One new friend

I was leaving history class when some guy- a mumbling, shy guy - approached me.

"Are you learning Turkish?" he asked.

Yeah dumbass, I thought, before recalling some of my lame conversation-starters.

"Yes, I am," I said, being polite but still brushing him off.

I turned to walk away when I realized we were walking in the same direction. I was in a grumpy mood, so I decided to maintain my silence. Then I remembered, I have like 10 friends. I should talk to him. No, I shouldn't. Yes, I should. No, I don't want to. Yes ... I do... Oh God, this is akward, say something...

"So, where are you from?" I asked.

"Oh," he said, surprised that I decided to recommence dialogue, "I'm from Chechnya."

Chechnya. For maybe the second time in my life, I paused to think. I've met people from a lot of different places. Iraq, Iran, Venezuela, China, Rwanda, Cuba, Colombia. Pick a country that has internal strife or bad relations with America and I've probably interviewed a refugee or studied with the Ambassador's kid or befriended an asylum seeker. Chechnya, though, was a first.

Poor guy had no idea what was coming.

"Chechnya, really," I said.

"Do you know it? You're American. American's don't always know it," he said.

"Yeah, I've heard of it." And I wrote a paper on it, and I studied it in, like, four classes last semester.

And then, because I was a journalist and because I'm insensitive when it comes to "sensitive questions" I jumped in:

When did you leave?
Where is your family?
Can you go back? Would you go back? Will you go back?
How did you get here? What are you studying? Why did you choose that?
Are you friends with any Russians?
My friend Ana is Russian.
Is it as bad as the press says or is there significant exagerration?
Why do you think people get so attached to a geographical space? What is it about the actual land that keeps you from moving to, say, Canada? You think I'm joking? I'm not, now answer the question.

We talked for four and a half hours.

I feel like I know more about Chechen men and the terrain of Chechnya than I know about middle-class Americans and the terrain of Illinois (okay, maybe not Illinois, maybe California).

He's not a very forthcoming guy, but sometimes watching someone talk is enough. In the middle of the conversation, I remembered why I left an amazing job in California. Never, could I imagine meeting half the people I've met here. Who knows if this experience will serve me well later in life, but for now, it's pretty compelling.

x Shannon

My favorite mosque, interior photo

I'm not sure why, but I'm a sucker for religious buildings. St. Peter's in Rome- breathtaking. Hagia Sophia here in Istanbul- extraordinary. The Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem- perhaps the most intriguing structure in the world. Mausoleums, cemeteries, crypts - while creepy - are among my favorite places in the world.

I even briefly considered doing a PhD in theology to study how people worship and how relgious buildings function within communities.

For now, Istanbul feeds this curiousity with countless churches, synogogues and mosques from the Big 3 (Christianity, Judaism and Islam). Just down the street is a cast-iron Catholic Church, a venerable Greek Orthodox church, and even a little non-denominational church where I teach refugees. There are 20 local synagogues. And, of course, there are mosques. About 8,000 throughout the city.

My favorite mosque, pictured above, is Suleymaniye Mosque. It's not as historic as Hagia Sophia or as celebrated as the Blue Mosque, but aesthetically it's more beautiful. It was built to mazimize sunlight and flaunt the skills of Sinan, the most celebrated architect of the Ottoman empire. What I like most about the place: it is never, ever, empty. It's bursting with families and there's rarely a tourist in sight (until of course I show up).

x Shannon

My eye's better, by the way. Thanks God/Allah/higher- powers- that- be for antibiotics.

A Quasimodo moment

I woke up yesterday with what felt like a peanut sleeping under my eyelid. Before looking in a mirror, I crawled out of bed, opened my door and saw our maid, Mariam, standing in the hallway.

"Ah!" said Mariam. "Your eye fat!"

(She spoke in Turkish, so this is a rough translation)

"Yes,"I said in Turkish. "Problem me. Eye is fat. What I do."

Then she mumbled something in Turkish, I mumbled something in English and we both sorta stared at each other. She tried to be helpful by testing the squishiness of my eyelid and poking my eyeball. After the eyeball poke, I said, "Mariam, babe, I seriously don't think poking my eyeball with our germy fingers is going to help the cause." To which she responded, "alsjfddsiofu sfoiusdpgfa safdoiusdf asifusdfewrh."

The eye problem necessitated a doctor's visit, my first trip since living in Turkey. The doc charged 80 cents for the visit and gave me a prescirption of eyedrops (total cost $1).

I woke up today with what felt like a knat under my eyelid. I just put in the fifth round of eyedrops and had to laugh. When the doctor was diagnosing the problem, he said, "I think you have a minor infection of the eyebrow."

"The eyeBROW? Like it started there and now it's at the LID?" I said.

"What?" he said. "No, I'm sorry. I meant eyeball. No, eyelid. A minor infection. This is all minor. You will be fine."

The Turkish Name Game

I'm working on a charitable project to supply braille embossers to schools across Turkey. This is a project through Rotary, the group that is paying for my adventures, and it's a pretty big part of my life.

As part of the project, I've e-mailed with several Turkish Rotarians. There's Sanda, Salih and Nazli to name a few. Salih has e-mailed the most and just last week as I was reading her e-mail I thought, "She writes well for a non-native speaker. She must have a knack for languages."

With significant anticipation, I looked forward to meeting Salih and others for the first Braille Embossers Turkey Team meeting last Friday (for the past two months, we've only communicated via e-mail). As I walked into the meeting, I noticed Sanda sitting next to an old dude.

"Shannon," he said warmly, extending his hand and leaning in for the traditional Turkish cheek kiss, "such a pleasure to finally meet."

"A pleasure indeed," I said with an I'm-going-to-know-who-you-are-in-just-a-second, but right now I'm stumped face. Since I was the last to arrive to the meeting, I quickly took a seat and said, "So, where are we then."

Mere nanoseconds before the words "Where's Salih?" slipped from my mouth, Sanda leaned to the old guy and said to him, "Now Salih, what do you think about voice recognition machines?"

For a second, I was confused. Why is Sanda calling this guy Salih? Then I realized just how dumb I am. At that point - as if to ensure humiliation - I started choking. Oh God, I thought trying hard to swallow my tea, please God, tell me I have not sent him an e-mail beginning with Mrs. or Ms. or any other indication that I thought he was a she. And God, while you're at it, don't let me choke and die, not here, not now, not with my last thought on earth being "SHANNON, YOU ARE A MORON." (It's worth mentioning that Salih is pretty important in the Turkish business world).

As all of this is happening, the Rotarians and two guests who are potential contributors to the project paused to look at me like, "Hey, kid, could you please stop hacking up a lung over there?" I recovered, smiled, pointed sheepishly to my glass and pulled out a notepad. Still, every time I looked at Salih, I couldn't help blushing (which I'm sure looked really appropriate to anyone watching).

Now, just in case you're ever pitching a charitable project to Turkish businesspeople and you prefer not to feel like an ass, I will furnish this list of names and genders:

Begum- GIRL
Gokcen- GIRL OR BOY
Duygu- GIRL
Halim- BOY
Cigdem - GIRL
Muazzez- GIRL
Alper- BOY
Nazli- GIRL
Asli- GIRL
Nihan- GIRL
Utku- BOY
Hazal- GIRL
Gulin- GIRL

I'll add to this in the future. x Shannon

Izmir, Ephesus, Sirence photos

Poseidon, tile mosaic, about 2,000 years old. -Ephesus, Turkey

Theater for 25,000 -Ephesus, Turkey

Reproduction of Temple of Artemis, now demolished -Ephesus Museum, Turkey

Library -Ephesus, Turkey

Women who fed me lunch -Sirince, Turkey

Homes -Sirince, Turkey

Red sculpture, blue sky. Reminds of the Golden Gate Bridge. -Izmir, Turkey

Seaside promenade at sunset - Izmir, Turkey

Here's to another fun weekend. x Shannon

Sirince, Artemis photos

Most tourists visiting Ephesus blow past little towns on the way such as Sirince and Selcuk. And they barely stop at the Temple of Artemis- an ancient Wonder of the World - which is understandable because really it's just a swamp.

I somehow spent the majority of my trip at these places. At Artemis, I clicked pictures until the sunset. Artemis, though not astounding in an archeological sense, was the kind of place where you step on the ground and feel its history. Here are some pics from the first day of the trip:

This is where the temple of Artemis once stood. The temple was built in about 550 BC and was a Wonder of The Ancient World (like the Pyramids of Giza and the Gardens of Babylon). Then a psychopath asshole came and burned it down because he wanted to achieve fame at any cost (reminded me of the guy who shot John Lennon). The temple was rebuilt, but later Christianity started spreading and the idea of having a temple to a Greek Goddess just didn't fit, so the temple was closed. A mob destroyed the place once and for all around 400 AD. Lots of the marble pillars were taken to other sites, including Hagia Sophia in Istanbul (quite possibly the most incredible building in the world). Anyway, now Artemis is just a pillar of its former self. It's home to some ducks, a few storks and one guard dog (see above). Notice the stork that built its nest atop the lone pillar (see below).(photo above) This pillar is one of more than a hundred that used to support the structure. Now it supports one stork's nest.

(photo above) This is an overview of Selcuk, a short walk from Ephesus. Looks a lot like central Italy. And it's known for its apple wine production. Apple wine is like Juicy Juice with a kick and I love it.

(photo above) These are headstones that I saw in a mosque in Selcuk. The mosque was called "Jesus Mosque" (Muslims consider Jesus a prophet of God) and signs near the entryway spoke of the need for interfaith dialogue. Tombstones - these are in Ottoman script which is no longer used - tell the story of the deceased person's life.

(above) Absolutely gorgeous weather last weekend. Anyway, this is the Basilica of St. John, where many Christians believe the Apostle of buried. Christian tradition says John went to Ephesus (with the Virgin Mary) where he wrote some books of the New Testament. Mary would have been very old at the time, so this is disputed by scholars. Below is a picture of the believed burial site of John.

And above we have a young woman walking on the ruins of St. John's Basilica. Honestly, this pisses me off. However, since she's walking on a part of the building that has been recently re-built and since she helps give a scale of the size of the building, I didn't go postal. The funny thing is, in Italy there are guards swarming around Pompeii to make sure you don't breathe too heavily on the rocks. In Turkey, not so much.

Below are some kids who were flying kites.

Photos of Ephesus to come. x Shannon

What am I doing here?

Sometimes, when people ask me why I'm living in Turkey, I say, "I'm studying." Since I may or may not continue with graduate courses here and since I have learned that I can't stand studying international relations (my current major), that conversation usually gets sloppy and confusing (both for me and the poor guy who asked). So depending on my mood, the answer changes.

The response that pops out when I'm feeling political is,"I'm researching anti-Americanism in Turkey." This is true, and it helps me divert the attention away from myself, which is nice. But it's a conversation spoiler.

When I want to sound complicated, I say, "Well, I was going to go Beirut and learn Arabic. It had been this lifelong dream and I received a really great scholarship. But then there was this war and then my parents were begging me not to go and then I had this boyfriend..."

When I want pity, I leave out all the other stuff and say, "I had this boyfriend..."

When I want to watch the other person shift from side to side in a look of boredom and guilt, I say, "I'm teaching English to refugees and I'm working on some charitable projects in Turkey. What do you do?" Almost always, I leave out the question part of that phrase. But on one occasion, with an especially obnoxious UN employee, I said it.

My hands-down, favorite response is the one that comes when I'm channeling Agatha Christie: "I am a traveler, a writer. I am here to discover the past by connecting with the people of this region. I am a student of history, archaeology, art and life." After a bottle and a half of wine, one night, I actually said that. Seriously, who says that?

Either way, some version of the last response, is my favorite. It always gets a laugh. And, quite honestly, it is the closest to the truth.

I'll post some pics from my trip to Ephesus and Izmir soon. x Shannon

Pink Martini, War and the Virgin Mary all in one

Pink Martini is one of my favorite bands. They're touring and this weekend, I'm going to their show in a coastal city called Izmir.

Izmir has a few interesting stories and since some of you were wondering why the Greeks and Turks don't get along, this city is a place to start. Once called Smyrna, Izmir was a bustling center of trade under Ottoman rule. It was packed with Jews (who had fled the Spanish Inquisition) and Greeks, who just seemed to always be there. Europeans, Italians, anyone interested in trade had a post in Smyrna, making it a cosmopolitan place. After WWI, when the Ottoman empire collapsed, the Greeks got control of Izmir. (Greece is a stones throw from Izmir.) So the Greeks get Izmir but then tisk, tisk, they get greedy. They decide to go for Izmir and beyond, deeper into Turkey. They were on a path eastward when the armies of Ataturk (founder of Turkey) stopped them.

Depending on who you ask, Izmir either went up in flames when the Turks retaliated against the Greeks (Greek version). Or a little accidental fire started because of the war and the city was -oops- more or less destroyed (Turkish version). (An account of the Greek version can be read in Middlesex, Pulitzer-winning novel by Geoffrey Eugenides). The point is, after World War I- and in wars generally- Greek cities were lost to Turks. Turkish cities were lost to Greeks. Whole cities of people were transplanted. Greeks died. Turks died. Everyone loses. War is bad. Period.

Izmir today, I hear, is a lot like the Amalfi Coast in Italy. It's lined with palm trees and filled with beachfront bars and hilltop cafes. I'll be there for just a day because I'm also going to Ephesus, where John the Baptist is buried and the Virgin Mary died. It's one of the best preserved ancient cities in the world and it played a huge role in the formation and creation of Christianity (I didn't know any of this until recently either).

I'll post pics of Ephesus and Izmir.

And to my friend Fernanda, thanks for introducing me to Pink Martini. Estas la mejor del mundo. Gracias babe. Besos.

Have a great weekend. Thanks for posting comments and sending e-mails. It means a lot.

Teaching refugees II

I can now say there are three men in my life: Haroosh, Deeb and Sarujen.

Haroosh, an Iranian, is a flirt who tries to impress me with big words ("Teacher Shannon! Teacher Shannon! GO-RILLA!!").

Deeb, a Palestinian, is a serious kid who hates sitting and has trouble singing (he has an unusually deep voice). When we sing songs before lunch, Deeb makes grunting noises and stares at the floor in a look of concentration. He likes to stand as close as possible to me while I teach.

Sarujen, a Sri Lankan, is an articulate smarty-pants who likes to one-up Haroosh and Deeb. He cuts the other kids off and points out when they misspell words or don't write down a sentence I told them to write. Sarujen hates losing, especially Bingo. Especially to Deeb.

All of the boys are about four feet tall. They have families and friends. They have United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees cards and they're all hoping to get placed in the US or Canada. Until that day comes, they're quite happy playing BINGO. Animal Bingo, Verb Bingo, Fruits and Veggies Bingo. When they see me on Thursday mornings they have trouble sitting still because they know the Bingo is coming.

Today we played Animal Bingo and Deeb won (again). I gave him a pencil as a prize. When Sarujen saw Deeb getting the prize, he went from being an uptight mini-man to a very-bummed little kid.

"Will you bring prizes next week Teacher Shannon?"

(I give them pencils/ a piece of gum/a sticker when they win. It's a really big deal to the 7-year-old set).

"Yes Sarujen," I said. "I'll bring something really great."

"Good," he said, the kiddishness fading. "Because next week, I win."

+++++++++++++++++++++
An update on Kibene, who I was teaching last year. Kibene's mom (more like mother figure) had a baby. Kibene is basically raising the child and didn't come to school for the past few months. He showed up today, which is a good sign. He has been through a lot in the past three months.

You (do not) Tube

Today, it's cloudy and dark in Istanbul.

I wanted to spend the day uploading videos from Egypt to YouTube, but that's not possible. It seems the Turkish government (in it's effort to look like a backwards, draconian establishment) has blocked YouTube for all users in Turkey.

YouTube had become a forum for Greeks and Turks to vent anti-attitudes in recent months.

I didn't realize it but I guess clusters of Greek videographers were getting pretty creative with images of Ataturk and, well, let's just say his sexualty. Turks had a fair amount of fun poking back, but many Turks admitted that the Greek videos were funnier.

Unfortunately, Turkish officials don't see the humor in calling Ataturk (the founder of modern Turkey) gay. Beastiality is out too.

++ Update to this post- You Tube is de-blocked. It is also sans racy Ataturk postings.

Egypt photos again, more on way

Some photos from a recent trip to Egypt:

Pyramids of Giza

Pyramids of Giza, angle 2

Policemen in Giza
Me, Camel, Giza. This is The Camel (story below)

Temple in Luxor

Fresco in Temple of Hatshepsoot

Stealing sugar from a train in Luxor
Felucca boat captain

Felucca boat captain of the 21st Century

Sunset on the Nile

felucca

Night in Aswan, Egypt

Waxing, plucking, tweezing and threading with Nurten

As some of you know, I have a hair problem. I'm not ape-ish, but on a bad day I feel pretty close. The first person to point this out to me in Istanbul was Nurten, my local waxer. Nurten's about 35. She wears low-cut shirts, second-skin pants and clickety-clackety heels. She doesn't have any unsightly hair, which is saying a lot when you're Turkish.

When Nurten first met me back in September, she took one look at my unibrow and upper lip and said, "Are you Arab?"

Through a Turkish friend, Nurten kept guessing...

"Spanish?" No.

"Greek? Italian?" No, No.

"Not Arab?" No, not Arab, not Mediterranean, not from anywhere along the Hair Belt Of The World. I'm half Irish and half German. My people have fair complections and baby-soft, blonde facial hair. I don't know how this happened.

Once Nurten understood this, she stopped threading my face, looked me in the eyes and said, "Maalesef" or "How unfortunate."

For obvious reasons, Nurten and I have gotten to know each other quite well in recent months. She seems more or less obsessed with hair removal and she enjoys laughing at my terrible Turkish while teaching me words like "cimbiz" (tweezers), "kotu ogrenci" (bad student) and "esmer" (a word for brunette girls with excessive facial hair, no joke).

Nurten helped me write my first essay in Turkish. For the assignment, I wanted to write about the city of Istanbul, but Nurten said that was boring so instead we wrote about my weight loss. Nurten doesn't sugarcoat things (that would be impossible) so she proposed the topic change by saying:

"Shannon, you are not fat. In September, you were (here she motioned her arms to suggest serious obesity). You have lost weight. Let's write about that."

"Uh, what if we write about Las Vegas?" I asked, knowing that Nurten has a lifelong goal of visiting Vegas.

She ripped a strip of wax off my leg and said, "No. Weight loss. That is our topic." That day, I learned how to write, "In Istanbul, I have lost weight because I am not lazy. I was lazy in California. In Istanbul, I walk and I run. I do not swim. I eat Turkish food. It is good for me. I visit Nurten who makes me pretty."

The paper then discussed Nurten and included my newly-acquired beauty shop vocabulary. I got an A, and a funny look from my professor.

I'm off to Nurten now for some pruning.

Hope you have a great week.

Rome and Istanbul, two empires, two personalities

- Roma, my favorite photo

If I could, I would date Rome. I would court him for a few months, convince him to fall in love with me and then one day we would create lots of mini-Romes. It would be romantic. Sadly though, it will never happen. Because Rome is not a man. Rome, I think, is a woman.

Rome is that classy, old divorcee who used to be Mrs. So-and-So. Her husband moved out long ago, but no matter - she got the jewelry, the cars, the house in the Hamptons. She looks in the mirror now and says, "Yeah, the glory days are over, but so what? I've still got the goods."

Istanbul, my adopted city, is a woman too. But she's more like the mistress who got dumped, went on a bender and feels like shit. In her rage, she cut off her hair and chucked her jewelry in a river. Istanbul hasn't moved on from the break-up. She pines for her imperial past. For now, she's hiding the past behind a thick coat of cheap paint.

Sometimes it feels like this city is in the middle of a nervous breakdown or identity crisis. For that reason, I relate to her. And I love her too.

Photos that make me smile

My Dad, myself and my favorite city, Chicago

For those of you who don't know him, my dad is like me in the form of a baby-booming, grey-haired male. We have the same wide smile, light eyes and deep laugh. And we act alike. We sneak up on people and say "boo" (lame, yes, but fun). We burst into song at inappropriate moments (for him it's The Doors or Johnny Cash, for me, whoever comes to mind). And we freak out about things like germs, blood and voting for the wrong political party (on this last point, we are very different).

I'm proud that I know how to piss off my Dad better than anyone. My brother-in-law once called me "the thorn in my father's side." My aunt says I am walking payback for all the crap my dad pulled in his younger years. These thoughts make smile just a little wider. And they make me nervous about having children.

Not surprisingly, Dad and I don't get bored when spending time together. Last summer, we did "hangout 06" and went sailing on Lake Michigan in Chicago. Within 45 minutes, the boat was charging into tornado winds. I was screaming my lungs dry and Dad was hollering, "Pull THE DAMN LINE HARDER." To which I responded, "Dad. I OBVIOUSLY CAN'T!!!"

Looking for something a little less dramatic, I proposed a museum day during my brief visit home in January. Dad agreed and got off work early to see the King Tut exhibit at the Field Museum. First, we grabbed lunch at Frances in Lincoln Park. Here's Frances, (great place, get the Matzo Ball soup):

At Frances, Dad ordered a Heineken. I began a short lecture on the side effects of cirrhosis; he ordered a second Heineken. We then headed to the museum. When I asked for two tickets to the Tut exhibit, the woman responded, "You're gonna havta go to Philadelphia if you wanna see TUT. He gone." I didn't have to look to know that Dad was delighting in my mistake. Now I could feel guilty for dragging him down here and he wouldn't have to spend the day perusing an exhibit he had already seen. I suggested we check out the bug exhibit, to which he replied, "I don't want to pay to see a bunch of bugs."

Fine.

We left the Field Museum and called the Museum of Science and Industry; it was closing. His favorite auction house, closed. The Oceanarium we ruled out on the grounds that it's boring. Here's the Oceanarium, and the city skyline near the place where we parked:
In the end, Dad and I just drove around. We went to Chicago's Hyde Park. We checked out homes built 100 years ago and he explained the work he had done in different buildings. Here's a picture of some typical Hyde Park homes (beautiful!):

We hunted for Louis Farrakhan's complex, but discovered the interesting part was looking for the house, not actually finding it. We compared the different buildings on the University of Chicago campus and took note of how the neighborhood had changed in the past few years and was turning a positive corner.

Then we drove to the Lake where we saw a Chicago Police Marine Unit ice picking their way into the near-frozen lake:

It was here that I realized how Dad and I are similar on one more level: our propensity to snoop.

"What do you think they're doing?" Dad asked, before he flagged over an officer and tried to weasel some information. While fishing for a pen, I realized that Dad was using the same tricks on the cop that I use as a reporter: smiling at the right moments, making just enough small talk, mentioning a person your source might know. Don't you think it's funny, sometimes, to realize why you are the way you are?

Anyway, despite our combined charm the cop wouldn't budge. He grumbled something about this being a "practice run" and walked away. Because we were on public property, Dad and I decided to wait and see what the "practice run" might yield.

After a few minutes of watching us, one of the cop's superiors came over and said, "Folks, we're just trying to give a family a little closure. A woman threw herself in the lake the other night." Dad and I looked at each other, said "hm" in unison, and then he leaned in to whisper some fatherly advice... "Honey. GET THE CAMERA."

We waited a few more minutes - camera in hand - but then it started to get cold. We're wimps when it comes to windchill, so we decided to get back in the car and head home. Before leaving, we compared ideas on why this woman would have tossed herself in the Lake and we decided to shoot some pictures.
Thanks Dad, for a fun day.

On headscarves and fashion

Cool headscarf. Cairo, Egypt.

In Turkey, wearing a headscarf is a straightforward affair. (Scarf covers head. Sometimes scarf covers head and shoulders. Rarely, scarf covers head, shoulders and entire body giving effect of a moving cloud of fabric.) Most scarves are made of cotton, sometimes silk, rarely linen. In recent years it has become popular to wear a tight band around the forehead with a scarf covering the head; Turkey's liberal elite consider this a political statement and a nod to the country's Islamic Prime Minister and his wife, who often wears a headscarf in a similar way.

Scarfs are hugely controversial here. The last time I heard people bickering about the "scarf situation" was yesterday- twice. In Turkey, girls who wear scarves are barred from studying in state schools or working in public offices. Bogazici, my university, is known for being lax about enforcing this law, so a lot of girls wear scarves. Some girls still worry they could be kicked out of the university for wearing a scarf, so they skirt the issue by wearing hooded sweatshirts and large, knit hats.

Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan - a devout Muslim- tried unsuccesfully to change the headscarf law when he took office. Erdogan's wife wears a scarf and because of this, she has been uninvited to the President's house and other official state functions. When she makes appearances overseas (she met with Laura Bush in October last year) columnists in Turkey write the obligatory article decrying headscarfs. Erdogan's daughters both wear scarfs; neither girl studied at public universities. I believe they both went to the US for college and both mentioned the headscarf issue as a deterrent in their desire to study in Turkey.

Among Muslim countries, Tunisia is the only other country with a law like Turkey's. Other countries, Iran and Saudi Arabia for example, require women to cover. In Egypt, which doesn't have a law either way, I noticed the majority of women wearing scarves. The difference was 1. This wasn't controversial and 2.The women managed to make headscarves look cool. They pinned them up like ribbons. They folded and twisted them around their heads and added flowers for decoration. They put two scarves together to give a double-sided, contrasting color effect. I was amazed. It looked like a sea of women had stepped from the page of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

Naturally, this piqued my interest. While standing outside a mosque in Cairo, I started chatting with a few women about how they wear their scarves. (Actually they noticed me staring at their scarves and asked if I wanted a closer look). Anyway, we started taking pictures and comparing scarf techniques. One thing led to another and soon I was surrounded by girls with a knack for wrapping bundles of fabric around my head.

"It's fashion," said one girl as she pulled my hair in a bun, did some quick knotting and created a poof of purple and orange silk on the side of my head (see photo above). "It's functional. It's also fashion and we do fashion better than other Muslim women."

She finished and a line of her male Muslim friends start snapping photos of us with their cellphones (they're also in the photo above). If I didn't have mosquito bites dotting my face, it would have looked fabulous.

I decided to keep the scarf on because it looked kind of cool, kind of 1920s, kind of hippyish. Not surprisingly, the heckling from young Muslim men died a bit once my hair was covered. I suspect this is why many Egyptian women wear scarves. It's a show of religious reverence, but it's also a way to avoid unwanted attention in a society currently experiencing an upswing in "traditional morality."

Having returned to Turkey, I catch myself looking at the clusters of covered girls on campus wearing oversized hoodies, rasta and fisherman's hats, or anything to cover their hair, and I wish they weren't stuck in this awkward, unwinnable situation. I wish they could be like girls in nearly every other country in the world who can choose to cover or expose whatever they want.

Some photos of women in Egypt and their headscarves:

In the Khan Al-Khalili bazaar. -Cairo

This woman, a nanny, took out photos from her high school graduation where she wore a striking black and white scarf. -Cairo

This woman works at the Cairo Stock Exchange. She's the one who showed me how to wear a scarf. -Cairo

Brown and pink. She was wearing brown and pink shoes, but I couldn't get them in the shot. -Cairo

This woman explained how to avoid poking your scalp with pins. -Cairo
This is when she scarfed me. See the bumps on my face? The bags under my eyes? That's what you get for sleeping on a Felucca! I've tried to figure out how to wear the scarf like this again because I think it looks cool. I'm struggling.