Nugget on the Run

Costa Rica, here we come!

2009-01-02T07:56:00.002Z

In 15 days Niblet & I will be leaving for Costa Rica with Marc. We've rented a house in Nosara and are currently discussing activities. I expect to get a Canopy Zip-Line tour through the Cloud Forest in Monteverde in, and we're talking about horesback riding trek to a 200 meter waterfall.

This is a picture of the house we rented, called Los Pericos (The Parrots).

Paris - Revisited - Part 4

2006-08-03T00:32:00.000+01:00

At 3 pm that afternoon, I approached Cafe Pierre, a cafe at Place de la Republique, where I'd breakfasted earlier in the week. I was pretty sure the fabulously dressed thin guy with great hair talking on his cell phone was Sebastien, but I couldn't be positive, so I stood a bit away from him. He hung up and after a minute or two approached me. We introduced ourselves formally and exchanged French cheek kisses.

I got the Gay tour of the Marais. Which is somehow better than just wandering around the area, knowing it's the Gay center of Paris (though Monmartre is now giving it a run for its money), with shops, restaurants, bars and nightlife. The Centre Pompidou is in this area, but as I'd been by it many times, Sebastien took me a slightly different route. He pointed out the cool nightclubs on the way to one of the Islands in the middle of the Seine, Ile Saint-Louis. We walked by Notre Dame on Ile de la Cite, and onward to Saint Germain and the Latin Quarter, where Sebastien took me inside Eglise St. Germain.

Wandering around the flea market outside the church, we ran into Paul & Mary. Paris isn't that small, and so yes, it was odd to run into 2 of the 5 people I knew in the city.

From there we walked to Eglise St. Sulpice, thus completing my Da Vinci Code tour of Paris. The Delacroix murals were all I expected, and I'm glad Sebastien and I managed to find the church.

We boarded the Metro and headed toward Monmartre, home to the Moulin Rouge, and Paris' second largest concentration of gays and lesbians. The area immediately in front of the Moulin Rouge, on Boulevard de Clichy, is safe enough by day, but a rough area at night. The gay enclave, as you head up the hill toward Sacre Coeur is slightly more upscale and exclusive than Le Marais.

As we climbed toward Sacre Couer, Sebastien took me on a detour to show me one of his favorite spots in Paris. Down a side street to stand beneath a balcony with a plaque in French on the building, explaining that an Egyptian-born Italian Chanteuse named Dalida had hung herself in the bedroom, just inside the door to the balcony of her home. Her suicide note said simply "Life has become unbearable ... forgive me."

She was 55.

It was not her first attempt. She'd tried before, in 1967, when her singer lover Luigi Tenco successfully took his own life. Her ex-husband shot himself several years after she left him, still distraught over losing her so shortly after their marriage in 1961. In 1983, her lover, magician and entertainer Richard Chanfray also took his own life.

It's not hard to imagine why she felt life had become unbearable.

From there we walked to the junction of Rues Girardon and Abreuvoir in the Butte Montmartre, where a lifesize bust of Dalida was erected in 1997, 10 years after her suicide, commemorating the spot as "Place Dalida".

Over the course of the afternoon, Sebastien had made and received a few calls on his cell phone. Outside the Moulin Rouge, he'd told me we would be meeting up with a couple of his friends.

We met Eric and Sandrine outside the Dali Museum, and they came with us to Sacre Coeur. They were cute, and sweet, but not a couple. I'm pretty sure Eric is gay. I know for a fact Sandrine has a boyfriend, and though she's in her early 20s and they aren't yet married, they are trying to have a baby.

They also happened to speak less English than I do French. Communication wasn't easy, but we all tried really hard!

I was probably more disappointed with Sacre Coeur than any other site on my journey. This huge church built to rival Notre Dame. There was just something so - American - about it. It's not old, but they are full as fuck of themselves. No pictures allowed -- of course not, because they want you to stop in the shop and buy them.

The view from the steps of Sacre Coeur, however, was breathtaking. You look down at the rest of Paris. And it was a beautiful day. We sat on the steps for sometime afterward. Partly to give Sebestien's feet, and my own, a rest. But partly because it is so stunning.

The View:

As we were sitting there, a commotion started on the steps beneath us. A young couple was getting married! It was touching, and it made me cry.

Until the bride stripped off her "wedding dress", a tear-away thing she'd just had on for the photo shoots. They were simply taking the announcement photo for the newspaper. I felt jipped.

We made our way back down to Monmartre proper, and Sebastien sent me with Sandrine and Eric to have a drink while he went shopping for food to make us for dinner. Thank god I had my french-english dictionary with me, or we would have sat there staring at each other.

Outside Sebastien's studio, we said goodbye to Eric. Sebastien lives on the 5th floor of a 6 floor walk-up. Oh, you want to know why Parisians are so skinny when all they eat are fattening, saucy foods, boiled, nutrient lacking veggies, and pastry? It's the walking. And lack of elevators. The French outside of Paris resemble Americans - it's only the nature of Paris urbanity that keeps Parisians fit.

We were not there long when Sebastien's lesbian friend, Sabrina, joined us. While Sandrine would be leaving after dinner, Sabrina was going to come out with Sebastien to lesbian bars. Sabrina looked like your typical butch-lesbian. I think maybe they were trying to set me up, because until we were walking around and I said something about a cute boy, Sebastien had been under the impression I was a lesbian, not bi. Unfortunately, I don't go for butch - unless it's that kind of ambiguous, is she butch, or just tough and suicide girl like, kind of butch. The upside was that Sabrina was at least slightly more conversant in English.

Sebastien pulled out a photo album and I got to see a set of pictures from his latest drag performance. He and his current boyfriend are a part of a Cabaret Troupe that performs at gay and lesbian clubs around Paris. That was a LOT of hair. And a lot of shock-blue glittery eyeshadow. But they were fabulous.

When we said our Goobyes to Sandrine, Sebastien, Sabrina and I headed back to the Marais. First they took me to a divey little lesbian bar that didn't seem very lesbian: half the patrons were men, and not with women, and not easily identifiable as gay. That was unusual for this space, according to Sebastien - it's one of the places his Cabaret performs.

Eventually they took me to another bar called "3W". Now THIS is what lesbian dance clubs should be like. Full of smoking hot, scantily clad, not butch, super cruisy lesbians that look you up and down like they're going to eat you alive. Oh. My. Goodness. YUM.

If only we'd gotten there earlier, or I wasn't so tired from being on my feet for the better part of 12 hours, maybe I would have gotten French pussy in addition to the French cock I'd had earlier in the week.

Ah, regrets.

Still, it did turn into Sunday while we were in that lesbian nightclub. I turned 30 in a lesbian bar in Paris.

The bar closed down, and Sebastien offered to take me to another, later place, but I was exhausted. He walked me home, and we said our goodbyes.

He was sweet, and hospitable, and generous, and I really enjoyed spending time with him and his friends. He reminded me SO much of a french version of my best friend, Steve (who is just a little less gay than Sebastien, but not much).

Sebastien, Sandrine, & Eric:

Thank you, Kristy!!

Paris - Revisited - pt. 3

2006-07-10T04:53:00.000+01:00

Saturday, June 3, 2006. The last day of my 20s. How many people get to say they spent such a monumental (pun!) day in Paris? Well, besides Parisians of course. And other people who live there. The first thing I did upon wakening was check the weather forecast. The sun from the day before was predicted to hold, and to my great delight, CNN's international weather woman announced a veritable heatwave from the day before. Gone were the rain and temperatures below 60, replaced by clear blue skies and temperatures close to 90.

Showered, dressed and baked, I packed Niblet in the backpack and headed toward the metro. Destination, Eiffel Tower. The stop directly serving the Eiffel Tower was closed, necessitating an early disembarkment. This provided the opportunity to approach one of Paris' most famous monuments from a slight distance, building the anticipation until finally I crossed the street and stood at the Trocadero, looking down a large staircase strewn with tourists taking pictures.

I bought a Nutella crepe from a street vendor and stood on the terrace with the Tower in a straight line in front of me until there was nothing left but the Nutella I quickly licked off my fingers. After snapping a few pictures, I descended the steps and approached the Tower, the sense of excitement mixed with anticipation and a bit of fear mounting the closer I came.

You can see the Eiffel Tower from various vantage points across Paris. Sometimes, you just see it poking up at the sky off in the distance. Though it towers above everything around it, you really don't get a sense of the enormity until you are standing right in front of it, almost underneath, and have to drop your head all the way back to look up and see the top. Only the skeleton of a building with a few decks as you ascend, the sun shines down through the lattice of metal, reminding you how naked the structure is.

You can go up from any of the four pillars, by elevator to the first and second levels, or on foot via staircases. It costs extra to go all the way to the top, accessible only by a second set of elevators on the 2eme etage, or second floor. I chose the pillar with the shortest line. It wasn't until I was just about to purchase my ticket that I realized the elevator to the 1st floor from that corner was broken. I figured, what the hell? I've climbed the stairs to the top of the Statue of Liberty before (sure, I was 13, but so what?). Besides, I wasn't going to start over in one of the lines 4 times the length of the one I was almost next in.

I ordered one ticket in French. She asked if I wanted to go to the top. I said "oui" and she charged me the 12-26 year old price of entry. I didn't tell her I was 29.

I mounted the stairs and about 2 flights up, the sense of excitement/anticipation/fear started to overwhelm me. I'm prone to panic attacks on occasion, brought on usually by crowded public transportation, long, high bridges, and heights. Low-grade panic set in, and it lasted the remainder of my Eiffel experience. I wasn't going to let it stop me: just because something freaks me out, doesn't mean I won't do it.

Now, I don't freak out just going up any old tall structure. And I have no problem with skyscrapers and looking at views from the safety of the building's enclosure. The Eiffel Tower, obviously, isn't enclosed. Sure, there's a metal fence. But tell that to the phobic part of my brain. I kept getting stuck behind slow-moving families, which wasn't helping. Eventually I'd manage to pass them, but it prolonged my discomfort.

I reached the 1st floor and made my way to the edge. I didn't take Niblet out because I kept picturing the scene in National Lampoon's European Vacation when Clark throws Rusty's beret off the Eiffel Tower and some woman's poodle leaps from her arms after it like it's a frisbee. Yes, off the Eiffel Tower.

Luckily poodles are light and so the wind catches it and the poodle ends up in the pool. Still, I didn't want to chance it with Niblet.

The hike to the 2nd floor was similar. Inexplicably, the lines to the elevators to the top wrap around the outside of the 2nd floor. You might think they'd have roped off the queue some other way. Instead, you can't exactly get to the edge to peer over from the 2nd floor unless you are in line.

The line to buy my ticket took less than 20 minutes. The line to the top was 30 or more. My patience was thin (panic attack, remember?) and I wanted to kill the bitch behind me who kept needlessly elbowing and jostling me. I hate that about lines in general. Invading my personal space really isn't going to get ya there any faster.

The top of the Eiffel Tower is divided into two floors. The first, where you exit the elevators, is enclosed by windows. Up a staircase, you reach as high as they'll let you go, surrounded by wind, protected by a mesh fence. No death by Eiffel Tower incidents, merci beaucoup. (No, really, thank you! It's windy up there!)

The crap part is that you have to wait in line again, to get back down to the 2nd floor. So, one tour around the top and I went back down and got in line. Not before stopping to buy myself a shot glass from the souvenir shop at the top. What better way to commemorate conquering a fear than obliterating the memory with booze? If only I'd brought the booze ...

The journey down from the 2nd floor was quick, and as a reward when I was on land once more, I bought myself an ice cream cone. Soft serve choco-vanilla swirl on a cone. MMMMMMMMM. I licked 'til I relaxed, and was very proud of myself. No, the height fear didn't go away. But I did it anyway, and the panic attack never got out of control and it went away quickly once I was on the ground again. Maybe that fear of heights will never completely leave me, but it is nice to know that I'm not so phobic as to let it stop me.

Paris - Revisited - pt. 2

2006-07-03T08:09:00.000+01:00

When I returned to my hotel from D'Orsay and the Centre Pompidou, I made two phone calls. The first to Sebastien, the ex-boyfriend of a former co-worker of Kiki's who had agreed to be my gay tour-guide for a day. We made arrangements to meet at 2 pm the following afternoon. The second call was to Jim, to make dinner arrangements for later that night. He gave me directions for the metro and told me the street address. He said "86 Tombe Issoire" which I misheard as " 86 Dombasle", both streets off of Rue de Alesia in the southwest of Paris. I took a shower, then mapped out my route. It seemed a little odd that he'd put me on a metro line that entailed such a long walk, but what the fuck. I was in Paris.

Now, to be accurate, I didn't mishear "Dombasle" ... I wrote down "Dombassu" or something similar. "Dombasle" was the closest thing to what I'd written that I could find intersecting Rue de Alesia. Otherwise known as "when deductive reasoning fails".

An hour after getting off the Metro*, I arrived at Rue Dombasle. Only there was no 86.

Fuck.

It took a few blocks before I found a Tobac** so I could buy myself a phone card. Payphones in Paris don't take coins: you need a re-fillable phone card. This is assuming, of course, you don't have a cell phone.

I called Jim.

Not only was I on the wrong street, I was in the wrong arrondisment! Sigh. My sense of direction is great! My aural comprehension of the French language? Not so much.

Luckily I was across the street from a stop for the bus line that would take me from the 15th to the 14th, and to Jim's corner. He told me how to pay once I was on the bus, and said he'd see me soon.

15 minutes later, I stood outside the gate at 86 Tombe Issoire, in the 14th. I punched the code into the security pad and entered a long, narrow courtyard. Jim was walking toward me. He looked just like his picture on the website, but older, in a dapper hat and a 3/4 length overcoat. He told me we'd be meeting a couple, friends of his, and there was a possibility of journalist and the french girl he'd picked up the night before. Except for the french girl, all were Americans.

We walked to a tiny chinese restaurant 2 or 3 blocks from Jim's atelier, and were greeted warmly by the married proprietors. This was obviously a regular haunt of Jim's: he was on a first name basis with the owners, and throughout our meal they bent over backwards to ensure we were content.

Paul and Mary arrived shortly after us. A couple in their 50s, I suppose, who currently live half of each year in Paris, and the other half in Portland, Oregon. Paul is in the Peace Corps, and does AIDS work in Africa. Mary used to own a catering business when she and Paul were based in DC, where she lived full time while Paul travelled with the Peace Corps. They've known Jim for 30 years. I didn't get the story of their meeting.

Chinese food is chinese food everywhere in the western world, even if the menu is in French. We were going to order dishes for the table to share, and I decided I would just go along with everyone's choices. Jim ordered soup to start, so did Mary, and so did I. I had no idea *what* kind of soup it would be, so I was pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be Hot and Sour soup, a favorite of mine (often used as a comfort food at the tail end of any flu or severe cold I contract). A chicken dish was ordered, along with some pot stickers, a beef dish and a pork dish. Still feeling starved for vegetables, I suggested a veggie dish. Mary and I split a bottle of white wine.

Just after the pot stickers arrived, so did Jeff. Without the french girl, whom Jim had suspected would be frightened of coming to dinner with 4 english-speaking Americans and one ex-pat. I'm not sure how Jeff communicated with this girl: his french is practically non-existent. I suspect there was a lot of gesticulating going on.

To picture Jeff, imagine Anthony Hopkins at the end of Silence of the Lambs, when Hannibal calls Clarice during her graduation ceremony, from some non-descript tropical location, a little sunburnt, wearing a crumpled white linen suit with a fedora. Jeff looked like he'd just stepped out of that scene. In one of his incarnations as a mainstream journalist, Jeff had met Jim 20 years earlier, tasked with writing an article on Jim's Sunday Dinners for an Austin newspaper. These days, Jeff has changed his last name and is running a talent agency out of Shreveport, Louisiana.

Jeff wanted in on the wine, so we ordered another bottle.He sat next to me, and spent the rest of the evening talking mainly to me, or Jim. He seemed wholly uninterested in Paul or Mary. Throughout dinner, I kept feeling like this cute, thin french girl with short dark hair sitting at the table behind Jim and Paul was looking at me. Or trying to not be caught looking at me, more like. But I wasn't sure because whenever I noticed her apart from this, it seemed like she was having a really intense conversation with her boyfriend. Heavy relationship stuff kind of intense, so I chalked it up to my imagination.

I thought the overall dinner conversation was interesting. I was asked about school, my goals, talked about my blog, my orientation, the fledgling porn company that occasionally shoots in my living room. We talked about Paul's work in Africa, about the perception of American arrogance as right-wing fundamentalism pushes its abstinence-only christian morality on populations that can ill afford such a head-in-the-sand approach to the AIDS pandemic.

We talked about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and Jeff opined that, having seen first hand what is left of New Orleans, Shreveport was on its way to becoming the cultural center of Louisiana. New Orleans, he suggested, even in recovery, would not be the same. Much of the local flavor went with folk who relocated to Texas and elsewhere throughout the US, who will not have the financial ability to move back, or capability of affording the housing that will replace their homes. The areas destroyed and left vacant, once low income and poor, will gentrify and the city's cultural, economic and class diversity, from which that flavor derived, will be forever lost.

At the end of dinner, it was decided Paul and Mary would walk Jeff and I to the Metro stop, the Metro being on the way to their apartment, and Jeff's hotel being one Metro stop after mine. I excused myself to the rest room. When I emerged, my entire party was waiting right out side, putting on their coats. The cute french girl was waiting in line for the bathroom.

Or so I thought.

It turns out, she'd just been talking to Mary about me. She wanted to know if I was an actress. Apparently, she was really taken with my voice. She had told Mary that she was very sensitive to sounds, and my voice sounded very even and metered and lyrical, like it had been trained. When Mary told me this, the girl turned crimson and rushed into the bathroom.

I think that may be one of the best compliments I've ever had. Certainly one of the most unique.

We said our goodbyes to Jim, and headed for the Metro. Instead of continuing on to his stop, Jeff asked me if I wanted to get a drink, and got off at my stop. We walked into the closest cafe and ordered 2 glasses of red wine. This is when I learned that Jeff had been the managing editor of Hustler for a time, right around the infamous shooting, when Althea took over for Larry. Before that, Jeff and some friends had, in the 60s, started an underground, subversive magazine in New York, called The Rat. Among other literary noteables, The Rat was fond of publishing works by William Burroughs.

My one on one conversation with Jeff over drinks was decidedly more personal than the conversation at dinner. I won't bore you with it all (although much of it was quite titilating), but it was nice to have a conversation with a stranger who has spent his life learning people, of coaxing truths from them, and listening to his assessment of me. He's been with 100s of women spanning decades, and yet he found me attractive and interesting enough to proposition. And was gracious and treated me no different when I politely declined.

We made arrangements to meet for a drink before Jim's dinner on Sunday, and he walked me back to my hotel.

*I walked for an hour. Or so. There was a brief stop at Starbucks. Just to see. 5 euros for a tall caramel macchiato. That's close to $6.50. for the SMALL one!

** A tobac is a store that sells various tobacco products. Tobacs also sell metro passes, tickets, and phone cards.

Paris: Revisited - pt. 1

2006-06-20T04:38:00.000+01:00

The day I went to the Louvre (my Thursday in Paris), I walked there from my hotel near the Place de la Republique. I spent maybe 5 hours in the Louvre. It's impossible to see the entire collection in one day (hello, 100,000 pieces of art!) so I started with the antiquities (I saw a de-mummified mummy!), moved on to the Italian sculptures, visited the 18th century Italian painters, where you can see Mona Lisa - if you can get through the throng ... Da Vinci Code mania, let me tell you. There is even a Da Vinci Code tour of the Louvre - not to mention the Da Vinci Code tour of Paris.

More sculpture - more Italian painters, before moving on to painters from France, Germany & Holland. Eventually, they all begin to blur together - I think this may be why people advise taking a few days to view the Louvre. You can only see the same scenes, depicted over and over so many times before you begin to go cross-eyed looking at them. As Mejane pointed out to me, it wasn't until fairly recently that painters could paint what they wanted, and not what they were commissioned to paint. Still, there were some highlights.

I loved Delacroix's Death of Sardanapole and Delarouche's Le Jeune Martyre. They're both so dark, yet to me, utterly beautiful.

Delacroix's piece was the reason I later went to Eglise Saint Suplice. I had an initial aversion, not wanting to follow the Da Vinci trail, but the chance to see Delacroix's murals there was one I decided not to pass up.

You know what you shouldn't do after walking from your hotel to the Louvre, and spending hours there? Decide to walk from the Louvre, up the Champs Elysee to the Arc D'Triomphe.

Because eventually you're going to have to walk back.

I almost went and saw the Da Vinci Code in the theatre that afternoon just to give my feet a rest.

Instead, I braved the Paris Metro. Luckily, some jerk in line in front of me took 5 minutes to buy his Metro ticket because he refused to hang up his cell phone. This didn't give me time enough to figure the machine out, but it did give the very androgynous guy behind me the chance to get fed up, so when I approached the screen and faltered for half a second, he came to my rescue and completed the process for me. I'm a quick study, so I watched his process and after that, had no trouble using the Metro ticketing machines.

I had my last solo meal in Paris that night. I was so starved for fresh vegetables at this point, I ordered a big salad with my dinner, and when they brought me a huge bowl full of romaine mixed with iceberg, and one sad cut-up roma tomato, with just enough French dressing, I inhaled that bowl full of lettuce as quickly as I could.

Everyone who knew me as a child has now keeled over in shock at the idea that *I* craved vegetables.

***

Friday saw my last tours of Paris museums, with a visit to the Musee D'Orsay & the Centre Pompidou. D'Orsay was formerly a train station, and trust me to go there on the one hot day of the Paris leg of my trip - guess what happens when the ceiling is made of glass? Yep, you cook.

In the rooms safe from the sunlight, there are sections devoted to Impressionists, Post-Impressionists, and Neo-Impressionists. There was also a good section of pastels, but they were in rooms so dark that without a flash, the pictures just came out blurry or black. A shame, too. I really liked Degas' pastels.

This is the best example I could manage:

The Centre Pompidou was something completely different. For a start, most of the permanent collection was closed, so what I got to see was mostly the current exhibit, devoted to moving images. Instead of paintings and sculpture, there were videos, rooms where light was the key, installations and slide shows.

Istanbul - the finale

2006-06-17T04:15:00.000+01:00

It may be a little anti-climatic, but I spent my final day in Istanbul shopping on the Asian side. I went to a flea market in Kadikoy, then up what is called "Baghdad Street" (not sure why), the Istanbul equivalent of Melrose or Haight Street. I got some cool things, tops, presents for friends, etc. Excellent sales - in one place I bought 3 tops and a hat for 58 lira, or about $40. I also stumbled across the bakery that has been making Turkish Delight for the longest time (since 1777) while wandering down a side street, and bought a box to share with my friends.

What I liked best about this day was the absence of man hos and the hard sell. Even on Buyukuda and when I was in Andalou Kavagi, while there were no guys trying to hit on me, there were many trying to sell me something, or get me into their restaurant. But in Kadikoy, on Baghdad Street, the shop people were all women, and while they may offer to hold items for you while you look around, they do not bother you or try to get you to buy anything. On the Asian shore, most of the customers are local and there is no commission for sales, so they don't work you they way they do in Sultanahmet.

Back in Sultanahmet, I bought some kitschy souvenir things, and made my last, and most impressive, bargain for Mejane's birthday present. It's a little intimidating when you walk into a store full of whatever it's full of and not see one price listed on anything. I've found that with bargaining, it's easiest if you have some idea of the quality of an item and what the going rate is or should be. When they talk to me about carpet quality, for example, I'm lost. But there are certain goods I feel at least marginally good about judging quality and worth, and so it was easier for me to pick a starting bargain price because I could tell what they were initially asking was the greatly marked-up "tourist" price.

For our my last dinner in Turkey, Anna and I went to a restaurant off the main drag in Taksim called "5 kat" (pronounced "besh kat") bes is the word for 5 and kat means floor, so the restaurant is literally, "5th Floor" and it is on the fifth and sixth floors of a weird little building - no idea why she thought a restaurant would be a good bet there, but the owner has made something that's rather turkish in feel, but would hold up against some world class restaurants in cities like San Francisco, New York, Paris or London. She's an actress and singer. We sat on the roof terrace, and I got to mark off another "thing I want to see before I die" and that is the full moon rising, blood red in color, over the Bosphorus. Stunning.

When we were done, we walked to the Orient Hotel, where Agatha Christie stayed, and penned some of her novels. A taxi ride back to Sultanahmet, and we said our goodbyes and agreed to get together in San Francisco.

I went back to my hotel to finish packing. At 1:30 in the morning, I checked out and one of the reception guys from the hotel drove me to Sabhia Gokcen (pronounced sah-bee-a go-chen) where, at the 3rd of 3 security checkpoints, one of the security people dropped and broke my brand new digital camera. I bought it for the trip, sure - but I was hoping to have it afterward, too. Fuckers.

I love Easy Jet. It's great that they make you go through this elaborate "line up in the line with the correct letter, A, B, C, or D, written on your boarding ticket" process that takes half an hour, just to load you onto a bus to drive you MAYBE 50 meters.

What the hell?

***

I'm not sure I like leaving someplace on a flight that takes off in the middle of the night, well before dawn and still in the pitch black. It doesn't give you the chance to look down and recognize anything and say your final goodbye. It's a little jarring.

On the other hand, it feels less like leaving something behind.

Pictures of me!

2006-06-15T01:06:00.000+01:00

me being pensive:

fascinated by the water:

conquering medusa in the cistern:

surrey with a seal inside:

admiring the Sea of Marmara:

near Galata tower:

our guide to the castle:

Blending with the rocks:

we climbed through that hole!

atop the castle:

Istanbul - pt. 6

2006-06-14T18:03:00.000+01:00

I spent Saturday doing two of the things I'd gone to Istanbul to do: visit Topkapi Palace and the Harem, and have a Turkish bath at the hamam built for Nurubanu (wife of Sultan Selim II and mother of Murat III) in 1584 by the famous architect Sinan, who designed many of the city's mosques (his protege designed the Blue Mosque).

You may be wondering why these two things were so high on my list of reasons to visit Istanbul. When I was a teenager, my grandmother gave me a set of romance novels written by Bertrice Small - the saga of the O'Malley women, Irish and English descendants of an Irish shipping clan set in Elizabethan England. Each of the heroines of the novels takes her turn trapped as the property of some Arabic, African, or Asian man. One of the women, and subsequently her daughter, end up in harems of Ottoman Turks, and Sultan Selim and Nurubanu are featured in the stories, as are sights around Istanbul. The novels were fiction, but they made a huge impression on me (many of my kinks and the things I find hot today were introduced to me in these books). It was pretty amazing to be able to wander around places that had previously existed only in fantasy for me.

Topkapi is huge, set just behind Aya Sofya, looking with birds-eye views of much of Istanbul. You can peer out over the Marmara, the Bosphorus, and the Golden Horn. Useful for defense against foreign invaders.

Technically, the Harem is just the Sultan's living quarters. There are places for concubines, places for each of the four wives, and the Valide Sultan (mother of the Sultan), the most powerful woman in the empire, lives in the center, separating the concubines and wives from the Sultan. There are quarters for the Eunuchs who cared for the women. The women at a long bar just outside their dormitory. There is a hallway called the Hall of Golden Coins, because the favorites would be lined up along the wall and the Sultan would walk through and toss coins at their feet. One of the posts for the women to stand on had a hook in the floor. I wonder if it was customary that the Sultan had a favorite who wasn't exactly happy with her position? Because in the books I read, the heroines got to be favorites by presenting such a challenge the men felt that had to "break" them.

Shhhhhh!. Let me have the fantasy. :P

I certainly couldn't help but think, in certain parts like the Sultan's bath (which, by the way, had hot and cold running water, and the tiles heated from beneath), and private chambers, that there had been a number of slave girls forced to submit to powerful men in those rooms.

The rest of the palace was awesome, too, particularly the treasury (holy crap, jewels!), and the room in which they showcase some of the Sultan's clothes. Fuck, were those guys huge! You know in the miniatures they show of Ottoman life, in which the Sultan always looks twice as large as the rest of the people? Well, they weren't just flattering him and making him larger than life because he was Sultan. Those men were huge. It makes sense, given all the sons each Sultan had, and the fact that the first son was not automatically Sultan upon the father's death - it took the biggest, mightiest of them to concur and subdue the others (or the one with the most conniving mother).

After Topkapi, I sat in Sultanahmet Square for maybe 20 minutes, just taking in everything I'd seen. A Muslim woman sat next to me on the bench. One of the Man Hos approached me, he'd tried several times before, but I guess now that I was seated he felt he had a better chance. The old Muslim lady next to me was not amused. She made hissing sounds at him, and shooed him away and said something to him in Turkish, and he walked off. Heh.

When I was ready, I walked to Cemberlitas Hamam.

I ordered a bath with shampoo and massage for 18 euros, about $25. After paying, I was sent into a long corridor with lockers, and given a towel and a locker and a pair of rubber slippers. I stripped down to my panties and wrapped the towel around me before heading into the room for the bath. I was planning on going totally nude, but it seemed like other people around me were leaving their panties on, so I didn't want to offend. But when I opened the door, I saw several of the women in there with no panties, so turned around and put mine in the locker.

When you walk into the steam room, it's like a sauna. But hotter, and made of stone and marble, with a large round marble slab in the center, with women lying around the outside in different stages of being bathed. The room is round, and the ceiling is domed, with holes peaking through to let the light of the sun in. The light is soft and steamy. Instantly, you start to sweat. Laying on your towel on the slab, soon the towel beneath you is soaked.

Eventually, the girl to bathe you comes over. She is wearing panties. She tells you to turn onto your back (unless you already are) and starts scrubbing your skin with a camel hair cloth that removes not only dirt, but dead layers of skin. She does your whole body, turning you onto your stomach to get your backside, too. Then you are doused with lukewarm water. From there, she begins soaping up your body, smoothing and massaging the suds into your skin, manipulating your limbs and body as you lay limp from the heat and decadence. She rinses you, and soaps you up again, paying more attention to the massage aspect the second time. Your arms, shoulders, calves, feet, back.

After rinsing you again, she takes you off to the side near the basins with running water, and washes your hair for you. When she is done, you go back to laying on the slab, for as long as you want to. There is no time limit. You get all sweaty again, but it hardly matters given how clean you are. It just feels nice, and cleansing.

I think the whole thing lasted for me for about an hour. It's hard to say. The experience was one of full body hedonism. Pleasurable, but not exactly sexual. It easily could be though, under different circumstances. I felt light and floaty almost the minute I walked into the bath. That feeling lasted for hours after I left.

I'm not sure I can express how amazing this experience was. I wish we had something like this in the US, the full experience, and as cheap. It was one of the few times in life where you have the fantasy of something, and when it happens, the experience is everything you imagined, and more. For me, that usually involves sex.

I will definitely go to Istanbul again, and the hamam visit is going to be a tradition.

Some Pictures

2006-06-14T07:40:00.000+01:00

Aya Sofya:

Inside Aya Sofya

Blue Mosque shining in the sun:

Basilica Cistern:

Princess Islands - view from monastery rocks:

Istanbul - pt. 5

2006-06-13T18:10:00.000+01:00

By Friday I'd have enough of the Man Hos* in Sultanahmet, and wanted another day out of the city. Besides, after 2 weeks of using almost nothing but my feet for transportation, I needed a break from all the walking. It seemed the perfect day to cruise up the Bosphorus, to wear it meets the Black Sea. I filled up on my daily hotel-provided breakfast of crusty wheat bread with butter and fresh strawberry preserves, yogurt with honey, fruit and a hard boiled egg for protein before heading to the Galata Bridge, where the ferry terminals are located.

the ferry departs at 10:35 am or noon, returning at 3:00 or 5:00 pm. It takes just under two hours, zig-zagging its way across the Bosphorus to terminals along both the Asian and European shores. The return trip saves 20 minutes by making fewer stops.

I had plans to meet a Swedish girl I'd met in San Francisco near the Obelisk of Theodosius in the Byzantine Hippodrome of Sultanahmet Square at 7:30 that night. Anna is a Swedish woman, also 30, who has been living in the Bay Area for some time. She responded to a post of mine on the travel forum about her Istanbul dates overlapping with mine. We had lunch in SF to get acquainted, and made the plans described above. Today, she should be having her turn in a Hamam**, before departing for Bodrum & Ephesus (where you can see the Virgin Mary's house), and eventually Greece.

Given the plans with Anna, I opted for the 10:35 ferry up, with a 3:00 return. On my way to the ferry, Danger approached me.

Danger wore faded jeans with parts of the legs worn partly to holes. He had a white v-neck undershirt, sporting a hole about 3 inches beneath his right nipple. His arms were tattooed, and like Hasan, he'd gotten those tatts the hard way - the old school, non-electric method of tapping the ink into the skin, like this Maori practice. He had dark, short, curly hair, was fair skinned for a Turk, and had those really pale turquoise blue eyes some of them have. He was tall and muscular, but not abnormally so. His voice was raspy and gravelly. Total bad boy type, different than the other men I'd encountered. He just oozed the vibe that suggested he may as well have "danger" written on his forehead.

Really, his name was Oman.

We talked for a bit, and part of me really wanted to accept his invitation of drinks later that evening, because he seemed the sort that would throw me up against the wall. But I decided I'd gotten myself into enough trouble for one vacation.

He gave me his phone number, saying "I don't think you're going to call me".

He was right, *sigh*, although I had quite a lot of fun thinking otherwise on the ferry.

* * *

On the way up the Bosphorus I saw dolphins! Unfortunately, I couldn't get the timing right to get a picture. I also saw a lightening storm over the European shore, while the Asian shore remained sunny. As you move further from Istanbul, the towns and ferry stops take on more and more of the look of old fishing villages, old as in from previous centuries and run down over time. Modernity hasn't invaded to the extent it has in Istanbul, which in addition to being a fusion of east and west, is also a fusion of old and modern.

At the end, you arrive at Andalou Kavagi on the Asian shore. Immediately off the ferry you encounter a string of fish restaurants serving up the fresh local catches and a sign that says "to the castle" the draw of the island. It was built in the 6th century by the Byzantines, on the site of a former Greek temple to Zeus. From it, you see the mouth of the Bosphorus, the Black Sea flowing into it. You can peer out over the Asian and European shores of the Black Sea, as far as the horizon will allow.

It's a steep 20 minute climb up the mountain to the castle. I managed to beat the rest of the people from the ferry up the hill and had maybe 10 minutes to myself to walk around the ruins. There were formally 13 battlements, now only 2 are standing, with other bits of structure around. I admired the view (and cried), and soon was joined by others from the ferry.

A couple of the guys started climbing the castle. I had the thought before the others joined me, and seeing them do it, I knew I could, too. Something most of you don't know about me is that growing up, I was equally comfortable playing tomboy as well as barbies. I built forts (with wood and hammers and nails). I've always thought I'd enjoy rock climbing, but have only done some amateurish stuff climbing around on the cliffs of Santa Cruz, without any kind of harness. I like to climb. I like the methodology of it, and the physical challenge. I just don't like to look down when I get to the top of something steep with a shear drop.

Side note: It's a little hard to climb with a seal on your back. I'll posts pics of Niblet on the castle later.

It was fun, in sort of a pure, childlike enjoyment way. I got to play on a castle!! Not just walk around inside of it and look at things, but actually put my hands on and climb through holes in the structure!!!

I wanted to follow the guidebooks suggestion of not taking the road back down, but instead following the dirt path through the heath, but as I started down, I noticed the bees. There were flowers growing in the heath so sticky with pollen you could see the liquid glistening in the sun. I kept going, not frightened of a few bees. Eventually I came to a place where for about 20 feet, the path led by a wall of those sticky flowers, and I could see dozens of bees in the path. I'm not allergic, but that's not to say being stung many times simultaneously wouldn't cause a reaction, and no one knew where I was, and there was no telling when someone else would come along to help.

At the bottom of hill, I had a delicious lunch of a pita and minted yogurt meze, calamari, and 1/4 of a melon.

This day trip was easily one of the best parts of my vacation.

* * *

Dinner with Anna was nice. We ate at a restaurant under the Galata Bridge (there is a level under the main bridge that has a row of restaurants on each side, one facing up the golden horn, the other across the Bosphorus to the Asian shore.

We opted for the Golden Horn side, because it was sunset, and sunset on the Golden Horn is one of those things on my list of things to see before I die.

I almost cried, again. I probably would have if Anna hadn't been there.

After dinner, we rode in a taxi to Taksim and walked around. I bought a cool t-shirt in a trendy jeans store called Rodi. During dinner, Anna had been flirting with our waiter (after the 2nd glass of Raki he'd given her for free), and also this guy at the table next to us (I was over it, and just sat and watched bemused), and we ran into the other table guy on the main drag in Taksim several times. At one point, he bought and gave her an Evil eye bracelet (they cost 1 lira).

Eventually we took a taxi (they spell it "taksi") back to Sultanahmet, and Anna got her first glimpse of the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya at night. We made plans to meet for the light show at the Mosque the next night, and headed back to our hotels (I had the kitty-in-the-tree incident on the return).

The evening was quite pleasant. It was nice to have company and conversation with someone who didn't want anything else from me.

*I've since figured out the scheme. Some are interested in foreign women for the novelty, and the perceived high chance of sex. Some are trying to hustle you into a shop, because it's their job, and they make a commission off of anything you buy. Some are honest-to-goodness gigolos. You can usually tell these by the expensive designer Italian clothes, presumably given as gifts. (heh, I saw one who must have been new. He was still wearing dockers and a polo shirt). Please note, Hasan fell into the first category - he "romanced me" and paid for everything.

**I will explain later.

Istanbul - pt. 4

2006-06-11T15:03:00.000+01:00

On Thursday I rode the ferry to the Princess Islands. You can get off on any of them, but I chose to wait to get off at Buyukuda (which literally means "big island") because I wanted to hike up the mountain to the Monastery of St. George.

I opted to take the horse drawn carriage from the ferry to the base of the mountain, and area called Luna Park, where you can rent a donkey to ride up if you choose, or just walk. I figured the steep climb would be more than enough excercise. There are no cars on the Islands, which are like a Turkish version of the Hamptons. 6,500 people live on Buyukuda for most of the year, but during the summer that number climbs to an astonishing 40,000. There are some vehicles, but they are mostly work trucks, or belonging to the rich summer dwellers. People walk, ride bikes or rely on horses for transportation.

The hike was hard on my feet and legs, and I was wearing good sneakers. What is with crazy women who wear heels to hike up a mountain?? Just before the crest, I stepped off the cobbled path and followed a dirt path into the woods, to a clearing that allowed me to look over at the asian shore of Istanbul along the Sea of Marmara, where I smoked a joint. (Side note, I have always sucked at rolling, it takes me half an hour at least to roll a rather small and unsmokeable joint. But somehow, here in Istanbul, I've managed to roll nice fatties that smoke well in just a couple of minutes. It just clicked finally. Only about 13 years after I first learned how to roll one). It was peaceful and nice.

Back on the cobbled path, I made my way to the top. The Monastery structure is rather unimpressive, but I climbed all around the top of the mountain on the rocks that line it, and had breathtaking views of both Europe and Asia. From some places, there is almost a 360 degree view, and it was absolutely stunning. Something about my pilgrimage made me feel like I was climbing the Tor at Avalon.

I sat on the rocks for a long time, sometimes taking pictures, but mostly just meditating. This is a short blog entry even though it was quite a long day, because most of it was spent in self-reflection. I think I managed to figure a few things out, but they're not necessarily for posting here.

There is a cafe on the top of the mountain that has a limited, though delicious menu. For 13 lira, or about $10, I had a meal of kofte, fried eggplant, a really fragant melon, sparkling water and apple tea. You cannot beat the value you get for your money in terms of food in Turkey.

It started to sprinkle, so I walked back down to Luna Park, and took the horse buggy back to the ferry. The ride back was crowded and uncomfortable, but I used the time to write about Paris in my journal (I'll post it here later).

Back in Istanbul, I went back to my hotel and rested a bit (and tried to call Hasan for the first time), before heading to a well-known backpacker restaurant near by called Doy-Doy. I ordered the mixed kebab, which turned out to be a plate of food that would easily feed 2, perhaps three people. I tried a bit of everything, but except for the two small pides (turkish pizzas), I finished none of it. For 11 lira.

Istanbul - Cat Tragedy

2006-06-10T16:24:00.001+01:00

If I lived here permanently, I'm fairly certain I would end up being the Crazy Cat Lady of Istanbul.

This country doesn't have animal shelters or pounds as far as I can tell, so the streets are literally crawling with stray cats and dogs. The most unfortunate 4-legged creatures I've ever seen. They eat trash and anyting the tourists will feed them. Istanbullas seem indifferent, and sometimes worse.

The worst experience I mentioned in part 3? The saddest, most mangy, scrawny, beat up looking orange tabby walked up to a man and meowed for food. The man kicked him. Then the cat walked up to me, looked up and meowed, and I had no food to give him. It honestly broke my heart. I completely lost it, and burst into tears. I walked away, tears streaming down my face for a good ten minutes. Half an hour later, thinking about it would still bring the water works. I just shed a few right now as I typed this.

Later, when Hasan and I were having dinner, the minute the meat was set down on the table, there was a calico kitty at my feet, meowing. So I broke some meat off and set it on the ground. As I ate, the cat continued to sit there, pawing at my pants for more meat. I ended up feeding half my plate to the poor little thing. He was so cute, he'd take the food from my hand, using his paws as if they were hands of his own.

I've bought milk and opened it and left it on the street a few times (I've seen others doing this, I think whatever makes cats lactose intolerant doesn't apply when they're mangy and starving).

Last night, on my way to my hotel, I heard the most god awful howling coming from across the street. I walked over, so see that an older cat had chased a kitten up the tree, and the kitten was howling because he was afraid and didn't want to get down.

I spent half an hour coaxing that kitten out of the tree. An elderly Turkish man brought me out some lavash bread and milk to use (he also kept motioning me inside, but I didn't go). Finally I got the kitten down, only to have 2 dogs come over because of the food and chase the poor thing right back up. It took another 10 or so, of my and the man's coaxing, but we got the kitten out. He tried to take my stuff inside his shop with him, but I said no and thanked him in Turkish, and went on to my hotel.

It bothers me to see the dogs, too, but I am a cat lover through and through, and the plight of the animals (particularly the cats) here, makes me think of my own 2 kittens, having been abandoned and left to starve in a box before they were rescued and I could adopt them.

So Mejane - when you feed the babies for me next, please pick them both up and give them cuddles and kisses and tell them their mommy loves and misses them?

Istanbul - pt. 3

2006-06-10T16:20:00.000+01:00

My 2nd day in Istanbul, I decided to do the Bazaars (Grand and Egyptian Spice).

On my way to the Grand Bazaar, I was approached by two men. One selling carpets, the other just wanting to talk. By approached, I mean they followed me. Because almost EVERY man I walk by says something to me. But they seem to be like cats or hookers - they have a defined territory, so if you move beyond them, they don't follow.

But some do. You can choose not to reply to them, or tell them "no, go away", but it doesn't seem to work. I've realized that to turkish men, EVERYthing is a negotiation. "No" just means you want a lower price or they haven't said the right thing yet. To the carpet sellers, I've learned to say I've already bought one, then they usually stop following me.

When I walked into the Grand Bazaar, it was like entering a whole other world. A world much like the outside, but where the streets are more narrow and you practically have to shove the shopkeepers out of the way in order to walk past them. A world of one long chorus of "Yes please. It is my turn now. Hey Lady. Where are you from? Lady, please talk. Where are you from? Hey Lady? Oh, Bonita. Are you Russian? Bonjour! Are you from England? Hey lady? I am here. Where are you from? Hey Lady!?!" I think I had every European language thrown at me in an attempt to get my attention. But I was determined to heed none of them.

I didn't feel uncomfortable, but those aren't the kind of shopping conditions I like. I just want to be left alone to browse, and am much more likely to buy if not given the hard sell. So, instead of buying anything, I just looked straight ahead and made my way up and down all the streets inside I could manage, looking 3 or 4 stalls ahead of me at the items for sale. Any faltering would have caused the shop keeper closest to me to pounce. And like I said, you can't easily extract yourself from conversation with any of the men here, except by walking away. Dialogue equals negotiation. The practially force you to be rude to them, and while most seem ok with that, a few are complete assholes.

I wonder how many other travellers, like me, end up not buying anything there because the wealthy Armenian shopsmen (I learned from a Turkish woman today that all the stall owners in the Grand Bazaar are Armenian) are too intimidating? For a country dependant on tourism, they seem to not understand how people from the west prefer to shop.

So, I made my purchases outside the Grand Bazaar, on my way to the Spice Market. I even bargained!

I wandered into and through the spice market, only to leave thinking I must be in the wrong place. It looked more like the Grand Bazaar than I thought it should, but smaller and with a bunch of places selling Turkish delight.

So I wandered back out, and stopped for a Doner (like Gyros) and a Pepsi Light, costing all of 4 lira (well under $3), before following the signs to the Galata Bridge, where I sat in front of Yeni Cami (the New Mosque) and pulled out my map.

It took me about 5 minutes to figure out the Spice Market entrance was right behind me. When I walked in, I instantly realized I'd already been there. (I don't mind backtracking and getting lost on vacation, as long as I'm doing it on my own - it just feels like exploring the city I am in). The Spice Market doesn't sell much in the way of Spices anymore. It's like an enclosed Pier 39 with souvenir shops.

So I turned and walked across the Galata Bridge, determined to go to the Galata Tower.

But I went left when I should have gone straight, and walked down this strip of shops all dedicated to plumbing, bathrooms and kitchens, where I had my worst experience in Istanbul to date.

I didn't manage to see Galata Tower before it was time to head back to my hotel to get ready to meet Hasan. Ah, well. I'm not sure I would have appreciated it after the episode.

I went into the Basilica Cistern on the way to my hotel. It is amazing and cool and serene and dank and beautiful in there. When I'm in Amsterdam, I will post pictures. Niblet liked all the underground water.

***

My 2nd date with Hasan began outside my hotel. We walked to the restaurant across from his family carpet shop in order to see the Whirling Dervish dancer. I don't understand how they don't vomit and fall over. Some Dervishes spin for upwards of an hour and a half.

We had a light meal and tea, then headed to Taksim, the cool shopping center of Istanbul, very western looking. In fact, it could be in any of the major cities of the world. It looks like Union Square. And Melrose. And the Leidseplein.

We went first to an english pub Hasan likes, and I tried Raki. Raki is the national drink, tastes like drinking the fruitcake fruit, and knocks you on your ass in one drink, if you're not used to it. After the Raki, he took me to a wine bar. I have to say, I was disappointed. It was nice, but it was so San Francisco, and I didn't come to Istanbul to experience California. The saving grace was that I tried a Turkish wine from Anatolya, as well as a cheese from that region, and also 2 kinds of Kurdish cheese. The Anatolyan cheese reminded me of bleu cheese without having any blue in it. The Kurdish cheese rocked. One tasted like smoked dutch gouda. The other was similar to mozzarella string cheese, but more salty and not quite as moist.

Most cheese in turkey is sheep's milk cheese, with some goat and some cow. But sheep are to them what cows are to us, and they eat lamb and use sheep's leather the same way we do cows. I have yet to see any pork in this country.

As we were drinking the wine and eating the cheese, it became clear Hasan had no intention of going dancing. He kept talking about being warm with me and wanted to spend the night with me. I suggested my hotel. He thought the two of us getting a hotel together would be better.

I decided come what may, this relationship was ending *tonight*. He kept wanting more of my time, all night, the days, the next night, etc. I'm travelling alone for a reason: I've just filed divorce papers, and I have so many responsibilities at home, I just wanted time to travel and explore and not have a schedule and not have to worry about pleasing someone else and not have to be at certain places at certain times. So I asked him first to take me someplace for me to smoke apple tobacco from a Nargileh.

How would that help, you wonder?

By making me so obviously ill he would feel like dick pressuring me for more.
Short of turning green and vomiting, I would have spent hours negotiating with him.

I didn't have to actually vomit. Turning green seemed enough to do it.

He walked me back to my hotel (and wanted to kiss me - gah! MEN!). He asked if he could see me the next night, and I said I would see how I felt when I got back from my day trip to the Princess Islands. I got his number so I could call in case I got back too late for the shop to be open. I knew then I was going to let him down over the phone. Chickenshit of me? Maybe. But I don't want to negotiate a break-up with someone after 2 freakin' days, you know?

I did call his cellphone, 2 times that night, and once the following night. Each time I got a message saying he couldn't take the call and to call back later. Apparently his service doesn't inculde voice mail. I've gone by the shop a couple of times, and he hasn't been there at those times. I didn't want to be a complete asshole and totally brush him off with no word, but he's not making it easy to be even a little bit nice.

It's a shame - because he is cute, and I had fun the first night. But I want to be footloose and unfettered, not practically married to the first Turk who didn't try to sell me something.

***

This entry sounds like I think more negatively of Istanbul than I do. I really love it here, it's just difficult to adapt to the culture of tourism and shopkeepers and the need for every man to try and speak to me. Western movies make all women seem like sluts compared to muslim women, and so the men are all very hopefull they are going to get some, just like James Bond.

Istanbul - pt. 2

2006-06-09T16:11:00.000+01:00

I had a siesta, and Hasan came to meet me for dinner at 10:00. He told me I was looking very gorgeous. We walked to a restarant along the waterfront I'd walked by earlier. It was traditional Turkish, and he told me to pick whatever I wanted, and he would follow me. I ordered Kofte (meatballs), tomato salad, shrimp, fried aubergine and Efes, the national bira (beer). The beer was good, and I as a rule do not like beer. Still, when in Istanbul ...

The shrimp were the cocktail size which just seemed odd somehow. The tomato salad had so much diced onion even Hasan wouldn't eat it. The Kofte and aubergine rocked, though. More like mini hamburger patties than meatballs, Kofte are very peppery and green oniony and some places add other seasonings. The fried aubergine were sliced about 1/4 of an inch thick, sliced in discs and fried in a bit of oil, served topped with turkish yogurt from Harem (which is so ubiquitous here it comes in some form with every meal and they even drink a thinned out version). I think this may be my favorite dish here so far. I've tried it at a few places and love it.

2 biras later we left the restaurant filled with delicious food. Hasan put his arm around me and we headed toward the street in Sultanahmet that has a number of bars and restaurants. Half way up the hill, he stopped and pulled me into a kiss. We continued onward and opted for a roof top terrace where we ordered red wine.

During dinner, Hasan had explained that he'd seen me in Sultanahmet Square from 70 or 80 meters away. When I walked by, he called out to me two times, but I kept going. At that point, he turned to his cousin and asked him "Oh my God. She is my dream. What do I do?"

"Follow her."

So he did. On his fourth attempt, I turned around and basically told him off. He kept telling me how happy he was I finally stopped.

Now, on the terrace, he put his arm around me and we sat that way 2 glasses of wine a piece (I'd regret that in the morning. 2 biras and 2 glasses of red wine are not a good combination - hello, raging headache!)

Hasan told me he felt we were very "warm with each other". I'm still not sure exactly what this means, because I think there is something lost in the translation he is making from Turkish to English. I gather it has something to do with the heart, because he always puts his hand there when he says it. Whatever it means, I think we were.

Then he had to go and ruin it by whispering "I never want to lose you" into my ear, and told me I was his angel.

At that point I decided I wouldn't be sleeping with him. I mean, what the fuck? After like, 3 hours? Yeah, anyone who knows me well well knows that kind of smitten doesn't win me over. A person needs to be detached and somewhat aloof seeming in order to catch my attention. I get to be the very smitten one or it doesn't work. I like a challenge.

Morever over, he doesn't want to lose me, based on what? That I'm blonde and cute? GAK.

He wanted to spend the night with me, but I told him I needed to sleep, as I had slept maybe 7 of the last 48 hours. What I didn't say was that the last thing I wanted under the circumstances was to have to fight off a horny guy all night long (he promised we didn't have to have the sex, but I know how that play goes). I tend to have trouble sharing a bed (except with kitties of the furry and unfurry variety) let alone a bed with a man rubbing his hard cock against my back all night hoping I'll give in and roll over.

I agreed to meet him the next night, as he promised to take me dancing. I figured I would just opt out of "the sex" after dancing. He walked me back to my hotel, and in front, where we kissed again, he started begging and pleading with me to change my mind.

So thoroughly not the way to win me over. If I say no, there are two proper responses: respect it and shut up about it, or throw me against the wall and have your way with me. Begging is annoying and pathetic and those are not qualities I find attractive. While we were kissing goodnight, he put my hand on his cock for me to rub through his pants. Good, heavens, was it small. If I hadn't already decided not to sleep with him, I would have then. Why waste vacation sex on someone with such disappointing equipment?

Mustafa's approach had been better. The problem there was I was not attracted to him, so it similarly turned into a begging/pleading thing, which is part of why I don't think the encounter was as dangerous and dramatic as I may have made it sound. Rather than begging and pleading, he was more the kind of guy that thinks if he can just keep you there long enough and say and do the right things, he'll unlock the magical key to your pussy. Not unlike teenage boys and younger men without much experience.

Since we're on the subject, I'll clarify a bit. When I said he wouldn't let me leave, I didn't mean I was physically restrained in any way, nor was I locked in the room. Also, his nephews, workers, and the girl who serves him kept coming in and out, so there was never more than 5 minutes where we were truly alone. He was just very gropey in those 5 minute intervals. I could have, at any time, just left, or, if I needed to, kicked or punched him in the nuts before bolting for the door.

But it was my first few hours in a new culture and I wanted to extract myself from the situation without violence or a scene. It is impossible to get to just about anywhere in Istanbul without walking past the place his nephews hand out to schill people into the shop.

I was trying to find the polite and appropriate way to leave, but all of my "I just got here and I want to explore and see sights, not spend my time here, I don't think I want a carpet" protests were met with offers of more tea, cookies, water, etc, and more discussion of rug making and financing one for me. I was hyper aware of the potential threat, and my surroundings, the entire time and would have gotten myseld out of there if I felt like I needed to, if it seemed like serious danger. I may be little and sometimes too trusting, but I am far from helpless!

So I went to bed my first night in Istanbul alone, thank god, and slept quite soundly. I'd need more rest for my big day at the Bazaars the next day, and 2nd date with Hasan the next night.

Istanbul - part 1

2006-06-07T14:37:00.000+01:00

(as many of the people reading this have been there, I'm going to fill in Paris when I get back to Amsterdam, because once again, there is not wireless in my hotel. Apparently to them, "wireless internet" means you leave the hotel and walk 200 meters to "Backpacker's Travel" with whom they have a partnership and use of free DSL. *sigh*)

I arrived in Istanbul at 3 in the morning, Istanbul time. As you can imagine, there wasn't much to see at that time, but I flew into the airport on the asian side, so my hotel shuttle ride took me through all 3 parts of Istanbul: the Asian side, the middle, or "new" istanbul, and to Old Istanbul, to Sultanahmet where my hotel is located. 38 euros/night buys you a nice 3-star hotel with hardwood floor, pretty tapestries, and a really nice bathroom, a far cry from paris where 68 euros a night buys you a 2-star habitable flop. I smoked a joint, showered, and went to sleep. Only to be woken up at the ungodly time of somewhere between 5 am and 6 am, by Islamic morning prayer. I thought it was just someone close by chanting his prayer, but no. The minarets of the mosques blare the prayers. If you don't know about this, you are very soon reminded you are in a heavily Muslim country.

I got back to sleep and managed to sleep past the free breakfast (8 - 10:30) at my hotel. So I wandered out, thinking I'd eat near Aya Sofia when I got there. I should have gone on the roof terrace before leaving, in spite of missing breakfast, because I would have seen how close the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia are to my hotel. Instead, I went the wrong way, walked along the Bosphorus, and finally saw a sign that took my up a winding, steep street to the Mosques.

I had no turkish lira, so I needed to go to the ATM. Of the 3 directly across from Aya Sofia, only one was working, and it refused to work for either of my cards. A man offered to show me where Bank Street is, where I could find some European banks and be more likely to successfully withdraw cash. I'd heard about the "guide" phenomenon, but this didn't strike me as something like that. As we walked to Bank Street, he asked me to come inside his family's shop for a cup of tea. It sounded nice and so I accepted.

His family sells carpets, kilims, ceramics and made-to-order jewelery. As I sat there, he told me there were some Americans in the store, who had bought a carpet from his undcle 30 years ago, and were here visiting again. So he asked me to come meet them.

And here's where I should have left. I was introduced to the friends and the uncle, and the uncle started in with the hard sell on carpets. Still, it was kind of interesting seeing the whole process, so I'm glad I did have the experience. He started commanding his nephews to roll out carpets for me to view. Maybe 50 or more. Then I pointed out a few I liked as the wrapped the rest up. I was thinking they'd be maybe 200 or 300 for the small ones - but when I had the ones I liked chosen, he started quoting me between 800 and 1300 lira ($600 - $1100). Too rich for my blood, so at that point I said I didn't think I wanted to spend that kind of money so early in my trip. I was trying to be polite and get the hell out of there.

Instead, I ended upstairs in Mustafa's (the uncle) office, given turkish coffee served by his neice, watching her put a cigarette in his mouth and light it for him, then leave us so he could give me a lesson in carpet and kilim making, and trying all sorts of ways to convince me to "invest" my money in a carpet. He found out it was my birthday just recently, and gave me a present of a hand painted ceramic bowl.

I could not get out of there without being rude, and they were being really nice to me.

Until Mustafa decided he thought I was hot and began climbing all over me.

One minute, I'm sitting on the sofa having carpets explained to me. The next minute his tongue is down my throat.

I tolerated his gropings for a bit. I wasn't afraid of it getting to the point of me being raped in that office, not with his family in the building and the Tourist Police 3 doors down. And besides, when he tried to put his hand down my pants and direct my hand to stroke his rock-hard cock, I pulled away, and he backed off. I was mostly in control of the situation.

Except for the not being able to get out of there part.

Eventually, he did let me out, and had his nephew take me on to bank street. Then he walked me to Aya Sofia, and I thought that would be the end of it.

Aya Sofia was amazing. But it's falling apart, and they are slow to renovate it. I particularly liked the two seraphim painted on the ceiling above the entry on either side of the largest room.

But that wasn't the end of my carpet "buying" experience, the nephew waited for me with his cousins by the exit, and at the end, I said I was just going to go to the Basilica Cisterne, and he said, "come have tea". Crap. I asked where, he said "just on the corner", I thought he meant the little cafe on the corner. And soon I was in Mustafa's office again.

This time, I did manage to get out without the tongue down my throat and gropings, but I had to promise to come back the next day (I didn't go).

GAH!

I wasted like 4 hours on that. And I still hadn't had breakfast.

Right.

Food.

As I walked away, many other men tried talking to me. I just kept going. Then this one called after me. I didn't stop. He called again. I kept going. Then he was following me, and finally I stopped and turned to him and told him I really just wanted to be left alone, as I had just been hustled into a shop and given the hard sell (and molested, which I left out). He promised me he was not trying to hustle me. He introduced himself as Hasan, and asked me if I had seen the Blue Mosque yet. Too worn down from the earlier encounter, I didn't have it in me to be a bitch and just walk away. I told him I had not, and after showing me the Theodosian Obelisk, he took me into the Mosque.

After, he brought me into his family's carpet store, and he was true to his word, he did not try to sell me anything. I sat on the terrace with him and had apple tea. He was being really sweet. Eventually, I asked him to show me the leather store, too. I *did* want a leather coat from Istanbul. So we went, and within maybe 45 minutes, I had a brand new tailored to me leather coat that would have cost me $600 or $700 at home, and not been tailored to fit me. I paid $200.

Hasan walked me back to my hotel, and we made arrangements to have dinner later that night.

See - this one wasn't trying to sell me something. He wanted to take me out.

More on that later.

I went up the Eiffel Tower!

2006-06-04T16:56:00.000+01:00

Later I saw the Moulin Rouge and went to Sacre Couer

All good things must come to an end

2006-06-04T10:25:00.000+01:00

it is my last day in Paris. It is my 30th birthday. The last few days I've seen more art, but also experienced more of Paris - the kinds of things most people don't get to do on vacation. I don't have time to go into it all just now - I'm going shopping today ... Happy Birthday to me! -

but the highlights include:

-dinner with an old libertine ex-pat, a couple who lives 1/2 the year in Paris and the other in Portland (he's in the Peace Corp) and a former Hustler editor/journalist/current talent agency owner Texan who now lives in Shreveport, LA

-a request from the texan to come back to my hotel for a "show" he'd direct

-overcoming the height fear and going to the top of the Eiffel Tower

-a tour of St. Germain & Monmartre with a gay cabaret performer, dinner at his home with some friends and drinks in 2 Parisian lesbian bars

I will supplement and add pictures soon.

And now -- shopping!!!

Art

2006-06-01T22:50:00.000+01:00

I've thus far made it to the Rodin Gardens, the Picasso museum, and, of course ... La Louvre. I think, over all, Picasso was my favorite. I've only had limited access to his work before now, but I spent almost as much time viewing his collection as I did in the entire Louvre today.

I spent a good ten minutes sitting in front of this one, completely entranced (it's called Large Nude in a Red Chair).

I also fell in love with Olga (titled Olga looking pensive):

After Rodin, and my Louvre tour, I've realized I really like sculpture. I'm not sure what it is exactly. I don't like the busts ... they seem pompous somehow ... you know, the ones that are OF famous historical people, like Napolean or other monarchs or aristocracy. But the sculptures depicting saints, or gods and goddesses, or mythological people, or real people who seem mythological (like Hercules) - I love.

There is something about how smooth and accurate to the human form they are. The shape of flesh, but not flesh. It suggests to me the artist's love of the human form, so much that they mold or chisel it in 3 dimensions with their hands. It speaks to a love of man that I just don't get when looking at Renaissance paintings, for example.

Maybe it is the 3 dimensional aspect I like, and the accuracy of form, and the scale . It just gets me.

I really, really want to go to Florence someday to see David in person. A friend of mine showed me some pictures she took of David when she visited a few years ago, and it was SO much more real for me than what I'd seen in books or on film until then. Just the pictures made me cry.

I did get weepy looking this piece at the Louvre. I think it may be my favorite piece I’ve seen in Paris so far, of painting, sculpture or other objets des artes.

It’s called Psyche ranimee par le baiser de l'amour which I think translated is “Psyche revived by Cupid’s Kiss” L’amour would suggest “Love’s Kiss” but the French call Cupid “L’amour”.

Ah, Paris!

2006-05-30T20:29:00.000+01:00

The first thing I did in Paris was smoke a bowl.

Because it's SO fucking easy to take pot from Amsterdam to Paris on the train.

Security check points?

BWHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Non.

Anyway, after that, and a shower, I walked from my hotel to the Modern Art Museum called the Centre Pompidou. I didn't go in ... just walked around because, HELLO, I'm in Paris and I just want to walk around and soak up PARIS.

Because it's PARIS!

The weather so far is kind of blah. It reminds me of San Francisco, but colder. Inclimate weather. Suddenly, it starts to pour. Then you look up, and can see that one neighborhood over, it's sunny.

Anyway, I just wandered. And took some pictures. And went back to my hotel for a nap. Then headed out for dinner. Intimidated, I chose the least intimidating place, which turned out, I would learn, to be the Parisien equivalent of Marie Callendar's, called Bistro Romain.

When my server spoke to me in French, I must have seemed like Gump. Or at least like a deer caught in the headlights.

Uh ....

The next morning, a brassierie near my hotel. Similar experience with the waitress, but I tried to be as polite as possible, so she was a little nicer to me. I know un petit peu du francais. But when the French speak to me, they might as well be speaking Swahili. And I don't want to mangle their beautiful language, so I feel self conscious. I know the stereotypical parisien hatred of "les americans", and I don't want to seem like some stupid midwestern tourist who thinks speaking english LOUDER means my server will understand me.

From there, which is basically La Republique, I walked to La Bastille. I attempted to buy the Carte Musee for entrance to all of the museums at the FNAC (french version of Virgin music stores) ticket counter, but when I asked the ticket agent if she spoke english (in my mangled french), she just replied, "Pas de tout!"

Which roughly translated means "Fuck you, stupid, lazy american tourist! I speak english, but this is france, so parlez francais, mentenon!"

Crap! that meant I had to mangle it even more.

"Je voudrais achete un carte musees"

"Non!!"

Her companion told me to try the Metro. The Metro yielded the same results.

Fuck you! Time Out - Paris.

Ok, so, then I decided to try one of the Museums.

So I walked to Notre Dame, but the line there was huge. Then I realized the line is only for the people wanting to go to the towers .... the main chappel is free, so I went in. It was built near the same time as Westminster Abbey, but didn't affect me nearly as much. Weird, given Westminster is anglican and I was raised Catholic. Anyway, the most moving part for me was the chapel of St. Jeanne d'Arc.

On the way out, I donated 2 euros to the nun, for my grandmother, who is devoutly catholic and who will appreciate my gesture.

Then on to the Musee d'Orsay, still determined to buy Le Carte. 45 euros buys you 4 days access to all the museums you can manage. Quite a deal. The BEST part is, it means you don't have to wait in the lines to get in. But you DO have to wait in line to buy it, and the line for Orsay was HUGE.

I almost gave up, but instead walked to Les Jardins Rodin, where you can walk amongst a garden of roses and view Rodin's sculptures.

JACKPOT!

I bought the carte, and went into the museum, spending hours wandering around and snapping pictures to share. The Thinker is humbling. One of those well-known pieces of art that, when you see it, takes your breath away. Niblet liked it, too.

City of Perpetual Indulgence

2006-05-29T03:27:00.000+01:00

Amsterdam, Saturday

Food.

I've eaten way too much of it since my departure, and not in healthy ways. I have to be careful or I'll gain back what I've recently lost. But healthy food isn't exactly the fortè of the Dutch. And I am determined to eat well this trip; last night a quintessential Dutch Agrentinian steakhouse for vegetable soup, salad & grilled steak. And way too much wine. Somewhere in the metric to english conversion I decided 1/2 L was the same as 1/2 a bottle of wine, which I can handle. But 3 coffeshops, 3 kinds of pot and 3/4 of a bottle of wine (because a bottle is only 750 ml) later, after little sleep in 36 hours - I was falling asleep at the table.

Tonight, I'm hand-writing this into a journal from a spanish tapas place in the Red Light District, called Manolo. I'm drinking a rosado and eating the delicious garlic bread my waiter just brought me: it's covered with a light, garlicky tomato sauce and a sprinkling of mozzarella cheese. I have calamari a la romana (breaded & fried) coming, a spanish version of caprese (mozzarella, tomato & herb - with onion slices), and paella a la valencia (with chicken & fish).

Ah, my starters are here.

* * *

I had never had paella before. It was really fucking good! Much like risotto, although some of the ingredients are cooked separately and added last; before it is finished in the oven. I ordered way more than I could eat, but Amsterdam is the city of perpetual indulgence, and at least for this first weekend of my trip, I am going to indulge. Pot. Food. Booze. Sex, if I can manage.

I suppose the fact that I've been stoned and acting allergic to maps will help with the caloric indulgence - I keep getting lost and spending an hour backtracking to the point I went astray. Since the train from Schipol to Central station, with the exception of the canal cruise I took Niblet on insteqd of waiting 3 hour in line for the Van Gogh museum, my only transportation has been my two feet. And seals get heavy.

* * *

My waiter, Rafa (Rafaél) just brought me an apertif from his home town of Barcelona. I have NO idea what it is, but it tastes like a combination of hazelnut and vanilla; I'm guessing some kind of brandy derivative.

He also gave me his email address and telephone number.

Pity for that wedding ring on his finger.

* * *

My name is Serre, and I like frites with frites sauce (french fries with mayo)

* * *

Sunday

Took Niblet for his first dutch pancake: with ham, cheese & pineapple. Dutch pancakes are more like crepes than what we have in the US; thin and very light, lending themselves to sweet or savory toppings. Set to the soundtrqcks of Grease & Dirty Dancing.

Then to Abraxas for a hash choco milkshake. MMMMMM.

Just before dinner, I headed to the Torture Museum. It was very disappointing, only a cursory look at its subject; with only some information pertaining to the witch hunt and the Inquisition. The first thing you see are pillories and stalks. Reminded me a bit of Power Exchange. Then you wander up and down 3 levels made to look like a dungeon.

Torture devices I haven't heard of that I must research:

The Pear
The Scavenger's Daughter

Should I have been as turned on as I was by the picture of a woman with a collar around her neck, attached by a chain to a post, with her ankles shackled to said post and hands tied behind her back?

Right ... indulgence.

* * *

Finished the night with a tour through the seedier parts of the Red Light District (I needed to make a purchase, and since the RLD was so close to my hotel ... not human flesh, because RLD whores aren't exactly my aesthetic)

I was offered money by a group of men. One of the door men of one of the whore houses tried to get me to come work for him. The one S&M club I saw, the "mistress" in the window wasn't at all attractive. She couldn't hold a candle to BossLadyMan.

I'm a gleamy Seal!

2006-05-28T12:58:00.000+01:00

Serre took me to the Bulldog in the Leidseplein. First we visited the Watchmeester. Then we got a cappuccino. The Wachtmeester came over and asked Serre if she was an artist, because she was taking so many pictures of me. Then she told Serre to put a joint in my mouth. I hope that doesn't mean what I *think* it means. I like girl seals.

But then the Wachtmeester put the pipe in my mouth (that's her hand in the picture), and I'm pretty sure she meant the other kind of joint.

Serre and I are going to go eat pancakes now, then go to Coffeeshop Abraxas for some kind of hash milkshake

Tomorrow we go to Paris!

it's a good thing Niblet is Fierce!

2006-05-28T05:12:00.000+01:00

Friday - My arrival

When you've been someplace before, you don't have that first breathtaking moment of discovery when you return. The magic of the unknown is replaced by the comfort of familiarity. It's not a bad thing or a good thing, it just is.

That's the way I feel about Amsterdam now. It doesn't feel "foreign" to me, although the people sound that way. There is a group speaking German to my left. A couple speaking French are sitting in what used to be a jail cell. Oh, right. This coffeeshop used to be a Politie station. The cell wall is now lined with pictures of a complex hash making process. I just paid the US equivalent of $15 for half an 1/8th, and I'm sitting here with my seal, a cappuccino and pipe full of AK47.

I do love this city.

It's like San Francisco ... stoned.

***

I can't get over how different it is for me this time. I understand why - 50 lbs. is a *lot*. In the 3 years since my Amsterdam New Year's Eve, I've lost close to 50 lbs, more than 25% of my former body weight. I guess I just didn't expect it would make this much of a difference in my treatment here. But the responses I'm getting from men are a lot more than I expected, and I now completely understand why everyone kept telling me to avoid eye contact with European men.

I don't remember catching the eye of the guy who asked me to escort him to the next canal foot bridge under my umbrella, but it was clear when we reached his "destination" and he asked what I was doing just then, that he'd had more than a few dry steps in mind. Right. I was just trying to get to Leidseplein from Dam Square by memory (I had a map, but I wanted to try without it ... I got lost).

From discussions with other women who've traveled alone, I knew that if I didn't escape this situation now, I wasn't getting out of it any time soon. This is the beginning of a seduction that begins with him asking you for help and ends, presumably, with you in his bed. Not that he was unattractive, not at all. He reminded me of this French-German boy I had as a lover my first year of college who would sing the French anthem to me in bed. I just wasn't in the mood to be seduced.

So I made up a story about having to meet my friends at the Leidseplein, and we went on our separate ways.

Later, after Niblet's introduction to the Bulldog, I was on my way back to Dam Square (with an unintended detour through Rembrandtplein) and started wondering how he'd so easily marked me as a foreign tourist. I hadn't made eye contact with him, so it wasn't that. Nothing else about me stands out: I'm blonde & fair like the Dutch. I know from some cursory shopping that my personal style corresponds with current fashion here, from cut, fabric, colors, even accessories like belts, bracelets and shoes, I am apparently Euro fabulous.

As I opened my umbrella because it had started to rain again, I realized. "It's the umbrella"

I checked the weather report before I left and knew there was a chance of showers, but I decided if I left my umbrella at home, the weather would have to cooperate and not rain on my vacation. I've seen Amsterdam in the rain, dammit! That's why I'm here in May.

But it's raining, so I bought an umbrella, the first one I saw. It's mostly bright red, but that isn't the problem. There are three white panels with huge black "X X X" lettering, as well as "AMSTERDAM" slightly smaller. X X X by the way, doesn't mean hardcore porn, though I can see how you might think that. It's the national symbol for windmills. You may know they have a lot of those here.

So, basically, big red umbrella with "X X X AMSTERDAM" translates to a big scarlet "T" branded on my forehead. I tossed that one and bought something in basic black. I don't mind being taken for an American, especially because I can say "San Francisco" which apparently makes me a slightly better class of American tourist than someone from just about any other U.S. city. But discretion isn't a bad thing, particularly when the international view of American women is frequently that we are easy targets for men with accents and a little bit of charm.

Dutch isn't a sexy language, and they don't sound sexy when they speak it. It's highly Germanic, very guttural sounding, and about as unsexy a language as you can imagine. Their accents are cute in English, though. Not as hard as German. And holy crap! are Dutch men hot. Some of them are very Aryan looking, which tends to get my attention. The tall, lean, broad shouldered, blonde hair, blue-eyed thing. They have these really dark lips, too, and many have that permanent rosy-cheeked thing going on. Much like my ex, who, though he grew up in England and Scotland, exhibits far more of his Dutch heritage. I find all sorts of men attractive, but throw a hot, blonde, Dutch-looking guy in my path and I guarantee I'm going to drool.

***

After dinner and a nap, I headed toward the Red Light District for the second time since arrival. My first stop after leaving my hotel much earlier in the afternoon having been Baba, first the souvenir shop for a pipe, since I suck at rolling joints and the pre-rolled ones here are full of tobacco, which makes me want to hurl if I smoke it. Then to their coffeeshop for my first "legal" bag of pot. An 8 euro gram of Jack Herrer.

Approaching midnight, I headed in to coffeeshop Route 66 for a mango nectar Looza, hoping to take advantage of their internet access.

Route 66 has 4 computers attached to the web. 2 were in use by 3 guys who were all together, the other 2 turned out to be broken. So I bought some more pot, packed a bowl, and sat and waited my turn. They were speaking Dutch to each other. The closest one to me looked like he was 18 or 19, the Aryan Dutch look I described earlier, very fresh faced and cute. He spoke to me in Dutch, but when I replied in English, the older guy in the middle spoke back to me in accented English, but I couldn't tell where he was from. The third guy didn't speak much, but was also rather Dutch looking.

They started showing me attractions they had built, explaining the length of time it took to build and break them down, and how many men each job required. They are carnies. The attractions they showed me were roller coasters, hydro-powered rides, haunted houses with mechanical puppets. The 18 year-old (I was right, he told me his age at one point) had left his family and started working at traveling carnivals when he was 13. The other guy turned out to be Turkish, and we established he'd be home in Bodrum just after my arrival in Istanbul, for his daughter's 2nd birthday. I'm not clear on his age, but I'm guessing mid to late 30s, and he'd been working at carnivals for 20 years.

They told me it's something that gets in your blood. Once you do it, you just have to. It's a life of travel, they spend 9 months a year on the road. Sometimes, they build, run, and break down an entire carnival in a single day. They're like the modern equivalent of gypsies.

View From the Terrace

2006-05-22T03:52:00.000+01:00

of our hotel in Istanbul

yes, that is the Blue Mosque just off in the distance...

I'm ready to go!!

2006-05-18T07:32:00.000+01:00

I know I said Memorial Day ...

2006-05-17T17:24:00.000+01:00

But, 8 days from departure, the reality is starting to set in -- I'm really, really doing this! Time spent on public transportation consists of me drooling over travel guides. Today, I'm planning museums.

Amsterdam
I've been to the Rijksmuseum and Anne Frank's Haus, the latter of which was one of the most somber and humbling experiences of my life. I cried, several times throughout the tour, most notably over a picture of the statue of Anne that stands on the street outside defaced by a Swastika. This time, I'm visiting the Van Gogh for the Caravaggio and Rembrandt exhibits currently on display, Tropenmuseum (anthropological museum), and the Torture Museum, which I should have visited last time, but didn't. I'd really like to visit Amsterdam's modern art museum, the Stedelijk, but the permanent site is closed for renovation through 2008, and only a small portion of the collection is on display on two floors of a building near Central Station. The modern art will have to wait for Paris, and maybe Istanbul.

Paris
Paris isn't a question of which museums I want to see, but which museums will I have time to see. I'm thinking a museum a day. Possibly two, and luckily for me, many of them have at least one night per week when they stay open until 9:00 or 10:00 pm.

The Louvre - probably least excited about this one, but it's The Louvre. You just sort of have to.
The Centre Pompidou (Musee national d'Art Moderne) - SOOOO bummed I'm going to miss the Hans Bellmer exhibit by a week! Still, the permanent collection is amazing and I'll get to see a Godard exhibit and an interesting one called Tete a Tete.
Musee d'Orsay
Musee National Rodin (particularly the gardens)
Musee National Picasso
Musee Marmottan
The Maison Europeenne de la Photographie
Day trip to Versailles

Istanbul
Topkapi Palace
Basilica Cistern
Haghia Sophia
Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art
Calligraphy Museum
Modern Art Museum
Mosiac Musuem

Think I'll manage to see them all?

This Blog Will Debut Memorial Day Weekend

2006-04-26T08:20:00.000+01:00

Stay Tuned!!