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