Internationally Domestic

Happy Palm Sunday!  The Turks and I celebrated by finally observing daylight savings time and I added exclamation by building a pie from the lowest common denominator of "scratch" because there are no pre-made pies in Turkey.  There are no pre-made pie crusts or pie fillings, either.  I'm also now noticing that there are no pies. 

There is no food processor, rolling pin, oven, or measuring cups/spoons in my kitchen,all helpful pie builders.  There is no vanilla extract, brown sugar, cream, cream cheese, chocolate chips, baking chocolate squares, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda,  or Kraft's Jet-Puffed Marshmallow Creme in Turkey, so potential pie was and is all I had and have going.

Two knives, an empty wine bottle and an EasyBake-sized toaster oven, moonlighted as food processor, rolling pin and oven. Measurements--standard, metric, or otherwise--were thrown out the window with the first four crust attempts.

  

  

 

Palm Sunday is one of the twelve Great Feasts of the Orthodox Church, and as the only Lutheran for miles, I'm taking temporary refuge in the celebratory feasting observances of my distantly related religious brethren.  Lest I stray from my roots, I won't be observing the fastings or confessions of the Orthodox Great Lent with the same intensity.

Post Script Double Take

The bus ride to (and from) Cappadocia was 12hours long and included a "bus attendant." This is his picture.

This is a drawing by Picasso.

I know, crazy, right?

Bust a Capp in your docia

Having not had quite enough group travel after my visa trip to Bulgaria, I signed up for an exchange student trip to Cappadocia, famous for its Fairy Chimney stone formations and carved dwelling places, located in central Turkey.

I figured that group travel would be more palatable as an obvious tourist, paying upfront in exchange for a drop-off at the best attractions for exactly as long as I need to appreciate it, high-end gift shops selling magnet and the t-shirts that the locals wear, and all-you-can-eat buffets.

However, the Exchange Commission seemed to have given the hired bus driver an itinerary, a busload of 60 students, a paycheck, but no (English-speaking) guide. We were dropped off at a roadside strand of souvenir shops selling evil eye keychains and pashmina scarves across from a random but amazing rock formation or cave series, and we'd climb until the bus started honking at which point we'd climb down and allow ourselves to be shuttled to the next stop.

Unsatisfied with the time limits on my rock scampering, I decided to forgo the Outdoor Museum (series of churches carved into the rock and their frescoes) and instead climbed the trails and rocks surrounding the museum's land with another American. We ended up looking down on the museum's paths from about 200m up and could see across the canyons to Uçhisar Castle, local big deal.

Seeing a woman meditating 50m below us, we each found a ledge where we also sat cross-legged to meditate. Unable to concentrate on my inner peace, I started people-watching and realized that three instances of [ most anything ] constitutes a literary pattern and that three instances of meditators on rock cliffs overlooking a historically significant site full of camera-happy busloads constitutes a photo op.

I expect to be much scrapbooked in the coming weeks.

Bazaar Love

Early this fall I received a voice mail from my mom warning that a friend "just got back from a cruise that stopped in Istanbul and she said the men were very aggressive, so watch out!"

Thanks, Mom, you were right-- the men here love me! Especially after two years in the Midwest with polite but passive boys it is a novel experience to encounter a culture where men are vocal, passionate, and unafraid of expressing their unrequited interest-at-first-sight.

That said, some are blatant about their intentions, yelling as I walk by, "Welcome! How may I get your money?"

Some try to ease my obvious stress at being a tourist with assurances of safety and protection, offering "Turkish Delight! It is not poisoned, see? Here, try!"

Others go for the flattery route and tell me how nice and beautiful I am. The owner of a honey shop lured me in with free sample spoonfuls telling me "It is sweet, just like you! Sweets for my sweet! Come, have some more!"

Clever ones feign interest in my background and reasons for travel so that I'm holding hot tea in the back of the shop and can't run away when they start making recommendations, like meat spice at a "special discount" because I am a new friend.

The most brilliant of them all said, "You look Turkish, where are you from?" He played right to my heart, somehow sensing my desire to be local, unhassled, and capable of bargaining. I was so flattered that I bought candied ginger at the displayed price and didn't even catch the flawed logic of his statement and question until after I had paid.

By the end of the day I had 20grams of candied ginger, 100grams of garam masala, 1kilo of dry chickpeas, and not 1 but 2 kilos of dried apricots. I have absolutely no recollection of buying the first kilo of apriocts, I just found it when putting the second into my bag, so I must have been blinded by the love.

Bloc Parties, Crashed

Reminiscent of family vacations where my parents would inquire as to my wishes, make suggestions, and list all possible options only to receive no fully articulated response, I took a trip to Sofia, Bulgaria, this weekend. The difference between this trip and those of my childhood is that in this 2010 version I play the part of my parents while my previous role is filled by my nine traveling companions, Americans plus a token German, few of whom have a communicable opinion but instead a travel-induced attitude to rival that of 12yo me.

Despite the realization of this semi-planned visa trip as three days of the blind leading the blind and slow-walking (not quite lame) around a city about which I knew nothing, it turned out to be fortuitously timed.

We were in town for the annual commemoration of the death of Bulgarian hero and revolutionary Vasil Levski. After lurking in the orthodox church narthex and snapping paparazzi shots of a priest gang and unidentified Suits, whose importance warranted a posse of Bulgarian Secret Service equivalents, we left for dinner. Following a Bulgarian pub meal we were intercepted by further remembrance festivities and a kneeling recitation of the national anthem that almost made us late for our performance at the puppet theater (over 200 puppets!).

Our second timely highlight resulted from an attempted visit to the Bulgarian ethnographic/art museum (couldn't tell which it was) that was made better when we failed to gain admittance past the foyer. The museum was closed for a (Bulgarian, I assume) magazine event, and I was left eating croissants, curious almond-flavored cookies, and helping myself to hearty glasses of OJ amongst schmoozing/smoking gallery/magazine patrons in the lobby while my travel companions toured the gift shop in search of souvenir shot glasses.

The Eastern Bloc state solidified it's reputation as a happening place in our international student minds after Wolf, our German, naturlich, persuaded us to taxi to the student part of town for Bulgarian clubbing, his contribution to group planning. Admittedly, we were not a huge hit and our frequent and adamant requests for Beyonce were repeatedly denied, but we loved the experience of Bulgaria as much as Bulgarian college boys love using hair product.