge of town, the sun slowly setting and a bit of wind picking up.

“Hey Chris, I really need to go.”

“Well why don’t you go over there behind that little sand dune. There’s bushes.”

“Yeah, not that kind of go. You don’t have toilet paper, do you?”

“No.”

When nature calls though, who can resist? Prickly bushes do not make for good toilet paper, in case you were wondering.

And we ended up taking the bus.

Mendoza: Vineyards and Sun-kissed Beauties

2011-08-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

Chris had done his homework and arranged for us to stay with a couple of couchsurfers in the city of Mendoza. Nacho and Franco were wonderful hosts—not only did they give us all the pointers we needed to explore the city, but hearing how much we missed good bacon and eggs, they bought us some, which we woke up to the following morning!

Mendoza is pretty easy to navigate, and though not a particularly remarkable city in and of itself, is very relaxing and easy-going: it’s a joy to sit at cafés on the edges of its leafy plazas or wander its streets—the center is framed by four parks, one at each corner of a several block grid. A truly bizarre experience was a snake farm that resembled less a farm or museum or zoo than it did one of those eerie tunnel rides at an amusement park… it did feature a twenty foot python in a glass cage!

More of interest than the city itself were all the vineyards surrounding it, and it was with anticipation that we found a bike rental that supplied you with a map of the various wineries. We had fallen in with a fellow American the day before, Wiley J. by name, student by trade, recently come over from Chile where he had been for the semester or the year, I don’t remember. He gladly joined us, as we cycled the dusty backroads of Mendoza in search of a buena desgustación! Well unfortunately, and unbeknownst to us, the winetasting market had apparently grown cynical of all the freeloaders in recent years and had consequently started charging between 20 and 30 pesos per person for a tour. This was somewhat above our means, so, our spirits crushed, we were forced to settle for a wine museum (that nonetheless included a free tasting), a cheaper winery (15 pesos), and a family-run chocolateria. This last one proved an incredible find, though—molten chocolate infused with delightful hints of various fruits and liqueurs; the family also pickled their own olives in a slew of different spices and flavors, which we also got to sample. For my money, though, Argentina’s best kept secret are its Mendocinas—you can keep your Rosario girls any day!

Chris, Wiley (r.) and me with our lovely tour guide at the family-run chocolateria

On Leaving a Place

2011-07-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

Who knows if, when you finally leave a place for good and you feel like the place has well and truly started to grow on you and you’ve just found your place among a close circle of friends it’s because you really truly have; or because yearning immemorial for greener grass, and the eternally ineffable and poignant impermanence of human existence have called your number, and you need some reactionary heartstrings to be tugged at to avoid guilty feelings that you are a cold and impersonal drifter wandering through the world and life with no close relationships, a tree with no roots, the disease rather than the cure?

So I wondered as I said farewell to mi Buenos Aires querido after a year and change there. I had started my online application to join the Peace Corps in June 2009, and reading that the whole process took anywhere from 3-9 months, I planned to give my notice in December and get a bit more South American traveling under my belt before I was done. The idea was to travel around Argentina’s Western wine region of Mendoza and hitchhike down through the remote and storied wildernesses of Patagonia, before traveling up through the Bolivian Andes and the South of Peru to the ruins of Macchu Pichu. From there I would fly up to Northern California to visit Marjana and AJ for a month or so before (as I thought), I would be sent somewhere with the Peace Corps.

All that remained was to find a traveling partner, as I’d learned from my European experience that, while traveling solo can have its rewards, being on the road by yourself can also be very lonely. I used couchsurfing.org, a website that has proved invaluable for thousands of travelers all over the world; in fact, I met many of my Buenos Aires friends through couchsurfing, and played football once a week with that crowd. Chris S., a recently arrived college graduate from the U.S., answered my post, and we met at a café to see if we’d be able to stand each other’s company for three weeks. We figured we could, so with a little planning and a lot of excitement, we set off in a bus for Mendoza a week or so later.

Learning the language

2010-07-29T00:17:00.000-07:00

"England and America are two countries separated by a common language" -- An overquoted witticism of George Bernard Shaw's that nonetheless rings true to me.

Of course, you could say the same of the Spanish spoken in Latin America as opposed to in Spain, the Portuguese of Brazil as opposed to that of Portugal or Angola, etc. It is even more extreme in the Arab world, where very little is mutually intelligible between say, a Moroccan and a Saudi, if they are speaking in dialect.

Those of you who have learned another language know firsthand the difficulties, frustration, joy, hilarity, bewilderment and satisfaction that result!

Language was probably my primary motivation in going to South America, and definitely the main factor in choosing Argentina over Brazil, Spanish being my Moby Dick. I had spent two years at university in Spain, but besides my Spanish being rustier than I liked, there was always the knowledge niggling at me that I hadn't really put in the effort to learn the language as well as I could have. That I went to an American university there was not really a factor--I had chosen that beforehand. But fate, circumstance and, most significantly complacency and comfort, saw me surround myself with English-speaking friends.

As much as I love Madrid, I never really felt a connection to Spaniards my age; those at St. Louis University kept to themselves and were probably not the best representatives, to be fair. So despite leaving Spain fairly fluent and able to more or less communicate what I wanted to, I always felt I'd sold myself a bit short in that language experience, and I would never feel really good about it until I'd returned to the fray and harpooned the beast.

My linguistic foray into Argentine Spanish thus started with some trepidation, but rapidly turned into one of the most fun language-learning experiences I've had. Rioplatense is the name given to the version of Spanish spoken by those living near the banks of the Rio de la Plata in Argentina and Uruguay, and what an expressive and exuberant little bugger it is! Since there are so many people of Italian heritage, the cadence is much more noticeable than in other Spanish dialects. And if you don't know how to use your hands, 'olvidalo, che!' ('forget it, maaan!') Besides the sing-song tone and the wild gesticulations are the expressive sayings and vocabulary of lunfardo, as the slang of the capital is known. I was fortunate enough to hear of Che boludo! which is an absolute must read if you are going to be in Buenos Aires for any significant length of time. The phrase "Che boludo" roughly means "Hey, dude" and is ubiquitous. Of course, it suffers from overuse by foreigners trying to fit in, but you will hear it aplenty if you spend time with Argentines. Following are some of my favourite phrases, words, and expressions gleaned from the pages of Che boludo! and from many many conversations throughout the year. The book also covers (if somewhat briefly), the differences between the standard Spanish 'Tu' and the very Rioplatense 'Vos'.

Che - Hey, man, dude, bro(seph), buddy, etc.

Boludo - Idiot [when used with friends, a term meaning dude, man, bro, etc.]

Viste? - You know? [literally Did you see? Not a word exclusive to Argentina, but this particular use is]

Tipo - 1. Guy [literally type] 2. About/Like [E.g. 'Vamos al shopping tipo diez' - We're going to the mall at about/like 10]

Mina - Chick, girl

Quilombo - Mess [The normal Spanish word for mess is 'lío', so if you use 'quilombo' Argentines will love you for it.]

Chabón - Guy [used in reference, but not normally to get someone's attention]

Boncha - Chabon. This is an example of a phenomenon in lunfardo where you reverse the syllables of a word to get the same meaning. So feca = café (coffee) and sope = peso (their currency)

Bondi - Bus

Te parece? - How about it/You think? [Once again, not exclusive to Argentina, but this use is. *This is not a sarcastic You think? like in English]

Re - Really

Fiaca - Laziness [As in: 'Me da fiaca (hacer algo)' - I can't be bothered (to do something) OR 'Estoy haciendo fiaca nomás' - I'm just hanging out, not doing anything]

Nomás - Just (roughly translated) Used for emphasis ['Pasá' - Come in. 'Pasá nomás' - Come on in.]

Pedo - Fart [literally, but used as in conjunction with different prepositions to mean a variety of things]:
   En pedo - Drunk
   Ni en pedo! - Not even drunk! [I.e. No way (am I doing that)!]
   Al pedo - Useless, Doing nothing ['Estoy al pedo' - I'm not doing anything]
   A los pedos - Very fast ['Ibamos a los pedos!' - We were booking it!]
   De pedo - By chance

Que garrón/embole/bajón - Bummer!/That sucks!

, eh? - Used to add meaning e.g. 'Gracias, eh?' - I appreciate it (as opposed to a simple thanks)

Me mataste - You've got me [when you don't know the answer to something. Literally You killed me.]

No hinches, che! - Don't be a pain! [Literally Don't bust my...well, you know.]

These words are powerful, my friends. Use them wisely. Suerte!

My Teaching Experience

2010-06-19T22:45:00.000-07:00

My teaching experience in Buenos Aires was as different as I expected it to be from that of Ankara. In Turkey we were put up in some pretty nice digs on the university campus, with return airfare, health insurance and meal tickets to boot. It was also (supposedly) Turkey's most prestigious university, a gargantuan, not-so-smoothly-oiled machine of bureaucracy. On the other hand, my quest to find a job as an EFL teacher in Buenos Aires, while not lengthy, involved a bit more elbow grease, such as a lot of emailing and hoofing it round in an Argentine summer to various institutes, resume/CV in hand.

As providence had it, one of the apartments I went to see--and which I eventually chose--also happened to double as an English institute in the room above our place, the director (and half of the staff) also being the landlady of the apartment. But that would only provide me with enough hours to fill half the week, so I had to keep looking. Fortunately within three weeks of arriving I'd landed a job at IdiomaNet, a business English institute on Viamonte in the financial district of downtown Buenos Aires. This turned out to provide the lion's share of my teaching, but it was nice to be able to finish the day's teaching above my apartment and to already be home.

I won't lie and say teaching English in Buenos Aires is anywhere near as lucrative as elsewhere in the world, for example as it can be in the Middle East or the Far East. But nor was I nearly as bad-off as many local people, so I couldn't really complain. If I'd wanted to I could have survived on what normal hours of teaching would have made me. But it didn't take long to determine that if I wanted to travel around Argentina and the rest of South America a bit I would have to work as many hours as they could give me. So I did. No two days were the same in terms of schedules, but some went from 8.30 am to 9.30 pm, and none ended before 7.30 pm. This wasn't solid teaching throughout the day, however; the system worked as follows. IdiomaNet would either host classes at the institute, or if the company preferred (remember it was all business English), send the teacher to their company building, where the class would take place. I would get the train into Retiro every morning, and walk to the institute, where several days of the week I taught my first class. Otherwise I would get a bus from Retiro straight to whatever company I was teaching my first class at. Throughout the day I was constantly crisscrossing the city on its underappreciated but very overused, extensive network of buses.

Depending on the particular day and hour, this could mean stopping for a leisurely coffee or lunch someplace in between classes, or, as was more often the case, a mad dash for the bus stop the second I could get out of class in order to ensure I got to the next class on time. The upside of this system was that it was rarely monotonous and I got to (if in a sort of perverse way) 'see' some of the city. The downside was that we didn't get paid for our travel time, of course, nor were we reimbursed for the insane amount of bus fares that inevitably added up. More frustrating even than that is that the bus system, at least the vast majority of lines while I was there, operated on a coins-only basis, which meant you were constantly having to either a. make sure you had enough coins to last the day before you left home or b. buy chewing gum and other sundry items you didn't need throughout the day in order to have enough coins! Of course this latter option (which I inevitably had to resort to on most occasions) meant shrewdly calculating, at a frantic pace while rushing for the next bus, what item you could buy, based on the bill denominations you had in your wallet, that would mean the vendor would give you enough change for the bus, but not so much that he or she could give you a bill back, thus stymying your efforts to make your next lesson on time because you couldn't take the bus or had to make another useless (and increasingly expensive) purchase.

It all worked out in the end. I made some friends through my classes, which were a lot more relaxed and low-key than in Turkey, since in Turkey we were not supposed to 'fraternize' with the students. Their words, no joke. There were also plenty of good-natured and somewhat heated debates on the various pros and cons of Spanish vs. English, to say nothing of all the political, sporting, business, cultural, gossip, religious, and philosophical bases we touched on.

The beautiful game

2010-05-12T13:44:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows football reigns supreme in Argentina, and nowhere is this more the case than in Buenos Aires, which plays host to El clasico, the derby between the capital's ultimate rivals: Boca Juniors and River Plate. (Yeah, weird name I know, pronounce it like you would in English but with a Spanish accent--It comes from Buenos Aires' iconic Rio de la Plata, or River of Silver, which apparently was mistranslated by early British residents. I need to check on that, though.)

Boca Juniors (home colours: blue and gold), erstwhile club of Maradona, is Argentina's most well-known and supported club, particularly outside the country, but within the country, River Plate (home colours: red and white) isn't too far behind. As soon as an Argentine finds out that you care in the least about football, they will inevitably ask you, "De quien sos hincha?" ("Who do you support?") And woe betide whoever gives the wrong answer!

One thing that sets the teams apart could be said to be class. Although I've been met with half-hearted rejections of the theory (most often from admittedly well-to-do River fans), most would agree that the fan base of Boca is by and large the working class, while the patrons of River, although they come in all shapes and sizes, are more often than not...shall we say...more financially stable? The location of Boca's and River's stadiums, La Bombonera and Monumental, respectively, speaks volumes in this regard. While La Bombonera is on the banks of the noxious, reeking Riachuelo canal in the dangerous southern barrio of La Boca, Monumental is in the more affluent northern Belgrano/Nunez neighbourhoods with their peaceful tree-lined avenues and upmarket eateries. The stadiums themselves reflect the economic difference, too: Monumental hosts international matches, and can seat 66,000 spectators in relatively comfortable conditions. The Bombonera, on the other hand, though only able to seat 49,000, is by far the most atmospheric football experience to be had in Argentina.

La Bombonera, with its steep, close stands

My first experience with Monumental and Argentine football in the flesh was at an international match between Argentina and Peru, a rather important one in fact--a qualifying match for FIFA World Cup 2010. The opportunity came about unexpectedly; I sometimes worry that I am too much of a plan-oriented person and envy those into whose laps adventure seems to fall because of their spontaneity and willingness to let the wind carry them where it will. This is one of the reasons I chose Argentina although I didn't have a particularly good reason to go there or anything lined up. It's also the reason I jumped at the chance to see go to my first international match in Argentina despite being in a bit of a financially tight spot at the time. I was hanging out with some friends in Recoleta one Sunday afternoon when Johan, a Colombian-American friend mentioned he had an extra ticket to the match he would sell to anyone who wanted to go. A bit later that afternoon I was debating going and after finally deciding to, I went back and told him I'd take it...only to find out he'd just sold it to another friend! But they suggested I might be able to get a ticket at the gate from a hawker, so that's what I did, and after a bit of haggling by yours truly, it turned out to be not only cheaper than theirs, but in a better position! Of course the downside of this was that I was alone in a row of strangers for the match...

But it was a good experience anyway. I got to see Maradona pacing the sideline in his requisite tracksuit (which he never seems to be without), a bit of Messi magic (although he definitely disappoints a bit on the international stage as opposed to when he plays for Barca), and an absolutely torrential downpour. It was possibly the heaviest rain I've ever experienced, and that while sitting passively out in the open with nothing to shelter under! It started around halftime and never let up significantly for one moment. In the last ten minutes, I retreated to an upper level of the stands to stand under a very inadequate outcropping of cement. In fact, by the end it was so torrential that, Peru having equalized on the 89th minute, I was turning to go when I sensed some buildup from the noise. Sure enough, as I squeezed my face in between the squelching and slick flanks of two stout supporters, Palermo notched Argentina's second of the night in the last minute of injury time, sending the whole stadium into wild paroxysms of joy. The crowds outside made the prospect of and my futile attempt at taking public transport home totally unrealistic, so I walked the 25 odd blocks home in the deluge, my trainers squeaking and splashing every step of the way, but a smile on my face.

My next experience was at the hallowed grounds of La Bombonera, once again with Johan and co., although this time I was seated with everyone. I should say standing, because at a Boca match there is pretty much standing room only. Although the action on the pitch was forgettable--it was a 0-0 draw with Colon, the atmosphere was as electric as at any Boca match, bar only El Clasico. The stands were a riot of blue and gold, the air heavy with chants of "Vamos, Boca, vamos!" and many other less savory cries that I won't print here. A word to the wise though: if you ever go to a Boca match, it's a good idea to make sure you DON'T get a ticket in the La doce section (not sure if you can anyway, if you're not a season ticket holder)--this is Boca's notorious firm of hooligans. It gets crazy in there, let me tell you. The above picture is me at the match, with a (crazy) Argentine friend of Johan's.

My final football-spectating was a River Plate match at Monumental at the end of November '09, just before I finished my time in Argentina. A student, Rodrigo, was kind enough to invite me to go with him, so I took him up on the offer. Being a much more spatially open stadium (La Bombonera's stands are very steep and the atmosphere is almost claustrophobic because of the proximity of the rectangular stands to each other and to the pitch), Monumental doesn't have the same atmosphere, but the match itself was fun to watch as the sun dipped over the stand opposite ours and the heaviness of the warm summer evening set in. The final result was a 1-1 draw with Estudiantes, which was fielding Juan Sebastian Veron himself, ex-Boca, Inter, Man Utd and Chelsea midfielder and a regular callup to the national side. Also notable was another of Argentina's former national team members, Ariel Ortega, who scored River's exciting equalizer on the 90 minute mark.

I'm having troubles uploading any pictures of Monumental, I'll try again later. Both photos above courtesy of Johan.

Eating in Buenos Aires

2010-04-09T22:42:00.000-07:00

I just may think about food a bit too much. I will often be wandering around a new city in the morning and find myself more focused on what to eat for lunch, what succulent morsel or guilty pleasure to indulge in, than the 800 year-old cathedral or world-renowned museum I am in, or the charming shop facades passing by.

Well that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but food is often on my mind, so what would this blog be if it didn't include a paean to foods of the world, in this case Argentine cuisine?

First and foremost, of course, is the asado. From the verb asar, to roast or grill, the asado is basically the Argentine version of the barbecue. But it is so much more. While Americans and Brits fire up their portable grills in the summertime, Argentines have asados year-round, come rain or shine, snow or hail. Thus they not only have a term for their grill--parrilla, but also for the hut/area in which it is housed in anticipation of inclement weather--quincho. And it's no wonder--if you have tasted Argentine beef from its fertile pampas, expertly seasoned (although often salt is all that is needed and used) and grilled to succulent perfection--you will know just why they eat it year-round and never get tired of it. Whether it's chorizo (a type of sausage), asado, or vacio (both different cuts), or what's more common, a large helping of all--the asado is something not be missed if you ever travel to Argentina. I didn't experience as many as I would have wished for, but some notable ones were spent on the terraced rooftop of our apartment with my roommates, not to mention a memorable one at Ezeiza park with a friend, Fabian, and his family. Below is my humble attempt to evoke an evening on the rooftop with good food and good friends.

Ode to the Asado

Beneath the fading sun of southern skies,

Parrillas coaxed to life on terrace tiles,

Chorizo and vacio hiss and fry,

As sultry tango floats, porteño guile,

Across the rooftops. In reply--the scent

Of charcoal, meat, and sizzling fat, and sweat

And tears and blood and thirty years' dissent

And football hopes and laughter, no regrets.

The meat is off the grill, the sun is gone,

And wine and jokes flow till the break of dawn.

With Diego, roommate/the best asador (griller) I know!

Pizza
Argentina, but specifically Buenos Aires, owes its incredible and unmissable pizza and pasta prowess to its Italian heritage, which accounted at peak times of immigration during the 20th century for almost as much as its numbers of Spanish immigrants. Pizza is a funny thing, you know. When I first arrived in Buenos Aires I couldn't get enough of this new style; it is different from American pizza, both the fast food and gourmet varieties, although both thin-crust and deep-dish styles exist there. But by the end of my year (actually well before), I was craving p-p-pepperoni, which is nowhere to be found there! American and Argentine pizzas both have their charms, though.

Food can be incredibly cheap down there, too; my regular local haunt was a place by the name of Fabrica de Pizzas, which offered medium-sized cheese pizzas (definitely better than your average fast-food cheese pizza this side of the Panama Canal) for anywhere from--depending on inflation--5 to 7 pesos ($1.29-$1.80). Aaah! A staple for me during my time at Calle P.I.Rivera 3720 B. Another favourite--though slightly more expensive at 10 pesos a pizza--was Ugi's, very popular among the masses (trans-lingual pun, some of you out there will get it).

Empanadas
Sing, muse! Enough cannot be said about the joys of empanadas. Whether it's carne picada, carne suave, jamon y queso, roquefort, or pollo; whether it's cooked al horno (baked) or frito (fried); whether it's an empanada salteña (from Salta) or an empanada porteña (from Buenos Aires). One of my regrets (the other being only taking one class of tango) is not learning to make empanadas while I was there. It is basically a semi-circular pastry with a filling inside, either baked or fried, and muy cheap. Normally 2 pesos a pop, occasionally 1.50, four easily made for a nice little meal, though of course if my finances were in good shape 5 or 6 never failed to hit the spot! "Barriga llena, corazón contento" (gracias, Carlitos!)

Ice cream
Though asado remains my favourite staple among Argentina's cuisine, its ice cream surely comes a close second. Another throwback to its large Italian immigrant population, helado finds its roots in the semi-fluid gelato, and Buenos Aires' barrios have refined the art to a perfection. It may be a case of natural bias, but I honestly found nowhere in all my rambling and roaming of the capital that had as delicious ice cream as the ice cream parlour across the street from my apartment, Lucca. People will try telling you Freddo, Persicco or Jauja. Believe me, they don't come close. Some standout flavours were Tiramisu, Pear, and Sambayón.
If you ever find yourself in Buenos Aires of a warm afternoon, hop on the Bartolomé Mitre train from Retiro, and get off at the station Coghlan. Incidentally, the barrio (neighbourhood) of Coghlan was named after the station, rather than vice-versa, as one might expect. Crossing a little bridge over the tracks and going down the stairs on the other side, you pass through a leafy little plaza where some kids will be playing football and some men who have seen better days will be boludeando at the stone tables or day-dreaming on the benches there. Continuing through the plazoleta, half a block up on the left you will find Lucca: Helados Artesanales. You never spent a better 6 pesos in Buenos Aires.

Just to the Southwest of Lucca (down and to the left) is the train station, along with its leafy little plaza.

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"Bienvenido a Argentina...sos yanqui, no?"

2010-03-28T18:21:00.000-07:00

I approach the customs and immigration desk nervously, hoping they don't ask me how long I plan to stay in Argentina. What will I say? Not the best time for a crisis of conscience, but knowing that I'm entering on a tourist visa with plans to find a job there and work illegally, I can't help but wonder.

Feigning nonchalance I step up, hold my breath...and blink, surprised, as the official stamps my passport and utters an entirely unconvincing "Bienvenido." I'm through! Following some wrangling in my rusty Spanish with a bus driver outside the terminal, I'm on my way to the downtown. My guidebook gives me a rough idea of where I need to get off to find a hostel, and I ask the driver to please let me know when we get there.

Highways and fields give way to suburban sprawl, which in turn yields to the more compact, taller--and noticeably older--buildings of the city center. Rose and beige-coloured stone buildings cram together, jostling for space on narrow sidewalks and the traffic follows suit, the free-flowing autopistas becoming avenidas becoming calles chockablock with the sounds, smells, and sights of city life. The long road leading into the city of Buenos Aires is known as Rivadavia--it's reputed by porteños (the capital's residents) to be the longest street in the world. Of course, I'll come to learn during my year in Argentina that Argentina also boasts the widest avenue in the world, not to mention being the nation to invent the ballpoint pen and the bus.

Despite hearing from various sources that Buenos Aires is the "Paris of South America", I can't help but note more similarities in architecture with Madrid as the bus groans and hisses through barrio after barrio. Finally the bus driver shouts a hoarse "Che!" in my direction, and signals that it's my stop.

As I step off the bus on the corner of Avenida 9 de Julio and Rivadavia my senses are overwhelmed by surroundings at once completely unfamiliar--it is my first time in South America, my only unvisited continent to date except for Antarctica--and vaguely reassuring. October 23, 2008: not quite yet the sweltering humidity of a Buenos Aires summer but all vestiges of winter long gone. The tiles on the pavement, the warmth and sunshine, sidewalk cafes--all remind me of the Middle East, especially Morocco; while the language swirling around me and the architecture echo Europe--Madrid especially comes to mind. I think I'm going to like it here.

I readjust my gargantuan hiking backpack (a hand-me-down, light green, sporting a conspicuous tag reading "WOMEN") and try to get my bearings, when I hear the heavy beat of a bass drum, followed by the trrrrrrrrr! of a snare drum. A mass of people with blue banners that mirror the cloudless sky overhead is advancing up the avenue towards me, the percussionists in the vanguard. It's not going fast enough to be a "wave of humanity"--more like a sluggish river flowing inexorably towards its destination, but in no hurry to get there. Ah, the famed South American demonstration, or 'manifestacion'! I'm aware of a goofy smile on my face at this first 'cultural experience' and quickly try to muster an appropriately solemn and commiserative face for this unknown cause, as I weave between the stragglers towards the hostel implied by Lonely Planet to be the best bang for my buck.

An unassuming building on Calle Hipolito Yrigoyen, it's not hard to find, and without much ado I book in. My Argentine adventure has begun.

Paris...and after

2009-10-17T19:31:00.000-07:00

It's been a year since my last blog. I don't know why I bother coming back, to be honest. Perhaps it's that indomitable (some would call it stubborn) human nature to see a task through to the end. That said, this was never supposed to be a task...enough about that though. Onto the task at hand :)

France
After Rome I went to Paris for a week. It was initially meant to be more than just Paris, to include Nice or Marseilles as well. Unfortunately my plans snafued. So I caught a train from Milan through Switzerland (where I spent a pleasant afternoon in quaint Bern), and on to Lyons, birthplace of the French writer Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He is best known as the author of Le Petit Prince (The Little Prince), a fellow traveler. I was there for only one night though, before heading on Paris.

Le Louvre

I had been looking forward to Paris maybe more than any other stop on my trip; for almost as long as I could remember I'd wanted to visit it, and this was finally it, my opportunity. A friend of mine, Sophie, had very generously offered to put me up at her apartment for the week I was going to be there, and it proved to be a godsend, as my money was fast drying up. What a great week though! Paris entirely lived up to my expectations. To see and visit all these icons of culture and history that I had read about and only seen in books and postcards for years! To finally climb the Eiffel Tower, marvel at Notre Dame, meander the halls of the Louvre, and wander the hills of Montmartre was without doubt among the highlights of the summer.

Sophie was quite amused at my passion for cafe au lait and croissants; she took this photo of me unawares

I wish I could talk more about the spirit of the time there, or any of the rest of my summer for that matter, but it has been a year, and all that remain are the events, the sights I saw. So I'll have to leave Paris at that.

After Paris I took a train to Calais, where I caught the ferry to Dover, and proceeded on to London. I had a good day there, visiting the British Museum, which is well worth the visit! Not only is it free, but it has a wonderful and really well laid-out collection of artifacts (many plundered...) and resources as well, like free guided tours for each section of the museum. Highly recommended.

Scotland
Finally the last leg of my trip had arrived. I hopped on a train to Edinburgh which I am a bit embarrassed to say I had never visited, despite claiming half Scottish blood! I spent the better part of the morning looking around it, before reboarding the train for the trip to Dingwall.

A view over Dingwall and the Cromarty Firth
I don't feel at home anywhere in this world, but of the few places I feel a real affinity for Dingwall is one of them. It's a strange dynamic. I couldn't live there. I know I would grow to hate it. But there is a haunting, melancholic kind of beauty hanging over that valley that never fails to find me when I visit (Runrig's music really captures some of this, especially the song--ironically--Canada), from the fog rolling in from the firth to a sunrise seen from Knockbain road amid a pastoral setting of cows quietly chewing and birds chirping. I spent a relaxed and peaceful three weeks there with Mum, Dad, and Kirsty, before flying to Madrid to relive the glory days from university for a week!

Madrid
I probably should have realized that it's a bit hard to relive your glory days in a place when all the friends from those days are no longer there. It was a bit of a quiet and lonely week as a result, but I won't deny it did my heart good to see some of the old haunts again, to visit the university campus, to walk some of the same streets again and have an incredible Madrid kebab again. The cool thing was being able to speak to the kebapci in Turkish!

U.S.A.

Me in Times Sq., NYC
After my week in Madrid I flew to New York via Dublin, where I spent a day wandering the grounds of Trinity College, eating fish and chips (a disappointing one it must be said), and trying to experience all the Irishness I could in a few hours. In New York I was met at the airport by Brad, who I hadn't seen in two years, and by Nika. My time in New York was short, but sweet: the people I was visiting had already seen the sights so many times they would've killed themselves rather than see them again, so I didn't get to do all the touristy stuff, but to be honest I was alright with that. Besides, I really wouldn't have had the time to enjoy it. Instead I did have a really fun and relaxing time walking around, and managed to take in Central Park and Times Square, and got to chow down on some amazing Japanese and Egyptian cuisine. No one can deny NYC has incredible eating options!

With Nika and Brad in NYC

After New York I flew to Montana with nothing but $46 in cash but some traveller's cheques still to cash. Imagine my horror to find out that without having a bank account at any of the banks in Bozeman I couldn't cash the cheques!! I was panicking at first, but thankfully a friend of a friend volunteered to get them cashed so I was set. After a couple of days there seeing some old friends and revisiting the university I finally flew down to Colorado to visit AJ and Marjana.

I ended up spending longer than I had planned in Cortez, CO, but it was a great time for some R & R. As well as going for a beautiful hike up in the Rockies and a surreal trek through the lunar landscape of Bisti park, I had some serious couch potato time: Marjana and AJ convinced me the show Friends really wasn't the devil, and so I finally relented and watched it. All 10 seasons of it!

Hiking in the Colorado Rockies with AJ and Marjana

More than anything though, as in Scotland, it was the people and not the places that made the experience worth it. It was lovely just to spend a good length of time with family again. And although all good things must come to an end, they more often that not give way to other good things. So it was with some sadness, but also much excitement, that I finally started on my way down South, South, South...to Argentina.

Bellissimo! Venice, Florence and Rome

2008-10-03T15:08:00.000-07:00

They say Venice (Italian: Venezia) is a city for lovers. To me it seemed more like a city of tourists. I mean, really, everything was geared to tourists (I think that's only true of the historic city, however, which is where I spent my time in Venice), and on top of that, when you hear about the canals, I didn't realize there would literally only be canals and pavements and squares. I thought there would be roads and maybe some cars, but sure enough: it's canals, baby. Canals.

Venice's famous Grand Canal

Anyway, I didn't have the best time in Venice, mostly because I was pretty exhausted arriving there, and I got eaten alive by mosquitos my first night there. I later counted well over 40 bites...and those were just the ones I could see! Anyway, I'm not saying Venice couldn't be an amazing experience, but if I went back there it would be with someone or a group, definitely not in summer (it was pretty sweltering), and only if I had a suffienctly higher budget. As it was it was pretty cool to wander around all the canals and piazzas (i.e. squares, not pizzas). Especially noteworthy was St. Mark's Square and the Basilica there. It's true that Venice is a really beautiful city, but my advice is to go during a cooler period of the year, have plenty of money to spend, and someone(s) to spend it with.

P.S. A ride on a gondola is anywhere upwards of 80 Euros. Not that I went on one.

An interesting anecdote before I left for Florence: as I was waiting in the Venice train station, a very loud woman and her (I guessed) mother, who was middle-aged, plunked themselves down next to me on my bench. I think the daughter must have had something wrong with her mentally from the way she was acting, but about 20 minutes after they'd first sat next to me (the mother was away for a few minutes), the young woman walked to the center of the hall and lay down on the floor, facing up. I exchanged a slightly amused glance and shrug with some other young travelers a few yards away, but when after 10 minutes there was no sign of life from her the other travelers appeared concerned, and went over and started trying to wake her. This drew a crowd of Italian youths, who also tried various methods of waking her. At one point, someone lifted her leg and she suddenly sat up and cried out! Then she jumped up and, looking very frightened started shouting and backing away from the people. Her mother eventually reappeared, and things settled down, but not before some policemen had been called in. I was chatting with the other young travelers later (Danish high school students), and they said the Italian guys had theorized it was an attempted con trick in which everyone's attention was on the young woman while the older riffled through people's unattended belongings. Thankfully I'd stayed with my stuff, and they'd made sure someone had stayed with theirs, so I don't think anyone was robbed that time.

After Venice it was on to Florence, and possibly my favourite leg of the Italian adventure.

Florence's beautiful skyline

Not only was the city compact and very walkable, but my lodgings (a campsite overlooking the city where you don't need your own tent or equipment) were cheap at 15 euros a night, and all the facilities I needed right there. I also met some friendly travelers my own age or thereabouts, a couple of sisters from Australia and an American student studying in Paris and on a long weekend break to Florence. Of course I visited several of the main attractions while I was there, including the incredible and beautiful Basilica Santa Maria del Fiore (in photo above), supposedly the 4th largest cathedral in the world. It was certainly memorable, and makes the beautiful skyline of Florence (or Firenze in Italian) what it is.

My highlight, however, and one of the highlights of my entire summer, was the Michelangelo's statue of David at the Accademia Museum. If you haven't seen it in person, look it up on the internet by all means, but know that pictures simply do not do it justice. I'd seen plenty of pictures of it, and was somewhat excited to see it, but the detail and (if a statue can possess this) charisma were stunning, and made my stay in Florence more than worth it. Something that definitely has to be seen in person.

Florence was above all a beautiful city, due in large part to its architecture (not that I know anything much about that subject), but I couldn't stay forever, so after two days, headed for the seat of that epitome of imperialism, Rome itself.

Rome came a close second to Florence in Italy, although by this time I was tiring of the whole 'on the road' experience, and especially the lack of company that was part of it. As it was, I still managed to take in the Colosseum, which was quite awe-inspiring (another highlight); that took up the better part of an afternoon. I also went to the Vatican city, and had some incredible pizza by the kilogram at a little pizzeria a few blocks from it.

A rough idea of where this pizzeria was (Piazza San Pietro just to the West of the river is the main square of the Vatican, so to speak):

View Larger Map

Of course my trip to the Vatican city had to include the museum, as this housed the famous God and Adam painting of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. I happened to be in quite a hurry (there was some time constraint that I can't remember) to see the painting, and entered the museum really to see the Sistine Chapel, despite the 8 euro entrance fee. Still, the Chapel was worth it.

Finally, it was on to France, or so I thought...

It turns out that the ferry from Civitavecchia (near Rome on the West coast of Italy) to Toulons in France was not leaving on the day I made the trip out to the little seaside town, so instead I had to catch the next train back to Rome (1 hour) and get an overnight train up to Milan.

The Best of the Balkans: July 21-August 2

2008-09-04T12:42:00.001-07:00

This blog, it seems, is getting more and more infrequent and general. The title of this post bears witness to the fact. This is mostly because a. I was worried about running out of money, and spending 3 euros a time on the internet seemed like too much to waste any of the time on writing blog posts when I could be emailing and facebooking and researching the name for giant greek beetles and b. I thought it would be rather pathetic to say to people I´d spent the majority of my time in Europe blogging about it rather than actually seeing it.

Skopje, Macedonia

100 Macedonian Denari:

That said, the Balkans were great, and despite having enough to say about certain ones to fill several posts, I´ll be brief. Macedonia, or its capital Skopje to be specific, was not too different from what one might expect of a former Yugoslavian country: a bit depressed (not depressing, mind) and bleak (especially the weather), but enjoyable nonetheless. A few interesting experiences there included: being ripped off by the taxi driver, whose English-speaking friend told me my taxi driver would take me to the address for a hostel I had written on a scrap of paper for 5 euros. I was sure this was probably exorbitant, and the distance to the hostel confirmed this, but I was willing to pay it. On arriving though, I discovered that I only (as I thought) had a 10 euro note; on presenting the driver with this, he said, "ok, thanks", and only after 5 minutes of protestations from yours truly did he fish around in his pockets for 100 Leva (I think that was the currency, can´t remember for sure) change, which of course meant nothing to me. I later found out that was worth about 1.40 euros. The next morning, while exploring, stopped to ask a young Macedonian couple for directions and found out that they weren´t Macdeonian at all, but Turkish, so I had a nice chat with them in Turkish before moving on.

Belgrade, Serbia
Milosevic fan shirt

That evening I caught the train for Belgrade, meeting on the way a 20 year old Portuguese pizza-delivery boy taking a similar (but even more whirlwind) tour of Europe and a Slovenian student who was returning to Ljubljana after a long weekend away. We arrived there a couple of days after Milosevic´s capture, and exited the station to find a street vendor selling t-shirts with his (Milosevic, not the street vendor) face on the front and something in Serbian no doubt about what a wonderful hero he was for the Serbian people. The Slovenian student had to catch a connecting train back to Ljubljana, so the Portuguese guy and I spent the day walking around Belgrade, chatting on political and theological issues and the like. That evening I boarded the train for Zagreb.

Another train, another interesting character. I was happy in the prospect of having my carriage to myself, as I was the first one there and no one else was coming in. At the eleventh hour, though, a somewhat tough and sketchy (read: a bit mangy and scruffy) looking guy came in. His name escapes me, but it seems he had quite the existence. Currently manager of a floating hostel in Belgrade (two guests of which I´d shared my room with in Skopje, incidentally, and who he was able to identify), he was more in the longrun a filmmaker, and had once hitchhiked from Barcelona to Palestine to make a documentary (I think only about Palestine and Israel, so I´m not sure how the hitchhiking fit in). "Hmm," I thought. I wonder if he has tips on hitchhiking large distances across several countries, as it had recently entered my mind as a rather hare-brained scheme to do likewise, starting in Colorado and ending up in that land of cows, fat and drug-addled erstwhile football superstars, and Madonna: Argentina. Turns out he did: get dropped off and picked up at gas stations, and offer to pay part of the gas money. Logical enough. Anyway, he was originally from Chile, although he´d grown up in Greece. His English was excellent. He told me his great dream, or next adventure anyway, was to cycle (I think it was cycle, not motorbike) from Morocco to South Africa with some friends, filming everything they encountered on the way.

So that was that. Apart from his very smelly feet, and the fact that he made up for them by having a laptop on which he proceeded to play some music of the lulling-to-sleep variety, the trip was uneventful, and I woke up the next morning to find the train was stopped at a station. Turns out it was Zagreb. I dashed to grab all my things and hurtled out of the train, all the while Chilean-Greek-Serbian filmmaker was leaning out the window shouting at the station attendants who were about to signal to the train driver, "Waaaaaiiit!"

Croatia: Zagreb, Pag, and Zadar

As it was still 5 in the morning, I decided to wait a couple of hours to call Nika, so I waited an hour for the exchange bureau to open, then left my behemoth of a bag in a locker, and set out to explore Zagreb. Well. What a pleasant surprise.

As you leave the station, you might be forgiven for expecting more of the same post-Yugoslav architecture, drab and derelict buildings destroyed by the Balkans conflict of the early 90s, and bleak weather. But instead a very clean and well-kept park awaits your eager little eyes, as you step out into the sunlight, and...

The front of Zagreb's train station

But really, it is that nice, and in fact the whole of old Zagreb, with it´s amazingly well-maintained roads, parks and fountains, and beautiful architecture, plaza, and busy little trams are charming. After an hour of walking around, I went back to the station and called Nika, who told me her dad had a meeting and to come back at noon to call her for further directions, as he´d probably be done by then. In the interval, I walked down to Novi Zagreb (New Zagreb), which ironically looks older and more depressing than the old city. I then walked back and called her, to be told that his meeting would last till 4, and to return to the train station then and await a man (her father) who was "tall, wearing sunglasses, and looks like a mafioso". With a foreboding mixture of anticipation and fear, I waited.

4 o´clock came, and a black Renault Laguna pulled up. Out jumped the mafioso, smiling. He extended his hand: "Andrew?" I got in the car, prepared for an awkward, three hour silence on the drive down to Pag, where my friend from my Madrid days, Nika, and her family had an island house. Instead though, her father regaled me with tales of the former Yugoslavian republic and its breakup while we drove through beautiful mountain passes and forests.

Pag itself is the longest, though not biggest, of the Croatian islands in the Adriatic Sea, and the town of Pag, of some 1000 people, its capital, about 40 km along the island. The next four days were for me easily the most peaceful and relaxing of the whole trip, as Nika and I often meandered through Pag´s little streets and squares down to the waterfront, where we spent hours drinking cafe au laits and reminiscing about the good old days!

Right: ice cream on the streets of Zadar (mainland) with Nika and her sister, Lina.

Her mother was an incredible cook, and pulled out all the stops in preparing lavish dish after dish for us, including a squid salad, a pasta with tomato sauce, and a sort of baked octopus dish. Okay, I´m not very culinarily minded, I know. Hence the descriptions may be a bit lacking, but the food itself most certainly was not.

We also took the family´s boat out to a little beach around the headland a couple of times, and spent the majority of the day there, the beach shared with us only by a handful of families from Slovenia and the Czech Republic.

Sharing a bottle of wine and Pag's famous goat cheese at an atmospheric wine bar:

One last experience, before I move onto Slovenia, was undoubtedly also the most bizarre. Every year during one weekend in July, it seems, the town conducts a mock trial for some poor, fictional fellow whose name escapes me and who apparently fulfils a sort of role as the town´s scapegoat. The judge inevitably finds him guilty, and, at midnight on the culminating night of the holiday, a funerary procession follows his coffin down to the water´s edge, where, after his coffin has been set alight, it is tipped off the bridge into the watery depths, down, down, down... The celebration also includes a few other interesting characteristics, such as a lot of young people of the town dressing in their grandmothers´ traditional black dresses (including, maybe even especially) the young men. There is also a dance in the central square, where everyone links arms and does this simple little three-step of increasing speed around its perimeter while being accompanied by a volunteer brass band (many in their grandmothers´ clothing). A word to the wise though: if you ever are lucky enough to witness this holiday, unless you have a Pagite with you, or one who can teach you the dance beforehand, as I was, don´t jump in, as they don´t take kindly to tourists who can´t keep up or mess up the rhythm!

Well after a lovely 5 days in Croatia, it was time to be moving on, so I caught the bus into Zagreb, before getting an evening train for Ljubljana, Slovenia.

Ljubljana, Slovenia

I was met in Ljubljana by another friend from my Madrid days, Laura, who was interning for the summer at the U.S. Embassy there. She also happened to be housesitting a palatial apartment (with dog--B.B.King by name--included) for an embassy couple who were away on vacation. It was good to chat about SLU and hear the latest on what´s been happening there. The next morning I got up early so I could be out of the apartment at the same time as Laura, and set off for a day on the town. Well, once again, I was very pleasantly surprised to discover the charms of the old city, established on the banks of the Ljubljanica river (Ljubljana means "beloved", so it´s fair to assume Ljubljanica has something to do with love, too!). There are several pedestrian bridges crisscrossing the little river, with a couple leading to the main plaza of the old town, dedicated to a poet and his unrequited love for a woman whose statue cruelly taunts him from the other side of the square. Apart from idly wandering along the waterfront and taking in a few cafes along the way, I stopped in at the city museum, which is surprisingly modern and well laid-out, if a bit on the small and sparse side. Well, it´s good to have an excuse not to wear yourself out for several hours walking around a museum! In the afternoon, I returned to the apartment, and Laura and I went out for dinner--an interesting place with no menus, where the waitress simply mentioned some things that were on offer. You tell her which one sounds good to you, mention any modifications you want, and you´re set. Not bad at all. Here is a picture of the restaurant in question, and although I look a bit disgruntled, really I'm just tired!

A unique dining experience in Ljubljana, Slovenia

So that was my Balkan experience. That evening, I walked to the train station, and caught the 2.20 am train through Trieste to Venice. Vincero, vincero, vinceeeeeeero!

Greece: Home of the Acropolis, Socrates...and giant flying beetles??

2008-08-01T06:45:00.000-07:00

On arriving in Thessaloniki, we found out straight away that there was a strike and we couldn't in fact get a train down to Athens, and that we would need to take a bus instead. So Dani and I, after saying bye to Ana (who was going to be staying in Greece for a while), got on a bus for Athens, erstwhile capital of culture and knowledge for Western civilization, present day capital to a somewhat lesser empire of drug addicts and prostitutes. At least, that's what we seemed to find almost immediately once the bus dropped us off at Omonoia, Athen's central plaza and home to some of the seediest people this side of the Tiber.

Nondescript Omonoia Square, Athens

After finding (of course) an internet cafe, we located Dani's hotel, which it turned out, would let me stay for the same price (he had reserved), so we took showers and wound down a bit before going out to explore a bit. As it was quite late, my exploration mostly involved the area in and around Omoneia, which included a cafe at the top of a large department square just off Athena Ave. to the south of the plaza. It had great souffle and a nice view of the Acropolis, which I decided to make my goal for the next day.

Me (apparently trying to look butch) in front of the Parthenon
The next day dawned...well, late, for me anyway. But we made it to the general area of the city which housed the Acropolis by early afternoon at any rate, taking in Hadrian's library (very disappointing, not worth the entrance fee) on our way. The Acropolis was definitely worth it though. Even though there is a lot of restoration work happening on the Parthenon (the main building at the Acropolis), it was still a sight to see, and quite amazing to think of how long it's been around and still in decent shape.

Later that evening I said bye to Dani as he headed off for the Greek isles and I caught a night train into the Peloponesse, or the Western town of Kiparissia, specifically. As exhausted as I was, I of course slept, although since it wasn't exactly the most luxurious of trains it was pretty fitful. That's why I expected I would be awake in time for Kiparissia, and was therefore shocked to wake up to an almost empty train at dawn! I asked a station attendant if we had reached Kiparissia and found I had missed it, and it was the last stop! So I got off to wait for the next train back, and in the meantime, had a coffee at a cafe near the tiny station. I can't recall the name of the town, which is a shame, and apparently it's too small to show up on any internet maps, but I was almost tempted to stay there, it was so lazy and seemingly untainted by tourists. A quick walk down to the beach, though, revealed that it's beach was dirty, probably because it was only frequented by locals and didn't have any reputation to preserve.
Charming Kiparissia (Peloponesian Peninsula)

So I got on the train some 30 minutes later, and spent a very peaceful (if somewhat lonely) day in Kiparissia, making three different trips to the beach throughout the day and wandering along it's coastline, where I was shocked (and disgusted) to discover the eponymous creatures of this posting...on research, I have decided, the Great Silver Water Beetle, which swarmed in droves out of the coastal bushes, and which I sometimes literally mistook for birds (the bigger ones anyway, which could reach up to two inches long). Shudder.

Anyway, following that calm day of beaches and wandering through the quiet streets and up the hill to the castle at the top, I got on the train back to Athens, only to miss it too, the next morning! But thankfully only by one stop again.

I spent the day and another night there, as I found out there was no night train to Skopje from Athens, and the following morning I got an express train back to Thessaloniki, and there, at 6.15, boarded a train for the Former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia.

Bulgaria and crazy French women and accordions, Oh my!

2008-07-20T05:24:00.000-07:00

The trip to Sofia was pretty uneventful, but it was thrilling to finally be off, heading to uncharted territories, boldly going where no ma--okay, where I had never gone before! With the windows open and the night breeze rushing in, we said goodbye to the Bosphorus and left the twinkling lights of Istanbul behind.

Arriving in Sofia around 11 am, Dani and I bought tickets for Thessaloniki for that evening, also a night train, I left my bag with an attendant (no lockers here!), and we set out for a walk around the town.

Sofia

Well Sofia is a charming little city; we stopped in at a couple of old churches, as well as the odd cafe or four, before hitting up a sidewalk vendor for some GREAT(and cheap!) pizza. Then we hung out at the park for a while, before going to *blush* an internet cafe WITHOUT WHICH I wouldn't have discovered a Bulgarian friend (Minna) from Madrid was living and working in Sofia, so we arranged to meet her 20 minutes later.

Minna took us to meet some of her friends, whereupon (isn't that a great word?) we went to a pub for dinner, which meant a local sausage done in one of those long coils ("multo bene!" or whatever it is one says on this sort of occasion). After that we headed back to the train station for the night train to Greece.

With Mina and friends in Sofia, Bulgaria

Another night train, a whole other experience! Firstly, we met a crazy but lovely French girl, Anne, who maybe was not crazy so much as eccentric; a few Spaniards, one of whom was crazy enough to be traveling without a passport; and many, many Bulgarian gypsies, one in possession of an accordion and not afraid to use it! I shared a carriage with several of them for part of the time, using Turkish to communicate with one of them, who translated for the others.

Location was a very fluid concept that night, reminded me of something I read once:
"All night now the jooks clanged and clamored. Pianos living three lifetimes in one. Blues made and used right on the spot. Dancing, fighting, singing, crying, laughing, winning and losing love every hour..." -- Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston.

Well Dani spent the night in relative comfort, having paid the extra 20 Euros for a sleeper car, while I settled for the cheap, seating only carriage. Although it was a memorable evening (at one point involving dancing in the passageway with said crazy French girl while the gypsy played a tune on his accordion), it was also uncomfortable and tiring, and I was glad when it was over and we arrived in Thessaloniki at last!

Road to Europe

2008-07-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

Stunning view of the Bosporus at sunset in Istanbul (original photo from this site)

A memorable meal at Recepusta with Ian, Bedra and Audrey

So despite my best intentions, my plans for a regular blog during my year in Turkey were obviously somewhat of a failure. Still, I had a really great time, made some wonderful new friends, learned a new language, got to watch the sun set over the Bosporus on several occasions, took part in an Iranian New Year celebration in which we jumped over traditional Zoroastrian fires, and a lot more that would take far too long to recount. It's funny how little you may think you develop or learn in a year while it's happening, and how you really have to look at it in retrospect to even get an idea. Even so, it's still hard to sum up in any concrete statement or list of truths what I learned this year about life and about myself; sometimes it feels like relatively little, but at other times I get an impression of the bigger picture and it's really astonishing to think of all the ways I've progressed (or at least changed) during the year. Even on the superficial and practical level, I now have a CELTA certificate, a year's worth of work experience, and all the benefits--both personal and professional--that a new language and exposure to a new culture and people entail.

Overlooking a surreal Capadoccian valley during a scooter tour near Nevsehir with Audrey

A picnic on the ODTU campus with Ian and some of the Ankara Couchsurfing group

As I said though, it's over: I left Turkey this last Tuesday (July 15th), to embark on a European tour before starting the next stage of my adventures on the other side of the ocean.

My plan was to get a train (using an Interrail pass I had purchased, highly recommended for those eligible; the equivalent for non-Europeans is Eurail) from Istanbul to Athens via Salonica, but when, after having checked the TCDD (Turkey's national rail company), which said there were 3 trains a day between Istanbul and Salonica, I went to the train station on the morning of the 15th, they informed me that the next train to Greece was in 3 days, on Friday! So some quick thinking and 32 Turkish Lira later, I had booked a sleeper car for Sofia, Bulgaria instead, with the plan to spend a day there and get a night train down to Athens. While booking the ticket, I met a young Spanish guy, Dani, who seemed to have had the same plan and was therefore in the same predicament. We were stuck in Istanbul for the day (the train for Sofia left at 10 pm and it was 8 am), so we decided to make the most of it.

Both of us had seen the sights before though, so making the most of it involved stopping for some coffee before heading to Sultanahment for Turk kahvalti (a traditional, full Turkish breakfast). We then wandered down to Gulhane park, where we siesta-ed under the shade of a tall tree, before moseying back to the madding crowds for some internetery and tavla-ing in a cafe overlooking a street near the Aya Sofya. It was there that I heard via a text message that some of the ex-Bilkenters were also in Istanbul, so Dani and I headed out to meet them for dinner.

After that it was back to the train station where, after a worrying 15 minutes of realising I'd lost the ticket for the locker where I'd left my bag that morning and having to get a reluctant, grumbling station director to enter his PIN code to open it for me, I boarded the train for Sofia...

6 months sonra...

2008-05-04T14:18:00.000-07:00

Ahem! Hello again, my vast following of loyal readers! 6 months later, and I'm back to report on the various deeds and misdeeds of the last half year. I won't pretend it's been an uneventful 6 months, or that I'll even pretend to fill you in on anything, but being slightly obsessive compulsive, I have to finish what I've started, so let me summarize. Briefly.

The highlight of November was the St. Andrew's Day Ball, put on by the Ankara Caledonian Society on November 30. The food was unfortunately nothing to write home about (including a disappointing haggis), but drinks and dancing were aplenty, which made for a convivial atmosphere and I do believe a good time was had by all. About 25 members of the CELTA and SSI programs ended up going; all alerted to it by yours truly.

Myself and a rather skeptical looking Ananda

December was a month of contrasts. It was the best of times, it was....well anyway, 6 long months seemed to stretch ahead as we realized we'd only finished one course and had three to go. On the other hand, teaching was no longer as stressful as it had been, and we had our first significant break over Christmas. I decided to visit Izmir (formerly Smyrna) with a friend, Gloria. It was a really nice and restful week; happened to coincide with Kurban Bayram (Sacrifice Holiday, also know as guess what? That's right: Eid-al-Adha, to commemorate Abraham's sacrifice of "Ishmael" on Mount Moriah). One day we walked up to Kadifekale (literally Velvet Castle) on top of the hill, and had to side step rivulets of blood running down the cobblestone streets as people were slaughtering sheep left, right and center! Also met up with an old friend from high school (wow I sound like someone in his 50s), Murat, who was visiting family in Izmir; we sat and had tea on the waterfront in Izmir. Took a day as well to visit Bergama (formerly Pergamum), which was pretty cool. I tried my hand at some poetry while in Izmir, inspired during a ferry trip at sunset.

Izmir ferries

Moon Over Izmir

We sat on the ferry, she and I,
And the Moon,
Magnificent, white, and full,
Hung in the purpling sky
Over Izmir.

Smog shrouded the coast as the sun set behind our backs--
It was beautiful still, but you weren't there.

As the wind whipped the sea and threatened
To carry spray over the side and into our faces,
The gulls flapped, awkward yet persistent,
Hanging in the air like the promise of tonight.

And as I thought,
"Isn't this sort of like life, always expectantly waiting
for the shore ahead or looking back to the one behind,
instead of living in the moment?"
I had to chuckle at my own philosophic pretensions.

It's tomorrow now,
And tonight never came,
And I am reminded of something a famous poet once said,
While trying hard not
To imagine how the wind would have whipped your hair,

Still the seagulls squawk expectantly,
Hanging in the air above the pier like portents.

Or like the promise of next week.

That was December. January was nothing too special, except the end of the second course, and saying goodbye to some students I'd actually grown quite fond of :) Beginning of February meant another week-long break, for which I visited Mum and Dad in Morocco--first time I'd been back in exactly 10 years. It was every bit as good as I remembered--the sounds and smells, the sights...and the food! I loved Taza (the town they live in about halfway between Fes and the Algerian border), and the people I met there. Overall a restful and enjoyable week.

Coming back meant the beginning of course three and also the CELTA course for me--the principal reason I came to Turkey for this job. CELTA stands for Certificate in English Language Teaching to Adults, and would give me a certificate that is recognized worldwide, and a requirement for a lot of TEFL jobs--handy thing to have. The CELTA lasted 8 weeks, and was extremely intensive! Each week we had a Teaching Practice in which we were observed very stringently for a lesson, which may not sound like a lot, but involved planning meticulously, deciding what objectives needed to be covered and how to cover them (if they weren't covered it would be considered a failed lesson), as well as 3 days of class input, and an assignment almost every week.

A proud moment with the CELTA group and instructors after completing the course

That (the CELTA) and course 3 finished mid April, which meant it was time for another week-long break. This time I traveled with Christina and Wendi to the South East of Turkey, which was incredible! We visited quite a few cities in the week, starting with a flight from Ankara to Adana, which we spent the morning and afternoon in, before getting a bus onto Antakya (aka Hattay). General consensus was that Hattay was one of (or the) best town on the trip, although my personal vote was for Mardin, which we'll get to in a moment. After a couple of nights there, we got another dolmus (small bus where you pass your money forward through the ranks of passengers to the driver and receive your change back in the same way) to Gaziantep, renowned among Turkish cities for its culinary prowess. It lived up to its name, as I had there the best Iskender Kebap (slivers of meat over bread with tomato sauce and melted butter and yogurt on top)I've had in Turkey, as well as some incredible Fistikli Baklava (Pistachio baklava).

Balik Golbasi (The Pool of Abraham) at Urfa

Then it was on to Urfa, where we visited the Pool of Abraham, where according to Muslim tradition Abraham was thrown to his death from the castle overlooking the city. The forest into which he fell turned into water, and the stones in the forest became fish, and they can still be found there today, lending the pool it's Turkish name, Balik Golbasi (Fish Lake). We managed to procure for ourselves (actually he asked if he could trail along and practice his English with us) an impromptu tour guide of 19 or 20 who went by Yusuf (although not before being surrounded by a gaggle of 9 or 10 curious youths--my posse). He took us up to the castle on top of the hill, where we were set upon by another gaggle--this time of middle--high school aged girls, who were eager to speak to us and have their picture taken with us. Then it was a theological conversation with Yusuf under the shade provided by the castle wall, before heading back down and getting a refreshing drink in a cafe that's ensconced in a cave--very touristy, but atmospheric nonetheless). Finally it was on to Mardin, my favourite town on the trip, but which because it is so late in the evening I won't go into too much detail on. Suffice to say the people were friendly, the food excellent, and the views (overlooking the hazy Syrian plains to the South as the sun set and we sipped cay on a terrace) unbeatable. Then it was back to Ankara, which was not without misadventure--our plane was cancelled, which meant a 14-hour bus trip back on my 23rd birthday.

Christina, Wendi and me with the cocuklar (children) of Adana, where we proved a big hit

And finally, to conclude, the fourth and final course has started, meaning there are 7 weeks left of teaching, before the summer "hols" start. Looking forward to it, although not to the prospect of leaving behind some wonderful friends I've made, as well as the language and country that I've just really started to appreciate. That's all for now, but watch this space, I'll be back soon...

15 k and Ucukum var, ama still no pictures!

2007-11-02T07:59:00.000-07:00

The first half of this post's title means "I have a coldsore." It's true. I do. And it sucks. I started catching a cold when I was in Istanbul this last weekend with about 15 of the SSIs (Speaking Skills Instructors). Most of us went to run in 1 of 3 different races that were hosted there; officially known as the Intercontinental Eurasia (or Avrasya in Turkish) Marathon (Maratonu), there was a "Fun Run" of 8km, a 15 km run, and a full-blown, 42 km marathon on offer.

I ran the 15 km, which, considering the fact that I'm not a runner and have only ever run a maximum of 5 or 6 km at once before, was quite a feat! My only vaguely suitable shoes were in a terrible state of disrepair (i.e. the stitching was coming completely apart), so on Saturday, while walking around the historic Sultanahmet area of Istanbul (located on the famous Golden Horn), we stopped at a shoe-lined alley right outside the Grand Bazaar (Carsi Pazar- literally, Covered Market) and I got a pair of cheap trainers for 40 YTL (about 35 USD).

Nighttime view of Istanbul

It wasn't until we had made our way (eventually, after getting lost and taking a 3-hour detour!) back to the Big Apple Hostel where we were staying that it was pointed out to me that the shoes were in fact lacking insoles. Thankfully the person who pointed it out was a new Turkish acquaintance who just happened to have a friend in the insole business (fancy that), so he promised to procure me a pair of insoles by that evening, and true to to his word, he did!

Nonetheless, I did break in a new pair of shoes by running 15 k, which I would not advise anyone to do. Even the beginning of the race was not without mishap, though! I'd taken my backpack with me on the bus to the starting point, having been informed by the Marathon office (erroneously!) that I'd be able to leave it on the bus. This was not the case, however, so for the 15 minutes before the race, I was frantically running up and down the hill where the racers were congregating, trying to find an official who could tell me where to leave my bag. I eventually ran into a helpful group of Korean runners in the same predicament; thankfully, though, one of them not only spoke impeccable English, but impeccable Turkish (I assume her Korean wasn't too bad, either), so she was able to persuade a police guard to drive us back up to near the starting point, and when she couldn't convince them to take our bags, she valiantly volunteered to take them to Dolmabahce (the finish point) herself, effectively forgoing the race. Before she did so, though, we exchanged contact information on the inside of our bibs, otherwise I never would've been able to find her to get my bag back!

Then it was a mad rush to the start point, which turned out to be about 1 or 2 kilometres down the road, and I was already late! On the way I fell into step with a young Turkish boy who introduced himself to me as Hakan, before proceeding to jabber away unintelligibly (for me, anyway), as we jogged to the start point. Finally made it there at 9:10 or 9:15, 10 or 15 minutes after the race had started. No matter--I was off, jogging across the bridge towards the finish line and my destiny! Turns out my destiny felt a bit queasy and dehydrated 4 or 5 km later, so I walked for a while. The beginning of the race was undoubtedly the most rewarding visually, as we immediately crossed the bridge that spans from Europe to Asia, lending its name to the race, the world's only Marathon to span two continents. This was the one day of the year that the bridge was open to the pedestrianized public, and what a view it offers!

View from the Bosporus Bridge (original site here)

Anyway, the race proved quite a challenge, but not an insurmountable one, and it was 1:42 later (actually 1:30 or so, but the clock did not take into account my late start, alas!) that I crossed the finish line, my legs all a-wobble and my heart bursting with joy (not really). Definitely an experience worth repeating, although my legs have only just recovered 5 days later!

As to the delayed effects of the run, well, that brings us back to my ucuk (cold sore), brought about by my exposure to the sun during the run and the cold winds sweeping in off the Bosporus that weekend...as the Turks and Yabanciler (foreigners) alike have been telling me here, "gecmis olsun!" Get well soon!

What we actually did in Istanbul + Sinop and the Black Sea

2007-10-20T01:32:00.000-07:00

Despite both previous posts alluding to Istanbul and our time there, I didn't actually say anything that we did there. Well briefly (because I do after all have a couple of months to cover after the Istanbul trip), we visited the Aya Sofia (or Hagia Sophia), the beautiful cathedral built by the emperor Justinian in the 6th century. It really was quite phenomenal to see the architecture of the domes considering that a lot of architects and builders couldn't repeat similar designs in much later periods.

As well as that we ate at a riverfront restaurant (it was actually on the lower level of a bridge spanning the Bosporus), where the food and scenery were amazing, but we were completely ripped off! While there we also took a ferry ride on the Bosporus at sunset, and I think that was one of my favourite experiences because it was truly wonderful to sail into port with the skyline of beautiful buildings and famous landmarks that spanned in design and creation from the 6th to the 21st century, to see the Aya Sofia and the 15th century (I think) Sultanahmet 'Blue' Mosque side by side with more modern architecture. Istanbul became, without a doubt, one of my all-time favourite places in the world--it's an amazing city that you must visit if you get a chance!

Since then a lot has happened, much of which has prevented me from blogging (or so I like to tell myself). We met our units, and got to work developing Course Implementation Plans (CIPs) based on the course syllabi--that was in the second week of September. The next week we started teaching, and I have to say that the first two weeks of teaching were easily the most stressful period of my life, and a couple of days before I started, I believe I was the most afraid I've ever been! Since then, things have looked up and it's become a lot easier to plan and teach, although it is certainly still daunting (and depressing) at times...

Just one wise man...

At the Citadel, overlooking Ankara

I've had a bit of an opportunity to see more of the country recently, as a couple of friends (Lindsey and Wendi) and I took advantage of Bayram (the Eid-al-Fitr holiday following the month of Ramadan, or Ramazan as they call it here) to travel to the town of Sinop on the Black Sea coast in the North of Turkey. We caught the overnight bus there to arrive around 7:30 in the morning, and, having found a cafe and secured some Nescafe and Poaca (a Turkish pastry) for our breakfast, we set off to find our Pansiyon (hostel). It was run by a little old man who turned out to be practically deaf, which made for some interesting exchanges during our three days there!

Two of the Speaking Skills Instructors from my Teaching Unit, Alex and Gretchen, were also in Sinop for the break, so we met up with them (turns out they checked into the same hostel), and over the next couple of days explored the town a bit--it has a gorgeous bay, which we enjoyed overlooking from the castle ruins. This included a visit to Sinop's historical, famous prison where (as I've been informed but have yet to confirm) the famous poet Nazim Hikmet was once imprisoned, among other similarly famous characters from Turkey's past.

More than anything though, what I appreciated about the trip was the restfulness of it. I introduced the wonderful game of Tavla (you may know it as Backgammon) to Wendi and Lindsey, having learned it but a few short weeks earlier from another friend here. Thus, for the remainder of our days in Sinop we were frequently to be found playing Backgammon and drinking copious amounts of tea in waterfront cafes. I find myself missing backgammon more and more in the days since, and requiring that fix--so much so that I may have to invest in a set for myself sometime in the near future...

Wendi and me playing Tavla in Ankara's fashionable Bahceli district...

...with a compulsory glass of cay, of course!

Apart from a quick note to say we have finally moved into our new apartments (huzzah), which are quite stunning--pictures to come--that is all from me for now. Iyi geceler (good night)!

P.S. I'll put up pictures for this post when I have the time (and more pictures).

The Wind of Change

2007-09-18T11:20:00.000-07:00

About three weeks later than promised, but back nonetheless. The trip to Istanbul was phenomenal--the minibus picked us up at 7:30 am on the Friday, after which followed a six-hour trip to the former capital of the Roman, Byzantine (I've always been partial to the name Byzantium), Latin, and Ottoman Empires. Through the ages Istanbul has been known by several names, starting with Byzantium, then progressing to Constantinople following Constantine's adoption of the city as the Eastern capital of the Roman Empire in 330 A.D., and finally taking the name Istanbul sometime around the 10th or 11th centuries, although it didn't become known as Istanbul in the West until the early 20th century.

Cause knowledge is power!

Anyway, if your thirst for historical information, etc. about this amazing city was not sated by this short yet informative blurb, check out the source I stole the information from (although restated in my own inimitable way), the ever wonderful and reliable wikipedia.

On the bus on the way there, I finished a novel I'd been reading for some time; it was called Snow, and it's by Turkey's Nobel Laureate, Orhan Pamuk. Kirsty can attest to how long I've been reading it, as I started it sometime last summer in Richmond, and only finished it at the very end of August after a prolonged struggle. It was good in its own way, though very heavy. The book tells of an exiled poet named Ka who travels to the forlorn border town of Kars in Eastern Turkey, ostensibly to report on a wave of "suicide girls", who have been killing themselves over their inability to wear headscarves in the universities, but really to track down a woman who he had strong feelings for from his university days, and who has recently divorced. Pamuk has a way of expressing those feelings that are common to all humans but always seemed very personal and unique to you, and in that sense I liked the book for its insights, but to be honest the writing style was pretty annoying at times (very intrusive narrator, which, I'm sure, served some greater literary purpose the exact nature of which escapes me right now), and the depression that pervades the whole novel is quite overwhelming. Overall, it was a decent book, but I won't be rereading it any time soon (read: ever).

Quite apart from the internal fascinations of Snow, however, the political ramifications of Pamuk's work are such that he has often incurred the wrath of various of the factions that make up Turkey's interesting system. In a nation where held paramount are the tenets of secularism established by the founder and father or modern Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, it is seen as a natural right of the army to step in and take action should it be perceived that this secularism is threatened. Only several weeks ago this scenario was put to the test, as Abdullah Gul of the AKP (a party with strong Muslim leanings) seemed poised to win the Presidential elections by a landslide. Although he made promises to uphold Turkey's secular position and values, his wife wears a headscarf, a point of hot concern among many Republican Turks who fear that there was a hidden agenda at work that would inevitably result in Turkey's regression into a totalitarian, religious law-based state. Turkey's shaky bid to become a member of the EU was also being closely monitored, as it would not sit well with democracy-touting Western countries if Turkey's army were to take a hand in a democratic process. Abdullah Gul did end up winning the election, so the world will have to wait and see what becomes of it. It all reminds me of the Scorpions song, Wind of Change, written about the end of the U.S.S.R., but relevant all the same to this country that seems at a loss regarding its national identity.

It's Istanbul, not Constantinople...

2007-08-30T13:22:00.000-07:00

I'm back once again with all the latest news from the cradle of civilizations that is the Anatolian peninsula. In the last week or so, the induction programme here at Bilkent has continued for us CELTA folks, so most of our days have involved some form or other of informational sessions on various aspects of BUSEL: the syllabus and its development, the average class, teaching methods, learning theories, etc. I won't bore you all with such drivel.

The evenings have proven much more entertaining and enlightening (?), as some of us made an excursion to a cafe downtown in the Tunus district the other night. It was one of those cafes where you can smoke nargilah (or sheesha, maasl, hookah, hubbly bubbly, or any of the other 1001 names it goes by), so we got three pipes between the eleven of us and had drinks, too, me taking advantage of the opportunity to order Schweppes yet again (how I have missed it!). We thoroughly enjoyed the company of our lively and enthusiastic waiter, Onur, who seemed quite besotted with several of the young ladies in our company!

At the Cafe Kaffa (Picture courtesy of Onur)

Kodak moment at the bus stop: Ted, Wendi, Alex and me

I'll post again later, as I'm pretty tired right now, and have to be up early tomorrow for the bus ride to Istanbul, where we are spending the weekend. I'm looking forward to the Aya Sofia, a boat ride on the Bosporus, open-air markets, and Istanbul's famous nightlife, not to mention (hopefully) getting to see a friend from high school who is now living and working there. More to come after the weekend...

From Turkey With Love: The First 4.5 Days

2007-08-21T12:34:00.000-07:00

The following is partly regurgitated from a family email, so for those of you who have already read it (if indeed anyone is reading my palaver), apologies.

I got here safely on Friday afternoon. The trip was uneventful, although my guitar didn't come through (apparently it never left Richmond!). It should be arriving tomorrow afternoon, though (emendment 3 days later: It still hasn't arrived; I'll have to see about it tomorrow morning...). Everything seems great, if a bit surreal. I met several interns on the flight, but only one other CELTA instructor. 4 or 5 of us met up in Chicago or on the plane, and by the time we got to Ankara (we went through Istanbul) there were about 12 or 13 of us altogether.

I was really hungry in Istanbul, so another guy and I walked over to a kebab stand there, and ordered a kebab each and a coke and a water, but not before asking if they took dollars, of course (primarily using grunts and gestures along with the word "dollar" in a rising inflection). So she said yes, and we were quite delighted, until she told us that the total was...wait for it (and remember this was American dollars she was quoting us)...$46!! For two kebabs, a coke, and a water. We both gaped, and asked to make sure, but she was adamant, so we said it was too expensive and started walking away. She shrugged her shoulders and said "35?" (As if she was starting negotiations and saying, how does $35 sound to you?)!

We got to the campus by coach (about 30 min. ride), and it was quite amazing on the drive in how much the landscape and outer fringes of the city reminded me of Morocco - the setting sun lighting up dun-coloured hills; dust rising in clouds as little Fiats and Citroens sped along dirt roads passing among highrise buildings that had seen better days...

Well after much ado about relatively little we arrived and were given keys for our temporary rooms in the dormitory. Some temporary rooms! Carpeted, spacious, huge desk, armchair and ottoman, en suite bathroom (also huge), little kitchen. After we'd got settled in, the orientation leader took us out to a little restaurant on campus about 5 min walk from the dorm, and so I experienced what I'm sure will be the first of many (it's already been the first of 3) kebabs. I also tried Ayran, an extremely salty, watery yoghurt drink that's very popular here. Think yoghurt flavoured seawater. Anyway, a few people said they were going to check out the on-campus bar (an upmarket, posh one only for grad students and faculty), so I ventured along and decided to try Raki, Turkey's national liquor, which I'd read about. It was really strong, so I only had a couple of sips, and didn't like it, but I figured I would be grievously at fault if I lived a year in Turkey and didn't try their national drink. It tastes like anise (liquorice) and is clear, but you pour water into it and it turns a milky colour.

The next morning, they took us to a big shopping complex just off campus where they have...Marks and Spencer, Subway and Starbucks. Among other more indigenous things. There was a big grocery store, Real (that's its name), so several of us shopped there and I bought a Sim Card for my cell phone at a nearby cell phoneria, although for made-outside-of-Turkey cell phones, you apparently have to register it for it to work, so I did that when we went in the next day.

Bilkent center, home of "The Real", as we called it

Saturday evening we (several of us CELTA people and a couple of interns) went to the same area again and had supper, and although I've now ordered 3 different kinds of kebab, they've all tasted exactly the same. Maybe I'll have to branch out a little here or else I don't think I'll survive the eating out experience--the food's good, but I know there's more to local fare than kebabs! The food also seems to have done a number on my stomach--hopefully I'll get over it soon.

On Sunday I had hoped to find the church and explore the city a bit, but they had a grocery trip planned for us, so my plans were thwarted almost ere they were born. The best laid schemes, the best laid schemes...

An aerial view of Bilkent (the East campus is on the left of the small reservoir, while the Main and Central Campuses are to the right; Bilkent Center is just to the left of the shot in the foreground)

Monday saw the beginning of the induction process. We chatted for an hour or so with one of the CELTA program coordinators, Martie, and then we headed over to the East Campus (Dogu Kampus), where we will be working, from the Main Campus (Merkez Kampus), where we are currently living in temp. housing. There we had a welcome meeting in which the "team" was introduced, and they presented the schedule for the induction program. Lunch was provided for us downstairs, Green Peppers stuffed with rice, which turned out not to be the main course (!), followed by grilled beef and chicken, with a dessert of various fruits (grapes, melon, figs, etc.)

Then it was upstairs again to meet the head of BUSEL (Bilkent University School of English Language), who introduced the school, people, and the CELTA course. We were done at 3, whereupon (excellent word, much neglected) we took a tour of the campuses, and stopped in at town again for more necessary shopping (I know, it seems like we do a lot of shopping, it's called settling in).

Which brings us to today (my future posts won't be day-to-day descriptions, but these have, after all, been the first 4.5 days which, I hope you will agree, are fairly significant), Tuesday. The morning was reserved for paperwork (bank details, next of kin, residence permits, etc.), but took surprisingly little time, so a few of us (Ian, Phillip, Alexandria, Ted and I) went down to Bilkent Center (just outside the Main Campus) to (surprise, surprise) do some shopping (I just bought a Magnum ice cream bar). We crammed into a taxi to get back, then met up with Martie and the other CELTA people at 1:30 for a bus tour of the city. Finally! Into the city, into Ankara itself, after 4 days here, but it was worth the wait.

I'm sure most Turks would dismiss the notion of there being anything to do in Ankara (the idea being that all the fun is to be had in Istanbul), but after a town of 40,000 it was very refreshing to be in a real city of 3 million or so again (Richmond, I love you, but there's something about foreign cities...). It was mostly a whirlwind tour, as we were running behind schedule, but we paid a visit to the citadel, from which you can see all of Ankara, and which is also the oldest part of the city. There was a cafe upstairs, so we took a break and ordered some cold drinks and a pastry very like baklava (although they assured us it was not baklava). What an awesome view! I won't have a digital camera for a while, I'm afraid, but a lot of the other CELTA people do, so as soon as they post photos I'll steal them and blog them (so be sure to always check further down the page in case I've added any).

The view from the cafe at the top of the citadel

On arriving back at the campus, some of the various directors met us at the Bistro (faculty and grad bar) for drinks and snacks/meals, and I had the chance to chat with a Turkish-English couple on staff, as well as a kindred-spirited linguist (I fear I'm out of my league, though).

I hung out a little in the dorms earlier this evening, before (delightedly) hearing from an Intern that another Turkish intern and his friends were playing football on a caged, astroturfed field nearby and that we were welcome to come along. Of course, I knew the bar would be pretty high, and admittedly I've played with my fair share of Turks, Italians, Brazillians, Argentinians, Mexicans, Spaniards, Moroccans, Brits, French people, Cameroonians, etc. throughout my life, and generally held my own. I'd also played a couple of times a week this summer in Richmond, VA, so I at least felt in pretty good shape. Let me just put it this way: I wasn't in nearly as good shape as I thought and it was, quite frankly, embarrassing. Within five minutes I was tasting blood in my mouth and fighting back a stitch, and to be honest, I played pretty rubbish. What made it worse was that the other Americans on the team outshone me (especially the girl), but by half way through, and after a spell in goal to get my breath back, I started playing a little better. Even set up a goal (weak yay!). A disappointing evening, but it knocked me down several pegs, which is definitely good for me. If I keep playing, which I'd like to, it will also mean that I get in much better shape, and hopefully improve my game, so I'm looking forward to that. And now, my friendly readers, I am going to take a shower and turn in in preparation for an early start to another long (but hopefully just as fantastic as the last 4.5) day. We'll be starting our Turkish Culture and Language classes, another reason to be excited.

Once again, I shall try to post pics as soon as possible, and keep you all abreast of what's going on. And now to leave you with your Turkish lesson of the week:

Evet - Yes
Hayir - No
Lutfen - Please
Tesekkuler - Thank you
Merhaba - Hello
Nasilsiniz? - How are you?
Iyiyim - Fine

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, adieu...

2007-08-11T20:32:00.000-07:00

As the 17th draws near and I get ready to leave the States for Turkey to start my life as an English teacher there, I'm pretty excited, but fairly nervous, too. My visa came back last week (albeit in the wrong passport--they put it in my American one, although I applied to and was accepted for the job as a British citizen), and that's a relief. I've finished the pre-task for the CELTA course I'll be completing as part of the in-service "probationary" period--all sounds a bit ominous! Most of my things seem to be in order, although of course I know next to none of the language.

It's all a little surreal right now, but by far the strangest and most daunting experience is starting a real job--how odd and ridiculous to be done with all my schooling, out in the real world, grown up. It doesn't seem quite right. And as is always the case, this coming Friday has seemed distant the whole summer, only to become an imminent reality with quite alarming speed.

But enough of my well-worn cliches and extremely exoteric "epiphanies" for now; I shall write again when I have something worth saying, and hopefully a picture or two to show as well, though those might have to wait for a paycheque so I can buy a digital camera. Until then,

Hoşça kalın!

"The Future" by Matthew Arnold

2007-08-02T18:03:00.000-07:00

A WANDERER is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of Time;
Brimming with wonder and joy
He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been.
Whether he wakes,
Where the snowy mountainous pass,
Echoing the screams of the eagles,
Hems in its gorges the bed
Of the new-born clear-flowing stream;
Whether he first sees light
Where the river in gleaming rings
Sluggishly winds through the plain;
Whether in sound of the swallowing sea -
As is the world on the banks,
So is the mind of the man.

Vainly does each, as he glides,
Fable and dream
Of the lands which the river of Time
Had left ere he woke on its breast,
Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed.
Only the tract where he sails
He wots of; only the thoughts,
Raised by the objects he passes, are his.

Who can see the green earth any more
As she was by the sources of Time?
Who imagines her fields as they lay
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough?
Who thinks as they thought,
The tribes who then roam'd on her breast,
Her vigorous, primitive sons?

What girl
Now reads in her bosom as clear
As Rebekah read, when she sate
At eve by the palm-shaded well?
Who guards in her breast
As deep, as pellucid a spring
Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure?

What bard,
At the height of his vision, can deem
Of God, of the world, of the soul,
With a plainness as near,
As flashing as Moses felt
When he lay in the night by his flock
On the starlit Arabian waste?
Can rise and obey
The beck of the Spirit like him?

This tract which the river of Time
Now flows through with us, is the plain.
Gone is the calm of its earlier shore.
Border'd by cities and hoarse
With a thousand cries is its stream.
And we on its breast, our minds
Are confused as the cries which we hear,
Changing and shot as the sights which we see.

And we say that repose has fled
For ever the course of the river of Time.
That cities will crowd to its edge
In a blacker, incessanter line;
That the din will be more on its banks,
Denser the trade on its stream,
Flatter the plain where it flows,
Fiercer the sun overhead.
That never will those on its breast
See an ennobling sight,
Drink of the feeling of quiet again.

But what was before us we know not,
And we know not what shall succeed.

Haply, the river of Time -
As it grows, as the towns on its marge
Fling their wavering lights
On a wider, statelier stream -
May acquire, if not the calm
Of its early mountainous shore,
Yet a solemn peace of its own.

And the width of the waters, the hush
Of the grey expanse where he floats,
Freshening its current and spotted with foam
As it draws to the Ocean, may strike
Peace to the soul of the man on its breast -
As the pale waste widens around him,
As the banks fade dimmer away,
As the stars come out, and the night-wind
Brings up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.