on being a C.I.P (2)

flying tonight to burhaniye. departing shortly.

<< well don't _brag about it >>

i went to see a mosque today but wasn't in the right frame of mind to get it. sam spade saying, you _are a liar.

last night who did i let down?

and there i was standing in the Tocakepe mosque which is ankara's finest but mostly made out of white concrete, and wondering what i should feel under the expansive dome --

-- before realizing of course that there is nothing i _should feel, i feel what i feel but i didn't feel much, that clenchiness in throat.

i went up to the second level. you can walk up the steps to the first walkway that runs around the edge of the open central space, and from the first up to the second, where the ceiling over your head is arched. the wide open space is palpably close and the smallest domes start overhead and just beyond the marble railing which was cold to touch.

from up here you can see people praying. many of them pray facing the large supporting columns. one man checked his watch before starting. and across the space, at eye level from me, girls, thin girls, but i mostly imagined them to be thin, they were a long ways off, and i also imagined their prayerfulness, they took pictures of each other with their cell phones too.

i had to make myself notice the closer little details. like the tiny imperfections in the boundless painting, the woven patterns of vines and bulbs that covered the mosque's entire inside surface, and for the glory of g-d. it looked almost like tempra on the grainy concrete, blue, red and turquoise, with thin black lines to delineate. sometimes the colour did not touch the line. sometimes the line strayed too close and the colour showed on its other side. painting done by people like me. i know how these patterns work.

i rested there. it was nice, quiet, and for once you did not hear cars honking. stepping outside the afternoon sun reflected full off the white of the steps, made me flinchflinchflich. spotlights aimed to light up the minarets by night.

the power of pink

i have a pink cell phone which i like to use because motorola's marketing department doubtless says my demographic's colour is gun-metal grey, not bubblegum pink, which makes me very subversive.



they sentenced me to twenty years of boredom
for trying to change the system from within

but my phone's SIM card has self-destructed. cell phones here have to be registered at the central agency and mine was not so it turned itself off, and i had to go and put my name on the list.

we had to go all the way to the turkcell central office to do this. mo's driver took me. he was buffing the car when i went down.

thirty minutes out on an eight lane expressway.

the turkcell head office has a big steel gate crowned with razor wire, and a metal barricade in front also wrapped with wire. we drew up to the bar and stopped. two guards in black uniforms, sunglasses and crewcuts came out. the driver spoke to one. the other took down our license plate number and wrote it on a clipboard. the driver and one guard talked while the other guard ran a sniffer wand around the undercarriage of the car, listening to its output through headphones. a third swabbed the door handles with a cotton ball which he took into guard's booth while we waited. the car radio played turkish pop.

after an interminable wait the guards waved us through. two of them lifted the barricade out of the way.

we drove into a huge and mostly empty parking lot that cameras panned. we parked close and got out. then up the four steps, down a long cement walkway past two huge statues of men done in bronze, and under long banners that said turkcell.

in through the heavy metal and glass front doors, into the grey concrete structure with almost no windows.

inside it was dim. fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. i followed the driver's lead, placing my wallet, passport case and phone in a plastic tray to go through the x-ray machine. i removed my shoes and sent them through as well, and stepped through the metal detector. on the other side two guards in body armour and submachine guns stood stiffly. one held the leash of a dog that sat at his feet. the x-ray technician was a woman with her hair in a bun. my plastic tray came out the other side. the two guards looked disapprovingly at my pink cell phone, hands on their weapons. it looked more pink than ever.

i reached for my wallet and phone. the guard stopped my hand.

"dur," he said, and i knew what he meant: stop.

then he indicated the viewfinder on my phone and said: "kamera?"

i looked at him.

"ka-me-ra?" he repeated, one syllable at a time.

i nodded.

he said, heavily: "kamera yok." camera, no way.

the driver spoke to him. the one guard talked to the other who held the dog. the dog did not move. the first guard, my little pink phone in his huge fist, picked up a phone, pressed a button on his radio, and said two short sentences. then a moment's wait, a response, and two more curt words. then he said to us:

"ok."

they sent us over to the glassed-in reception desk where the driver explained what we were there for. the woman behind it talked through an intercom with an impassive voice. we signed for visitor badges. a man came and escorted us up, through the electronically locked turnstiles.

they took us into an office with crystal trophies etched with cyrillic lettering, a portrait of mustafa kemal, and an orange hardhat with a headlight on top of a plain grey filling cabinet. a plodding clerk in a turtleneck took my information down, crosschecked my passport and typed everything into a ToughBook like they use in afghanistan. she printed some forms. i signed, initialed, signed again. she explained the terms of service to the driver. finally we were done. she handed me my phone which gleamed metallic pink under the lights.

back down the stairs under escort, cell phone in hand and pink. past the reception desk where we gave back our badges. past the two guards who this time were expressionless. the dog growled and made for me, but the one guard yanked him back remorselessly. the black dog eyed me and did not look away.

the driver led me out and back to the car, stealing two drags from a cigarette on the way. he tossed it mostly untouched onto the brown grass. then back out through the fortress walls. again they lifted away the metal barricade and crossed our license number off their clipboard. then onto the expressway. grey sooty cedar plants in the median.

we were so far out of the city that the driver took me along for two of his deliveries, one to a hospital, one to a non-descript warehouse. from there back into the city centre through the tunnel so hazy you can't see the end of it.

luckily i had the foresight to save my cell phone welcome message to the phone, not the SIM card, so that when i powered it up again after being dropped off at my destination i was reminded: that marianne loves you. it was after one by the time my day got going. all i wanted was to be out in the sun and the cool air. turkcell pretty much sums up my experience in ankara.

<< why weep ye by the tide, ladie, why weep ye by the tide? >>

tonight i played guitar for the first time in ages.

i think of you often! you are crazy.

i am learning for you an air. it is in the green key of D. it has a quick trill in the opening phrase that you have to practice 10,000 times because if you drop it, the song flops instantly. the ornament is done with the little finger of the left hand, the furthest one. so you practice and practice and practice, and any good karma that practising brings can be yours to reap. because you are worth it. stay beautiful : )

"no-honk zone." "honk honk."

presently waiting for desert. i am at mo's office on a skittish internet connection. lunch included balkan-style feta. servers bring us tea and take away the dishes. a jar of preserves has just come. custard is to arrive shortly. then i am going to go for a walk and some ipod.

there is not a lot to do in ankara. it is a clear day so you can see the thick smog hang over the city. this is a busy office and the phones ring perpetually.

women and grief

this morning i awoke under a down comforter to an empty house. in ankara we are staying at mo's parents'. i have been left a too-big cushy white robe. there is lots of hot water here and norah jones playing, as mo left it when he went out this morning.

now the fall is here again
you can't begin to give in
it's all over --
when the snows come rolling through
you're rolling too
with some new lover --
will you think of times you told me
that you knew the reason
why we had to each be lonely,
was it just the season?

yesterday i spent the afternoon poking around the anatolian civilization museum. mo's driver took me. he wore a grey suit jacket, black pants and a red tie. we went in a sedan with tinted black windows, and worry beads around the gear shift. the driver dropped me off at the door, up at the top of the ankara castle.

some of the oldest artifacts from human history are here. indeed, they predate history. one of the early displays is a collection of clay stamps in geometric patterns that were used to identify tools and clothing before people had script to write their names.

the earliest items were stone tools, crude at first, then more refined, smaller and sharper. there is a stone and rawhide axe, and some fish hooks. yellowed typewritten panels tell you what you are looking at.

around the corner you step into the era where people started to live in settlements and suddenly there are all sorts of early works of art and culture.

very interesting. the development of culture must have been like the evolution of colour vision or the thumb -- no idea how you were born with it, useful to have now that you have it.

but vision is hardwired, and your thumb knows how to reach for a pebble or a fruit -- you don't need to train it. what do you do when you watch someone die and you are suddenly overcome with grief? many of the figurines of that early period were representations of women. there were young women with their hair long. there were pregnant women with round bellies and hips, women reclining, ankles folded. there were women in skirts, tunics, and one who was naked except for two gold bands that crossed over her front and covered her breasts. there was a woman with her legs drawn up, a woman lying on her stomach. there was a sculpture of a woman facing and embracing a man, then the same woman flipped and on the other side cradling a child. the statues were tiny, the size and shape of a girl's hand.

out of clay there was a woman giving birth on a throne carried by two cats, and statues of animals with wounds inflicted by arrowheads.

necklaces in stone, sometimes gold, and pieces of black obsidian polished into mirrors. a little seashell to put pigment in and a tiny spoon to apply it. blue, red and black pebbles on strings. bracelets of rock or precious metal. earrings with beads. the earliest human impulses. they buried their dead with jewels and hunting implements, and before putting them in the earth they left the bodies out for the vultures to find them.

carved out of rock and painted was a representation of two leopards: you could tell by their spots. one was larger and one was more delicate. they were lying face to face and touching lips.

the driver waited for me all day and took me back to meet mo at his work. it is a wonder driving in ankara is still even viable. people walked past and through the gridlocked traffic. in the little car it was hot and the driver and i were silent.

on being a C.I.P.

at present sitting in the V.I.P. lounge (C.I.P. in turkish) at the izmir airport waiting to catch a plane to ankara. mo is taking me. he has work to do over the week and i will poke around and also possibly go on a bus to see capadoccia, which is a fortified city built underground in a network of caves.

long irrigation channels made of cement and brick ran the length of the highway coming here.

it is hot today. the sun is shining bright. palm trees and big reedy looking things grow outside. there is a stretch of shimmering tarmac and copies of turkish businessweek on the coffee tables, and silk plants. the buffet is under a wall done in turquoise tile. coffee and tea are free here and pastries with nuts, and tomato soup, as well as cans of pop (330 mL), apples and oranges, and little sandwiches which i will take as today's lunch. so i am well taken care of as if there were any doubt. i am not sure what ankara will be like.

<< who among them do you think would impress you? >>

the wooden crates delivered last week contained a collection of artifacts to be used to decorate mo's restaurant. there were vases, water jugs, sculptures, paintings, and serving plates such as this one.

this is the star pattern i have seen all over turkey. you can see it carved into wood doors, painted on the ceilings of mosques, or in tile patterns in the sidewalks.

i spent yesterday and today looking at a book called Sacred Geometry and playing with a straightedge and compass, trying to figure this pattern out and also thinking about bigger patterns in life, and the true deal with airline peanuts.

with your mercury mouth in the missionary times
and your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
with your silver cross and your voice like the chimes,
who did you think would bury you?

it is simple, really. you start with six circles around one and from there you build a dodecahedron. then once you see the underlying structure you just start connecting the dots and you can tease the stars out easily.

something i remember from this summer that has stayed with me: the words, graffiti to a lost love but i suppose also a prayer -- i release you from the karmic patterns that exist between us. as in, you enabled my bad habits, i enabled yours, but what is done is done.

it is funny how there are patterns that go one way and patterns that go another. patterns in geometry, math, music, rhyme, these are all one kind of pattern, the magnificent cosmos. patterns of behaviour, tension patterns in the body, learned helplessness, these are another.

today was a beautiful day in burhaniye. the sun the warm and there was no wind. the air was still but clear. the sea was blue like potter's glaze. i heard children playing on the squeaky swings. i heard birds. i was visited by a bee. there was sunshine on my back and on the yellow shrubs in the front yard.

i sat on the porch tracing lines and circles going round and round, and there is a song called Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, a song which seems to me to be about the meaning of life, the boundless sorrow of living out of fear instead of seeing the universe everfreshly -- the sad-eyed prophets say no man's gonna come.

the day dripped slow like honey. i heard the children coming home from the playground, counting as they walked -- bir, iki, uch, dürt, bes, alti. maybe they were counting hopscotch steps, maybe marbles, maybe coins, i do not know. i stayed out on the balcony til it got shivercold, which is does on the waterfront before the sun even sets.

complete the sequence

skim, 1%, 2%, homo, buttermilk, half & half, coffee cream, whipping cream, heavy cream, clotted cream, ______ ....

maybe it is fresh earth from transylvania

at mehmet's shop in burhaniye we have just had lunch. something has arrived in wooden crates. they are seriously wooden crates. you can see how pine logs have been split and sawed and nailed together to cross pieces to make boxes. it takes ten minutes to open each one because the nails have to be pulled out one at a time. what is in the boxes i do not know. but they are sure cool-looking boxes in the meantime.

caveat reador

oh oh. mo has told me a turkish proverb: you cannot get a lot of words without getting a lie. erm...

Act Two, Scene One

woke this morning to _vivid dreams of kissing this girl i know from yoga, and in my dream she kissed like she does yoga, and she does yoga very well, and in my dream we didn't spend much time doing yoga, and it was very vivid.

after two days of near-impassable mountain roads, we have made it back to mehmet's house in burhaniye.

your protagonist is now in act two. this we can tell both by the calendar -- one month gone now out of three -- and by the story's underlying dramatic structure. the recent trip to instanbul was the protagonist's first challenge. an unexpected event thrust the action in a new direction -- that was the shakedown -- and thus was the protagonist set up for new challenges, to be faced over the course of the second act. after a short period of downward dramatic movement -- that was the blizzard and the thank-g-d-we-can-laugh-about-it drive home -- we return to a point of rest so act two can begin in earnest.

act one is the exposition. act two is the development. over the course of act two the skillful author fleshes out symbols and themes and shows how the protagonist changes in response to the way the plot veered at the end of act one.

the essence of act two is conflict. today we woke with no water and had to struggle to try and thaw frozen pipes. the metal pipes had frozen where the water comes into the house, or so we thought. so we piled burning embers from the stove around and over them til the pipes themselves were hot to the touch. the smooth tile of the front porch was very cold and while using the new set of stove tools -- read on -- to manipulate the hot pieces of charcoal i nearly froze the bottoms of my feet. so i tried to warm them in front of the new infrared heater and i melted my nylon double wick-action socks. and still no water.

the stove tools: today ugur brought us a set of stove tools -- coal shovel, fire poker, cinder broom, and man-fetcher -- and reader, they could not have come at a more perfect time, for they propel us forward into The Stove, Act Two. the story's external conflicts will thus mirror the protagonist's inner conflict. we are going to invent an all-in-one fuel cell bucket for the stove, using layers of olive pits, parrafin-soaked oil pits, and coal gravel. it will consolidate everything we have learned about the stove. it will light with one match, for it will have a fuse. furthermore we now have an ionizing air filter to clean up after smokey misadventures such as we had this morning.

but don't lets get too lighthearted. act two is trial for the protagonist from start to finish. walking through burhaniye today it was mo that first heard the sound of running water from what might have been a burst water main (it was not). until he pointed it out i did not even notice. this is in spite of my line about wanting to learn to listen. furthermore if i were a wild animal, and i want to be much more wild of an animal, the sound of running water is one i could not afford to miss. and it was mo who noticed one single blooming rose on his rosebushes, pink like a ripe berry that the observant omnivore would get as a snack. what is it going to take to get me to play closer attention to the bejewelled world? over the course of act two the protagonist will grow and change in face of unpredictable challenges such as these. only one thing is for sure -- he will have to pass through a moment of utter bleakness before the conflict can be resolved. but what that dark moment will be, only the shadow knows.

the water is back now and coffee is on and mo has brought me a box of turkish delight ("lokum") to go with it -- with one cup of coffee you have one piece. and there are little bananas. mo and i have spent some time planning the sights i will see over the course of the next month, using the maps we got from tourism booths at the trade show. we have food and again we have hot water. and we have finally warmed up the house. act two beckons and the coffee and sweets are waiting downstairs. i have learned a new word, too: lokumgibe -- from lokum -- means delightful. stay tuned.

going to bed tired

we had one final misfortune on the final leg of our drive home -- a big truck pulled out we thought to pass us, then slowed beside us, and pointed to the front tire -- flat.

not just flat, it turned out we'd broken the rim in the rutted mountain roads. while mo sussed it out ugur and i had tea in the filthy truck stop. ash, broken glass, dirty water on the floor, and a whole muddy half lemon. a man tried to sop up the water with a sodden dollar-store broom. then we went out to see what was happening. the mechanic was patching an inner tube for us to have. he put on one patch. then to see if it had taken he put the patched part under water. there was a bathtub outside that he used for this. it was all frozen over. he broke through the ice with his bare hands, lifted out the crust, and held the tube under the water for a minute watching for bubbles. then he turned the inner tube checking each section for leaks. when he'd finished his hands were red and puffy.

"that looks cold," i said.

"that definitely looks cold," said mo.

then he said, "it is amazing what some people will do to earn their living. and what did we do to deserve it," he said. "nothing. we are doing nothing."

"i've asked myself that question a few times on this trip, believe me," i said.

"you," said mo, "you are doing plenty, so don't say it."

i say, "you are doing plenty too."

neither of us really pushes the other on this point. it's not clear to me whether mo means i am doing lots to help him, or lots in life generally. i would debate each one but i do not. mo has debated it too.

there is a moslem saying that as long as you go to bed tired, allah is happy.

the old man is industrious. he wipes oil from his hands with snow. soon we are on our way. on the way home the necklace that mo got for ugur breaks -- the clasp catches in her seatbelt and the cord tears. but i have just the thing to fix it, spare necklace parts (seriously) left over from making a necklace out of my turkish blue fish. when we are home i fix it for her. thank-you, she says. you are welcome, i say.

turkish swag

we made it! we are back home. we stopped for grilled tripes on the way (a little squishy) and a glass of turnip juice (blech).

at the trade show we made out like bandits.


the total:

- serveral moist towelettes;
- bead bracelet with two nazar beads;
- heat-sensitive coffee mugs;
- single double-A battery;
- set of roman-looking coins (gold, silver, and bronze);
- two of persian blue beads;
- assorted lokum;
- trojan horse keychain -- this i'm going to gift to someone at burning man and i'm going to say, "think about it";
- keychain of monument on gallipoli battlefields;
- tobacco products;
- hamam slippers; and
- complimentary firelog.

this last one was useful. when we got home the house was COLD! upstairs you could see your breath. there was a bottle of raki in the freezer, and one on the counter. they were just about the same temperature to touch.

by far the coolest piece of swag is this -- there was a man doing calligraphy at the booth for the istanbul ministry of culture. you could get your name done, or the name of your business. so look!


very happy for this. sometimes i do things right.

<< baby i'm still hurting -- i can't turn the other cheek >>

at the moment we are in a city called Bursa, first capital of the ottoman empire. now it is the carpart capital of asia minor, which is lucky because we have had trouble with the alfa romeo and have to get it fixed. last night the emergency brake froze or broke in place and we could not get going again after stopping for dinner. we spent the night in a thermal spa hotel where the water is very hot but the bathtubs are very small. played backgammon over dinner -- durem, which are like meatballs rolled in heavy pita bread, and spicy tomato paste and spicy peppers. my room is small and has a slanted roof. there is a double bed and a single bed. the bedclothes are rose. the patterened wall paper is mauve. there are sliver and glass light fixtures. furniture is again dark wood, and a tiny table and a mirror, and a wardrobe. the floors are new laminate. i see blue sky but also some cloud. it is cold, always cold here.

today we will try again to make it to burhaniye. this whole trip has been an adventure. adventures are about character and character is about change.

often i say i wish i was more sparkling, or more irresistable, or purer of heart, or more upstanding. or more aware, unable to be played, like Sam Spade when he said, "oh right, your story. that's ok, we didn't really believe your story, we believed your two hundred dollars."

the reason i like the experiment with the cards and the numbers and the pairing off is because that is almost what love is. the people who hold high cards are swarmed. the people who hold low cards are brushed off.

in love, if you discover you get attention, you either aim high because you realize you have your pick, or you aim low because you realize you hold a high card and good love is scary. if you get no attention, you learn to aim lower and lower til someone will take you.

i have buzzed with the rest of them around the pretty and the easy and the stretchy, but i am not sure anymore that those things are what the number represents.

i wish people couldn't get enough of me and my unique and beautiful pain. i wish i felt like i held the high card. or that my number was a nice-looking number like 96, or traced out something geometric like 95 which is almost the golden ratio. or something musical like 92, intervals adjacent to the octave. or a square number like 81, or something lucky like 77, or something mathematical like 60.

i like love songs that hold together when you substitute the woman in the song for the divine, like you can in this one: i look for you in everyone, and they called me on that too -- i lived alone, but i was only coming back to you. so play this number game with the divine. in this game only you know your number and no one else will ever see it. and you can make your number whatever you want. what is the most delightful, fragrant, lyrical, gentle, loving way you can imagine your divine self to be? lift up your eyes and love in the most pure way you can. where did i learn to aim my heart so low?

mountain rescue

we awoke this morning in old istanbul to five to ten centimeters of thick wet white snow and the mercury down around the freezing mark.

breakfast was delightful. they played mozart, string quartets. there was cheese, boiled eggs, olives, tomates, cucumbers, bread, coffee, yoghourt, honey. we ate in the glassed in top floor of our hotel and watched the blizzard pour in over the bosphorus. we slightly hurried, packed our bags and put them in the car with the leftover olive samples from the trade show, and headed out into the storm in the tiny sports car with racing tires.

the streets of istanbul were deserted -- the only cars were the taxis. it was more raining than snowing but it was definitely snowing. the bridge over the straights was glistening white and the wind was strong enough to push the cars in unison to the right, skidding along the crystalline bridge deck. white smoke billowed from one chimney. the only colour in the whole scene was the red of turkish flags in the terrible wind.

coming round a slippery corner, an early sign that our trip was ill-fated: being cut off by an ambulance, on its back doors the words: "be an organ donor."

we planned to take the ferry which would have been a shortcut, but every one was cancelled and we wasted an hour looking for the way back to the highway, and when we found it it was so slippery that no cars could get up it, certainly not ours. mehmet said, we are going to try it in reverse (the little alfa romeo is front-wheel drive). cars would go up the road, start to slip, then slide back and around. even a pickup truck could not make it. we kept way back. every time we did though someone would come around from behind us and go in front, then start sliding back into us.

finally there were no cars in front. we gunned it (not in reverse). we made it up onto the highway, but barely.

immediately out of istanbul there are mountains. the highway is a four lane highway with a concrete divider and on either side of the divider a deep channel for water to run down. we pressed up and up the road til we were sliding back as much as moving forward. just about every car was in the same boat as us. somehow cars continued to pass us and pull in front. we shouted. we gestured. there were cars in the ditch beside us, but somehow we held on -- onward, onward.

"don't you think there should be some work being done on this road?" asked mehmet. indeed, there were no snowplows, no sanding trucks, no nothing. in fairness, there were signs saying not to go forward without chains.

sliding down as much as going up -- finally we found a bridge and pulled in underneath to collect our thoughts behind a man putting chains on his fiat. a snowplow drove by. mehmet said, "that's it." so we peeled out and got in five cars behind the snowplow, and at last we could get some traction.

it was forty kilometers into a six hundred kilometer drive and we were doing twenty. it was ok, though, we were at least going forward. the cars that were not slipping off the road all pulled in behind the snowplow and soon there was a column perhaps fifty cars long trudging up this slippery mountain pass.

and then: a pickup truck pulled out from behind us, pressed up and past the leading cars, and passed the snowplow. his momentum carried him up the snowy highway. then he lost traction and slid back, back towards the snowplow, spun sideways, and hit the ditch.

the snowplow stopped. the cars behind stopped. we stopped. the column stopped. then slowly, like an iceshelf collapsing, every car in the column started sliding back. the little alfa had no chance. mo fought for control. the car spun. it spun right around and started sliding down face first towards the cars down the mountain. somehow mo got control and got the car angled off to the side. down we went and we hit the cement divider face first. the front tire jammed into the deep run-off trough filled with wet snow, and there we sat, panting. no way was the car moving.

"well," said mo, "at least we have olives."

"i hope you all went to the crapper before we left," i said.

we turned off the engine and powered down cellphones and generally thought about what to do next.

nothing we could do but wait, for now. so wait we did. then, like out of a dream a man came walking towards us from over the mountain pass. as he drew closer we could see he was carrying a duffel bag. from out of the duffel bag he took a plastic bag of round orange fruits. he came towards us. he motioned to mo to roll down the window. "take them," he said, "five lira." we said no. "take them," he said again. again no. but he was so insistent that mo eventually handed over five lira just to make him go away. it was a huge clear plastic bag of tangerines. mo rolled up the window. again silence.

we ate tangerines as the snow melted on the windshield.

"easier to stay warm than get warm," i said shortly, "we should get our warm layers out of the trunk. and make more space back here."

"man, i don't want to give up hope," said mehmet. "i am still hoping to be rescued." he wiped the fog from the window. in front of us were cars stranded as far as you could see down the highway. "mass rescue."

we waited perhaps a half hour more, listening to people honking their car horns. luckily it was not cold. raining, freezing, but not cold. seriously i have not seen a blizzard like this in canada and we have seen some impressive blizzards in canada.

we heard a diesel engine. a shape loomed in the fog of the windshield. we wiped away the fog. it was a truck-mounted crane. we were saved.

we were nearly at the front of the column so we got them first. we dug the car out enough to fit broad nylon straps under the frame. the plan was to have them lift us over the median and put us on the other side, where we could roll/skid back down to istanbul. we got the straps in position. the lift operator started the hydraulics. the straps tightened. he raised the crane.

the passenger door started to collapse.

scratch that. the plan take two was to just have them get us out of the ditch, which they did by yanking with the crane on the front tires, though that knocked the wheels out of alignment. they half dragged and we half pushed the car around the right way up the highway, and we were safe for the moment.

the highway behind was chaotic. a bus blocked the road. there were cars in the ditch and across the lanes. far in the distance a snowplow was trying to make its way up through this anarchy and get to the front of the column to shepherd us. everyone tried to push forward at once. women pushed while men worked the gears. people blared their horns. no one moved the bus.

finally mo and i started pushing the bus ourselves. half-sheepishly people started to help and at last we got it sticking to the ground and moving up and out of the way so the snowplow could come through. mo and i got soaked pushing cars up and out. we must have pushed ten. then there was no one left to cut us off so we pushed the little alfa forward and ugur got it going and then i jumped in and ugur jumped over the gear shift and mo jumped in and we were off and running, and soon we were over the pass and again touching a hundred as we whipped through the marginally less treacherous roads beyond.

you could see the fragrance itself in the tangerines. you'd peel one and all these little oil droplets would spray out. and they still had green stems and green leaves. all day it's been snowing. what a strange, what a strange trip this has been.

to be a whirling dervish - a night in Sultanahmet

whirling dervishes: after two songs performed in a tiny hall by a four piece ensemble -- drum, xither, ney flute, and oud -- four dervishes entered silently in camel hair hats and draped in black. they bowed forwards, silently, turned inwards and bowed silently. they put their robes on the floor off to the side, now all in white, white skirts and white tunics. the flute player took the melody. a skilled player of the ney can merely think and change the pitch of the note, just like an orator can speak and press the inciting energy of speech up or draw it down. the notes started to drip from the melody and the rhythm slowed. the dervishes crossed their arms, clasping their hands on each shoulder, the right arm overtop. then the drummer started pushing the rhythm forward and up from under the ney. the stringed instruments joined one at a time. the dervishes started to spin. there is a particular way of stepping one foot around the other to get the spinning movement smooth. their skirts were weighted at the bottoms and floated up as the dervishes whirled, showing white pants and soft white shoes beneath with black buckles. then as each of them found the rhythm they drew their hands up the side lines of their bodies and up beyond their tall brown hats til they were reaching up, both hands overhead and out to the sides. they spun clockwise, the leading hand palm up to receive energy, the trailing hand palm down to radiate it. they spun at an exact steady measured speed even though the rhythms and lines moved through the music like animals hunting. very slowly they began to step around each other moving clockwise round a circle. their eyes closed. their heads swayed. always the same step of right around left around left around left.

the rhythms got more complex, moving around the number eight, then odd numbers, then rhythmic cycles of three beats then four, then three beats then four, then three beats then four. the dervishes spun and they spun, steady. and steady. and steady, trailing palm down. then suddenly the music changed and the tempo quickened and the melody went from leaking down to swelling up and the drum pushed too and then the final beat was struck and the dervishes stamped the outer foot down all of them ending facing inwards and their weighted skirts spun for one twist more, then fell, then went still. crossing their arms over each other again, right arm overtop, the dervishes bowed inward and forward, gathered their black cloaks, and silently left the stage.

at the nargileh bar in sultanahmet the boys outnumbered the girls ten to one, twenty to one if you do not count ugur who did not have any nargileh. mo had a tobacco water pipe that came wrapped with a huge tobacco leaf. mine was apple shisha. stronger than at home, or at least different, i felt it behind my forehead almost immediately, and we lost count of the cups of tea. waiters brought glowing coals to keep the pipes going. a white and orange cat claimed a whole bench for herself though every other seat was taken. it was an outdoor patio and cold. mo gave ugur his own coat.

then walking home we had salep which is the resin of orchids brewed and made into a hot drink like a custard, with nutmeg, and served in a paper cup very hot. the weather wet, windy, rainy, big snowflakes, all the cut stones of the street slick and shiny and treacherous. writing from my little hotel room with yellowochre walls and light shining from sconces, white crown moulding and red and gold bedspreads woven and embroidered with leaves and flowers, and ornate cushions with tassels and dark wood furniture, a tiny desk and chair. in this room it is very cold. the tile floor is cold. the windows are cold. the bathroom is cold. there is a rose on the end table, white with a red flush, love and desire.

graffiti in the Hagia Sofia

two further thousand years from now
diggers will learn that N loved E in '63.

somebody thinks this church will last.

doubtless N still thinks of E.

forty-one kinds of spices

recently was valentine's day and here it is mostly cold. they tell me a storm is coming, in from siberia.

today mo, ugur and i are staying at a hotel in istanbul, in the old city called the Sultanahmet. over six months since i slept in my own bed. here is everywhere i've slept since then, dates give or take.

aug 1 - aug 9 : stayed with friends in vancouver
aug 10 - 15 : at shambhala
aug 16 - 17 : hostel in vancouver
aug 18 - 22 : tofino and victoria
aug 23 : again with friends in vancouver, and baby
aug 24 - 28 : hostel in san francisco
aug 29 - sept 4 : in the dusty desert of black rock city
sept 5 - 7 : on a stranger's couch in reno
sept 8 - 16 : again in san francisco in a closet-sized bedroom generally alone
sept 17 - 22 : on the couch of a friend of a friend in montreal
sept 23 - oct 16 : in the questionable montreal flophaus
oct 16 - dec 3 : on the floor of the second bedroom of my apartment as it went from being my apartment to someone else's
dec 4 - 29 : housesitting
dec 30 - 31 : hostel in lake louise
jan 1 2008 - jan 16 : in parents' basement
jan 17 : hostel in london
jan 18 - feb 3 : guest bedroom at mehmet's
feb 4 - 5 : hostel in cannakale
feb 6 - feb 11 : back to mehmet's
feb 12 : world house hostel in istanbul
feb 13 - present : hotel in istanbul suburb, evac'd there by mehmet

mo is forever giving. lunch at the restaurant of the topkapi palace in istanbul and with our meal we had rosewater flavoured with forty-one kinds of spices. it is wearing on my soul receiving all that he has given me and continues to give to me. i like it but i want to give for a change. joni mitchell on the radio and it moves me greatly. she sings: the wind is in from africa: last night i couldn't sleep. sure is hard to leave you but it's really not my home.

a date with mustafa

or, At the turkish baths.

we were staying at a hotel that had a hamam in the basement -- that is, a turkish bath. the four of us went.

it was very steamy and hot.

it was all white marble. it was an octagon. there were eight segments with benches and space for perhaps six to sit. you had to speak up to be heard over the sound of the running water.

around the octagons near the benches there are eight marble basins filled with water from two brass faucets, one for hot and one for cold. the water runs into the basin and pours over the top edge. at the bottom of the basin, submerged, were copper bowls that you use to pour water over your head. it splashes on the marble floor. troughs carry it away.

in the centre of the hamam is a marble octagon slab for you to lie out flat. this is where mustafa works his magic, giving you, according to the brochure, the massage of a lifetime. alas, mustafa's massaging hours went only til ten.

it takes two days to heat up a turkish bath and three to cool it down. i could only take about fifteen minutes in there. it was major.

at the trade show, day two

this morning i felt better. enough of the way i was yesterday.

i was up early with the others and we got to the trade show early and i helped by wiping down the laminate floor, which is good karma. it was all scuffed and dirtied. when the mop wouldn't get it mo and i got down on hands and knees to do it. while i was kneeling a girl stopped me and told me you could see my hip bones. i showed a little more. she was young and pretty and wore green.

at the trade show delegation now they call me mehmet paul. there is mehmet arif -- that's mo. there is mehmet reşat -- that's his cousin. and now there is mehmet paul. they have given me an apron that says "Burhaniye."

i spent the day talking to musicians. a violin player sitting playing-- very much the opposite of people with titles and power ties and managed brands. a violin, you get your fingers and your ears and a string, and nothing more. talked to a very cool player of the ney which is a nine-segmented flute that the dervishes spin to. it is made from reed. the redness of the reed is the fire in your soul. the straightness of the reed is your integrity. to play it teaches patience, and mindfulness.

i saw a potter working at a wheel, weavers, bakers, chocolate artists, and a painter doing a fantastic red tulip bulb with the dark-inked word "Allah."

and i held a bergamot fruit in my hand, like a lemon, but big, and i scratched it with my fingernail and breathed in deep and the smell buoyed me up.

by the end of the day i'd had enough of the cigarette smoke though and the noise and also i saw someone at the tunesian booth making intricate bird cages the size of a melon, no bigger, and i was happy to see the end of the trade show.

we were treated to dinner at a fabulous restaurant where we brought our own olive oil and gave what was left as a gift for the chef. they put our raki glasses in copper dishes with molded ice so your glass slid right in and stayed frozen cold. they brought packs of cigarettes with dinner. so many courses. several appetizers. bread. cheese. kebabs. eggplants. roasted onions and garlic. meats. lastly a desert made of fried cheese. mo has taught me to say: sebap okenlorden allah razi olsen -- may g-d bless the one who brought this all to be.

self-portrait at the trade show

i rather dislike tradeshows. they are dishonest. what is important to me? not wasting and not taking things you don't need. not using people. not talking crap for the sake of a free cookie. therefore a trade show is a bunch of distractions.

mehmet has brought me along with him to the 2008 Tourism Affairs Bureau trade show because he doesn't want me in istanbul alone after what has happened, and though i think that's a little over-reacting, i have decided to stay with him. part of me wants to be here. it is two days of easy living, eating other people's food and drinking their tea, coffee and also alcohol, and all you have to do is smile and look interested in their pamphlets. it's crossed my mind too, although i hate to think this way but then why do i do it, that i will be able to waste and gorge myself and drink too much and basically pillage to get back at the universe for having been pushed around in the basement of a lousy bar in istanbul. like that time i made out at the dark back of the club with the girl i _knew was married, and downstairs as i was leaving i saw her fighting with some guy viciously -- this in general retribution for what was done to me in love. i sometimes say: every creep for himself.

so. at the trade show.

the organizers have covered up dust, bits of tape, loose nails with rolls of red carpet that probably won't be re-used.

women in black suits that mean they have power and money, and long tall boots also black.

two girls circulate in bikinis handing out pamphlets and i notice their imperfections.

two dogs on display but i don't know what they are being used to sell. one is a huge great dane. it looks drugged.

there are four skylights per hall that let in blinding sunlight. you can see the thick cigarette smoke.

rubbish bins overflow with plastic, and you can't stop progress.

every picture of spa services looks the same. it is always a woman being massaged. it is always painted manicured nails doing the massaging. the face-down woman is always blissful, eyes closed, and always topless.

two women touch each other in a picture of a turkish mudbath.

booths selling fitness equipment have pictures of girls in a-cup sports bras or knotted t-shirts. they are using the exercise machines and they have not broken a sweat. you can see the lines in their tummies. but those lines are doubtless photoshopped in and even if they are not, that just means they hold their tension in their bellies, instead of, or as well as, in hips and shoulders. there are cookies on the tables below the pictures, white shortbread made with butter.

badly adjusted EQ through too-loud speakers. blahness of DJs. "dance music." promotional videos endlessly on repeat. an accordion player sits hapless across from a car stereo display.

the persian tourism booth has pamphlets with sparkling blue beads on strings and i take one, then sidle my way around for a second which i take leaving the pamphlet behind as if that makes it better.

i trade the souls of trees for a truffle.

people walk around in national costumes because they are paid to.

poorly translated english abounds, and tired prose.

people crush forward to reach the booth that is giving away free ice cream. long line ups at a donair booth waiting for a free lunch. i go right on by saying: there is no such thing as a free lunch. i say this knowing that today i am not on the spiritual path i want to be on but i still expect to get off easy, free karmic lunch.

i take several little boxes of turkish delight.

there is a booth that has beer. there is a wine tasting booth. people make long line ups blocking from view the silver jewelry on display in the neighbouring booth.

at the georgian tent they have me try four of their favourite kinds of vodka though i have no real intention of going to georgia. here are genuinely wanting to share. the first kind was the best. after i'd tried three kinds more they gave me more of the first. when i brought mehmet to "meet" them too he enjoyed it, genuinely enjoyed it and asked them questions, and inquired if anyone could help him with his grapevines. different than my motivations.

at a bar that drew my eye for having bartender girls in swimsuits but IN FACT they were dresses made from that nylon-y material -- i take an uneeded napkin with my raki.

later i see the bikini girls posing for pictures with the opiated great dane, as if to say, i want a man _this big.

at the day's end i park myself at a purple-velvet tango bar in full view of other companies' brands, and near the chocolates. i deign to talk to people standing near the appetizer trays. the waitresses wear fishnet stockings, lipstick and eye shadow. they pour me more south american wine, unasked though i give them clear signals that i want them to, putting my glass a half inch too far from my hand, out of my orbit and into theirs. each of the chocolates comes on a plastic sword and it bothers me not when i accumulate four, five, six of them. ornamental plastic swords that will go from the box to my hand to my mouth to the counter to the garbage and from there someone will basically dump them into the river that sustains us. oh, but it's dark chocolate.

so this was the trade show. more precisely, this was me at the trade show.

setting up for the trade show

smells of drywall, paint, sawdust, vinyl, solvents.

extension cords.

a man uses a trike to cart around building supplies.

the sound of a circular saw.

the sound of cell phones.

tradesmen in work gloves take them off to smoke.

dusty, unfinished floors.

plastic wrap around sofas and chairs stacked, waiting to become parts of booths.

waste bins overflowing with balled up plastic tape, bubble wrap, newsprint, styrofoam, cardboard, entire boxes. in and around ours, cheese wrappers and olive pits.

it is 3 AM. everyone has lots to do, not least us.

the shakedown

in turkish he asked me for the time. when i showed him my watch (for not speaking turkish) he said, "english?" and so we got to talking, although, seriously, like, i do not need more clutter in my life, but whatever.

he told me i look turkish and he thought i was turkish. he had an umbrella and he held it over me as well as himself.

he told me one day he wants to come to canada. he would walk with me up the street. told me his name was kennel.

and did i want to get a drink, his treat. "you ever try turkish beer? efes?"

i had not. i didn't really want one. i was cold from the rain and wet. but he said, it will be quick, and his treat, for he was going to see a soccer game. did i know such and such a player. i did not. in canada it's all hockey. whatever. not that i even like hockey although i said i don't mind it. he had ugly teeth, that is what i noticed about him, and he spoke english poorly.

"will you show me where to get some yoghourt?" i said.

"sank-you," he answered.

i could have corrected him politely but i did not. he kept saying sank-you to everything. LEARN TO SPEAK THE LANGUAGE OF THE CONQUERING TRIBE, WHELP. off we went.

yoghourt was a dollar and some, from an honest-feeling little shop that also sold cheese, fruit, nuts, milk, and so on. i planned to come back because you can do a lot of inexpensive eating with yoghourt when you are in a hostel, and it was close to where i was staying.

he insisted that i come for a drink with him.

so there is this little voice in my head that i am trying to learn to listen to. my brother also had told me about a standard scam in istanbul, and my travel guide warned about it too. it starts with someone inviting you for a drink with them. i knew this. off we went.

in the bar, techno, and there was a picture of the new york skyline including the twin towers. we sat in a booth with a little dish of peanuts. there were two bored-looking girls standing on the dancefloor dancing badly. seriously badly. the guy started smoking. he ordered two beers for us.

"it's nice place, yes?"

"not bad." it sucked.

they brought our drinks.

the girls came over and sat down.

"can we sit here?"

the waiter brought their drinks, glass bottles with gold foil wrap in a bucket under the table. the little voice.

if these girls were prostitutes, i would have paid, perhaps fifty cents for the services that followed. where am i from. what do you do there. is it cold where you come from. how long is the flight. the titillation.

one was named layla. i told her there was a song about a layla. at least i did not start singing it.

they finished their drinks. layla said, "can i have another." kennel said yes. the one next to me asked if she could too. kennel said he was paying. the little voice again, intuition. but what did i care if he was paying?

a big man in a black suit brought a menu and said, "because it may be too expensive for you." kennel looked at it, pushed it my way, i did not know what i was looking at really, he took it and handed it back to our acne'd waiter who was also quick to light kennel's cigarette.

the waiter brought two more bottles and fired the corks into the corner: champagne. unease.

kennel put on his coat. layla: "you are not leaving?"

"no, i am just cold."

i suppose that was the signal for the waiter to bring the bill. kennel looked at it. he put it on the table where i looked at it, twelve hundred dollars.

so this is the scam and i fell for it. this is what intuition sounds like when it says danger. i have learned to listen to intuition in some parts of life but i did not know so much what it sounds like when it says danger. i have never really been in danger before.

"my friend," said kennel, "i do not have this kind of money and my credit card has a limit of six hundred, so we are going to have to share this."

i told him i was not paying. i knew the scam. i knew i was being scammed, now. i did not connect then that he would have beeen working for them too. but either way he could deal with it, i was leaving.

the waiter told me no, i was not.

kennel was my friend, of course. "please, my brother, we go talk to the manager." so we went in to speak to the manager in the little room, the one who'd brought the menu, a guy twice my size in a black suit and black shirt and black tie, a little room done up in red. the waiter came too and closed the door. (don't go into the little room.)

"what seems to be the problem?" said the 'manager' as if he didn't know.

stress hormones keep me from remembering the exact dialogue but the way the scam goes is that in the end you either pay the bill cash, or credit card, or they persuade you to let them take you to and from a bank machine. the waiter stood scrunched-up looking between me and the door. he looked down. he looked like the dog that would lose in a fight and knew he would lose if he had to fight.

so what do you do. they wanted money from me. i told him to talk to the girls (they were still outside in their own booth). the manager said those girls worked for him and it was their job to sit with customers and drink. and he had even brought us the menu. i told him kennel said he was paying, he should talk to kennel. the manager said i was paying. i said i had one drink, all i would pay for was one drink. he said his line, i said mine until finally he shouted "FUCK the one drink."

i told them i was not paying. i was scared but not too scared. i knew that if i showed i was scared i would be done for. i told them i was leaving. i got up to go.

the waiter, looking up, pushed me back down.

the manager started using words like "or i'm gonna take it by force." up to what point do you bluff? kennel said, "no, no, please, we" -- we -- "don't want any trouble." i told kennel i was not paying. "no," he said, "you are not paying, we are paying, my credit card limit is seven hundred" -- before it was six hundred -- "we will share it." later his limit would be eight hundred. i was not paying.

the big guy came out from behind his desk, pulled my up by my coat. he was twice my size. i don't think he would have hit me. he told me to take out my wallet. i took out my wallet.

he said, "you have a credit card." i said i was not paying.

he took my fifty dollars and told me i could go. i left fast thinking i was abandoning kennel but later i figured out he was working for them too. the girls were in a booth of their own. i thought about teaching them a new word or two but figured best to leave before someone changed their mind about letting me go. so i left.

angry. it has been a long time since i have been genuinely angry. also angry at myself.

i understand how people get scammed and no one ever hears about it, because i felt ashamed that i'd been played and what's more that i walked right into it. back at the hostel i sat alone. i wrote a postcard to a friend who has picked me up before when i have been down, haven't addressed it though. i thought about why things happen and why this happened to me and why much worse things happen to people. and why worse things happened to a beautiful friend back home.

it could have been much worse. i am ok, fully completely ok.

i called mo and told him what happened. he came to pick me up. he felt bad too. i am going to stay with him at his hotel tonight. he may take me with him where he is going tomorrow which is a tourism trade show.

this was the song in my head after i steadied myself -- the lonesome death of Hattie Caroll:

Hattie Caroll was a maid in the kitchen:
fifty-one years, she gave birth to ten children
who carried the dishes, and took out the garbage
and never once sat at the head of the table
and who just cleared off all of the food from the table
and who didn't much talk to the people at the table
and who emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level --

but you who philosophize disgrace
and criticize all fears
take the rag away from your face
now ain't the time for your tears.

in the world there is such misery and i don't know the half of it. i wonder what they thought after i left. high fives? probably not. probably the guy in the black suit was angry.

just today i was thinking how istanbul is not at all scary and what is there left in the world that can surprise me.

i keep playing this over in my head. i know what i should have done differently. part of me thinks it is my fault. part of me knows that fundamentally it is not. i am trying not to philosophize disgrace.

the blue mosque

two black wooden doors meeting in an arch lead you through the outer wall of the blue mosque. one door is open, one is closed. the chain used to hold them shut at night hangs unattached. it is a grey stone outer wall.

there are green wet bushes and green wet grass between the outer and the inner walls, and in the flowerbeds there are yuccas but no flowers yet. the inner wall is in front of you and raised up. stone steps before you lead to a door going through. rising up in front of you are minarets. there are two on the forward corners of the inner walls. two more minarets behind make a square. that square is the courtyard and the inner wall is its perimeter. two more minarets make another square. that square is the mosque itself, behind the courtyard. round to the right there is a row of marble seats and brass faucets, and coat hooks, in a little corridor cut into the stone. there are big old trees that are not in bloom.

you step through the inner wall under an arch that is geometrically carved. the threshold is cut from white marble and thousands of footsteps have rounded the edges down and worn them smooth. inside the door is a star pattern done in black stone cut into white stone tiles. there are walls beside and behind you. the mosque rises up in front of you. there is a massive arched dome in the centre, bisected into two smaller domes, and each of those bisected again, like a rivulet of liquid metal, running down. at the top of each dome, gold crescents. in each wall of the courtyard there are twelve wood doors with brass fittings and patterns of rectangles and squares cut in. per wall there are twelve columns that support a roof that covers your head. the outsides of the columns are filthy black with pollution. the insides of the columns are bright white. geometric designs in circles on the ceiling over you. the rain is falling and the sound of water pouring off the eaves echoes in the courtyard.

everyone snaps the same picture as they come in. two guards patrol, smoking.

now starts the call to prayer. it is impossibly amplified. in the enclosed courtyard is it almost too loud to bear. it is men, young men singing. how does religion make young men like me feel, for example, righteous indignation? quiet, quiet. the marble tiles are cracked in many places and the water pools where they are sunken. a bird overhead. i can see my breath and the falling rain. then the cry is done and again silence, echoing silence, and the sound again of running water, falling water.

you have to take off your shoes before you go in to the mosque itself. you walk over turkish-looking carpets made from woven plastic, and disposable. if you are a woman you have to wear a scarf but some women do not. you go in through the side entrance.

the first thing you see: an enormous pillar twelve feet across, carved from grey stone. plush carpet the colour of red and yellow spices stretches out all the way in front of you. your field of view: there is no ceiling that you can see. the far walls are too distant to feel like they hedge the vast space. the walls beside you and behind you are beyond the angle of what you can see. no impression of a ceiling. there is nothing in the whole empty space except for that pillar and the richness of the plush carpet that moves under your toes.

the domes above your head float up forever. the central dome sits on four stone pillars like the one near you. you can follow it straight up with your eyes and you have to lift them all the way up, then you tilt your head back, all the way back and still you are not looking at the peak, so you even lean back and then far above your head you see the eight small domes that join into four and come together into one, the lines all meeting at the very top and all inlaid with gold script, and covered from edge to topmost apex with flowers and vines done in green, blue and red paint. from the underside of the domes hang innumerable thin wires leading your eye back down, and from which hang black ironwrought chandeliers holding lights in glass mantles. once these would have been oil lamps. in the horizontal plane you see a band of stained glass windows, flat bottoms, teardrop tops, wraps around the whole of the structure. this is above a stone walkway supported by a row of arches and columns, and with a handrailing carved in a geometric star pattern out of sheets of white marble. above the windows are blue tiles, blocks of them the same pattern, blue birds, blue flowers, blue leaves, blue bulbs, blue stars, blue hexagons. to fill the spaces under the cupolas above you there are round panels of calligraphy, gold on blue and black. there are no images at all of people or angels, no illustrations of scenes from stories.

the carpeted space is cut in half by a wooden railing. only worshippers can cross, and only the men -- the space for women, labelled in english too, is in a small wood-panelled room at the back where the sunlight floods in through big windows. the carpet is infinite dustyred, with a seamless pattern of blue and green flowers and vines enwoven. on the distant walls there are panels of intricate script. at the front of the mosque there is gold.

there is no echo. people's cellphones ring on the tourists' side of the wooden railing. there is exactly one blue tile missing.

the overall impression is: my eye forever tracing up the columns, up up to the topmost central dome, the space reserved for the most exalted calligraphy, words i cannot hope to read. i am duly impressed.

<< and you want to travel with her >> (for real this time)

today has been fun so far... i am now in istanbul. very comfortably settled at a nice hostel that is very clean and close to the action and wow there is a lot of action.

heard Suzanne on the drive here, how perfect and circular is that.

my hostel is very nice, clean, and with tea always on and boiling water, and they have a deal with the restaurant next door for cheap fish and chips.

won't dwell too long writing here. have to deal with the uncomfortable fact that the whole world is just outside my door waiting to be discovered...

number thirty-three

burhaniye has a girls' college basketball team. today we went to go watch them play.

i have been reading one of mo's books called The Red Queen which is about how attraction and sexual selection affected the evolution of the human body and mind. mo told me, and ugur overheard, that there is one girl on the team who gets all of the particular attention from boys, and who enjoys being the object of their attention. and did i want to be introduced? i declined to answer.

the game started at four. it was just ugur and me -- mo is in ankarra. we arrived early. friends as we are of the mayor (who also came to see), we went in through the side door, same as the players. ugur had to phone someone on her cell to get us past the man who was keeping just anyone from going in that way. as we got sorted a woman went through in front of us with a little girl in tow. the girl was bundled right up in a huge pink fuzzy scarf -- it was cold today. cute! i watched her go two steps in. then i saw her face light up and i followed her gaze way up and there was one of the players who'd seen and come over to say hi and who made big shining eyes -- must have been sisters or cousins or something -- and reflexively i smiled too and my stomach lifted and it dawned on me, oh yeah, there's gonna be girls here. and tall, which (i've read) signals reproductive fitness.

yes. when we got there the two teams were warming up already, running laps around their halves of the court, forwards and backwards and side to side. the gym was painted yellow and in the middle of the floor it said Burhaniye. the arena was mostly empty when we got there but quickly filled up. on the far wall hung banners that were a cross between the turkish flag and a portrait of Attaturk in a fez. twenty minutes before the game started they powered up the scoreboards and started playing music, R&B in turkish. the girls started their drills, shots from up close, from far, trapping rebounds, blocking, passing. layers started coming off as they got warmer. then more layers. they stretched. one girl was the stretchiest. the refs came on, one male and one female. they stood facing each other on the centre line as the start time drew near. they kept their whistles in their mouths the entire game.

last thing before the first jumptoss, two paramedics rolled in a stretcher and i thought, that's right -- these girls are gonna try to kill each other. the game began. to keep from getting called foul they'd hold their hands behinds their backs and try to shoulder into the other players. and one girl faked a shot right at the face of the girl who was blocking her, made her flinch. every now and then one of them would bite the dust. but then the player who knocked her over would often help her up. the refs blew their whistles like they were used to being in charge. they indicated penalties with abrupt hand gestures. the crowd went quiet for our foul shots, not so quiet for theirs. then the game would start again and you'd hear the shoes squeak on top of the noise of the crowd. someone had brought an airhorn, someone else a tambourine.

two teams of girls. lots of group dynamic. lots of hand touching. every shot they'd give a little five low down as the shooter headed back to home turf. every foul shot got one or two whether the shot was good or missed. coming on or off the court, again. the girls also touched bums. i swear i am not lying. and at time-out more than one of them used the same towel to wipe their glistening bodies, their heaving chests.

i had to ask. number eleven, ugur told me.

i'd guessed number thirty-three. but somehow number thirty-three did not leave the bench the entire game (i closely watched).

our team did not win. there was a moment when i thought we might close the gap, but we did not. the game was over after forty minutes of play. i do not know what happened after the girls left the court to head for the showers. i decline to speculate.

the red queen

mo has been teaching me to play backgammon.

i am starting to get the basic gist. tend not to leave unguarded columns as you approach your home quarter. tend not to move pieces further in than necessary once you get there. tend to shore up the home quarter with unbreakable columns to be able to capture and trap your opponent (mo).

people have tried to teach me this game before and it's never stuck, so i wonder if it's something about my wiring, something, like, visuo-spatial. half the time i have to consciously think about which way the pieces are moving around the board. for me they move counterclockwise, means that for mo they move clockwise from my point of view. practice, mo says. part of it is that he's always moving for me. meanwhile i am trying to count aloud as well as play. i roll the dice. bir. iki. üč. dört (by now mo has strategized and moved on my behalf and is rolling the dice himself.) bez. alti.

practice.

another game that takes practice is -- i read this last night --

you and ninety-nine other people are randomly dealt one hundred cards that are sequentially numbered. you hold your card to your forehead so that everyone can see your number but you.

everybody: marks, get set, go. "mate" with the highest number you can pair up with.

i have given munch

turkish coffee and turkish donuts. these are dangerously tasty.

a sketch of an olive grove

mo took me with him this morning to one of his olive groves. we took the truck up the highway, then turned onto a little dirt road, switched it into four by four mode, and pressed up the hillside.

olive trees have long fingerey leaves that are dark green on one side and mintey green on the other. when the wind catches the branches the trees shimmer white. where we were going, there were trees right from the edge of the highway, up and over the hill, out to the sea. olive trees must be very tough because there were rocks everywhere in the soil. in fact when you looked at the ground most of what you saw was loose rock and short, tough looking grasses. we followed deep ruts left behind by heavy farm machinery, looking for point 168 on the GPS. there were trees evenly spaced about every eight feet. they have gnarled trucks that the wind twists into all kinds of shapes. some of them were numbered with white paint on the grey bark. some of them were coated with lye to keep away pests. mo tells me his trees are about sixty years old. they continue to fruit well into old age. between every tree there was a deep slice into the ground, thin, to help channel the water down the slope.

we stopped near a crew of six men who were warming themselves by a small fire of olive wood. there were piles of branches nearby. the fire was small but sat on a big pile of white ash. the sky was clear: it was sunny and the wind combed cool through the leaves and carried the smell of the fire. purple flowers grew beneath one of the trees.

mo talked to the men while i poked around. the dirt is squishy under your feet where it is not rocky. when we went to leave the men set to work.

much easier to find our way down the hill than up it. soon we were back on the highway. mo took me for lunch. i already know burek. mo introduced me to kufte. we stopped at a little restaurant with calendars on the walls and a tv playing loud turkish news that the proprieters muted for some stories, unmuted for others. we sat at a little table with red spice in a shaker and peppers that surprised me for being much hotter than the ones at mo's. at each table was a tall plastic container full of hunks of bread. they brought yoghourt on a wood plate, and a tin plate of tomatoes, then our main course. kufte is like kebab meat, sizzling, served with shredded lettuce and cabbage and lots of onions. more people arrived and sat at the table next to us. a man in a jacket washed at a sink at the back of the restaurant, using a pink bar of soap and shaking the water from his hands. there were ashtrays at each table. when we were done eating, tea, which came from next door -- they shouted to have it brought. a boy ran it over on a little tray with a handle. mo spilled his and they used sawdust on the floor to absorb it. we got a sandwich to go for ugur and they wrapped it in newspaper. it was friday noon which meant a particular call to prayer that happens only once per week. we drove out down a little brick road with parts of it torn up and stacks of bricks on either side.

three other fun things about my trip to çanakkale

this was çanakkale the morning i left for troy -- foggy as ever.



Three Fun Things.

1. saw dolphins swimming in the dardanelles. twelve fins in two groups. tourists took pictures with their cell phone cameras as townspeople fished from the boulevard. a tourbus arrived and everyone got out to come see. a cat decided to come check it out too, pawed its way through the maze of legs, down to a rock where it sat looking out, visions of tuna fish going through its little mind.

2. made a friend at the info booth at troy.



this little guy had the same idea as me, warming up in Excavation House. when i went in he was sitting on one of the chairs sleeping. i sat down to check my guidebook and he meowed, looked at me and climbed onto my lap. then climbed up on my shoulder while i read the informational displays on the walls. thin like a rat.

3. heard some bob dylan on the radio. most of the stations here play turkish music, unlike the imported tv channels. but coming through the mountain pass before assos i switched onto a channel where a voice on the feminine side of androgynous was singing a bouncey cover of Fourth Time Around:

it was then that i got up to leave, and she said, don't forget :
everybody must give something back for something they get

i came late home to a quiet house. mo had been busy, installed a fireplace in the bedroom upstairs and an infrared heater in the bathroom -- like a toaster, only for humans. good to be back. learned a few things. more to follow.

the wind brought wealth to Troy

goddess, sing -- and let your voice resound
in these stone walls that sat for so long buried.
nine cities built and nine destroyed.
each one thought to be forever.
each one overgrown and lost to time.





from high atop the grassy mound,
emperors and mortal men surveyed
the fertile plains, the trees, the hunter birds.
the wind brought wealth to troy.
ships from all the ages brought treasures of
clay and bronze, brought conquerors and
redeemers too, and swept away their footprints.





what will remain of us five thousand years from now?
formless rock, bits of statue,
tilestones, broken columns.
the gods and godesses we revere
will look down from their high places.



our traveller walked. he walked along a path of narrow stones,
every stone six-sided. he walked beneath the windswept pines.
he walked beneath the rippling flags
that floated on the ceaseless wind
that once brought wealth to troy.
at the city's edge, clay pots where nothing grows.
inscriptions void of meaning.



he walked atop the oldest walls of ancient troy,
sunbleached now and silty. the proud east tower rose up tall, once,
and guardsmen kept their watch there. now only grasses grow
between the ageless stones.
his path traced through the merchant square,
where men and women traded slaves
and artisans their wares.
food and drink once tossed and sacrificed.
cups and bowls flowed over as masters sharpened knives.
the grapevines once were ripe here.


















the temple to athena cracked and fallen.
oh goddess of wisdom and war, why do you let
such proud cities sink and ruin take them? the men who moved
between the columandes
carved lifetimes into solid rock, drew women out of
stone and marble. a scribe's seal, the name now half-obscured.
the waters now receded. the citadel gone silent,
great dramas played in other places.
the mighty archways broken.



goddess, sing, and let the mighty cities of tomorrow
rise from underfoot. let the wind bring wealth
to all who hoist their sails. bring our traveller home.
let the wine flow and let your songs be sung,
forgotten songs now cast onto the wind.