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 :)