The Turkish Bath

My four adventurous American comrades and I made haste to keep up with the brisk Turkish gentlemen. When the idea surfaced in the hotel lobby over tea, these two natives took it upon themselves to lead us naive foreigners to the nearest Hamam. The usually spacious streets of Kars slowly accumulated bodies in search for an eventful Saturday night. A biting Fall breeze swept through the streets forcing me to button my warm flannel to the very top. With each stride, unsettling thoughts of the possibilities in store hung in a damp weight above our heads. Would we make fools of ourselves here? Do foreigners visit Turkish Baths? Will I contract some grizzly fungus due to unsanitary conditions? These collective thoughts bounced around as we continued to follow the Turks around each corner toward our possible demise.

The younger gentleman turned and gave a lopsided smile. He motioned toward a door and we entered an oddly florescent establishment. Two older men, one dressed in a kind cardigan and the other entirely naked save for the small towel wrapped about his midriff and groin, welcomed us enthusiastically. The men we came with negotiated a reasonable price of 100 TL for the five of us. They wished us luck and we quickly thanked them, our eyes revealing our blatant insecurity. The nearly naked man took our valuables, deposited them in a small drawer and gave the key to one of us. The other man beckoned us to the undressing rooms and we swiftly removed our armor. With but a small sequined cloth as protection, we made our way downstairs.

Immediately the air became humid as gentle slips of steam emerged from beneath the door. I pushed it open and we made our way into a large, steamy room plated in tile and dampness. Three impossibly hairy men gawked at us then snickered to themselves. Apparently our awkwardly draped cloths and incredulous expressions were a sight to behold. A gangly, mustachioed man lying on the center tile-spread had so much hair on his shoulders that I literally thought he was wearing shoulder pads. We made our way to our individual bathing rooms and hung our towels. Now entirely naked, I stared down at two metal sprockets and a small plastic cup. With no other option, I filled the cup with warm water and repeatedly drenched myself. After about 15 cup loads, I felt refreshed. I turned off the water and made my way back out to the main room to rendezvous at the center tile with the other Americans. An overly affable man took advantage of the opportunity to chat with some foreigners and the six of us made our way to the sauna. My skin's residual wetness quickly disappeared in this dimly lit heater- filled room. As we deployed our horrendous Turkish in an attempt to chat with the local, we laughed together. With the cleansing heat and fresh rinse, we finally started to feel comfortable.

Our new acquaintance told us the best was yet to come. Sure enough, we made our way from the sauna and beheld the Turkish massage. We sat on the center tile column engrossed at the sight of a man karate chopping the bejesus out of another soul. As we stared, another hairier-than-humanly-possible man emerged from the steam to offer us each a lemon zesty beverage. We thanked him and quenched our thirst. Finally the masseur beckoned his first American victim over. We jeered at Drew and he commenced his massage.

When it was my turn, I enthusiastically jumped on to the tile centerpiece and lay prostrate, completely vulnerable. Apparently my genitals slipped from the towel because the masseur laughed and tugged my soaking cloth farther down. He began the massage with a sandpaper-esque scrubber that removed all my dead skin. This being my first massage of this sort, I had quite a bit of flesh to part with. He then massaged out my kinks, cracking parts of my spine simply by pinching them. He repeatedly left his massage post to grab particular props, my favorite being the sack of soap that he shot all over my body, immersing me in a cloud of bubbles that got all up in my grill and nasal cavity. He sat me up and ran his  muscular fingers through my soaking locks with his less than satisfactory shampoo product. My eyes sealed shut at this point due to the excessive soap pervading my being, the man left me again. I heard his footsteps returning and my friends warned, "Brace yourself!" a tad too late. A wall of the coldest water imaginable struck my soapy face. I screamed like a little girl and every man in the Hamam squealed with laughter. I jokingly scolded the masseur and he made it up to me with a gentle splash of warm water. He inspected his handiwork and with a little smirk, remarked, "Bootiful!"

I rinsed myself, waited for the others to have their massage and we headed back upstairs. The nearly naked ned from the entrance greeted us with towels and wrapped us up like a pack of Sultans. We felt like new men. We had conquered the Turkish bath and lived to tell the tale. An air of accomplishment now embracing us, we offered the a rarely expected tip and made our way back into the cool night.

Will Turkey Go To War?

This is the question on everyone's mind right now. The conflict between Syria and Turkey has escalated at an alarming rate this past week. On Wednesday, a Syrian shelling killed five Turkish civilians. On Thursday, the Turkish parliament passed a motion to allow cross border raids into Syria. And today President Erdogan stated that he does not seek war with Syria, but will not oppose it if the situation worsens. 

In June, the Syrian military downed a Turkish jet in free airspace. This triggered severe indignation from the Turks and promises of retaliation from Erdogan. This week's events have forced the president to move out from behind his veil of threats and take action against the Syrians. So, will Turkey go to war? The media says yes. The president says maybe. But the people, say no. 

The Arab Spring of 2011 revealed the true potential of social media in revolutions. In both Egypt and Libya we saw the youth of nations bound together by the common thread of liberation. The Turkish have also shown their prowess in this realm as a Facebook group brought 7,000 protestors together last night to rally against Erdogan's threats of war. The Republican People's Party (CHP) is the main opposition party of Erdogan's Justice and Development Party (AKP). The CHP have fiery, passionate support from youth all across the country and they have made their lividity known through rallies and demonstrations. As I took the bus back from Besiktas tonight, I witnessed several teenagers hanging strings of CHP flags across the street in a blatant display of anti-Erdogan angst. The youth have once again made their presence known. But is this all merely an excuse to resurrect the dormant contempt of the AKP? 

The alarmingly blunt press coverage of the conflict has led me to ask natives about the objectivity of the news and media. And just about everyone agrees that the government basically controls the media. The coverage released today is littered with headlines forecasting war (www.hurriyetdailynews.com) Many of the students at my university and the locals in Istanbul are far from fearful as they doubt anything will come of all the media ballyhoo. One student explained that, "The war threats between Turkey and Syria date back to the 50's and 60's. It has been half a century and nothing has come of it."  When I asked this same student about the threats of war, he dismissed them with unnerving assurance. It seems a common belief that that media is under the control of and heavily influenced by the AKP. So why would the media contribute to the hype? Why would the president's own party portray him in a way that only fuels the flame of rebellion? Why would the country react so critically if the prospect of war is so farfetched? 

What appeared to be vagueness on the part of Erdogan and the AKP is now an ambiguity with a myriad consequences. The conflict between parties dates back decades and the resentment between the Syrians, Turks and Kurds is entangled in a web of historical intricacies. A cloud of suspicion and unknowing surrounds the politics. Only one thing is for sure: the protests persist. The youth have raised their flags and voices. Something very real is happening and it will not go unchallenged. The tumultuous masses have been brought together through collective resentment of war. As Turkey sends soldiers across the border and engages the Syrians, only time will tell whether peace will be realized through civilized means or as Erdogan advocates, through violent measures: "We are not war-lovers, but we are not far from war either. The saying goes: 'prepare for war if you wish for peace.' So, war becomes the key for peace."

Protestors light flares in the street

CHP supporters  hang their party's flags

Bus Biddies

I spent the better part of my Saturday in Asia. The Bosphorus separates the Asian side of Istanbul from the European side so it is only a thirty minute commute to the other continent. Some friends and I checked out a nice variety of restaurants and bars until about midnight, then I flew solo to the bus station to go back to campus. Because of terrible traffic and the fact that the buses only run once an hour, I didn't make it on until about 2:30AM. Delirious from a long day of walking and a birthday party  the night before which left me sleeping on a poolside chair, I slouched against the bus wall and stared out the window, my eyelids heavy. Two French girls stood next to me, their mood far more jovial than everyone else's, repetitively engaged in quick spurts of annoying giggle chatting. After about 15 minutes of this, the girl's ceaseless sounds echoing in every skull and unrelenting traffic adding to the frustration, a Turkish woman whipped around and from the very front of the bus, admonished the girls in a desperately pleading tone:

"My head it hurts! Could you please be quiet! be quiet be quiet be quiet! I am not well!"

The bus became dead silent. Only the light squeaks of the suspension system could be heard. Nobody said a word for about 20 seconds, then the hushed whispering started up as it always does after a collective surprise. Within about two minutes, the conversation resumed its normal volume. The girls did their best to be quiet, but small squeals of laughter continued to emit from their excited exchange. My eyes glued to the woman, I watched as she threw her head down, shot severe glances in the girls' direction and complained to her boyfriend adjacent to her. She writhed in dismay as the girls continued. I just knew she was about to pop. The human body can only bottle intense emotion for so long. This time she shot up, grabbing her man's arm, her intoxication apparent:

"I am not well! You must be quiet or I will call the police! Shut your little foreign mouths!"

Now obvious that she was causing far more of a ruckus than the girls, the looks of consternation shifted from the latter to her. She took her seat and began yelling at her boyfriend at the top of her lungs in Turkish. She was a loose cannon. At this point, stifled laugher came from the exhausted bus patrons, everyone fully aware of the ridiculousness of the occasion. She unabashedly continued her rant.  I thought about piping up, but realized it was not my time or place. A Turkish man finally rose up to the occasion. With wild gesticulations, he cussed the woman out and the two engaged in a bitter tussle. The rest of the bus rooted for him as he said something to the effect of, "You are causing the problem now. It is not these girls, IT IS YOU!"

The boyfriend tried to fend off the crowd of determined animals but it was futile. Within minutes, half the bus arose in a cacophony of violent Turkish and the other end, howling laughter. The first man who raised his voice moved forward intimidatingly with two of his cronies and commanded they leave the bus. The driver obeyed and the two were literally booted off as the bus resounded with wild applause and "Bravos!"

I chuckled to myself and joined in on camaraderie, casting my share of cheers. The bus, now indisputably bonded, moved on down the dimly lit streets toward its distant destination.

Contrary to my former post, here is evidence that some Turks will raise their voices and lose their tempers when provoked. It just goes to show that stereotyping never works. An entire culture cannot have parameters placed on its every action or tendency. We are all humans and have similar desires. And the desires of the group will always overshadow the desires of the individual. That's power in numbers. And that is the one constant I have observed.

"You Look Like an Avatar"

"You should be more humble..." That's what my roommate told me. We had been in the dormitory management office and one of the workers behind the desk had stared at me for five straight minutes, then told me that I looked like an Avatar. No, not one of the cute little Wii avatars, or the Last Airbender avatar. Like the freakishly tall blue creatures with the long faces. I guess I took it a little too seriously.

The Turkish people have this implicit understanding that individual frustrations are not to be displayed.  It is frowned upon or viewed are prideful when one places a precedence on his own problems.  Thus, to be offended or angry means that one cares too much about himself and needs to relax. This is a hard difference because when something is frustrating me, I am usually confrontational or intentional about addressing it. But the Turkish mentality sees very little excuse for this. And that is precisely why, after an entire month of being here, I have yet to see one angry person. I have viewed reserved frustration, but not anger. Living in New York City this summer, I don't think I ever walked a block without seeing someone screaming into a cell phone or bitching out a deli worker for inadequate service. We value our expression in American (and of course, freedom of speech) but I think it can often be a deconstructive expression and largely based in pride. Many Americans, myself included, run their mouths and give very little thought to what comes out of them. In Turkey, reservation entails thinking twice before you speak and ensuring that when the time comes, your words carry weight. So the whole Avatar thing, carefully premeditated as it was, became the man's way of testing my pride level. I flunked the examination.

Last week, my friend Sam and I visited the castle walls in Old City Istanbul. The Christians erected these walls during the crusades to keep the Ottoman's out. There was the natural sea barrier on two sides but they needed another bulwark and built this wall as a means to protect the third side. During the crusades, Constantinople was the commercial and governmental head. Its protection was vital. But the walls proved conquerable as the Muslim's sacked Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade. It was incredible to climb up these walls and look out over the city. Just thinking about how many people fought and died right where I was standing was a bit eerie but incredible at the same time. For those of you familiar with Lord of the Rings, imagine the battle of Helms Deep where Legolas and Gimli are tallying their ork kills. It was that badass.

View of the Golden Horn from the castle walls

Climbing the steepest stairs of my life to the walls

70 foot pit that some bros got tossed into during the battles

My roomie Utku. His name means "victory." He is a rockstar.

The Bird Catcher

I like to break the routine. Today during my break between classes I decided to travel down to the little town of Sariyer and peoplewatch by the Bosphorus. I found a spot of shade on the grass and observed the cacophonous birds, effervescent children and snoozing dogs. The birds commanded attention as they fluttered about busily in search of their singular objective: food. A stampede of feet interrupted my existential daydream about the life of birds, and I looked up to find three generations: a grandfather, a father, and a son. The latter, a three year old, led the way, bouncing to and fro as all children do when overwhelmed by their surroundings. The birds continued to make their presence felt as they flapped about these three. The son came upon a little robin that had been separated from his comrades. The boy inched closer to the stranded warrior with deliberate hesitation. Suddenly two hands worked swiftly to gather up the tiny bird. As the poor soul squeaked rhythmically to deliver a clear distress call, the father smiled and beckoned his son closer. The boy looked upon his father as one stares in disbelief as something previously thought impossible, proves otherwise. The grandfather simply chuckled to himself. The father whispered words of reassurance and offered his chirping hands to the boy. The boy reached his little finger out to the bird and stroked its head. The father praised his son and quickly unclasped his hands, releasing the distressed soldier from his tortuous captivity. The bird shot out and sang with delight. He reunited with his kin, never to wander from the group again. The father took his son over to the washbasin, scrubbed their palms and the three generations proceeded through the park, hand in hand in hand in hand.

I can't exactly figure why I found this short sequence so profoundly moving- a father taking his son through the world, finding ways to help him make sense of it. Perhaps it was the generational factor. Perhaps it was just a father joking around. But I saw something more; I saw harmony. This place is filled with it. From the way family members support each other to the way businessmen respect one another. From the stray dogs that delight in their freedom to the smoking man that directs the foreigner to his destination. Everything here is part of the whole. Anything that seeks independence is quickly reminded of its responsibility to the group. Its responsibility to this unity.

First Day of Classes

After two weeks of getting acclimated to my new home, I finally started classes today. And it was quite an experience.

As I wandered desperately around the halls, my beffudledness oozed. Not only does every building here look exactly the same, but the abbreviations for the buildings make about as much sense as those Southerners that keep llamas as domestic pets. For example, my marketing class, which qualified as a "business administration" course, should intuitively be in the "Administrative Studies" building. Alas, no. I finally fumbled into the correct classroom four buildings further and twenty minutes later, placing my arrival at a fashionably late 9:50, for a 9:30 course. Needless to say I felt like a Freshman again. But as usual, I was able to laugh about it and not stress.

I grabbed a syllabus and took my seat but almost immediately stood back up as I noticed the striking beauty of the woman up front. I thought to myself, "There is no way a woman this attractive could be teaching Accounting." Well, welcome to Turkey. She proceeded to show a five minute video (in Turkish) about managerial accounting. She then abruptly asked for responses. Needless to say, I understood absolutely nothing and could therefore contribute nothing. Awesome start.

But thankfully the courses are taught in English and I found this one video to be an exception to this educational mandate. But despite being taught in my native tongue, I still felt a bit unsettled in the classroom. For one, Turkish students rarely ever raise their voices in class. For any reason. Because of this, my normal inquisitive self had to be restrained in order to not be "that American" or "that overly talkative classmate." The teachers command the classroom and most of the students just sit and (hopefully) soak in their words. In two of my three classes, I was also the only non-Turkish student and while other students partook in little conversations, I found myself facing that insurmountable language barrier again. But I decided getting to know my classmates was more important than risking awkwardness so I jutted myself in and introduced myself. And I never regretted it. A few times the students were taken aback. But it struck me, as a few students have mentioned, that it really benefits them to carry conversations in English as it is a language all the students are still grasping. So I can justify it now. Phew. But hopefully I will soon be able to communicate with them adequately in THEIR native tongue.

I am also taking six courses compared to my usual load of four courses.  So I will be a busy bee this semester. And they are all business classes save for Turkish language and Turkish culture. But I am eager to get underway and start studying. Blessings upon each of you out there. And thank you again for taking the time to read into my little life. As a token of appreciation I would like to share a picture I took as I travelled to Kilyos and watched the sun set over the Black Sea last night. Bask in its splendor.

Sunset over the Black Sea

Oh and one more thing. I took shots as I noticed these wild horses roaming about this small village. The little girl in the picture was being cute and making faces at the horses until she thought it humorous to pick up a whopping dirt clod and hurl it at the pony's face. It hit him smack between the eyes and burst into dust. She laughed and ran away. It was one of the more terrible things I have seen in quite some time. The pony was okay but that didn't stop me from casting deep stared of admonishment in the girl's direction.

Old City

The Hagia Sophia

Inside the historic mosque

And the angels sang

Topkapi Palace

Stuffing in the back of cabs