In response to you...

Did I mention how much I love when you leave me comments? What's funnier is the stuff some of you are scared to post, so you e-mail directly to me.

Let me respond to a few things:

1. Yes, my Mom is hot. Thank you - all of you - for pointing that out. You are joined by legions of Turkish men who rushed to open Mom's door, gave her free food in bazaars and asked me, in Turkish, about the existence of my Baba (Dad).

2. Leslie, you have a growing fan club in Germany. Anytime you want to go, let me know as I've got a few friends who will happily show you how upbeat and good-natured and uber-fabulous Germany is (of course, you already knew Germany's great ;) ). And by the way, the image of you falling at the parade made me laugh yesterday when I tripped (for the umpteenth time) on my way to school.

3. I promise I will start posting more photos. Blogger is very slow at uploading photos. Right now, for instance, the system is shut down.

4. My Turkish language class with Erdan ended. It was fun, but alas, life goes on. No more stories about Erdan in the forseeable future. Erdan is married and he has two kids and no, I was not attracted to him. Sorry to dash your imagination you-know-who-you-are.

5. Thank you "anonymous" for your advice and support. Thanks always.

6. AP is my Aunt Pat (the Associated Press is not leaving feedback on my blog). UT is my Uncle Tom, not the Union-Tribune. Coincidentally, AP and UT are married.

7. If you want to send me something and it's bigger than an envelope, please send it to Begum's work address:

Begüm Atilgan
Dogus Otomotiv
Dogus Grubu Binalari Büyükdere Caddesi No:65
34390 Maslak - Istanbul

For my home address, e-mail me again and I'll send it to you.

8. Tobias is not in Turkey. If you want to know more about this, I encourage you to contact him directly at 00.. 49.. 160.. 96....33.... okay, kidding. (It's fun to scare him sometimes, you know?)

9. "Tavla" is Turkish for Backgammon.

10. Thanks, everyone, for making me feel inspired to write about my (mis)adventures.

Sometimes I love Turkey

There are times when I hate this place. I hate being ripped off by cab drivers. I hate that I escape death by the thinnest of margins every time I cross the street. I hate that my mom was given a fake bill as change the other day.

But moments like right now, I love Turkey.

Today is Turkey's independence day. People are hanging flags from balconies and streelights. Kids are walking around with red and white balloons (the colors of Turkey's flag) and parents are lecturing about Ataturk, the founder of Turkey. Everyone is feeling festive.

Mom and I stopped by my apartment this afternoon to drop something off when, suddenly, we started hearing music outside. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from until Mom pointed out the window and said, "There's a guy down there."

I looked toward the building's parking lot and saw a man smiling and swaying to a melody that came from an accordian strapped to his chest. I looked through the window of a nearby apartment and saw a gray-haired couple slow-dancing to his music. Other neighbors were dropping bills from their windows and watching them flutter down to the musician; he nodded and said "Thank You" and they blew him kisses and said, "Bravo." I grabbed a few coins from my wallet, waved to him and prayed that the coins wouldn't hit him on the way down. He looked up, bowed and blew me a kiss.

That's when I realized that my fondness for Turkey will probably outlive everything else.


This is a nearby apartment building. Did I mention that Turks are patriotic?


This is Ataturk (who Mom thinks was quite handsome) and the flag of Turkey. The flag's star and crescent symbolize hope and inspiration (star) and Islam (crescent).


This is the man who serenaded me today.

Pics from Mom's visit

Here's the deal: Mom and I don't want to give my camera to other people to take pictures. It's a trust thing. Therefore, my photos from her visit look a bit like a Where's Waldo (Where's Peggy) Istanbul edition.

View from the Galata Bridge

Mom in the Spice Bazaar

Fishermen near Karakoy

Mom's pretty

Mom and me in Topkapi Palace

Tiled hallways in Topkapi

The Imperial Hall in Topkapi

Turkish tiles

In the Harem in Topkapi Palace

Topkapi corridor

Quite a Collection at Topkapi Palace

Mom and I went to Topkapi Palace yesterday (pronounced Taupe-KAH-puh). The Palace was built in the 1400s. Today it's a museum displaying gifts that were presented to Ottoman Sultans through the centuries.

Mom and I expected to peruse some pretty Chinese porceilan and a few nice robes. Imagine our surpise when we walked into a room and saw the staff of Moses on display.

Come to find out, the museum holds enough religious relics that Jews, Christians and especially Muslims consider its collection sacred. Mom and I unwittingly timed our visit for a day called Bayram - a holiday for Muslims that is comparable to Christmas Day for Christians.

The museum rooms were packed with crowds of veiled women and bearded men pressing through the line to get closer to the relics. Guards "encouraged" you to keep walking and not hold up the line. Prayers were broadcast through speakers, creating a din of noise that echoed off the walls. It felt like Mom and I were standing in the middle of a gold-encrusted beehive.

Other sacred relics on display included the sandals of Muhammad (yes, the Prophet of Islam) along with his tooth, hair, sword, letters and footprint. Behind the thinnest museum glass I've ever seen, there was a pot used by Abraham, a turban of the prophet Joseph and a sword from the prophet David.

I'm not sure how to confirm the authenticity of the objects, but after ten years of Catholic school I was still captivated by that stick of Moses'. I never thought I would one day see the object that (Christians and Jews believe) drew water from a rock and divided the Red Sea.

Apart from the religious objects, the palace houses some of the most impressive pieces I've ever seen: the oldest-known map that includes America; diamonds as big as your hand; room after room of gold and mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture. Oh, and there's the harem. Interestingly enough, we toured the harem with 60 other people and - unlike the crowds in the relgious portions of the tour - there was only one veiled woman in the harem.

Here's a link to Topkapi: http://www.topkapisarayi.gov.tr/

"Annem" or My Mom

Moms really are the best. Mine showed up for a 10-day visit last week. I've been feeling sick lately, so I planned to spend some days whining about my headache, cough and soar throat. I pictured Mom walking through the arrivals gate with puffy eyes and swollen feet and me saying, "Don't worry, Ma. I'll stay home and do nothing with you for the first few days. We'll work through your jet-lag together."

It seems, however, that Mom has uncovered an abnormal amount of vigor. She listened to me hack up a lung and then she trotted off to the drugstore (alone), to buy cough syrup and other meds. Somewhere in there, she went to a currency exchange and she learned the Turkish words for "daughter" "sick" and "anything to shut her up" to use with the pharmacist. She then drugged me and dragged me around town.

Okay, well, maybe she didn't have to drag me. Maybe it was the mention of a eucalyptus steam bath and a Turkish hamam that got me out of bed.

Mom and I don't make a habit of spoiling ourselves (she's never had a massage- can you imagine?!), but we decided to go for bust and try out the spa at the Ritz-Carlton Istanbul. Sweet Mother of Jesus, I LOVE TURKISH HAMAMS. The scrubbing, the bubbles, the everything. I could write a book about them, but instead I'll write something short and sweet next week.

OF NOTE: Yes, there was an earthquake here last week. I seem to be the only person who noticed it. The quake hit while Mom and I were sitting at a restaurant along the water. When it started, I said, "Ma, I think this is an earthquake," she said, "No, it was probably just a boat docking or something." Then she shrugged and ordered another drink. I wondered if I was losing my mind. (Thanks to those who sent worried e-mails. It's good to know that someone is concerned for my health)

Give Them the Finger (or the Thumb)

Put your thumb between your pointer finger and your middle finger. Now make a fist. Point your fist at someone and start to shake your hand ever-so gently.

You've just flicked someone off, Turkish style.

If it wasn't humiliating, I would tell you how I learned this cultural nicety. I'm sober now, so you'll have to wait. Suffice it to say I asked directions from a guy and then gave him the finger (in this case, the thumb) and then in a moment of forgetfulness last week, I did it again. This time to my favorite professor.

My mom arrived a few days ago. She nearly killed me Friday night, but aside from that things are going well. More on mom and our hamaam trip later.

Mini-Market Standoff

Living in Istanbul has shown me that I have some strange habits.

For one thing, I love playing multiple-person games by myself. This started when I was a kid playing Memory and other card games. Nowadays, I play backgammon, checkers, dominoes - just about anything - by turning the board or moving my seat when it should be the next person's turn. Begum came home last week and saw our tavla board laying on the table. She looked at it like, "Why is that out?" and I said a friend was over playing it with me, but - what a coincidence - they had just left. In truth, I had been happily playing alone for the past hour while I talked - with myself- about the origin of the word 'backgammon'.

This brings me to point number two: I talk to myself. A lot. This little habit started while I was living alone in Washington DC. But now I'm living with someone and I stilldo it. This morning the topic was shoes (Who brought back Converse sneakers? It was the French. Frenchwomen single-handedly did it) then international security (What was North Korea thinking? Are they going to do it again?) and just before starting this post, I was jabbing away about the value of a good umbrella (Why do the pocket-sized ones always break?).

In Istanbul, the problem has intensified. Now, I try to say stuff to myself in Turkish. Today, the clerk at my grocery store noticed when I was reading every bottle that she scanned through the checkout. She started to get a little annoyed, stopped looking at what she was scanning and glared at me in between scanner beeps as if to say, "I dare you to look down and say what this is." It felt like a mini-market standoff. Only when I had to suppress the urge to say "Sut" (milk) and "Cok Guzel Cikolata" (really tasty chocolate), did I realize the words were actually coming out of my mouth.

I'm going to stop writing now and I'm going to try to engage in a dialogue or start to play a game with someone who is not myself. I'll let you know how it goes.

Pamuk and his Prize

A Turk named Orhan Pamuk won the Nobel Prize for literature last week. Pamuk's obviously well-known here, but the atmosphere about the win is verging on ambivalence to resentment. (I'm sure many Turks are proud of Pamuk. I just haven't met them.)

Last year, Pamuk was almost jailed for "offending Turkishness" when he publicly discussed the killing of Kurds and Armenians in Turkey in the 20th Century. The EU - namely the French - latched onto Pamuk's potential jailtime as evidence that Turkey is backwards, uncultured and not fit to enter the EU.

The Turkish Justice ministry decided not to hear a case against Pamuk, so he never went to jail.

Today, many Turks - particularly the 25 or so who I talked with - see Pamuk as the West's little pin-up boy. Many of the country's literrati say that his writing is unrefined and he should re-learn Turkish.

Last night, I was at a dinner with another famous writer named John Freely. His daughter, Maureen, translates Pamuk's books into English. Freely pointed out that Maureen also re-writes significant portions of the books in her translations.

"She understands how his mind works," Freely said. "They've been friends for years. They had a fight once last summer. She told him to translate his own book. He came back two days later and said she is the only person who can do it. They both know that."

Maureen was the first person Pamuk called when he learned he won the Nobel. She'll be traveling to Stockholm with him to receive the award.

In the meantime, I'll be looking for a Turk who has something positive to say about the man.

The Things Men Say

On a bus today, a middle-aged man tried to start a conversation with me. He leaned over and said something about the road and the bus and Istanbul. Not wanting to interrupt him, I waited until the end of the mini-monologue before saying, "Turkce bilmiyorum" or I don't know Turkish.

"Oh," he said, blushing, "Uhhh, excusez-moi." One stop later, he stood to leave, turned and, without looking at me, said, "I think you are like a movie star."

Language barriers do make you filter things down, I suppose.

That experience got me thinking about some of the interesting things men have said to me here in Turkey. I know a few friends find Turkish men a bit aggressive or offensive, I don't. But I have heard a few funny lines since arriving:

1. Do you have a mirror in your house? Because if you do, I think you should look into it every day and get lost in the sea of your eyes.

2. You have the body of a fish.

3. Not all Americans are stupid. I mean, well, there's you.

4. This bowl is worth 45 lire. But I give you for 35. No, you say? Okay, blue-eyed special... 25. Still no? Fine, today is the special blue-eyed special. Twenty lire. Sold? Okay. (shopowner at the Grand Bazaar)

5. You look ... like you could be from Afghanistan.

6. I'm Indian. I speak English. Do you like Indians who speak English? (a stranger at a mall)

I have a feeling I'll be adding to this list throughout the year. Happy weekend everyone.

Glad to not be French

Through my Turkish friend Emrah, I have met two other Turkish guys: Emrah and Emrah. I consider them Emrah Bir, Emrah Iki and Emrah Üc (Emrahs 1, 2 and 3).

Thursday, the Emrahs and I were sitting on the lawn at school with a friend - let's call her Sherry - and her friend Louis. Louis's French. Not just a little French, but, like, tres tres French. He has long hair. He's poetic and athletic. I think he studies philosophy or anthropolgy (if he doesn't, he should).

Louis was laying near Sherry when he began sucking one of her toes. Sadly, I had left the group and couldn't witness the event in person. When Emrahs 1 and 2 and I left the group, Emrah 2 began speaking very vehemently in Turkish about something. After significant pleading, they let me in on the conversation.

"Emrah is not used to hanging around foreign people," 1 said about 2. "He can't believe that someone would want to suck toes or have toes sucked."

This got me thinking - Uh oh, I'm getting lumped into the same realm as the French just because we're both foreign. I then said that Louis is French and as a Frenchman, he is not representative of, say, my country.

"Then I'm glad I'm not French," 2 said, horrified. "If that's what they do, I'm just glad I'm never going to do it."

"I'm glad I'm not French either," 1 said. "I'm not going to do it either."

"Not even if the toes were clean?" I asked, more to pester them than seek a change of opinion.

"Not then either," the Emrahs responded.

Back in a more developed nation...

Sunday is Toby's 30th birthday. When Toby and I first met, he was 24 and I was 18. He had travelled through Africa and spoke three languages. I thought this made him the coolest person I had ever known. Nevermind that he slept in a pink and purple sleeping bag and had a poster of Wallis and Gromit on his wall.

For Toby's birthday, I decided to visit him in Germany. So here I am hanging out in a country where I can drink water from the tap, cross a street without running and speak English with garbage men, academics and everyone in between. It's a little shocking.

After living in Turkey for a month, I've sorta stopped seeing its little flaws: the way the roads are rarely even, the fact that the metro has just six stops, the sight of children begging for money at stoplights and street corners, the thousands of stray dogs and cats, the toilets made of a hole in the floor, the ubiquitous absence of toilet paper.

In Germany, cabs are made by Mercedes. In Turkey, cabs feel like they're powered with lawnmower engines.

The funny thing is, for all the wealth people have here, they seem so much more depressed. Shop clerks don't smile and say hello when you walk into a store. People don't stop you on the street if you look lost. Waiters and waitresses don't tell you their life story, share their impressions of America and invite you over for coffee. Turks give me a standing ovation when I squeek out a word or two in Turkish, Germans listen to me fumble and respond in English.

I get the feeling that if I fell, like I did last week, a German just might walk on by. Now that's depressing.