The... Err... Alive Life...

Sum quod numquam eris, friends, Europeans, and countrymen,

Today, against all belief and expectation, it is snowing in Istanbul, assuming I can trust the view my windows afford me, because, of course, I haven’t left the house in days. O, dear readers, Hell, or the closest thing to it outside of a fantasy book (besides Bucharest), has frozen over!

And I’m happy that it’s snowing. I hope the flurries flutter, fall, and freeze, until the all the residents of Istanbul are frozen in place, so they’ve nothing to do but stare at each other and contemplate how silly they actually look. Why? Why?

Cause it ain’t my problem.

This weekend is mine, and aside from a couple of social obligations (some welcome and some not), and a dinner date that doesn’t involve me, the next few days are blissfully relaxing and stress-free. And it doesn’t end there.

There will be no more staring at walls, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and no more drowning my sorrows in Nescafe. The blade has dropped, O sons and daughters of Adam, and can you feel the force of my wresting the head of Isik University from the guillotine and thrusting it triumphantly towards the heavens through these 0s and 1s? Imagine, if you will, the droplets of sweat flying from my unkempt locks crashing to the earth as my body, pulsing with the primal energy of emancipation, grows, smashing through the hallowed halls of my office, my building, and the entire campus, and my hands and arms, now the size of skyscrapers fling themselves outwards, smashing service buses and sending whimpering students scurrying to perceived safety?

Well, that was fun for me, at least.

In reality, it wasn’t quite as glorious. It went more like this:

Aaron, seated at desk, tossing apple up and down in hand, staring at wall. Office door opens. Sheepish American man walks in trepidatiously.

Ted: Aaron, uh, are you still interested in teaching in Erenkoy?
Aaron: Uh, yeah.
Ted: Great. You start tomorrow. See you.

Aaron waits for door to close. Dances around office. Zeynep looks annoyed. Aaron scoffs, skips outside, and begins smoking merrily.

You see, my confused companions-in-angst, Isik University has decided to expand its services. To make up for the lack of students at the main campus, they’ve begun to offer night classes at a couple of (hideously expensive) high schools in Istanbul. This particular high school in Erenkoy, is located about a fifteen minute taxi ride from my house, perfectly situated within the city, in a quite nice, upscale, and interesting part of town (of which there are about 3 in all of Istanbul). So, on Wednesday morning, I woke up at 5:50, forgoing the snooze button, took my time getting ready, humming all the while, gave my cats a quick pat on the head, and skipped to the bus stop, knowing full well that this was (O hope of hopes!) the last time that I would have to suffer that life-destroying commute.

This is what they told me: “Aaron,” they said, “you’ll be teaching 5 days a week, from 6 PM to 9 PM in Erenkoy. They’ll be high school students, hoping to pass the English University Exam the first time around. You might not have access to many supplies there, but we’ll try to give you what help we can.” Doesn’t sound too bad, eh?

Here’s the reality:

They didn’t get as many students as they expected there, either, so I actually only teach 1 hour on Tuesday and Thursday, and 2 hours on Wednesday. That’s 4 hours a week, with a 4 day weekend. I go when I have a lesson, and I leave when I’ve finished. They’re not high school students; they’re adults. Highly motivated, and highly educated adults, including a doctor and a psychologist. I’ve got an office there, in the most posh private high school I’ve ever seen, and I teach in a fully-technologically fitted conference room, right next to the tea room and the billiard room. The classes are informal, the students are cheerful, happy, and helpful, and my teaching partner, Ece, is a wonderfully spastic Turkish woman, who spits wonderfully sarcastic remarks as we chain smoke together during breaks. I could take a bus there, but the taxi only costs 10 YTL, and since I’m still receiving a full salary for 4 hours of teaching a week, I feel totally justified in going to work in style. I still have to go to Sile once a month, but those beige walls will scarcely suffer a glance from me, as I go there, report on my progress, and immediately head back home (after eating a free lunch, of course).

So, what am I going to do with all this free time? Well, there’ll be a little bit of extra work at home, no doubt, making worksheets and what-not. In the meantime, I’m going to do part-time work at English Time, making a bit more cash, and increasing my teaching load to the unbelievably astronomical number of 12 hours per week. The rest of my time will be spent alternating between doing nice, relaxing things for myself, like playing video games and studying languages, and preparing nice, healthy, nutritious meals for my girlfriend, whom I realize now does a disproportionate share of the labor in this relationship (more likely, I’ll put more effort into timing my ordering of nasty, greasy food, so that it arrives within seconds of her returning home from work).

Alas, I must away. All of this writing has felt a bit too much like work, and I must retire for a spell so as to not offend my delicate sensibilities. But, O, spare not a tear for Aaron, my dears, who was once handsome and tall as you.

With a final shuffle of his boots,
Aaron Rotsinger,
Wanders off into the sunset

The Undead Life

Greetings, O ye fortunate fodder,

If you’ve ever had a pleasant thought directed in my vicinity, I’d kindly ask you to forgive any errors of wit, logic, or spelling that might be contained within this epistle. I’m certain that I’ve slept somewhat more than 20 minutes in the last 3 weeks, but at the moment, I wouldn’t bet my paycheck on it.

Things are going reasonably well here. Classes have started at Isik, and I’ve got scarcely a moment to myself. Of course, I’m only teaching 7 ½ hours a week, but somehow I find myself uncharacteristically busy. How’s that, you ask? Booming social life? Jet-set cocktail nights, 5-star dinners in hotel ballrooms, and a circuit of academic lectures around the intellectual capital of the old Ottoman Empire (those hats weren’t just for show, you know). Ah, no.

And, just to satisfy your curiosity, I’m also not spending my time feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless, or seducing a score of women behind my girlfriend's back. However, I can, without the slightest doubt in my mind, tell you that my office walls are beige. A very light beige, as it were, which nicely matches the wooden desks and white ceiling. How can I be so sure? How can I so explicitly remember the color of my office walls?

I stare at them. All day long.

Look at my works, ye mighty, and despair!

Yes, O my good friends and bitter enemies, my day begins at 5:50 AM, minus a snooze or two, whereupon I rush madly around my apartment getting dressed, making coffee, showering, shaving (if I’m lucky), ironing, smoking, and enviously watching my girlfriend sleep. At 6:50, I emerge into the foggy Istanbul morning and have a brisk stroll down a series of streets, passages, parking lots, and underpasses, until, 20 minutes later, I arrive at the spot where my service bus collects me.

The bus ride isn’t so bad, really. Yes, it’s a hour and a half, and yes, the coffee that I MUST drink before I can leave the house prevents me from falling into anything but the most superficial sleep, but at least I can study my Turkish book, or stare out the window at the rain-soaked, fog-ridden, accident-prone highway to Sile, my little slice of the Black Sea.

Two short hours after boarding the bus, my day officially begins. Most days, I find myself in front of a class at 9:00 AM, which is (sarcasm aside), really the perfect way to begin the day. And that class fills the next 2 ½ hours of my life, until suddenly, as if no time had passed at all, it’s lunchtime, and my colleagues and I amble off down to the cafeteria to wait in line for half an hour, amidst the screaming, cursing, blubbering, oooof-ya-ing, intellectual paragons of the new generation of Turks.

The food is the highlight of my day. It’s fresh, it’s delicious, it’s plentiful, and it’s free. And I’m getting fat… But, I really need to stuff myself with calories because of the long day ahead of me. See, when I finish my lunch at 12:30, I always head straight back to my office so that I can prepare myself for the afternoon.

Which consists of staring at the wall, and not a damn thing else.

Oh, well, actually, I drink coffee and smoke cigarettes too. Sometimes I chat with my office mates, who apparently have a lot more practice dealing with being absolutely useless. See, Isik University anticipated an enrollment of 500 this year for the EFL department, and therefore created 15 new jobs, giving us over 50 teachers. In reality, there were 163 new students enrolled, meaning that about 50 people are doing the work of approximately 15. And, O O O O that Ottoman rag, it’s so myopic, so completely idiotic! Viddy this, my assuredly appalled Anglo-Saxons (et al.), no matter my actual teaching schedule, no matter the actual amount of work assigned to me, the director (whose job appears to be to study the field across the street through his panopticonic window, squeezing out little rumbling snorts of laughter and derision) would have his senses extremely offended if I were to think about actually leaving before 4:30.

Ah, but when 4:30 comes, what fun to be had! I, along with a handful of colleagues, fasten our bags, don our coats, and erupt out of the EFL building’s front door, only to face the throng of half-evolved (but they’re trying so hard!) simian students, chortling, shouting, and chain-smoking, as they wait for the ONE BUS (30 seats, give or take) that will carry them into the City, Istanbul, where they can fulfill their young, burgeoning, fleshy appetites by engaging in such carnal activities as drinking tea, and ambling about aimlessly through the dusty streets of a forgotten capital. Oh, Discordia!

Sometimes, I get lucky, and I can “accidentally” step on a few toes, creating a big enough wedge to actually enter the gelatinous mass, and building up enough momentum to carry me into the bus, whereupon the second part of my trial begins. Over the last few weeks, their frontal lobes have clearly developed enough that they now carry their friend’s bags onto the bus with them, throw them onto the seat next to them, and stare at the ground, as we teachers scour the bus for an empty seat; however, if I fail at the much more difficult task of wresting a knapsack out of a reasonably inviting seat, as I often do, I must leave the bus, and patiently wait another 45 minutes, until the personnel buses come, upon which I’m almost guaranteed a seat.

The aforementioned personnel bus should drop me off only a convenient 20 minute walk away from my house at approximately 6:30. But, assuming that the sun has risen that morning, and that hell is still a HOT fairy tale, traffic will be gridlocked by the time I make it back to Istanbul. Usually, however, the traffic only adds about an extra half an hour to my commute time, for which I suppose I should be thankful.

Thus, at about 7:20, I put my key in the door, trudge up three flights of stairs, emerge into my apartment, and flop into my bed or onto the floor, depending how far I get. With a heroic effort, I often manage to stay awake for a few hours, battling the headache from all the coffee, the hours in a bus, and the gasoline fumes from waiting in traffic, although I’m pretty much useless to do anything besides ordering food off the internet and staring blankly at my roomates while they amuse themselves. By approximately 11:00, I am sprawled across my bed, rumpled sheets haphazardly draped across my fully clothed body, occasionally throwing open one eye and muttering nonsensical phrases like, “have you got any more sauce? I’d like to see the garden hose…”

Yes, yes, yes, I know, I only work 4 days a week, so it can’t be too bad, right? My evenings are (useless) free, and I can do whatever I want all weekend long (sit at home and giggle naughtily). Still… You spend 20 hours a week in a bus, and then let’s talk about job satisfaction.

Respectfully, though exasperatedly yours,
Aaron Bey

Neden gittim Istanbul'dan?

If you'll recall, last episode ended with our hero, Aaron, perched precariously on the edge of Europe, weaving his way throughout the former USSR, preparing to chart out the nuclear wastelands of Oleksy Koslov’s former home, The Ukraine, and to make his final journey back to Istanbul olde style, by crossing the Black Sea by boat (read: dirty, stinky, prostitute-ridden freighter). Did he succeed? Or was he trapped forever behind a paper curtain of visa problems? Find out in our latest installment of the ongoing Stumble!

There I was, my friends, sitting in downtown Moscow (which is only close to the most depressing place on Earth), taking it all in – Red Square, St. Basil’s Cathedral, Gorky Park, and the ubiquitous Makgovalds (10 points if you can guess what that is – but the Americans have the advantage), and merrily passing the vodka bottle around every chance I got. Yet, all the wonder, excitement, and and passion was... strangely absent. The air was positively NOT crackling with possibility. Why, you ask? Truth is, I don’t rightly know.

Yeah, there were adventures (I bribed my first Russian police officer!), and there were new experiences (slept like a dirty animal on the cheap train to Moscow – whoever heard of 4th class???), and there were cool people (oh, Roger, you bipolar little Gary Coleman, you), but the majority of my days were being spent drinking coffee in the hostel and watching the hours tick by.

So, what happened? How did I deal with my newly-acquired ennui? My friends, I did what any self-respecting backpacker would do. I packed my shit and left. It involved nearly 72 hours straight on trains of every make, model, and mold (especially in the toilets) possible, but I zoomed out of Russia, bounced across The Ukraine, made a quick detour due to thunderstorms brewing on the Black Sea, slipped around Moldova (visa problems), and shot straight down from L’vov to Istanbul, with a brief, harrowing stay in the sketch capital of the world (and Romania), Bucharest.

What does this mean for your far-flung friend? Will he pack it all in and return to America with his tail between his legs? Assuredly not, ye creatures of little faith. I’m no less enthusiastic about seeing the world, and certainly no more eager to do it by package tour, but traveling alone just doesn’t cut it like it used to. Traipsing around when you’re fresh faced and naive is one thing, but when you’re plodding across Red Square, thinking, “Gee, I sure wish I could just order a pizza and kick back with my girfriend tonight,” you might start to think about reevaluating your ideas about travel...

Anyhow, like a Republican running from a well-informed populace, I shot back to Istanbul quick-like. Oh, how uncharacteristically happy I was when I asked our conductor, “Turk misiniz?” and he replied, “evet!” Oh, to see the Bosphorous again! How was it that I had spent my last year singing Neden Geldim Istanbul’a and was now bouncing up and down on the ferryboat as I prepared to return to ancient Chalcedon? Ok, ok... I’m sure it had a lot to do with people who were waiting there for me, but those predictably Turkish faces which used to inspire me with such ire now positively delighted my sensibilities! (That has since disappeared, by the way)

So, having returned to Istanbul, I spent 2 full weeks lounging around, drinking coffee, and being... bored. Ack! What was going on? How had that bloody emotion followed me across an entire continent? Sure, this time I was bored with my friends around, but the lethargy was only growing.

Fortunately, after the longest two weeks of my life, I started my new job at Isik University, which kept me busy all day... Busy drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and staring at the ground, waiting for the bus to come. Every morning, I had to jump on the bus at 7:00 AM and commute for 1 ½ hours, all the way anticipating 7 ½ hours of NOTHING (except the odd meeting), until the bus came to pick me up at 4:30, whereupon I would be promptly dropped off 10 minutes from my house at nearly 6:00 PM. So, now I actually had to commute to be bored! Arrrgghhh!

But, my faithful audience, you can stop wringing your hands and tearing your clothes. Everything has settled into place now. After a solid month of wall-staring on the bench outside the EFL building (I didn’t even have an office), I am now comfortably situated, reasonably occupied, exceedingly satisfied, and inordinately happy. After a month of Thomas and I annoying my girlfriend and all her flatmates with our prolonged presence, we now inhabit a moderately fashionable place near the seaside, containing 3 bedrooms, 2 balconies, 1 hot water heater, and very little chance of an electrical fire (though the lights do flicker, Allah korusun!)

And now, ye faithful souls who have bared the horrors contained within this epistle, I fear I must take my leave of you and return to the workaday world! Finally! For those of you who might ever be stricken by the urge to play the PTT (Turkish Postal Service) lottery, I shall forward along my address:

6/10 Şifa Sk.

Caferağa, Kadıköy

İstanbul, Türkiye

Hope you’re all getting happier as you’re getting older! Long days and pleasant nights!

Looking West through the Curtain

Komrades,

I just finished my first bowl of good ol' Russian Borsh'ch, and boy am I feeling good and beety (and groggy as hell from the million hour train ride here to St. Petersburg). You know, when I emerged for the first time from the St. Petersburg Metro, and began strolling down Nevsky Prospekt, I felt something that I only recall feeling twice in my life.

The first time was when my plane touched down in London the first time I'd gone abroad. I don't recall the intensity, but it must have been great, albeit hampered by the discomfort and discombobulation of air travel. The second was waking up in Turkey and seeing mosques out the window of our slow-moving train. But the Bulgarian borek had gone to my stomach (and out in many other ways), and I was a bit too overcome to be properly moved.

But this time, O, O, O! The glory of it all went to my bones. That most intoxicating of liquors, that most heavy of narcotics, Travel has sunk its claws into me yet again. Not just any travel, mind you. Travel's a tank of gas or a bus ticket... I'm talking about that angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity type of Travel... Quiddity isn't about sex or death. It's about Travel.

That 500 meter walk down Nevsky was one of the most intense of my life. It was a combination of everything - the foreign buildings, the foreign script, the Russians strolling by, and the general naughtiness of it all (Haha, America, I'm in the former USSR. Ooooo, aren't I a bad boy?)

But, O my fingernail biting friends, fear not for me. Russia's not the scary place we were all told (at least not here). People smile here! There are parents strolling with their children! Bread is readily available, although the Russians prefer Pizza Hut these days! Neo-nazi graffiti is no more commonplace than in middle America (and much less so than in most of Europe). Even the bears here are cute and peaceful! I'm as hale and healthy (though pale and smelly) as can be, and I fully expect to return to the real world with a hundred tales of Russian hospitality, warmth, and Vodka. (Probably all in the same sentence)

I'd leave you with one more thought, if it do ya. I went to the Occupation Museum in Riga, Lativa a few days ago. It was all about the Soviet and Nazi expansion into Latvia, the horrors, the loss of national identity, and the Latvians' struggle to win back their freedom. And I wondered, O my equally inquisitive friends, what sort of museums will there be in Iraq about America in 50 years? In 100? Will Abu Ghraib be a popular tourist spot? Will they turn our military bases into open-air markets? Or will there be nothing left to rebel against? Will the cries become silence, and finally acceptance, in the manner of our Native American friends?

Forever following in the footsteps of the Tsars,

Aaron "Reed" Rotsinger

CIS... KGB!

Privet Comrades!

The Ka-tet has broken, and I've been left hiding behind a bookshelf in the back of a bar in the Baltics, bullets in my ears, waiting for my papers to come through. Oh, my friends, Romans, and countrymen, a time it was, and what a time it was! I have a photograph...

Prague was a dream, a great warbling dream. Sleepy days and restless nights. Rain and sunshine. Wine and water, water and wine. The only vocal approximation I could make of my time in the Czech Republic would be a string of fluid, ululating syllables - impossible to transpose, and too embarrassing to be heard on public radio. Decency, my dears.

Poland, where I birthdayed, drew us under its membranous, bat like wings; hid us from reality a while longer, though the wings were transparent, and shadows drew along our vision. Krakow was a languorous shoulder massage. Warsaw, a numbing shot in the arm.

Lithuania shocked us with it's brashness, and with it's Cili Pica. O Vilnius, you great comic-book villain, where are your charms? Your people? Your life? All I saw was Frank Zappa's head and a handful of dust. But O! Do you remember? When I blew that dust into the air, it glittered like the snowflakes in a shake-up Christmas globe, at least until the dream-charged dust settled back onto the tear-stained cobblestones. And you ask me how I can write about sand? You tell me I know nothing of it? Sand and dust are always at my belt - I blind myself with them. Tell me, have I never given you cause to rub your eyes?

And now, I'm sick. Lungs, head, nose, stomach. It's all there, they're just not working right. Balloon-headed, I'm bouncing about Riga, Lats in my pocket, whiskey (and Amarula! praise be to ye gods!) in my backpack, and a lot of time to kill. Should I head into the belly of the beast, the former CCCP? Or, ferry myself across the great Baltic sea into Sweden? Navigate the mass of trains and buses to Tallinn? Slowly creep back South into the Ukraine? I'm at a waystation, pardners. Lots of doors. Lots of paths. Got any suggestions?

Thomas, I'll be in Bulgaria in a bit. I'll let you know a few days in advance. Still up for the beach? Get ahold of Sidekick girl. She's going to help you sort the flat situation. Even if the one we discussed isn't kosher, see if you can't sort something out, eh? Tim, time is most definitely not on my side. There's little chance I can make it down anywhere near Greece during that window. I ran into an iron curtain. Still, anything can happen... Skopje at the end of your trip perhaps? To the rest of you, my brain's as full of words as ever, but there's a liter of snot plugging them in there, so I must bow (with a hanky poised to avoid the inevitable loss of charisma), and say goodday.

With a bullet, a bribe, and a back-up plan,

Aaron Rotsinger

Dobry den, again, again

I rumbled out of Romania last night. From the sleepy little town of Sighisoara, I crept across rural Transylvania, bounding between the backs of the mighty Carpathians, sweeping through the gypsy camps and medieval villiages dotting the hillsides, and bouncing over the border to Hungary, the land of the Torma.

I never felt safe in Romania. The gypsies, however, were the least of my worries (although on one occasion, I had to throw cigarettes at a pack of them to cover my escape). The dogs were the source of my fear. An English woman warned me, "if you meet a pack of wild dogs on the hillside, be careful, cause they might maim and kill you." So, when I met a pack of wild dogs on the hillside the next day, I was careful to avoid the fulfillment of her prophecy. And, I'm happy to say, my quizzical compatriots, that I have all my limbs and digits firmly intact. I did, however, feel like a pencil lead in a giant maze. Turn first alley, dogs say no. Retrace steps. Find new passage, again, blocked by dogs. Retrace. There was only 1 path back to the hostel, and after a bit of trial and error, my posse and I found it. Bucharest bore me, Brasov and Sighisoara undid me. (If anyone understands that, I'll buy you an Efes or a jug of Old Scrumpy).

The truth of the matter is that I found Romania, for the most part, boring. I would've liked to have had a car there (gasp!). The charms of Romania, of which there are many, I'm sure, tend to lay off the beaten track (even more so than mountain villiages in the Carpathians). I constantly felt like I wanted to set off in some random direction, find a crumbling little villiage, and have a picnic. But, alas, the dogs and gypsys made that impossible by foot. Oh, I had great times there, sitting in the swimming pool with John, watching the ravens circle the old town square in Brasov, drinking 2 litre bottles of cheap Romanian beer over goulash and cabbage pies. However, at times, the whole country seemed antagonistic to me - trying to steal my money, bite my ankles, and stand between myself, and that which I love. That's you, you Slavs, don't be coy.

Hungary is/was/will always be a different story. Eastern Europe it may be, but crossing that border felt like re-entering the civilized world. And, I was surprised to see how much more Westernized it had become in the 4 years since my last visit. Spent this afternoon in Budapest, soaking in the mineral baths in the park before bidding adieu to Kha and George and coasting across the vast Hungarian plains to Bratislava. Oh, you Slavs. You funny little Slavs, I love you. You missed me too, didn't you? Say it. Go on, don't be shy...

So, it's not Prague, not yet, but I still get a dobry den when I skip down the street, a prosim when I sweep up my change, and the trams still say (Priste zastavka...). Thomas, please refrain from correcting my spelling. Diky moc. And, while I've got you in the paragraph, I'll be there Saturday afternoonish. I've got to check the train schedule, but I know I'm only about four hours away! Exciting, innit? And you, quid dicere debeo? hicne legere debes? basia mille tibi... For the rest of you, only basia centa. You'll have to come to Prague to pick up the other 900.

Forever your pair of ragged claws,

Aaron Rotsinger

Sic transit gloria mundi!

O my scattered, smothered, chunked, topped and diced companions,

Rejoice, for I have found a Waffle House in Istanbul! Ah, but a little caution is advised, for copyright laws form the punch lines to many jokes in this city of back alleys and sly smiles, and imitation only seldom surpasses the original. Waffles are fashionable among the middle-class Turks, and the forward-thinking (but oft cloud-gazing) Turks prefer English names nearly as much as simplicity, so Waffle Houses are aplenty here. But, O wary traveler, they share nothing more than an appelation with the greasy pit-stop we all hold so dear.

Yet, alas! A true Waffle House seems to exist, albeit on the foreign shores of Bebek, so far from my world in geography and culture that we may as well not inhabit the same city. Yet, as a testament to the varying levels of sludge that capitalism flings across the world, I can promise each and every one of you a night out drinking on two different continents, followed by a triple order of hash browns and a diluted Waffle House (tm) coffee in the morning. All for only the price of a return ticket to this Queen of Cities, this Whore of Kingdoms, Istanbul!

Unfortunately, however, you'll have to wait until the season shifts, for with the devil's own luck, I'll be crawling out of this tangle of thorns by Bosfor Ekpresı, and resting my pinions on the sparkling sands of Bulgaria's Black Sea resort in oft-overlooked Varna, home of the 75 kuruş shot of tequila (O my long lost friend).

For ten months I have been curling in a corner of a dilapidated office building, scrubbing mold off my walls, chasing cockroaches out the front door. For ten months I have suffered the indignities of mad Turkish businessmen, of mealy-mouthed landlords, of donkey-meat durums. For ten months I have slipped from pub to pub, glided from kebapcı to kebapcı, twirled from crumbling church to ruined mosque. For Ten Months I have been bereft of refrigerator, bathtub, and washing-machine, of comfort, purpose, and inspiration, of life, death, and only the brief stumble of innocence in between has roused me from my sweat-stained matress on tentative mornings.

And in seven days, on a soft July night, I will escape by Midnight Express, with the brightest jewel in this zirconia-encrusted empire secreted away in my belt-pouch. What will you do, O Istanbul, when you find I've stolen your treasure? Will your buildings tremble? Will your foundations shake? Will your adhaans become wails and your imams tear their clothes? Or will you even notice? Non omne quod nitet aurum est. And you never could tell the difference. But for me, perception is the only reality.

O Prague, you city-that-is-not-a-city, roll out your old Communist carpets, stock up your herna bars, and brush those German tourists aside, for in a few short weeks, I'll be returning to your sticky lipstick kisses, marching up Karlov Most, and snatching the crown from your head, if only for a short while. This time, there will be sparks, and there will be fire, and I will lovingly ground your embers into dust with the heel of my best boots. It will hurt, O my city, but it will be the sweet bite of pleasure, not pain, that makes you gasp as I wind my fingers into your ringlets and snap your head back in passion.

The islands are calling me, and the shores are far away. Good morning and good night, depending on your proximity to the sun.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

Ne Mutlu Türküm Diyene

A big Merhaba to you all,

I hope this finds you all in good health, and, more importantly, stylish trousers.

There is a saying here - Ne Mutlu Türküm Diyene - He is happy who can call himself a Turk. And, O my befuddled patriots, compatriots, and expatriates, I am pleased to announce that tomorrow, I will be halfway happy. I have applied and been accepted for a residence permit! Admittedly, the only requirements are that you can spell your parents' names and have a wad of cash in your pocket. Still, the resulting advantages of this momentous event are that I can now place utilities in my own name, and I don't have to stammer at the border patrol officers every three months, explaining that my inveterate love for Turkey is the sole explanation for the growing pile of tourist visas in my now-abused passport.

O you rag-tag tatter of tenement housing and kebap shops, I can now truly call you home!

Why would I want to do this, you ask? Am I not satisfied with my quarto-annual sojourns into Bulgaria, the land of cheap beer and hearty pork? Ah, on the contrary. Nothing pleases me more than shouting a big Na sdravi to my northern neighbor. No, the motivation for my quest for legal residence has been a job offer by Isik University. I have been wooed, courted, and am now betrothed to a fine Institution of Higher Education, nestled in the hills and forests, overlooking the Black Sea. A private beach, free lunches, and my very own desk have lured me away from the cheap whore that is English Time toward the slightly more dignified (and much more perfumed) Lady Isik.

After doing some research and talking to some veterans, I have discovered a loophole in the Turkish immigration laws that allows anyone who can legally claim residence to change the status of their visa within the country. This has, inshallah, saved me the price of a plane ticket, the inconvenience of a much-unwelcome holiday in America, and the psychological damage of air travel. Now, if it all works out as easy as it sounds...

In other news, my contract at English Time ends in 3 weeks. This leaves me a full 2 months until my new job begins, appropriately, on September 11th. I welcome any and all of you to come explore some isolated, impoverished, and most likely, incredibly dangerous countries with me (Ukraine, Moldova, Romania, etc.) While most of you would shudder at a holiday in the former Eastern bloc in the same way that I shudder at Middle America, if you would like to drown in cheap vodka and chug around in rotting Communist-era trains, I invite you along.

I apologize for the brief update, but the hour is late, and I've a big, recently-vacated bed to stretch myself out into. Give my love to anyone who deserves it. But remember, my standards are a lot higher than yours, so be sparing.

With an individual bow to each of you, I bid you adieu! Hosca kal! Dobry vecer!

Forever dancing on the backs of broken Empires,
Aaron

Workers of the World, Unite!

I was bored. (So many of my stories start like this, don't they?). Bored with Istanbul. Bored with my school. Bored with my students. And bored with the other teachers, especially. By the way, I had always thought that TEFL would draw the most interesting, liberal, and openminded people. Well, it doesn't. It draws the most socially awkward, alcoholic, schizophrenic people. Seriously, everyone leaves home for a reason. Mine were (you may argue this point) political and cultural. However, most people's are psychological. Can't get a girlfriend? Move to Istanbul. Can't afford to go out drinking in your home country? Move to Istanbul. Can't develop friendships in your home country because everyone speaks your language and knows you're a dumbass? Move to Istanbul...

Every night, I returned home at 10:30 after teaching all day, sat in front of the computer for a couple of hours, then laid down in bed, stared at the celing and thought, "Well, that's one more day that's been ticked off of the painfully small abacus of my life. Someday relatively soon, I'll be dead, and while that will be no great tragedy to the world, I can't help but be a little bothered by it. [sniff, sniff]" Kinda sounds like my life in Dayton, doesn't it?

Well, yeah. I have learned this year that your problems are your problems. You can forget about them by running around the world, doing interesting things and meeting interesting people, but when the money runs out, when you're forced back into real life - that's where you're at. You're yourself... And what I've learned about myself is that I'm addicted to opportunities. That's what it's all about. That's why I have trouble spending money. That's why I have trouble staying with girls. That's why I always dream about traveling. Decisions restrict. Comfort restricts. Stability restricts. And for me, at least at this point in my life, I really, really don't want to feel restricted.

So, to that end, I broke up with Emily. "But you're the asshole with the problem!" several of you just shouted. Yeah, well, life ain't fair. My life was a sinking ship, and I'm not the kind of guy who lets the women and children off first. Uh-uh. I'm more likely to throw a couple donkey punches, jump in the lifeboat, and laugh all the way to the nearest utopian desert island. Think I'm a schmuck?

Well, so did everyone here. For the first few weeks, at least, I was the resident asshole at English Time. The usually-tittering level 1 girls began to scowl at me when I walked by. I got the cold shoulder from the other teachers. In fact, the only people who would really talk to me were Altug (a very un-Turkish Turkish man) and Duygu (the prototypical Turkish girl, who easily makes all other Turkish girls look like twisted accidents). However, Emily's sullenness lasted for only a short week. She very quickly passed the rejection, overcame the betrayal, and used those wits of hers we all love to say, "You know what, Aaron? This was a damn good idea. Our relationship sucked, and it was getting in the way of something much more important - our friendship." And to that sentiment, we've been raising our glasses of Efes ever since. At this point, Emily's and my lives were instantly transformed for the awesome.

Suddenly, a world of possibilites that had always existed, but had been hidden by our constitutional lethargy, was opened before us, and we spared only a few moments to stamp our feet on the ground before we raced off into the bright, Istanbul sunshine. Emily made a lot of friends. She started going dancing a lot. She became far more outgoing, more social, and more entertaining, somehow without losing that endearing quality that separates her from the droves of other chattering balls of insecurity. She very quickly recaptured that spark of wonderment that makes her friends (in which number I am honored to count myself) feel like they're the most important people in the world. She is, again, the author of her own destiny, and to those of you who are lucky enough to be written amongst her pages, I say "Congratulations!"

As for me, my life got interesting too. A whirlwind romance quickly developed between me and that incomparable beauty, Duygu. I don't know how it happened, but as we were standing on the top of the island, Buyukada, staring across the Sea of Marmara at The City, her face began to look more and more like the sun, and mine, the sea. And at sunset, when the two met, it was as if the real world no longer existed. The darkness that spread across Kadikoy served only to hide life's ugly reality from our suddenly sensitive eyes.

But her boyfriend didn't like that...

See, this is Turkey, right? Well, this girl was practically engaged to a guy who had been going to University in the south of Turkey for the last 4 years. I very quickly found out that: 1) He was just finishing medical school. 2) He was rich. 3) He was moving to Istanbul in 3 weeks to claim her, marry her, and whisk her off into a world of garden parties and sun dresses. So, I laid on the charm, O my faithful audience. I pulled out all the stops. I played all of my cards (and in the right order, too!). We spent the most incredible 3 weeks together. There were no garden parties, but there were numerous late night walks, fancy dinners, glasses of red wine, and even a dance under a streetlight! Yes, my friends, I was Richard Gere and she was Julia Roberts, only hot. I would have won an Oscar for my role, believe me... Except that the Turks don't know how to appreciate a good love story, unless it has a tragic ending. Every movie, song, and novel that gets produced in this country ends in infidelity, cancer, or untimely death.

I don't know how this one's going to end, except that it doubt it will be good... The boyfriend is here, and last I heard, she had left him. [applause] However, I won't see her for about a week, as her and Dr. Caglar have some bonding or something to do before he puts his tail between his legs and returns to Mersin, where he can frequent his garden parties, wifeless.

Sounds good, doesn't it? Sounds like I won? Yeah, well, as I see it, there are 2 possible endings to this story. 1) Caglar leaves, and Duygu decides that she will have some fun with her newly acquired freedom, vomiting up 4 1/2 years of repressed sexuality on an unsuspecting Istanbul (and making my life hell in the process). or, perhaps worse: 2) Duygu decides that she truly loves me, sends Caglar packing, and figures that since she left her rich doctor fiancee for me, I had better well marry her. This ends in a midnight border run for Bulgaria, or Turkish babies, neither of which is particularly appealing to me... This, my friends, is Turkey...

In other news, my contract is finishing in two months. I will have put away a bit in the bank by that time, which I will use to fund a 2 month long sojourn into the great Northeast (I think). Last November, the Ukrainian government decided to scrap the visa rules for Americans, so I can easily jump on a frieghter here in Istanbul and end up in Odessa the next morning. From there, it's only a short train ride up to Moscow and St. Petersburg, from which I intend to continue exploring the region by hitting up Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, finally settling back in Prague for a month, licking my wounds (and hopefully getting some fresh ones).

After Prague, who knows? The money to be made here in Istanbul is practically endless. I'm going through a round of interviews at universities right now, but unfortunately, they all require me to have a valid work visa (which means returning to the US to pick it up). Eeeek. Not really an option. So, I'm thinking about coming back here, doing some part-time work, and picking up some private students. In any event, that will result in my having a kick-ass flat next year (sharing with Thomas, my old roomate from Prague, and a cracking guy!), so if I end up here again, and you visit, you won't freeze on the floor of an unfurnished office building (sorry Ron!)

If after reading this, you still think I'm an asshole, I won't argue. But I'm a happy asshole. And if I traded my comfort for your approval, I'd be a terrible human being (but a good American). Good night, my slightly smarting patriots! My name is Aaron, king of kings! Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair! Happy May 1st. Hope the immigrants are kicking ass over there!

I Am Just an Ordinary Guy...

Yes, I burned down the house...

Well... Sort of...

I've told you all that our apartment is dodgy. I've told you all that the electric is dangerous. Well, I told my landlord too, but, eh, this is Turkey...

Monday morning, I woke up, feeling quite good, actually, and stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. We very rarely take showers these days because the significantly-less-than-hot water comes out in a thin stream, capable only of warming a breast or a buttock, while the rest of the body has no succor from the biting, below-zero cold of our bathroom. See, you have to understand Turkish showers... Instead of putting a hot water heater in a house, which would be far too convenient and therefore, unnecessary, they have only cold water in many houses. So they stick a little plastic box inside the shower which quickly heats the sub-arctic water flowing through your pipes. I mean, imagine that... They put a plastic box that chugs 7000 watts a second inside your shower!

Anyhow, on this particular morning, the water was even colder than usual, but since I hadn't showered in about 4 days, I felt obliged to my students to step in anyhow. Well, after about three minutes under the icy fountain, Emily began screaming and running around the house. Startled, I dashed out of the shower, naked, (semi-relieved to find any excuse to turn off that sadly insufficient stream) and threw open the bathroom door... Yep, the house was on fire...

Our shower, which is potentially the least safe electronic device in the world, and our electric system, which has potentially the least safe wiring in the world, joined forces on Monday, and the result was a smoldering pile of plastic and leather. Straight underneath our main electric line (which was just a hole in the wall with several dubious looking wires stuffed inside) was a plastic shoe rack. And a telephone. The wires apparently burst into flames, and the coating on the wires dripped down onto the rack, which promptly caught on fire.

Seeing this, I ran into the bedroom, grabbed a blanket, and instead of doing the smart thing, which would have been to beat the fire out with it, I whipped it around my wet, naked body, shuffled outside, and began screaming "Help!" Mary Ann quickly joined in. Emily, on the other hand, kept the cat (we were catsitting) safe, while collecting water from the kitchen and dousing the fire.

Soon, a nice man from downstairs showed up with a blanket with which he wasn't covering his genitals, and quickly beat the fire out... Of course, I still had to go to work. But, I soon noticed that my shoes had... melted... So, while Mary Ann was calling people, and Emily was (of course) taking the cat to a safe place, I was wrapping plastic bags around my feet. I then stuffed my feet into my slippers and trudged down the street with Mary Ann holding my arm, our faces smeared with soot, laughing and hobbling (because the plastic bags kept tripping me, and I kept falling down) past throngs of gawking Turks. Of course, the first thing my boss said was, "Why you teaching in plastic bags, mate? You lost it?"

It took us a full day of arguing, 2 Turkish friends, 3 electricians, and a full pot of tea, but we finally got our landlord to agree to pay for the damages. Well, not our shoes, or our telephone... But he's putting in a new shower that is less likely to kill us, and new wires, which are more likely to form a safe, meaningful relationship with our shower. In the end, I still wince everytime I press an "on" button, and I won't shower if I'm alone in the house, but other than that, it's just like home :)

International Ataturk!

So, I'm sitting in an airport right now. (I know, I know, it's kind of like a vampire going to mass, but here I am.) I'm waiting for Ron, whose flight has been delayed a couple of hours due to the HORRIBLE PERVERSION OF GRAVITY THAT IS AIR TRAVEL... Or weather...

Emily's beside me, reading about the bird flu. Apparently there are 11 suspected cases in Istanbul right now, but that's probably not correct for 2 reasons: 1) Right now it's Kurban Bayram, which is kind of like Christmas. People are visiting their relatives, and probably more inclined to wait until after Bayram to go to the hospital. 2) Right now it's Kurban Bayram, which is kind of like Rambo. People are slaughtering sheep and cows by the thousands in designated "slaughter zones," which one would think would quickly become breeding grounds of disease, bird flu and otherwise. The WHO assures us that there is still no human to human transmission. As long as you don't play with chicken heads (not uncommon, two children have already died from this), or have sex with chickens (not common, but hey... it happens), you shouldn't be at risk.

On an interesting side note, apparently in one of the eastern villiages, a man had sex with his neighbor's chicken, so the neighbor shot and killed him. Of course, it was a terrible tragedy. The police came, whisked the neighbor off, and... gave him a pat on the back. That's right, the neighbor was heralded as a hero for protecting his village from the bird flu. Go figure.

In any event, I'm not so worried about the bird flu. Of course, I've been shying away from pigeons lately, but my daily life is pretty much not affected. However, if they give the official human to human transmission call, I'm heading north to Siberia a bit early.

In other news, I went to Greece last month. Alexandroupolis. A little port city, 44 km from the Turkish border. Unfortunately, it was St. Something-or-Other's day, so everything was closed, other than the liquor stores. Oh, yeah, it felt good to be back in Europe, where they have their priorities straight! Actually, it was nice to be there for a couple of days. Parks. Clean streets. Quiet. However, it was pretty boring. We sipped horrendously overpriced Cappuccinos with the nouveau riche EU citizens, and gawked at the identity-less little town, which could easily have been a trendy holiday villiage in Northern Michigan. Has capitalist cultural egalitarianism really spread this far? And is the EU nothing more than a willing vessel?

Well, the point is, when I returned to Istanbul, I found out exactly how much I appreciated it. It's dirty, crooked, polluted, and often infurating, but, damnit, it's got character. As our hotel train wound through the suburbs, and I was stuffing the pillows, blankets, and ashtrays into my luggage (Hey, it's everybody for himself in this country), I felt like I was coming home. And that my bed would be a lot more comfortable....

This feeling was intensified after Thomas, my old roomate from Prague, visited last week. He came down for about 12 days, over Christmas and New Years (which the Turks call Christmas. Interestingly enough, they have lights, trees, and all the trappings that come with Christmas, but they celebrate it on December 31st, and it has nothing to do with anything. Many of them don't even know who Christ was, and Santa Claus, who was actually born in Turkey, doesn't even appear on their Coca-Cola products in December!)

During that time, Em and I got to be the hosts and tour guides, and as a result, we had to condense all the pleasant things in Istanbul into 2 weeks, and to keep Thomas away from the discomforts. As a result, we realized that we really do love this city... At least, parts of it. Istanbul just isn't as immediately appreciable as Prague, Paris, or London. It takes time to grow on you, infect you, cover you in a thin, but strikingly visible, layer of grime, then weasel its tentacle-like ovaries inside you and lay its eggs, at which point you become a carrier, showing no symptoms, but capable of infecting others...

Come visit me in Istanbul....

It's wonderful....

We all float down here...