Every few centuries, throughout the course of human history, a man is born who shakes the foundations of the world. For better or for worse, these men leave a unique mark on mankind and forever alter the course of our collective fates. Names like Moses, Alexander the Great, Charlemagne, Martin Luther, George Washington, Thomas Edison, Winston Churchill, Ghandi, Nelson Mandela can be heard resounding through the hallowed halls of our past.
In the 1880’s such a man fearlessly lunged into the annals of history. The man was Charles Alderton, and on a clear day in 1885, from his basement in Waco, Texas, Mr. Alderton changed the world…
Charles Alderton was a Brooklyn-born pharmacist who moved to Waco to seek his fortune in the cutthroat arena of medicinal goods and down home pharmaceuticals. Not long after his foray into vittles and cure-alls, did he begin to face adversity. After a gang of rival pharmacists ransacked his drug store, (not literally, but this story isn’t really that interesting so I decided to throw in a little pizzazz and make some things up) Alderton decided it was time to get out of the dangerous world of legal drug selling. On a stormy night in Waco, Texas, Alderton found himself at his wit’s end, posititioned precariously on the edge of the walking bridge across the Brazos River, with an empty licorice jar, a half drunken bottle of vanilla extract, and some other old-fashioned drugstore wares strewn about his feet. These were all evidence of Alderton’s futile attempts to numb the pain, a pain that can only be known by pharmacists who work in cozy little drugstores that also have delicious ice cream and soda fountains in them, and sometimes sell precious little antiques on the side. Anyways! Alderton was about to fling himself into the swollen mouth of the Brazos and let the muddy water wash his cares away when all of a sudden a light shone so brightly on Alderton, it illuminated all of his depravity for the world to see. In that blinding light a voice called out to him through the storm.
It said: “Hey Chuck, it would be really cool if you could make some sort of carbonated beverage that would rival Coke and Pepsi, but mostly just in the South. Make it have 23 flavors (but don’t tell anybody what those flavors are) it will taste really good and make lots of people very happy (and possibly diabetic). Oh yeah, you will have some adversity in the form of Mr. Pibb and Dr. Thunder, but don’t worry about it too much. See ya later!”*
The next day, Alderton concocted a formula that became known as Dr. Pepper (it was originally called ‘a Waco’. Nobody knows why it was called ‘a Waco.’) With that drink, he forever changed Waco, then Texas, and the entire world…
Except apparently for Turkey…
I have been in this place for over a month. I have thoroughly enjoyed my time here. The people are wonderful, the food is great, the architecture is astounding, however, Dr. Pepper (or the Lord’s Nectar as I call it) has yet to grace this place with its presence. Sometimes I will lay awake at night and dream that I am swimming in a Scrooge McDuck vault filled with liquid gold, i.e. Dr. Pepper. My old home was a veritable Dr. Pepper kingdom in Waco, Texas, what with its shrine to the good Dr. and the original Dublin Dr. Pepper on tap in the restaurants there. I even remember the good folks at Baylor giving away… giving away!... Dr. Pepper floats on campus. I moved from that to a barren wasteland with not a drop of the caramel colored liquid goodness in sight. Or so I thought…
Today I went to play basketball with a friend. Afterwards, he invited me to his home for lunch. We had a delicious platter of sandwiches and enjoyed some great conversations. However, my heart leapt in my throat when his 5-year-old daughter walked out drinking none other than a can of heavenly, God-ordained Dr. Pepper. Apparently my friend had brought back a few cans for his family while he was out of the country. As I watched this girl carelessly slurping away at the drink, obviously not savoring each of the 23 flavors as she should (and as Dr. Julius Erving recommended in his commercial) strange thoughts flashed through my head. I wondered momentarily how wrong it would be for me to just yoink the can from the girl and bolt for the door, snagging the other fews cans as I ran out. I was fairly certain that I could physically best the child and in my adrenaline fueled frenzy I thought dealing with my friend and his two teenage sons would also not be a problem… I am ashamed to say that I entertained these thoughts a little longer than I should have. Yet I stayed my hand. You have no idea the physical anguish that kind of restraint has on a man.
I left the apartment without the sweet taste of Dr. Pepper on my lips. I left in shame. However, a friend of mine here says that she knows of a small store that sells imported goods and sometimes they carry Dr. Pepper. I intend to find that place and I fully intend to down every last red can I see there.
In 1885, Charles Alderton gave the world a gift, and I intend to make that gift known to the good people of Turkey.
You’re welcome.
*(what Charles Alderton thought was a divine appointment actually turned out to be the flashlight of a local policeman who had found him after he lapsed into a sugar-induced coma from all the licorice and vanilla extract in his system. The voice was just his imagination)
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Risky Business
His All Holiness, the Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox Church Bartholomew I, the First Among Equals, has as his seat the Church of St. George. The cathedral has an unassuming location in the Fener district of Istanbul (or Constantinople as many of Greeks still controversially refer to it) and the compound is relatively small and unimpressive from the exterior. This seems odd, considering the church’s worldwide importance in Orthodox Christianity, but local laws demand that all non-Islamic buildings be more unimpressive than their Islamic counterparts. The inside of the building is very ornately decorated and is filled with icons and relics of saints. The front wall of the chapel is a glittering array of gold and bronze sculpting and iconoclasts. Orthodox Christians from all over the world sojourn here to worship and pray in this holy place. My own experience in this place was much more risqué…
One often hears of the potential dangerous of international travel. Stories of unaware Americans getting mugged by vicious street thugs, scammed by treacherous con-artists, or harassed by the local police fill the ear of any person stepping outside of the safety of the Land of the Free. It is easy to become paranoid that every dark corner harbors a bloodthirsty for’ner out to mess you up or that in every unlit alley lurks a mob of savages who want to beat you up and steal your passport so that they can go back to the U.S. and take your place in American society, with your unknowing family and friends simply thinking that you got a tan and picked up an accent on your travels, while you are left in a ditch to live in squalor in a foreign land.
I prepared myself to combat these evils (I did this by replaying in my mind every fight scene I had seen in the Bourne movies and mentally prepping myself to use these moves on anybody who tried to accost me… oh they would be sorry when I used a rolled-up Southern Living magazine to best them in hand to hand combat (all the while sharing the Good News with them (of course))) as I stepped alone onto a ferry that would take me to the European side of Istanbul earlier this week.
Once I made it safely to the other side of the Bosphorus, I bought a city map and set off walking to try to find the Church of St. George, all the while keeping a vigilante eye out for lurkers, keeping one hand on the rolled-up magazine holster at my hip, and going over in my mind how I was going to arrange a meeting with His All Holiness and single-handedly rectify Protestant and Orthodox relations throughout the world.
After quite a long walk, I found the church and approached the guard in the booth to ask him in a mix of English, broken-Turkish, grunts, and whistles if this was, in fact the Church of St. George. He said it was and pointed me to the door to the compound, I was still a little befuddled about which way to go. Sensing my confusion, a couple of Muslim girls with their heads covered helped to assist me in which way to go. Sensing that I was in the safety of the church walls, I finally let my guard down. That was a mistake. ..
As I walked into the cathedral the Muslim girls kept giggling and spouting off things to me in Turkish as they winked at me and rubbed my arm. It was clear that they didn’t intend to give their assistance away for free and I had a sneaking suspicion of how they wanted me to repay them. I doubted they took traveler’s checks.
They followed me around the cathedral for close to half an hour as I tried my best to elude them by stopping at places and pretending to read the Greek signs. That wasn’t working so I tried to tell them no just like the public service announcements say … ‘No means no!’ They just laughed at me. I was quickly running out of escape plans and I thought slapping them with a rolled up magazine was probably not the best course of action. Just as I was about to resort to using tears (manly tears, of course) a couple of Orthodox women walked in to pray. I used the momentary distraction to make my escape and hopped on the nearest bus to the safety of the more touristy areas.
I was prepared to wrestle a 300lb. knife-wielding thug but nobody had warned me that covered Muslim girls would also be lurking to pounce on unsuspecting American guys, even within the safety of the walls of one of the most important churches in the world one cannot find escape from their clutches. Needless to say the Church of St. George was very beautiful and if you ever travel there, I hope that you will have a more peaceful (and G-rated) time there.
One often hears of the potential dangerous of international travel. Stories of unaware Americans getting mugged by vicious street thugs, scammed by treacherous con-artists, or harassed by the local police fill the ear of any person stepping outside of the safety of the Land of the Free. It is easy to become paranoid that every dark corner harbors a bloodthirsty for’ner out to mess you up or that in every unlit alley lurks a mob of savages who want to beat you up and steal your passport so that they can go back to the U.S. and take your place in American society, with your unknowing family and friends simply thinking that you got a tan and picked up an accent on your travels, while you are left in a ditch to live in squalor in a foreign land.
I prepared myself to combat these evils (I did this by replaying in my mind every fight scene I had seen in the Bourne movies and mentally prepping myself to use these moves on anybody who tried to accost me… oh they would be sorry when I used a rolled-up Southern Living magazine to best them in hand to hand combat (all the while sharing the Good News with them (of course))) as I stepped alone onto a ferry that would take me to the European side of Istanbul earlier this week.
Once I made it safely to the other side of the Bosphorus, I bought a city map and set off walking to try to find the Church of St. George, all the while keeping a vigilante eye out for lurkers, keeping one hand on the rolled-up magazine holster at my hip, and going over in my mind how I was going to arrange a meeting with His All Holiness and single-handedly rectify Protestant and Orthodox relations throughout the world.
After quite a long walk, I found the church and approached the guard in the booth to ask him in a mix of English, broken-Turkish, grunts, and whistles if this was, in fact the Church of St. George. He said it was and pointed me to the door to the compound, I was still a little befuddled about which way to go. Sensing my confusion, a couple of Muslim girls with their heads covered helped to assist me in which way to go. Sensing that I was in the safety of the church walls, I finally let my guard down. That was a mistake. ..
As I walked into the cathedral the Muslim girls kept giggling and spouting off things to me in Turkish as they winked at me and rubbed my arm. It was clear that they didn’t intend to give their assistance away for free and I had a sneaking suspicion of how they wanted me to repay them. I doubted they took traveler’s checks.
They followed me around the cathedral for close to half an hour as I tried my best to elude them by stopping at places and pretending to read the Greek signs. That wasn’t working so I tried to tell them no just like the public service announcements say … ‘No means no!’ They just laughed at me. I was quickly running out of escape plans and I thought slapping them with a rolled up magazine was probably not the best course of action. Just as I was about to resort to using tears (manly tears, of course) a couple of Orthodox women walked in to pray. I used the momentary distraction to make my escape and hopped on the nearest bus to the safety of the more touristy areas.
I was prepared to wrestle a 300lb. knife-wielding thug but nobody had warned me that covered Muslim girls would also be lurking to pounce on unsuspecting American guys, even within the safety of the walls of one of the most important churches in the world one cannot find escape from their clutches. Needless to say the Church of St. George was very beautiful and if you ever travel there, I hope that you will have a more peaceful (and G-rated) time there.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Turkey Gets a Cold Hard Look at Me.
Istanbul is a complex and wonderful tapestry. History has intertwined threads containing the old and the new, the West and the Near-Orient in a dizzying array of colors, designs, and heritages. Ancient mosques are juxtaposed next to Krispy Kremes and Burger Kings. The famed Orient Express Train station is now situated behind the big yellow sign of a Shell gas station. The imagery of a tapestry seems to fall short in describing this city of many names… perhaps one of those Magic Eye pictures would be a more fitting metaphor. Remember those pictures with all those colors and shapes where if you looked hard enough you were privileged to spy a T-Rex. flying a fighter jet or a unicorn getting beat up by a bunch of leprechauns (if you were one of the lucky ones and could actually make out the shapes you had the distinct pleasure of rubbing this fact in the faces of your friends who were not enlightened enough to cross their eyes and see the images.)? I guess in the case of Istanbul the image of the pilot t-rex would be a thin (in some cases) veil of Islamic culture covering people who are inherently post-modern.
Anyways, in my quest to cross my eyes and see the t-rex of Istanbul, I thought it would be a good idea to visit a hamam. A hamam is a Turkish bathhouse. These things have been a part of Turkish culture for ages. The particular one that I visited was over 400 years old. A bathhouse that is older than the United States of America! Jana, a friend of mine who can speak Turkish took my friend Paul and I to the hamam one Sunday afternoon. We knocked on the door and Jana explained to a very embarrassed older man in a towel that Paul and I were there to enjoy a relaxing Turkish bath. She then left us in the hands of a bunch of half-naked Turkish guys who probably weren’t too happy that we had brought a girl to their all-guy hamam.
After some hand signals and directions in Turkish, we followed a mustached-man back to the dressing rooms, were given some towels and a key to our personal dressing booth. Paul and I looked at each other, walked into our separate changing rooms, took off our clothes and in a bold move that we hoped was culturally acceptable, walked out clad only in towels. (Perhaps ‘hand towel’ would be a more fitting description of the size of the cloth that separated me from the rest of the world.)
Paul and I then walked into the steam room. We sat on the marble floor by a hot faucet and looked uncomfortably at other men in the room who were lounging around with their mustaches curling in the steamy air. All the while I was trying my best to position myself in such a way that my skimpy loin cloth would do its job. We sat in the steam for an uncomfortably long amount of time not knowing what to do until one of the older men who worked there came in and explained to me in a mix of Turkish and English that he was going to give me a bath and a massage. I followed him into one of the backrooms. (Let me just say that normally I would not follow a man in a towel to a backroom when he had just offered to give me a bath, but in this case one of the workers in Istanbul had explained to me and Paul in our home group about the wonderful tradition of Turkish baths. (in retrospect, he did mention that it would involve a lot of touching, though)).
I sat down on the marble floor and the man put on what I can only compare to a brillo pad glove and began scrubbing my arms and back. It actually felt pretty good given the circumstances, and I was interested (and a little startled) to see the amount of dead skin that came off of me. His scrubbing took him down to my right foot and up my calf. I was confused and scared. The last thing that I wanted to do was offend these people of a different culture who were hosting me in their country, none the less I was beginning to feel a bit disconcerted. He began pointing at my towel in a way that concerned me. I gave him a bewildered look and he just kept talking and pointing. So in what I can only blame on a lack of judgment due to steam poisoning and not wanting to seem like a rude American I removed my towel and looked up at the man. He emphatically shook his head and said ‘no’… obviously he had meant something else by his pointing and talking. What it was I guess I will never know. I hastily put my towel back on and shamefully endured the rest of the experience.
After the ordeal was over we paid and walked out. (side note: everyone here has heard of Texas and when I told one of the guys who could speak English that I was from close to Texas he asked if I was a cowboy and then made some shooting motions with his hands and kept saying howdy.) Upon later reflection of the ordeal (and reading in a tourist handbook that no one ever gets entirely naked in a hamam) it dawned on me that my first real encounter with a Turk during my work here had involved me flashing him. I will say that since then I have had better (and more PG rated) encounters with Turkish people, who are really nice and hospitable people.
So here is the moral of the story, whether you are exploring a new place such as Istanbul or trying to figure out a Magic Eye picture, the best advice that I can give from experience is that you should keep your clothes on…
Anyways, in my quest to cross my eyes and see the t-rex of Istanbul, I thought it would be a good idea to visit a hamam. A hamam is a Turkish bathhouse. These things have been a part of Turkish culture for ages. The particular one that I visited was over 400 years old. A bathhouse that is older than the United States of America! Jana, a friend of mine who can speak Turkish took my friend Paul and I to the hamam one Sunday afternoon. We knocked on the door and Jana explained to a very embarrassed older man in a towel that Paul and I were there to enjoy a relaxing Turkish bath. She then left us in the hands of a bunch of half-naked Turkish guys who probably weren’t too happy that we had brought a girl to their all-guy hamam.
After some hand signals and directions in Turkish, we followed a mustached-man back to the dressing rooms, were given some towels and a key to our personal dressing booth. Paul and I looked at each other, walked into our separate changing rooms, took off our clothes and in a bold move that we hoped was culturally acceptable, walked out clad only in towels. (Perhaps ‘hand towel’ would be a more fitting description of the size of the cloth that separated me from the rest of the world.)
Paul and I then walked into the steam room. We sat on the marble floor by a hot faucet and looked uncomfortably at other men in the room who were lounging around with their mustaches curling in the steamy air. All the while I was trying my best to position myself in such a way that my skimpy loin cloth would do its job. We sat in the steam for an uncomfortably long amount of time not knowing what to do until one of the older men who worked there came in and explained to me in a mix of Turkish and English that he was going to give me a bath and a massage. I followed him into one of the backrooms. (Let me just say that normally I would not follow a man in a towel to a backroom when he had just offered to give me a bath, but in this case one of the workers in Istanbul had explained to me and Paul in our home group about the wonderful tradition of Turkish baths. (in retrospect, he did mention that it would involve a lot of touching, though)).
I sat down on the marble floor and the man put on what I can only compare to a brillo pad glove and began scrubbing my arms and back. It actually felt pretty good given the circumstances, and I was interested (and a little startled) to see the amount of dead skin that came off of me. His scrubbing took him down to my right foot and up my calf. I was confused and scared. The last thing that I wanted to do was offend these people of a different culture who were hosting me in their country, none the less I was beginning to feel a bit disconcerted. He began pointing at my towel in a way that concerned me. I gave him a bewildered look and he just kept talking and pointing. So in what I can only blame on a lack of judgment due to steam poisoning and not wanting to seem like a rude American I removed my towel and looked up at the man. He emphatically shook his head and said ‘no’… obviously he had meant something else by his pointing and talking. What it was I guess I will never know. I hastily put my towel back on and shamefully endured the rest of the experience.
After the ordeal was over we paid and walked out. (side note: everyone here has heard of Texas and when I told one of the guys who could speak English that I was from close to Texas he asked if I was a cowboy and then made some shooting motions with his hands and kept saying howdy.) Upon later reflection of the ordeal (and reading in a tourist handbook that no one ever gets entirely naked in a hamam) it dawned on me that my first real encounter with a Turk during my work here had involved me flashing him. I will say that since then I have had better (and more PG rated) encounters with Turkish people, who are really nice and hospitable people.
So here is the moral of the story, whether you are exploring a new place such as Istanbul or trying to figure out a Magic Eye picture, the best advice that I can give from experience is that you should keep your clothes on…
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Well... I survived.
As you have probably guessed I did make it out alive. I went back to my apartment in defeat and scrounged for something there to eat. I grabbed a can of Ranch style beans from the shelf with a solemn promise to repay the beans to the owner. I later found out that the beans were given to my roommate by his parents to make a family recipe soup on a special occasion. Also those beans are not available in Turkey. Day one… success.
I was able to get an ATM to work later and am now reveling in the small victories. I am able to get on a bus (if someone shows me specifically which bus) and actually bought a bag of chips from a gas station with no help whatsoever. I am all that is man.
Since I have been here I have been able to go see the Aya Sofya (or Hagia Sophia) which was a Byzantine Orthodox cathedral until 1453 when the Ottomans conquered Istanbul and turned it into a mosque. Ataturk opened it to the public as a museum in the 20th century. One enters through massive doors that were reserved for the Ottoman sultan to enter through. The interior is filled with a mixture of Christian and Islamic frescoes, mosaics, and paintings. You can see the outline of crosses underneath the Arabic script and designs. The original altar was built at the back of the church under a gigantic mosaic of Mary and Jesus. The altar was positioned so that it faces Jerusalem. After the building was turned into a mosque, the altar was repositioned slightly to the right of its original position so that it now faces towards Mecca. If you love history this place is fascinating!
Later that day, we went to the beautiful Blue Mosque, the Hippodrome, and the Cisterns that sprawl underneath the city. We finished the night with dinner in the Taksim section of town (which is what I would compare to Istanbul’s version of Beale Street) and then stopped by an outdoor Turkish concert. We then crossed back across the Bosphorus Strait from Europe into Asia.
This city is a pretty amazing one. I finally have a working phone so I will be able to actually venture out into the city by myself without having to worry about getting lost and showing up several months later with amnesia and no kidneys.
In my next blog I will discuss my first real encounter with a Turk… let’s just say that it was an uncomfortable experience for both parties.
I was able to get an ATM to work later and am now reveling in the small victories. I am able to get on a bus (if someone shows me specifically which bus) and actually bought a bag of chips from a gas station with no help whatsoever. I am all that is man.
Since I have been here I have been able to go see the Aya Sofya (or Hagia Sophia) which was a Byzantine Orthodox cathedral until 1453 when the Ottomans conquered Istanbul and turned it into a mosque. Ataturk opened it to the public as a museum in the 20th century. One enters through massive doors that were reserved for the Ottoman sultan to enter through. The interior is filled with a mixture of Christian and Islamic frescoes, mosaics, and paintings. You can see the outline of crosses underneath the Arabic script and designs. The original altar was built at the back of the church under a gigantic mosaic of Mary and Jesus. The altar was positioned so that it faces Jerusalem. After the building was turned into a mosque, the altar was repositioned slightly to the right of its original position so that it now faces towards Mecca. If you love history this place is fascinating!
Later that day, we went to the beautiful Blue Mosque, the Hippodrome, and the Cisterns that sprawl underneath the city. We finished the night with dinner in the Taksim section of town (which is what I would compare to Istanbul’s version of Beale Street) and then stopped by an outdoor Turkish concert. We then crossed back across the Bosphorus Strait from Europe into Asia.
This city is a pretty amazing one. I finally have a working phone so I will be able to actually venture out into the city by myself without having to worry about getting lost and showing up several months later with amnesia and no kidneys.
In my next blog I will discuss my first real encounter with a Turk… let’s just say that it was an uncomfortable experience for both parties.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Day One...
My first day in the city was an eye-opening one. The apartment I live in is in one of the boroughs of a city of close to 16 million people. (I am no mathematician, but if my calculations are correct I think that is slightly bigger than the small Arkansas town I grew up in (I could be wrong though, somebody can double check me on that math (and also check the recent censuses of Glenwood (I have not been there in some time and it could have grown.))))
I woke up in my apartment still jet-lagged and decided that I was going to hang around the place that day instead of going out with my other roommates. I told them that I might do some exploring around the neighborhood and possibly visit an ATM. My roommate gave me a solemn warning not to get lost and explained to me the perils that the confusing infrastructure of this place provided. (Turkish fact number one: Did you know that over here entire city blocks spontaneously rise out of the earth and replant themselves in other sections of town of their own volition?) He pointed out on a map for me where the nearest ‘safe’ ATM was from our apartment (Turkish fact number two: Some ATMs are not safe to use because they will steal your identity and take all your money… and then beat you up) and then gave me his cell phone number (I did not have a phone) and wrote out a phrase in Turkish that I could show people if I got lost and they could help me find my way back (I am reminded of a collar we put on our dog if she ever got lost.)
Shortly after they left I bundled up, wrote out a last will and testament and headed out the door, clutching the piece of paper my roommate had given me as if my life depended on it, because it surely did. I walked down the street away from the safety of our apartment making meticulous notes of every step that I took so that I could make a hasty retreat if I saw a gang of ‘unsafe’ Turkish ATMs roaming the streets.
I followed the route to the bank trying to my best to blend in and act like I knew what I was doing (I am sure that my red-headed 6’4 self did not stand out at all). After some time of walking and giving a wide berth to anyone I came in contact with knowing that if I made a wrong move one of them would hit me with their sword (Turkish fact number three: All Turks carry scimitars, and I believe in some parts of the city they still fly around on magic carpets (I think recent city-zoning regulations have restricted carpet flights across the entire city however)) I made it to the corner where the bank was. I turned around to make sure my bread-crumb trail to the apartment was still intact and then did my best Frogger impersonation (for a visual representation watch the Seinfeld episode in which George tries to cross the street with his newly purchased Frogger arcade game) as I crossed the busy street to the ATM. I made it to the ATM inserted my card and selected ‘English’ I entered my pin and waited eagerly to be rewarded with a handful of Turkish Lira so that I could buy some lunch. The screen flashed “Sorry I am unable to complete your request….”
Will Chris be able to eat a delicious Turkish lunch?! Will he be able to find his way back to the apartment?! Do ATMs really roam around in gangs?!
Find out on the next exciting installment of my blog…
I woke up in my apartment still jet-lagged and decided that I was going to hang around the place that day instead of going out with my other roommates. I told them that I might do some exploring around the neighborhood and possibly visit an ATM. My roommate gave me a solemn warning not to get lost and explained to me the perils that the confusing infrastructure of this place provided. (Turkish fact number one: Did you know that over here entire city blocks spontaneously rise out of the earth and replant themselves in other sections of town of their own volition?) He pointed out on a map for me where the nearest ‘safe’ ATM was from our apartment (Turkish fact number two: Some ATMs are not safe to use because they will steal your identity and take all your money… and then beat you up) and then gave me his cell phone number (I did not have a phone) and wrote out a phrase in Turkish that I could show people if I got lost and they could help me find my way back (I am reminded of a collar we put on our dog if she ever got lost.)
Shortly after they left I bundled up, wrote out a last will and testament and headed out the door, clutching the piece of paper my roommate had given me as if my life depended on it, because it surely did. I walked down the street away from the safety of our apartment making meticulous notes of every step that I took so that I could make a hasty retreat if I saw a gang of ‘unsafe’ Turkish ATMs roaming the streets.
I followed the route to the bank trying to my best to blend in and act like I knew what I was doing (I am sure that my red-headed 6’4 self did not stand out at all). After some time of walking and giving a wide berth to anyone I came in contact with knowing that if I made a wrong move one of them would hit me with their sword (Turkish fact number three: All Turks carry scimitars, and I believe in some parts of the city they still fly around on magic carpets (I think recent city-zoning regulations have restricted carpet flights across the entire city however)) I made it to the corner where the bank was. I turned around to make sure my bread-crumb trail to the apartment was still intact and then did my best Frogger impersonation (for a visual representation watch the Seinfeld episode in which George tries to cross the street with his newly purchased Frogger arcade game) as I crossed the busy street to the ATM. I made it to the ATM inserted my card and selected ‘English’ I entered my pin and waited eagerly to be rewarded with a handful of Turkish Lira so that I could buy some lunch. The screen flashed “Sorry I am unable to complete your request….”
Will Chris be able to eat a delicious Turkish lunch?! Will he be able to find his way back to the apartment?! Do ATMs really roam around in gangs?!
Find out on the next exciting installment of my blog…
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Running Towards Healing
This Thanksgiving was very therapeutic for me. I am not talking about the turkey and dressing, the time spent in reflection over all that I have to be thankful for or even the time spent with friends. Rather it was the 5k Turkey Trot that I ran which provided a sense of healing and closure for me.
Let me start from the beginning. The small town I grew up in had a yearly fall festival called Sawmill Days. Sawmill Days was a celebration of the town’s rich heritage of cutting down trees. Lumber lovers from all around would make their way to Glenwood during this time to gather with other ‘necro-tree-liophiles’ to discuss current news in the lumbering world and to participate in contests of sawing prowess. Tents and booths would invade the sprawling metropolis that is Glenwood and the crowds would gather in wild revelry (which mostly entailed milling about from tent to booth looking at antiques and watching the children jump into a sawdust pile.)
When I was nine I decided that I was old enough to participate in the ‘Sawmill Kid Fun Run.’ It was a daunting 1k that meandered through the streets of downtown, pushing its challengers to the physical limit before rewarding the finishers with cotton candy and funnel cakes.
I decided to begin my training the day of the event by having my parents take me to the Downtown Café for the early bird special breakfast platter. I feasted upon scrambled eggs, enjoyed both bacon and sausage and washed it all down with a syrup-laden short stack of pancakes. I felt that the extra calories would give me the energy I needed for the race that was to begin within the hour.
As we made our way to the starting line, I saw other children stretching and jogging in place. I laughed inwardly at the futility of their actions. They did not know that the real champion had just arrived. I told my dad my thoughts and he merely grinned in what I assumed at the time was agreement.
I lined up with the other kids at the starting line and waited for the gun to go off, sounding the beginning of the excursion. When the signal sounded I leapt of the starting block to grab an early lead! I led the group as we rounded the first building. Upon getting out of sight, I promptly veered to the sidewalk and began to unload the early bird special breakfast platter all over the concrete. At that point I decided to end my career in long distance racing and I wove my way back through the crowd to where my parents were watching the other kids finish the race. When I got to them, my dad appeared confused that I was not among the other kids who were running. I informed him of my decision to no longer pursue a career in racing and he countered with a long speech about why I should not quit what I start and said that he was disappointed in me for not finishing the race. I did not have the heart to tell him that he had wasted 5.75 on the early bird special breakfast platter.
Turkey Trot 2009 was the first footrace I had been in since my foray into racing as a nine year old. I took the old running shoes out of retirement (and then had to replace them seeing as that I no longer wear a child’s 9 in shoes.) I am proud to say that I finished this race (in 4th place at that) and have grand plans for returning to Sawmill Days after my travels and claiming a victory in the ‘Sawmill Kid Fun Run.’
Let me start from the beginning. The small town I grew up in had a yearly fall festival called Sawmill Days. Sawmill Days was a celebration of the town’s rich heritage of cutting down trees. Lumber lovers from all around would make their way to Glenwood during this time to gather with other ‘necro-tree-liophiles’ to discuss current news in the lumbering world and to participate in contests of sawing prowess. Tents and booths would invade the sprawling metropolis that is Glenwood and the crowds would gather in wild revelry (which mostly entailed milling about from tent to booth looking at antiques and watching the children jump into a sawdust pile.)
When I was nine I decided that I was old enough to participate in the ‘Sawmill Kid Fun Run.’ It was a daunting 1k that meandered through the streets of downtown, pushing its challengers to the physical limit before rewarding the finishers with cotton candy and funnel cakes.
I decided to begin my training the day of the event by having my parents take me to the Downtown Café for the early bird special breakfast platter. I feasted upon scrambled eggs, enjoyed both bacon and sausage and washed it all down with a syrup-laden short stack of pancakes. I felt that the extra calories would give me the energy I needed for the race that was to begin within the hour.
As we made our way to the starting line, I saw other children stretching and jogging in place. I laughed inwardly at the futility of their actions. They did not know that the real champion had just arrived. I told my dad my thoughts and he merely grinned in what I assumed at the time was agreement.
I lined up with the other kids at the starting line and waited for the gun to go off, sounding the beginning of the excursion. When the signal sounded I leapt of the starting block to grab an early lead! I led the group as we rounded the first building. Upon getting out of sight, I promptly veered to the sidewalk and began to unload the early bird special breakfast platter all over the concrete. At that point I decided to end my career in long distance racing and I wove my way back through the crowd to where my parents were watching the other kids finish the race. When I got to them, my dad appeared confused that I was not among the other kids who were running. I informed him of my decision to no longer pursue a career in racing and he countered with a long speech about why I should not quit what I start and said that he was disappointed in me for not finishing the race. I did not have the heart to tell him that he had wasted 5.75 on the early bird special breakfast platter.
Turkey Trot 2009 was the first footrace I had been in since my foray into racing as a nine year old. I took the old running shoes out of retirement (and then had to replace them seeing as that I no longer wear a child’s 9 in shoes.) I am proud to say that I finished this race (in 4th place at that) and have grand plans for returning to Sawmill Days after my travels and claiming a victory in the ‘Sawmill Kid Fun Run.’
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