istanbul not constantinople

Istanbul, not Constantinople

Well, I've been a full-fledged resident of Istanbul for a little over

a month and managed to accomplish almost nothing, except being here.

Being in Istanbul is sometimes harder than it seems, as anyone who's

traveled can understand. After some awkward missteps, I can now

successfully negotiate the m�nage of daily tasks that come naturally

to most seven-year-olds. Consider my

List of Important Things I Can Do:

Buy fruit

Ride the bus

Order food in grams

See a movie

Make a phone call

Pee while squatting

Turn on the stove

Heat water

Count money

Mail a letter

Get a haircut

So, it's not exactly rocket science and yet... two days ago, I stood

in line at the supermarket behind a very, very small child who was

buying three loaves of bread. "Wow," I thought. I was impressed by

this, forgetting that, as a child, I managed to do all sorts of things

without intimidation or fear of vast, social humiliation.

This is a humbling life, let me tell you. Because, on the other hand,

there are still a lot of things for children to teach me. For example,

I don't know how to order a pizza, pay my electric bill or make dinner

reservations. Most importantly, I can't speak Turkish, and here, the

kids really have me beat. At this point, I can understand most of what

my friends say, but can't reply.

My mute existence has the effect of those horrible nightmares where

you want to scream, but can't. Its marginal benefit--understanding

what people are saying when they don't want me to--really pales in

comparison to how useful Turkish would be for me in Turkey. I'm

working on it. (I have the feeling that I'm about to get eight emails

with directions for how to pay my electric bill...)

A few of you have written to me this month asking, "Where's your

latest blog posting?" (You all need digital cable.) I think I slacked

off for a couple of reasons, but mostly because I've been engaged in

the equivalent of a month-long morning stretch; feeling the edges of

this place, considering who Turkey is and what it means for me to be

here. So many of you (I love you, by the way), have written or called

to say you admire what I'm doing here, experiencing something new,

taking a big leap. But to be honest, moving to Istanbul felt like a

very easy and natural step, and for all its menacing minutia, it was

and is the right place for me.

This week, Istanbul is better than ever. All around, there are the

welcome intimations of spring; the snow has melted, the mud is drying

up, sock vendors and flower sellers are out in force. My bedroom is on

the far side of my flat, off the street and looks out into a large

green space. I feel incredibly blessed to live in one of the most

crowded cities in the world and wake up every morning to the sound of

small birds in the trees and fog horns in the distance.

During the afternoons, our building is full of music. My upstairs

neighbor is a cellist in Istanbul's symphony orchestra and practices,

with accompaniment, throughout the day. On the top floor, our

landlord's wife holds piano lessons.

At different times in my life, I played both the cello and the piano

(though quite badly), and grew up in a family of musicians, where a

day seldom passed without someone ambling over a song. Since I moved

in, I don't think I've heard one song all the way through, but the

wafting rehearsals--meted out four notes, sometimes, ten measures at a

time--have a way of making me feel wholly, completely, at home.

I'm living with two Americans right now; one is an English teacher and

the other is a photographer. Beside the usual bickering over who's

doing more dishes, we all get along really well. Since none of us

works 9 to 5, and the apartment is quite big, we never seem to fight

for the shower or step on each others' toes. One of my roommates, who

has lived in this apartment for the past year, is about to move on and

so I took over the lease.

The lease signing process was one of those landmark events in my life,

that took two weeks and required about twelve cups of tea. Our

building was built in the 1930's and the landlord has lived here since

he was 5 years old. Getting to know him and his wife has been

wonderful, they are exactly the kind of parentally concerned, but

ultimately, benevolent landlords you dream of. At the very least, it's

nice to hand money to a person instead of a corporation.

One afternoon, Staton, my roommate who is the photographer, and I went

up to chat with them. After some mild interrogation, Staton insisted

that he shoots photos for the New York Times and I proclaimed that I

am a writer, and even wrote a book. Two days later, our landlord says,

with a small grin, "I googled you." He was satisfied with this--with

my and Staton's "google-ibility". It really made me laugh. 5,000 miles

from America, and this old-school Turkish landlord has tested the

veracity of our statements with the Internet. It's a weird, funny

world, isn't it?

The neighborhood where I live, Cihangir, has been my unofficial home

for the past year and a half, as I traveled back and forth between

America. And now, I manage to run into friends wherever I go. This

week I was chatting with some of you about how incredibly amazing that

is. I spent two years in Minnesota before I ran into someone I knew in

the streets. The States can be so unbelievably, desperately lonely.

Perhaps, if I'd never lived in Minnesota, among the shy and

unfriendly, I never would've been angry or insane enough to move here.

Lucky for me...

My work life is equally blessed right now. After weighing other

options, I decided to continue working with my mom's company and I am

now spending most of my time doing contract writing for government

executives. I write (as the wonks among you will eventually get to

know) federal applications for the Senior Executive Service.

Basically, highly technical essays for twenty year veterans of the US

government.

It's a great, cerebral antidote to my personal work and keeps my head

in the policy game. Over the past month, I've become a mini-expert in

disability, farm subsidy, NASA and international development policies,

to name a few. Although sometimes mind-numbingly complex and/or

boring, I love working three to four days a week. It rocks my world. I

get to take lots of long walks and spend free time on more creative

projects.

...

In light of the stupidly personal tone of this blog post, I thought

I'd throw out a little political commentary (you know I love to get

you guys going). About one year ago, I made the adventurous decision

to travel to Iraq and witness that country's first post-Saddam

elections. I thought the one-year anniversary of my trip was a good

opportunity to post a little-noticed editorial that I wrote at the

time. The text follows. Its permanent link is:

http://www.mndaily.com/articles/2005/01/20/62832 .

Since I traveled to Iraq, I've remained in close contact with a couple

of great friends who I met during my travels. Now I am in Istanbul,

constantly inundated with the sort of anti-Kurdish rhetoric that makes

my blood regularly boil. Not because I'm a fan of terrorist-style

protest, but because there are a few Kurdish people who I know, love

and deeply admire. People say, "All politics is personal." But in my

opinion, it's not personal enough.

I think it's safe to say that the following editorial accurately

reflects my philosophy about politics, generally: stop arguing and

start caring. I really adore this quote from the Dalai Lama, "My

religion is very simple. My religion is kindness."

Friends of mine in Istanbul are constantly trying to instigate

arguments with me. I understand the impulse. But most Kurds and Turks

are mindlessly engaged in the same futile bipolar thinking that pit

the Israelis against the Palestinians, and the Islamists against

Denmark. I find this way of thinking monotonous, unsophisticated and

counter-productive, and as a result, tend to keep my mouth shut. For

all of you who want to know my opinion about Iraq, you will find it

below.

Please be in touch... gimme hell (if that's what yr into). Istanbul

locals should also check out my article on How to Rent a Flat, in next

month's Time Out Magazine. I'll provide a link here as soon as one is

available. If you want to take a walk down memory lane, you can reread

my emails from Iraq and check out the pictures (now posted on this

weblog, "From Istanbul to Iraq") by going to these links on the right:

Jan 2, 2005; Jan 9, 2005; Jan 30, 2005; and Feb 6, 2005.

peace out, em