Iyi Noeller

I'm in a Muslim country and it's Christmas. I could pout. I'm tempted to whine. And maybe I would, except that the memory of last weekend keeps making me laugh.

My Dutch friend Maurice (see his blog link on the right) hosted a Bosphorus cruise for 40 fellow students. In Turkey, they call these things "dinner cruises." In America, they're "booze cruises." We had a salad course, a fish course and ... an open bar. The boat was meant to cruise for a few hours, but as luck would have it the electricity went out. Suddenly the music stopped, the lights dimmed and the machine that pulls the anchor in stopped working. Our all-you-can-drink-for-four-hours affair turned into a see-how-long-you-can-drink-until-we-pull-up-the-anchor affair.

I have no idea how long we were on that boat. But I can assure you it was longer than the initial four hours. Below are a few pics of the view from the boat and of Sally, my favorite Australian and closest mate in Istanbul.

Meet My Brother-in-Law

People, it's finals time. I've just returned from a mini-vacation and I haven't had a lot of spare hours. So cut it with the why-the-hell-aren't-you-posting-on-your-blog e-mails, alright? Isn't everybody celebrating the birth of baby Jesus anyway?

Speaking of Christmas, yesterday my roommate said, "Shannon, I heard that Americans are offended by the phrase 'Merry Christmas' because it is used by relgious fanatics and Christian fundamentalists. Is this true? Do I have to say 'Happy Holidays' in business cards?"

It seems paranoia and political correctness have crossed the Atlantic.

For a dose of holiday cheer, I invite you to meet my esteemed brother-in-law, Jeff. It's not fair that I'm introducing him like this, but since he's on the other side of the world andhe's too kind to strangle me, I encourage everyone to visit:

http://www.elfyourself.com/?userid=554fa559090e055e5f522adG06122004

You da Baby

Let's talk about getting naked and having someone scrub beads of dirt out your skin while dumping water over your head. It's not kinky. It's a hamam and it's one of the best experiences ever.

Hamams have been in Turkey for hundreds of years. Before homes had their own washing facilities, people would come to the hamam to scrub up. Today, Turks still meet at a hamam, but it's more for a spa experience than a need to be clean.

Istanbul has hundreds of hamams. There are dank concrete hamams, old exquisite hamams, gay hamams, straight hamams, hamams that are known for creepy dudes that stare at you and make you bolt from the hamam, and nice hamams that are divided into a mens and womens section (my personal choice).

Last Thursday, the Pope's visit was killing traffic. For 45 minutes, I waited for a bus with my friend Sally (whose personality merits a novel, more on her later). Finally, we realized that the world didn't want us to go to class, it wanted us to go to a hamam.

Twenty minutes and 30 Turkish Lire later, we were steaming in a domed room built in 1584. The hamam, called Cemberlitas, was filled with Asian, Russian and of course Turkish women lounging on a large, marble hexagon in the middle of the room. In adjacent rooms, water was pouring from faucets for bathers to wash up.

Sally and I decided to get massages and two Turkish women came over and scrubbed dirt from our skin that we never knew was there (no joke, Turks take loofa-ing to a new level).

The funny thing is, I would have thought that having some big, strange woman pound my skin would feel awkward. In fact, it's wonderful!

At the hamam in the Ritz-Carlton (where I made my hamam debut) I remember the scrubbing woman (a large, 60-something gal) saying, "You like da baby," as she lifted my right arm and then dumped a bucket of bubbles over me, "and I like da big mom, big grandmom," scrub scrub scrub, more water dumping. I thought about it and realized, she's got a good point. I tried to respond with a little conversation, but before I could get a word in, she flipped me on my stomach and started pounding my back.

"Okay, you clean now," she said, after showing me flakes of dirt recently pealed from my dermis. "Hamams good for you body."

I couldn't agree more.

Papa Builds Bridges

The Pope left two days ago and news channels here are still praising him. "Pope builds bridges," "Pope shows world the beauty of Turkey," "Pope leaves piece of his heart in Istanbul."

Turks were so nervous that something bad would happen - that Turkey would embarrass itself on the world stage - that they're not just happy that things went smoothly, they're absolutely thrilled.

The day before the Pope's arrival, a professor said to me, "God help us if some crazy, Islamist fanatic decides to make his statement this weekend. God help poor Turkey. Can you imagine how bad this could be?"

But the moment the Pope arrived, he began speaking of Turkey as a beautiful country, and of Islam as a peaceful religion. The Pope also showed a much-welcomed change of heart, saying that Turkey should be brought into the European fold. Turks seemed stunned and ebullient. Protests fizzled.

At a party Friday, a Turkish guy said to me, "Isn't it great that Papa likes Turkey. I mean, the traffic jams are bad, but isn't it important that Papa came here and is using this as a place to tell the world about how good Muslims are?"

This past weekend made me realize Turkey's self-esteem problem. Turks know their country is beautiful, they just wish the rest of the world could see that too. Sadly, when Turkey does make international headlines, its for PKK terrorists, an Armenian genocide or human-rights abuses.

Turks were pretty much convinced that the Pope's visit would make Turkey look worse. But before the Pope left he said, "I want to thank each and every Turkish authority for hosting me the best way they could. I am leaving part of my heart here in Istanbul. I hope the bonding power of this city will continue forever."

Now, Turks are considering a Pope-themed vacation push modeled after Benedict's tour.

"This is really great," said Begum, before turning off the news last night. "Really great for Turkey."