Epiphany

That little inner me just declared that I am free.....

Name Two Things

Two things that come to mind when Portland, Oregon is mentioned? Books and beer, of course. This hasty pic was snapped at The Brooklyn Pub. x

Pesticide vs. Boing Boing

    Shortly after we moved to Hungary, an industrial accident occured in Veszprém county, western Hungary. Presumably a wet European summer had helped create and exacerbate a rupture in the waste reservoir wall of an aluminum plant. After the wall burst, one million cubic meters of caustic sludge, in the form of a brick red mud, flooded the area at half-past midnight on October 4th, 2010, coating nearby towns with a host of processing by-products, colorful but poisonous oxides, (including a calcium oxide, coincidentally, called "portlandite") which gave the slurry its painterly hue.
  The featured photo above was taken by Spanish artist Palindromo Meszaros and is part of a series called "The Line".  It is a striking photo and a fine visual example of those seemingly diametrically opposed concepts, beauty and disaster.
  One of my favorite blogs, the techno/culture/art site Boing Boing, featured this photo on one of its recent posts. Pesticide soon picked up on the post and responded, in a way, with the following headline, which was as snarky as expected:
"Foreign Hipsters Mesmerized by Beauty of Hungarian 'Red Sludge' Disaster"

  Both Pesticide and Boing Boing are two of my most read blogs, so this snide distillation of Boing Boing on the part of my belovedly Hungarian flavored Pesticide is kind of delighful. It is a privilege to admire the ironic beauty of someone else's disaster. You can be sure the people who suffered through the red sludge spill find little beauty there, even in Meszaros' cleverly aligned photographs. Other sides, once again.

Links to both articles: http://www.pestiside.hu/20120717/foreign-hipsters-mesmerized-by-beauty-of-hungarian-red-sludge-disaster/

http://boingboing.net/2012/07/11/trees-stained-by-a-toxic-spill.html

Doors Between Worlds

It takes quite a while for my own self-imposed rules to settle in and get comfortable. About a year ago I made a rule for myself. I promised myself I would never write when I was feeling too emotionally raw or when my typical mental simmer threatens to boil over.
   For a while that rule felt at home. That rule wore the fucking pants as far as writing was concerned. Tonight, that rule is curled up in a corner sucking its thumb while my id indulges in all out mania. Thing is, I feel so ready to boil over, I think it's necessary for me to spill a little bit here on this blog, now officially in transition, just like me and my family. I'm hoping it will also help mop up some of the mess.
  I'm raw right now. Raw as rug burn. I feel surrounded by doors that won't open, keyless or simply unable to be opened. Something will happen. Some door will open and I fear what might be on the other side. Other sides...it's a motif in my puny little life these days.

The Other Side

The Other Side always looks burnished and bursting with promise. The Other Side seems to be holding out its dear, strong arms to embrace you when you finally reach it.
  Well. The Other Side is beautiful, but it is as complex and imperfect as the place from which you long for it.
  I'm basically happy to be back in Portland. This city, for me, was The Other Side for quite a while. And it truly is a wonderful place and I look forward to giving life to some of those rosy intentions I nursed like pupae before we moved back here. I think, since I've always been an American, the culture shock for a returning expat is not a shock at all but perhaps better described as "alternative culture acclimation process". I was asked several times, three days after returning to Portland, what the culture shock was like. At the time I said, "what culture shock? It's just great to be back". A few days later, I felt myself longing for a walk across the Margit Bridge at night all alone... the warm, buttery sounds of Hungarian rising from the street below, through the giant windows of our urban flat.I had to blink back the tears when thinking about how the dusky, February sky glowed coral pink over Orszaghaz as large, green ice floes cruised under the bridge, heading south down the Danube. Yesterday, I had a passionate, private, full-on bout of crying as I thought about my favorite kavehaz in Vizivaros, just across the bridge in Buda. Current practical and logistical hurdles aside, both of which have much to do with my mercurial state, I expect I will long for Budapest in this way for at least as long as I lived there. Right now, Budapest is The Other Side...I know many will be a bit surprised to know this. A Hungarian might say, "well, you just can't understand, you never will be Hungarian." Well, I never was and never will be Hungarian but I don't need to be to  feel a painful love, a love of a very Hungarian variety for the place right now .However, as many Hungarians know, the pleasure is most likely worth the pain. We shall see for this American.

What The Hell Do YOU Do

  I love my tutoring sessions with Zoli and Eszter. They are roughly my age, smart, thoughtful, and fairly hip. Our sessions consist of discussing a different topic every meeting. I come up with something and write down about twenty questions about that topic for them to answer. Yes, I get paid to play twenty questions.
  It's not easy for an American to "get in" with a crowd of Hungarians. Fair weather friendships do not fly here and that word, "friend" carries a hell of a lot more weight than it does in the facebookly world of mass produced, fast food  American acquaintances.
  We talked about the term "breaking the ice" when it comes to conversation with people we have just met. Zoli chuckled when he heard this term. He likes it, it fits. I asked both of them a couple of ice breakers... what's your favorite book? Seen any good movies lately? Can you recommend a good restaurant? How often to you ride public transortation without a pass?
  I eventually asked which subjects are taboo in casual conversation. The usual subjects were mentioned, religion, age, politics, all of which come up despite their sensitivity. I asked, "What is the first thing you might say to someone when you first meet them, if you want to get a conversation going?" Both Zoli and Eszter admit to feeling uncomfortable with meeting new people in social (as opposed to work) situations.
  Eszter answered, "It's usually the weather. Always the weather."
   I told them that in the U.S., many people will ask where you are from. This makes sense in a big country like the U.S.A. where people shuffle around from state to state. As Zoli said, in Hungary, "this is not so important. We are from the same place."
  I then asked them, "How would you feel if a new acquaintance asked you what your job is? Or, more specifically, 'What do you do?'  Is that appropriate? In the U.S. that is a very common first question."
  Without hesitation, Zoli said, "No. That would be a very inconsiderate question. Too personal and...and..." Zoli snapped his fingers lightly as he tried to come up with the right word.
"Invasive?" I offered.
"Yes..that's right," he answered.  Eszter agreed.
  The discussion then turned to that question and why it is inappropriate. I admitted to them as I admit to you now that I have always hated that question. I get slightly angry whenever I am asked. I feel as if it is a challenge, or a request that I justify my existence on this earth. In other words, how much are you worth? Your answer to this question determines how I will think of you, talk to you, treat you after this first meeting.
  Call them pessimistic, call them dour, but you cannot call Hungarians insincere or shallow. They are master bullshit detectors and do not suffer phony fools. I love this about the Hungarian people. I discover on an almost daily basis that I have more in common with them than I know.
  Next time someone asks me what I do, I will say that I do a lot of things. I garden, read, cook, bake, write, ride my bike, love my family (the fuzzy ones as well as the human ones). Sometimes I eat too much, sometimes I dance around my apartment when I'm alone.
  Having said this, I do hope to find gainful employment upon my return, but I never want whatever that is define me as a human being. Let it be known that I and everyone else on this earth are more than their goddamned net worth or formal education. As Americans, we should have learned by now that tax bracket does not determine intelligence, kindness, goodness, or personal value. Go ahead and be proud of your achievements, but remember that you can't take it with you and that it's the kind of person you are that will make the lasting impressions. Humanity over that funky dollar bill. The Hungarians know this and have for a long time.



  

Representing

  Hungary, as she stands now, is a very conservative country. Some of this conservatism is downright backassward, really, so when events like the one pictured above take place, I feel the need to make it known, celebrate a little bit.
  This is a photo of an anti-racism, anti-homophobia, anti-Horthy cult demonstration that took place yesterday. It was taken by a young photographer whose mission is to document the history of his city.

To read about Orpheush and his photography, follow these links:
http://orpheush.tumblr.com/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/orpheush

https://www.facebook.com/Orpheushphoto/info

Just what is the Horthy cult? The term refers to the regained popularity of Horthy Miklós Admiral, among the extreme right wing here in Hungary.  Horthy served in the Austro-Hungarian navy and also served as regent of Hungary during WWII. It was he who allied with the Nazis in an attempt to regain what Hungary had lost in the Treaty of Trianon. He led a period of White Terror in Hungary at that time and was an open anti-Semite. Recently, a few Hungarian villages have been erecting statues of Horthy Miklós in heroic memoriam.
  You can read more about this here : http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/right-wing-extremists-cultivate-horthy-cult-in-hungary-a-836526.html

Castles Made of Sand

  It's the beginning of the end of our time in Budapest.  Today, I said goodbye to my great friend Debra, the one person (aside from my boyz), who has been a beloved constant for the past two years. I really hate saying goodbye. I'm no good at it, face to face, feel awkward and a bit silly. Inevitably, the reality hits me after the fact and I have myself a good cry.
  So I did that today, just a little while ago. After a teary purge I'm left feeling philosophical and this evening's rumination was about the transitory nature of damn near everything, how you can't live a static life and expect to actually live as opposed to merely existing. Pain comes with risk taking, especially when it comes to friendships. We take a risk, open up to a person, actually connect with them, begin to love them, and they become a true friend. When you hit the jackpot of a true, solid friendship, it's always worth the pain of leaving that friend one day or having that friend leave you.
  The great friendship still exists even when the void of a person's absence seems capable of swallowing you whole. Each time I have left a place, I've cried from the pain of that void. It's good...it means I'm alive and capable of love. And the friendships are still there....all of those dear people I'm so happy to know and adore, they are still out there in the world and that alone makes me feel better.
  If there's one life lesson that has been driven home during my time in Hungary, it has been that nothing lasts and that things change because they must. Static deadens and kills. It's best to brace oneself for for the pain that goes with the gain, learn to like it even.
  The classic Jimi Hendrix tune filled my head during my latest bout with that pain. Its message is more Hungarian than American and it is oddly comforting. Brace yourself for the change, become friends with the pain because everything melts into the sea, eventually.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBmr97VIVQc

Honeyed Evening

  It's very humid in Budapest now. Last week's thunderstorms are still with us, in the air. Somewhere, a night blooming shrub or tree is releasing its perfume and the evening heavy evening air smells like honey. Probably one of the plants in the garden bar downstairs. A thick schmear of honey. I'm hoping some of it will glide in through the big, open windows.

One Day, Two Viennas

 A couple of weeks ago, my great pal Tara came all the way from the High Desert of central Oregon to spend time with us.  She truly blessed our mess and I miss her still, but it won't be long before we are both Oregonians once more.
  One of the things I most enjoy about hosting friends in Budapest is watching how the place affects them. This may be a slightly sadistic tendency, knowing how moving here has affected me. I get a perverse kick out of witnessing the transformation of the psyche, however subtle and temporary that metamorphosis may be. Regardless, long term visitors walk away with distinct and sometimes disconcerting impressions of this place. I guess these transformations, good or bad, are why some humans like to travel, enjoy some alone time away from that warm (and worn) blankie called the comfort zone. I believe it is impossible to have a tepid opinion of Budapest. One can certainly have a love/hate relationship with the city, but no one finds it less than fascinating in one way or another.
    Tara Sobrio is a yogi and an incredibly intuitive one at that. She picks up vibes and moods, makes note of postures and the way a person's limbs hang from a chair while they are sitting. These things say a lot about someone ( and collectively, the culture at large) and Tara is talented at interpreting them.  I looked forward to her impressions. She reads people more accurately, more humanely, more sincerely than anyone else I know.
  I don't think she had been in this country for half an hour before those impressions began to form dramatically. We took the blue line metro from the airport back to our flat (station is a two mintute walk away) The typical afternoon commuter's doom and gloom on that fifteen minute ride was heavy and palpable...I imagined it quivering like a heat wave above our heads. I thought I could see the moment when Tara first felt this melancholy that wasn't hers. Stepping off of the metro, I said with a grim smile, "Could you not feel it?" She most definitely did.


  A couple of days into her visit, Tara commented about the way many Hungarians carry themselves, particularly the elderly and, of course, the drunk. Slouchy, a skeleton turning in on itself, as if hiding one's heart away.. This posture is the physical manifestation of the  stereotypically national mood...hunched over from labor, closed off for fear of exploitation, bitterness that life has to be this way.
  I have become accustomed to it, without even noticing the change. I relate to it in a way, admire people even for not cluelessly and constantly wearing a  cloying mask of optimism. Of course, people are much more complicated than mere stereotypes and the longer I live here, the less I feel I actually know about that tangled, tortured web known as the Hungarian psyche. My own cynicism has only intensified and the few times I do forget where I am and let slip a casual smile aimed at a person who meets that smile with a confused expression and knitted brow, I'm not hurt, angry, or even a bit surprised.  I've just kind of accepted it, grown a callous of sorts to this behavior.  Whether or not this is a good or bad thing remains to be seen, although my gut tells me all of this is ultimately beneficial.
  Before Tara arrived, I had anticipated a yin to the yang of Budapest might eventually be in order. A sort of tonic. I'd considered Bratislava, but I'd never been before and while that city is developing its own quirky, lovable reputation (Some folks wanted to name a recently completed bridge after Chuck Norris), I also knew it would not be different enough from Budapest.
  Vienna was the obvious choice. Classy and close by.
  I knew before Tara came to visit that I wanted her to be able to compare and contrast Budapest with Vienna. A visit to that city, on the edge of western Europe and a three hour train ride away, would be just the thing to shake the pall a person can acquire after a week in Budapest.
  I told Tara that Vienna was remarkably different than Budapest even if the cities were once quite similar. The Viennese seem happier, more likely to return a smile from a stranger, more likely to have better  posture.Yes, even the average Austrian seems lighthearted, not something the Germanic people are known for, compared to the average Hungarian. This difference has much to do with Vienna's comparatively good fortune, having weathered Europe's turbulence over the past century to the point of becoming one of the continent's most liveable cities. Both cities are beautiful, but Vienna is the more pragmatic (yet somehow more open to change and different ideas), tidier sister who got her shit together early on. Budapest is still suffering from crappy choices made in the past, still nursing an authoritarian hang over, plodding into the unknown future on what seems to be a long, slow walk of shame. Budapest, she's my dear, tragic friend. Vienna, well, she's my secret crush who is way out of my league.
  Tuesday morning we took the bus to Keleti railway station to purchase our tickets and hop on a Railjet. The great thing about purchasing a return ticket from Budapest to Vienna  is that for a few extra forint, your ticket will carry a city public transportation endorsement for three days. Public transpo is already dirt cheap in Vienna (probably the only thing that is in that city) but free is even better. Our plan was....well, there was no real plan, only to take the metro to Stephansplatz, and then to emerge within the Schloss Ring section of the Ringstrasse, where the big gothic church dominates a bustling, historic part of the city. This was the only part of Vienna that I was familiar with. Not only is Mozart's home within walking distance of the U3 stop, the elegantly clipped and pollarded garden that sprawls in front of the Hofburg is also close by...perfect place for two people, with little money in an expensive city, to spend a little quality time.
   Although I'd seen the outskirts in passing from the window of a train, somehow I still maintained an image of Vienna in its entirety to be similar to the innards of Schloss Ring. Have I learned nothing about the seduction of central European "centrum", how they manage to convince foreigners, if temporarily, that every part of any given city is gorgeously baroque and reeking of history and teeming with happy locals?
  We arrived at Westbanhoff railway station around two in the afternoon and took the U3 to the church...people were actually giggling on the metro, and there was no sense of subtle menace one can sense at any given time on any given form of public transpo in Budapest. Also noted: no audibly juicy, public make out sessions.
  We emerged right beneath the two Romanesque towers of St. Stephan's cathedral (the structure displays both Gothic and Romanesque styles) and after taking in the scene, exploring the streets and shop windows for a bit, began to seek out a good place for coffee.

  The Viennese café scene is, of course, something an American visitor must indulge in. No huge thrills or fanfare, just a chance to slow down, enjoy conversation, (or solitude if you prefer) indulge in a basic, sensual pleasure for its own sake. I'm not so sure Americans are very good at this kind of  humble, benign escapism. The trouble was not in finding a place, it was in choosing from the dozens upon dozens of options. I wanted to return to the Prince Coffee Club, which I knew was close to the cathedral but to no avail...I had no sense of its exact location and the people we asked had no idea the place existed. These ringed cities just totally confound my already stunted sense of direction. A helpful woman in a funky little bead shop suggested The Café Central... she seemed like a tasteful individual so we followed her lead. Besides, it was just around the corner.

    What a lucious cappucino. What divine sacher torte.  And of course, an outdoor café offers an unparalleled opportunity for prime people watching. In a somewhat jarring turn of events, our little Euro-reverie was interrupted by the ravings of a young man, barking out some sort of drunken warning, apparently addressing all of the patrons of the Café Central, his colleague/aquaintance/handler looked on in dismay.

   You know how some things seem like the universe telling you something? I'm fairly agnostic about this idea, but I experience this feeling quite often nonetheless. Most often I get it after the alleged communication has taken place. This man's display was disturbing and had I not chosen to be entertained by it, it could have been kind of a bummer. Turns out the universe wasn't speaking to me that day. Not through this guy anyway.

  Still, with only a few hours to spend here, our sense of urgency to get on with our visit may have been hastened a bit by this guy's behavior. We asked for our bill, which came at too leisurely a pace for our purposes. We had walkin' to do.
   It was all very free form, as I said. We came upon an small, artsy, outdoor market and browsed the stalls there. We sorta happened upon the Hofburg garden and strolled though it, enjoying the buds and new foliage of its clipped and tamed plants, arranged into orderly groups and alleés.
  Taking note of the time, we headed back toward Stephansplatz, perhaps for a bite to eat, more window shopping, and then back to the U3. We planned to catch the last train out of the city, 18:59, back to Budapest. Westbahnhof was only about ten-fifteen minutes away via metro from St. Stephan's.
  Again, the ring road messed with us, and it took us a bit longer to find our point of departure. But we had fun finding it with time to spare,  eventually ending up at Mozart's house where some sort of private  soiree was taking place. Mozart's house is really unassuming, located beneath St. Stephan's cathedral. The good stuff is inside and we had not the time nor the inkling to go inside.  I did get a pic of the address plaque...

...and the funny costume shop across the way.

  Stephansplatz was happening in a big way. If Tuesday night is always that crazy, the weekends must be ridiculous. We decided that dinner in the city might be frustrating and foolhardy, given our time constraints, so we found the U3, descended, and were soon speeding toward Westbahnhof.
  This particular train station is attached to a rather sizeable mall which houses one or two small grocery stores. And while it would have been nice to enjoy a lovely gourmet salad with a glass of gewurzstraminer, outside beneath the ever lengthening shadows of St. Stephan's frilly spires, a quick, box salad and savory pastry to go would have to do. Honestly, we did everything right.
  It was on our way to the train platform that I noticed something was amiss. The  Westbahnhof train schedule given to us at Keleti did not match the schedule on the arrival and departure boards above on our way up the escalator. There was no platform assignment for our departing train. I was still convinced we had an hour to catch the train, so we sat down to eat our food.
  But I was mildly tweaked. Something was bugging me. I needed to know which platform we should go to to board. We were tired, Boone had been texting me (and I could not reply), and I was eager to space out, in the comfort of my train seat, at the passing landscape for a couple of hours, and see my boys again after a really fun but long day.
  I guess my nerves may have affected Tara because she may have also felt something was amiss. We put our meal on hold and went to the information window.
  Inside was a dour, unsmiling man who, even as he saw us approach, continued to stare at his computer screen, perhaps in the hopes that we might just go away if he stared long enough.  I thought, whose bright idea was it to put the Hungarian in the information kiosk?
  He eventually looked away from the screen in our direction... I asked him, "at which platform do we board the next train to Budapest?"
  He looked at me with as much incredulity as he could force his face muscles to express. "It just left."
  I was confused.
  "Well, when is the next train to Budapest and which platform can we board it?"
  "Next train is tomorrow morning."
  "WHAT?"
  "Yes. Last train tonight cancelled."
  "Are you sure? CANCELLED?"
He grabbed a train schedule and dramatically crossed out the final trains, departing to all cities, with his big, fat, Austrian Sharpie. He shoved the schedule through the kiosk window, pointed to the crossed out departures, and slapped it down on the counter for me to take ot not take. He then resumed staring at his computer screen. No time for this possibly hysterical American woman. I'm sure my face had turned a lovely shade of crimson. What could I say or do?
  Tara was equally enraged but, again, as a yogi, kept a much clearer head than I. While I fussed and fretted about not being able to contact Boone and Aidan, basically stewing in my displeasure, she calmly returned to the table where we had been dining and finished her salad. I was considering sleeping right there, at the table, in Westbahnhof. She wisely suggested that we first try to find a cheap place to stay close to the station. I did not think there was such a thing as a cheap place to stay in Vienna and our stash of Euro was paltry. But we had to try.
  Tara, cool and utterly collected, approached a couple of young station employees with the hope that they spoke enough English to point us in the direction of an affordable hostel.  The Hotel Binder was one metro stop away, one of the men told her, and probably about fifty euro.
  We found the Binder easily enough with the help of a kindly 24 hour grocer.  The place was just outside the underpass of a freeway, in a part of town that exists in every city worldwide...although I never considered the fact that Vienna also contained similarly shitty neighborhoods. We entered the hotel, into a bar populated exclusively by desperate, sad-looking, fifty something men, all dragging hopelessly on cig after cig. They were all gazing at a silent television set, having clearly given up on life, at least for the time being. How very Hungarian. The room was blue with smoke. We asked the rotund bar tender about room availability and he sighed deeply and led us out of the bar to the hotel office. Like millions of other continental Europeans, this guy spoke decent English...when I asked him initially if he did he nodded, "Of course."
 In no time we were given the keys to a room and shoved our remaining euro toward the Austrian hostel keeper. We were not clear headed enough to have requested a non-smoking room but I am not entirely convinced it would have mattered.
  We popped out of our smelly quarters for a quick trip to a sleazy 24 hour internet "cafe" (run by a very helpful and sympathetic individual who even let me try to call Boone on his Android) to send the most pathetic e-mail I had sent in quite awhile. Full of misspellings, inappropriate capitalization, and lots of bad language, the mails were sent to Boone and Aidan, informing them of our plight and our expected departure in the morning. I was obsessed with contacting the  boys, convinced that they were pacing the floor, waiting for our return. I asked Boone to text me when he got the message so I knew that he knew.
  The room was clean enough and would have been fine except for the smell...the years of smoking had taken its toll and the room itself was now suffering from emphysema. Tara showered...I glowered. I went to bed in my jeans.  Neither of us slept well, choking and slightly dizzy from the nicotine fumes flooding the room...it was as if the ghost of Humphrey Bogart was watching over us, elegantly puffing away. Smoking was a de riguer, apparently, in this place...the evidence could be found in the bathroom, where dozens of smokers had used the toilet tank lid as an ashtray, resting their cigs there as they went number one or two.

  Outside, the sound of metal being dragged down the street screeched into our restless dreams as the demolition of some structure or another continued throughout the night.
  Five o'clock came early enough. I was still panicky, having not heard from Boone. We easily caught the first train back to Budapest...not far outside Vienna city limits, I finally got a text from Boone, telling me he had finally gotten paid and to enjoy a cappucino in the dining car. I replied by doing just that, knowing that my purchase would show up on his cell phone.
  We arrived back in Budapest, no worse for wear, really, just reeking of old cigarette smoke. I learned that Boone had fallen asleep early, apparently unconcerned, and that Aidan had received my e-mail very soon after I had sent it. He did not want to wake his dad so he told Boone about our inconvenience that morning. All was well. Tara and I brought home yummy cheeses and chocolates. After a nap, we all decided that a trip to Szentendre, where the postures are casual, easy, contented, (blissfully ensconced within the lovely historic center, shielded from the suburban reality) was just the thing. And it was. It was Tara's last day and I felt good about her leaving Hungary on a positive note, having enjoyed the artsy beauty of Szentendre, feeling the precious good vibes that are at times all too scarce in our part of central Europe. Perhaps the remedy for brooding Budapest was always close by, just a few kilometers north of the city. At any rate, I'll take getting stuck in Szentendre over getting stuck in Vienna any day.

  

Az Ezüst Hold (The Silver Moon)

The moon looks lovely tonight.  Framed by pearlescent clouds, it's almost oval shaped right now, giving  its face an odd perspective (waxing gibbous) I love these gigantic windows that I can gaze out of late at night. The same old view somehow looks different each time.
  So that's one thing I will miss after I leave Budapest.
  I wish I could post a decent pic...guess you'll just have to take my word for it.
  Enjoy the moon!

Kasza Attila József Születésnapja / Attila József's Birthday

                                                                             Attila József, by Dési Huber István


  Today is Poetry Day in Hungary, which rightly falls on the birthday of the country's embittered bard, Attila József.  The hardbitten realism of his free verse has a tragic beauty that few other poets of any nationality could hope to duplicate. The following is one of my favorite of his poems.

                                                                   SPRING MUD

                                                       A cloud bursts on the street,
                                                       the square and the field
                                                       The canal roars, a ditch overflows
                                                       Plaster peels from old houses.
                                                       The rain is pure, holy liquid
                                                       trickling down the legs of horses.
                                                       Water and mud on the rooftops.
                                                       Holy water and mud.

                                                       The whole earth is soft, warm mud.
                                                       The heavens, the horses, the houses,
                                                       are all soft, warm mud.
                                                       Children stand in the windows
                                                       watching the rain, listening to it drop.
                                                       Their hearts, too, are soft, warm mud.

                                                       The peace of seeds has moved
                                                       into the hearts of houses, horses.
                                                       Into the hearts of men. To descend
                                                       where we are all lovers in the end.
                                                       We are all soft, warm mud
                                                       In this bond of dust and holy rain.

                                                       Let it rain forever like this.
                                                       Drop by drop. Kiss after kiss.
                                      
                                    

Budapest Sorbet

A friend of mine on Facebook posted this beautiful video. Once upon a time in Budapest, it was winter and reaaaallly cold. x

http://vimeo.com/38817937

Lajos Csabai Ekés, Painter and Designer

  There is a multitude of treasures on display within the Great Synagogue of Budapest. Silver, bronze, bejeweled objects, beautifully detailed menorahs, delicate Torahs, all lovingly displayed....not to mention the synagogue itself which is among the most beautiful buildings in all of Europe.

  The museum inside the synagogue is small and unassuming. It would be easy to enter, spend half an hour enjoying the ornate religious objects wrought from metal, wood, and stone, and leave with a head full of bright and shiny memories. Good enough? No, absolutely not.

  It's worth the time and minimal effort to climb that last flight of stairs in the museum. For modern art lovers, the real treasure awaits. A small collection of cubist/expressionist works is on display up there, the art of one Lajos Csabai Ekés. 

  I did my best googling to find out more about this artist and found no biographies available. Csabai was born in Budapest in 1898 and was a well known movie poster artist. He died in 1944 in the city of his birth, beaten to death by Hungarian Nazis, known for despising and demonizing the best and brightest of Hungarian Jews. His legacy is a body of emotional and colorful work. Cut down before his time, the art he left behind continues to bring joy to the hearts and minds of art lovers world wide. Rest in peace, Csabai, and thank you so much.

                                                                                                self portrait

15 Március

   

                                                                                 pro Fidesz rally at Országház


     "I wouldn't be surprised if something bad happens on March 15," stated Magdi, one of Boone's colleagues, with more than a hint of grim Hungarian resignation.
  After hearing that, and knowing how delicate the political situation is here in Hungary, I rushed to get my family registered with the U.S. embassy, just in case. No, we did not do that upon our initial arrival in Hungary. Yes, I know, we are terrible procrastinators.
  As I said, and in case you haven't heard, we are living in Budapest as Hungary itself languishes at a crossroads, politically and economically, asking itself, do we want to be part of the European Union? Can we identify as Hungarian and European at the same time? Do  we need or want financial assistance from the Union and the IMF? If we disagree with the status quo in our country, what can we do about it, how do we make our voices heard?
  March 15 is a national holiday that belongs to every Hungarian. Its commemoration is particularly relevant of late. March 15 marks the day when, in 1848, the Hungarians sought independence from the Habsburg monarchy, seeking democracy, fair tax burden, and basic civil rights. Like most revolutions, the reasons for and beginnings of this one were complicated and the oppressor was all powerful.
  Many Hungarians today most likely see too many uncomfortable similarities between the causes of the 1848 revolution and what is taking place under the government of Orbán Viktor today.
  Given the Hungarian tendency to speak one's mind openly and honestly, combined with the history of revolution in the country (among numerous other things), Magdi's observation did not seem so outrageous. The radical right wing party Jobbik and its faithful have been known to cause a kerfuffle or two in the countryside, terrifying the Roma population with its nationalistic bravado. There had been a few demonstrations already this year and last, mainly against Fidesz and its flagrant use of the 2/3 majority it enjoys in Parliament as a way of securing its ideology and intentions for this country. This has been all over the international news so I will spare you my own overview which, interpreted via my American prespective, would not, I fear, be free of my own personal, political convictions. My views do have a way of sneaking into my writing, nonetheless. Surely a government which is quick to gerrymander voting districts in its favor, hastily rewrite the constitition, and silence radio stations known to be critical of the regime,  all in the name of erasing any trace of communism, would be troublesome to any believer in democracy, Hungarian or not.
  This year, March 15 was a gorgeous day, sunny, warm, cheerful. The Nicholsons were not going to stay inside. So, while Aidan and his good pal Mercede wandered around Buda and Pest, Boone and I headed down to Parliament, on our way to the Erzsébet bridge. Országház served as setting for a pro-Fidesz demonstration. Armed with our passports and loads of curiosity, we set out.

                                                                            televised speaker at pro-Fidesz rally

  

  I think it is only fair to mention that the organizers of the pro-Fidesz "peace" rally are not peaceful folks at all. Zsolt Bayer, out and proud anti-Semite and friend of Orbán, has been quoted as spewing hateful gems such as, "Anyone who runs over a Gypsy child in this country, would be best not think of stopping. If you run over a Gypsy, just step on the gas pedal." and "...the mere existence of Jewish journalists in Budapest is grounds enough for our anti-Semitism." Fellow Orbán associate, András Bencsik, has said equally offensive, anti-Semitic things and is a huge fan of the Russian autocrat, Vladimir Putin.   Read more about the organizers of this rally online at Hungarian Spectrum, March 17, 2012 http://esbalogh.typepad.com/. 

  And yet the rally was peaceful. The crowd was dense and multitudinous. From the many giant speakers we heard the echo of speeches in proud and determined Hungarian, the words "szabadság" (freedom) "magyarország" (Hungary) and "kommunista"(self-explanatory) most prominent (and certainly ironic) to our non-fluent ears.    Boone and I waded through, overcoming the slight claustrophobia that goes with being part of a crowd that seems to have no end. We escaped through the arches of the Museum of Ethnography, relieved that we were no longer part of the crowd.

                                                               conspiracy theories alive and well at the Fidesz rally

  Our next stop was the counter demonstration, near the Pest side of the Erzsébet bridge, organized by Milla (short for the organization One Million for the Freedom of Press in Hungary).  A proactive Fidesz did its best to prevent this rally by booking all possible demonstration sites prior to March 15. Milla succeeded in the end and the crowd on the bridge, as well as the one spilling into Ferenciek Tere,  was teeming and abuzz. The local greens (LMP) were out gathering signatures for their employment initiative , a young rep from the Roma NGO (non-governmental organization) gave a speech, as did teacher's representatives and even folks from the local LGBT community. Of course, not many events this big, with so many different NGOs, play out without a few snags. You can read about the squabbles among the NGOs here http://www.eurotrib.com/story/2012/3/15/165747/522. 

a clumsy but humorous anti-Orbán sign, referring to the visiting conservative Polish politicians, in Budapest to support Fidesz

                                                                       the Milla crowd, looking down Rákóczi ut

                                                      local rastas were ready to celebrate the 15th with some riddim

                          this sign reads something like, "Has Viktor seen a doctor already?" I could be very wrong.....

                                                                                               peaceful punk

    Predictably, Jobbik used March 15 for its own ends, gathering a smallish crowd of perhaps 1000 to shout about the evils of the EU, the Jews, liberals, homosexuals, and Roma. Speakers fired up their crowd with its nationalistic platitudes. On this day, the police, clad in riot gear,  wisely cordoned off the Jobbik crowd, ready for things to take an ugly turn. Thankfully, there was no violence, only violence in words, as the right-wing crowd shouted, "dirty Jews" to the bigger crowd,  who responded with "Nazi! Nazi!"  I felt proud of the Milla demonstrators for shouting down the racist rantings, especially one young woman who, red-faced and voice hoarse, kept responding on her own to everything the Jobbik speaker said. 

                                            cops mobilizing as the crowds exchange epithets...the banner says "No EU"

                                                    Jobbik shouting their nasty ideology, surrounded by riot police

    The crowd at the Milla demo seemed bigger to me, but I admit my perception could have been wishful thinking. This rally was indeed more diverse, more loose, easier to navigate then the tight Fidesz rally.  Hungry, tired, and wanting to meet up with Aidan and Mercede, we hopped the metro back home, both of us really glad we attended both rallies, happy that nothing physically violent had taken place.

  As I said, this holiday is a day for all Hungarians, regardless of their political leanings, and they each interpret the actions in 1848 accordingly.  Everyone wore their Hungarian cockades, nobody held a monopoly in their love for their country. The poets of 1848 would have been amazed to see this...and I wonder how the likes of Petőfi Sándor or Arany János, who expressed sympathy and solidarity with Hungarian Jews would have felt about Jobbik's ravings. I can't help but think these heroes of 1848 would have recoiled at the thought of their tribulations being co-opted by such a regressive and hateful group.

                                                                          view from Rákóczi ut toward the bridge

Apologies (Elnézését kérjük)

to the very few people who read my blog....I apologize for the sloppy appearance of the blog itself. The captions under the photos are not centered properly after I've posted the drafts to the blog. They are, however, centered in the draft, so I do not know what the fuck I am doing wrong. I intend to spend some time on the layout, try to figure out what is going on. I also want to apologize for my tendency to edit my posts only after I've posted them to the blog. I find all kinds of spelling, grammatical mistakes, awkward sentences. I'll work on that too.  

Lomtalanítás

                                                  browse at your convenience (own risk? peril?)

    I knew it was coming, I looked forward to it. Suddenly, it was here. Then it was gone.

  I should have known...that cluster of large, stubbly headed men, each chain-smoking Bond  ciggies, lingering on the corner of  Kádár  and Visegrádi utcas last Friday morning, acting as sentinels for an old Econoline van which was bursting at the rivets with broken furniture, clothing, boxes of all kinds...that was a hint.

  They were staking their ground. Quite successfully too. No one else claimed that corner.

 Later that day, I knew. As I ran down the last flight of stairs with Cosmo for our afternoon walk, I saw the big, metal, front doors to our building were held wide open by an upended box spring on one side and a heavy dresser on the other. A warm, early, spring breeze swept in, like a tease. Behind us on the stairs, men were hauling boxes from someone's apartment, destined for the curb outside.

  Aha. Lomtalanítás had come to the thirteenth district. 

    Lomtalanítás is kind of like a district wide seasonal house purging/sidewalk sale, which begins in March and lasts until October, district  by district. People are notified with a paper announcement, stuffed into letter boxes. So much paper gets stuffed into our letter box that we generally recycle most of it, without even looking, so this year,  Lomtalanítás came as a surprise. By Friday evening piles began to appear, piles of everything from half used bottles of detergent to dissasembled furniture to sheets of really old and very brittle wall paper. Headless dolls. Filthy rugs. I saw a confounding number of lucite cubes,  each about the size of a small aquarium, all lidless. Nothing is arranged attractively for passersby, it's all just dumped out there. It's a bounty, but it ain't free, make no mistake or you risk a scolding. There's always someone sitting close by, waiting to accept forint. But not until Saturday.  Friday evening is for browsing, eye-balling. I saw an unloved and unwatered houseplant that I was determined  to save. Friday night, the owners of the junk slept outside, in window recesses or in their cars, to make sure nobody made off with anything. 

  Saturday morning, and the piles had grown smaller by ten o'clock. DIYers had come by with their trucks and snatched up all of the crushed vanity tables and slats of moulding, others were sitting with their newly acquired purchases, waiting for friends with vehicles to haul the booty. The potted palm I wanted was gone by the time I made it outside. At that point, I was on my way to Lehel tér when I spotted something I would not have minded forking over a few hundred forint for...

                                     guess they finally decided they were completely over ol' V. I. Lenin. 

  Alas, the portrait had been claimed upon my return from the market. It may have served as someone's heating fuel later that evening, who knows.

  Last year, in Csillahegy, Lomtalanítás came upon us unawares. Suddenly, in our neighborhood and in the apartment blocks across the road, the piles appeared, and after them, several Roma families, who picked through the debris, left a representative to watch over the loot, then returned with trucks to haul it away. One woman sat on a new- to- her, black and red vinyl foot rest, all day long. She had to have that foot rest. She made sure that no one one else would, with her determined posture and stony expression.

  On one of our daily excursions through the blocks, we saw a few unattended piles, containing only what absolutely no one else wanted. I found a couple of left over treasures, snatched them just for the novelty.

      an old Christmas record, so brittle, the album broke into shards on our move to Pest. I still have the cover though!

  

     an old Russian record, which survived the move to Pest. says "made in the USSR" in English, lower right side

       The piles in the blocks were left to diminish on their own, some items dissolving into mud, some blown away by the winds. It took a good week for things to vanish completely. I suspect the waste management services were not dispatched for monetary reasons...perhaps the attitude the city took was  that the blocks do not need to look tidy, so let the piles of trash minimize on their own, with time. Not so here in the thriteenth district. By the time Saturday night arrived, most of the piles were gone. A few weather beaten bags had been gone through and thrown into the street or in the middle of the sidewalk. By Sunday, there was no indication that any sort of commerce took place down on the streets at all. Not even a single item was left. The only piles littering the streets of Újlipótváros after Lomtalanítás 2012 are those of dog shit, always in constant supply, happily deposited by the numerous canines of district thirteen.

  

                                                                 

Turkey's Turn

                                                
                                                Blue Mosque, from the roof of The Peninsula Hotel


 Is it time?  Yes, it's about time. High time I write about our fabulous trip to Turkey. Can't let too much time pass, can't let the memories languish and fade.
  It would be irresponsible of me not to first thank Harry and Kathie Nicholson for visiting us in December and for their help in making this trip happen. They were enjoyable traveling companions, cheers to them and much love.

  I had wanted to visit Turkey, specifically Istanbul, ever since I was bedazzled by photos of the city in a National Geographic back in the late eighties.  The pics were accompanied by a story which spun the tale of a city so very ancient and incredibly modern all at once...seemed like a great place to pine for, a seductively dangerous place bursting with intrigue and adventure.  Several viewings of "Midnight Express" did nothing to dampen my desire for the place.
  Terry Jones' excellent Crusades documentary also stoked the fires of my desire to visit Istanbul. A Greek, Christian city at the time just before the Crusades, its Emperor, Alexius, concerned about the Seljuk Turks closing in on him, appealed to Pope Urban II for support in keeping the forces of Islam at bay. The disasterous and brutal actions that followed became known as the First Crusade.
  Ever a religious studies geek, I've long desired to see the city whose emperor started the whole bloody mess, study the grave, mosaic, Byzantine face, immortalized upon the ancient walls of Aya Sofia, that I had seen on the documentary years ago.

                                                        Alexius, peering down at us from on high

  


  Watch these two clips for a rundown th the spark that lit the fire of the Crusades, and for a taste of humorously genius historic tale-telling:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXed3tvR_-g

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHO1P42p1HE&feature=related


  Budapest, of course, has its own, special history with Turkey. The Ottoman Empire, ruling from Istanbul, occupied Hungary for about 150 years, and its influence upon the culture still resonates here.  The public baths are the most apparent and beloved remnant of Ottoman rule, but there is a certain flourish to the general Hungarian aesthetic that seems vaguely mediterranean. There may also be a touch of Islamic "inshallah" (arabic, "god-willing") still lingering about Hungary as well, that idea that everything is up to God and we must resign ourselves to that fate. A couple of things seem evident as to outside influences upon Magyar culture....  the Habsburgs gave the Hungarians order and angst, the Turks gave them philosophy and art (as well as their indispensible staple, paprika), and there exists in the Hungarian psyche the tendency to indulge in all of those differing gifts.
  Gül Baba, whose works I have been unable to find online, was a dervish poet and Ottoman patron saint of Budapest.  He is buried in Buda on Rose Hill, where his spirit enjoys a sweet view of Parliament from a somber, stately mausoleum. The Turkish Republic now owns this site, the old Empire's small but prime patch of "Magyaristan".

                                                           Gül Baba's statue and mausoleum


   Several towns in Hungary, from Pecs in the south to Eger in the north, still contain standing minarets and a mosque or two, most of which are now churches. These tantalizing crumbs of Ottoman leftovers served only to drive home my desire to visit Istanbul, which had, by the end of this past summer, become a sort of mild obsession for Boone and me. It seemed silly that we would not visit Istanbul, as close as we are at the moment, and we decided that the Christmas break would be the perfect time to do so.

    The flight to Istanbul from Budapest was a cushy hour and a half. It was one of the most enjoyable flights I've ever been on. Turkish Air is, ahem, a "top flight" airline, complete with an inflight info movie  starring the freshly scrubbed lads of Manchester U, clowning around with the airplane emergency gear.  There is blessedly ample room between seats in which to squirm around and find a comfy position. They feed you and feed you well, with food you would not mind paying for, although it is all included in the price of the ticket, along with a decent selection of beverages.

  The Nicholsons, Boone, Aidan and I landed shortly before dusk, with just enough light to see the white caps on the Sea of Marmara below and a cityscape punctuated with minaret after minaret. The driver who whisked us to our panzio was a seasoned chauffeur, taking countless, narrow, cobblestone shortcuts, through passages that seemed to dead end but only continued at an acute angle, under low hanging over passes that threatened to damage the roof of the taxi, squeaking through dense traffic with nerve-wracking but expertly performed speed, explaining in broken English (when he was not arguing with the dispatcher whose voice piped in from the staticky radio every now and again) why he was taking this particular route ( to avoid even worse traffic).  We spilled out of the taxi after it arrived at our panzio, The Peninsula Hotel, which sits right next to a small neighborhood mosque. Happily preoccupied with figuring out where to find our next meal (dinner), we found a place (where I learned, the hard way, that when the server wrinkles his nose at the mention of the rosemary chicken, do not then order the rosemary chicken), ate and drank, then collapsed heavily onto our beds, resting up for the next day's ramble around the two massive mosques, just a short walk up the hill.  I could not wait to hear my first call to prayer.
  It came brutally early the next morning... a low, melodic, and surreal drone, calling the faithful...not sure anyone was quite up for that one. I certainly was not, and slept for an hour or two after the imam's amplified voice fell silent.

                                                                  our neighboring mosque


  The best district in which to hang your hat while you are in Istanbul, as we did, especially if you are visiting for just a few days, is Sultanahmet, close to the Golden Horn, along the coast of the Sea of Marmara. This neighborhood is the home of both the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque. as well as many other ancient attractions. What remains of the Hippodrome lies between the two mosques; the dank, darkly beautiful Basilica Cistern is in the neighborhood as well. Topkapi Palace is within walking distance from most of the hotels in the area, as is the Grand Bazaar.  The Spice Market and the ferry terminal is a short tram ride from Sultanahmet. This district is in the very old part of the city...it looks and feels every bit its age despite the modern amenities. That first morning after breakfast, Boone and I climbed up to the roof of our panzio and surveyed our surroundings...Blue Mosque to west, Aya Sofia to the east, Marmara gently undulating to the south, and a whole lotta antiquity going on.

                            
                                                                        TRUE BLUE

                                                             in praise of the Blue Mosque

                                                      The Blue Mosque or Sultan Ahmet Mosque


  With six minarets and eight, sensuous domes, the Blue Mosque, completed in 1616 under the rule of Ahmet I, looms with resolute splendor upon a hill in Sultanahmet. The grand motif of the structure compels the viewer to look up, look toward heaven and into the realm of God, as intended by the architect Sedefkar Mehmet Aga.  Any viewer, religious or not, might be tempted to raise his or her arms high and wide in adoration while standing before it.
  Of course, folks are selling things all around the mosque...one rug vendor attached himself to us, trying to be our tour guide, hoping that we would slip into his shop after touring the mosque. We politely declined, pleading practicality and poverty.
  The five of us entered at the northern door (the main entrance is reserved for worshippers only), removed our shoes, then padded and pondered around the mosque for a while.

                                                           looking up into Allah's sky garden

                                                                        prayer and meditation in the Blue Mosque

                                                                            plush pile carpet in the Blue Mosque


  It would be all too easy to slip into a blissful meditation inside the Blue Mosque.  Incredibly ornate yet not extravagant, the building feels airy, open, free of distractions but generous in its veneration of the beauty of creation.
 Several worshippers were present, gazing out into the grey winter sky toward Mecca, and some of the Muslim visitors knelt in prayer and performed ablutions, moved by the sanctity of the place.


                                                                     AYA SOFYA

       Whereas the Blue Mosque sets the stage for heavenly contemplation, its big sister, Aya Sofya, is all about the genius of mankind. It is oooolllld....dedicated to the Logos (Jesus) in 360 A.D. by the Emperor Justinian, the innovative design of its central dome alone is testament to the wonders that can spring from a partnership of scientific knowledge and spirituality. The structure is now a museum, standing frozen in time in its Islamic incarnation.
  If the Blue Mosque is a bit quieter, more controlled in its design and decor, Aya Sofya seems a bit more enthusiastic and lux. From the glorious, angelically adorned middle of its central dome to the multicolored, marbled floors, worn down by the shuffling of feet through the millennium, Aya Sofya is a mosaic tapestry of jeweled colors and swaths of gold. It must have positively radiated before its  gilt mosaics began to wear away. Detail is everywhere, mosaics of emperors and their wives, the adult Jesus Christ staring out at the world, with a gaze intense with holy wisdom.

 
                                                                                 central dome of the Aya Sofya

 
                                                                   every corner is decorative in the Aya Sofya

  
                                                                                     Deesis Mosaic, Aya Sofya

                                                                                        ancient marble floor

                                                                   mosque cat, warming himself in Aya Sofia





                                                                 CATS OF ISTANBUL

       A word about cats. It must be addressed. Kitties are all over the place in Istanbul, really, all over Turkey. It's where felines go after their nine lives are spent. These are not mangy, sickly little howlers skulking the neighborhoods at night, brutalized, in a feral state.  The cats of Istanbul are fat and plush, healthy but unneutered so each season brings in a fuzzy  crop of kittens. The peaceful face of the cat in the Aya Sofya is testament to the care the humans of Istanbul offer these creatures. Almost every shop places ouside its door a dish of cat kibble and a pan of water for the neighborhood felines.  All of this reminded me of a story I read back in college about the prophet Mohammed, who loved cats, kept one of his own named Muezza, who would sometimes sleep in the Prophet's lap as he gave sermons. The Prophet advised the faithful to treat all creatures with kindness, and his words are well heeded in this officially secular but spiritually Muslim country. Here, the cats roam without fear in a city full of people who care for their well-being. There are a few dogs too, who enjoy similar care, and share the streets peacefully with the kitties, bound by some solemn code of creature decorum. Istanbul, for all its roaming critters, is remarkably free of poopy sidewalks and parks.

                             Sultana, pure white with one green and one blue eye, and her babies inside the rug shop

                                                                          kitty garden

 

              
                                                             fuzzy pooch, sun-patching without a care in the square

  
                              cats and dogs are not the only creatures who enjoy the milk of human kindness in Istanbul


                                                                      HERE WE ARE,  GRAND BAZAAR

  A traveler to Istanbul will have no trouble parting with his or her money...one young vendor at the Grand Bazaar grinned openly and honestly at us, beseeching, "How can I get your money from you?" We all laughed because, of course, this is the purpose of the bazaar, no reason to be coy about it.
  We entered the old market through the Beyazit Gate, a fairly small portal which belies the size of this huge space. Finished in 1461, the bazaar's 22 entrances open up to 58 covered streets, 4000 shops, two mosques, and two hamams (turkish baths), and many, many restaurants. Photographs of this place could fill several coffee table volumes. I was overwhelmed by it...but I found, of course, what I was looking for, which was a hanging glass lamp. I could have come away with so much more.

                                 just one of the thousands of shops, bursting with merchandise, in the Grand Bazaar

                                                                               glass lamps in the Grand Bazaar

                        fresh squeezed pomegranate juice is cheap, delicious, and easy to come by in the Grand Bazaar

 vendor, selling delicious sahlep (warm milk flavored with vanilla and honey), setting himself away from the Grand Bazaar


   A person could spend a week in the Grand Bazaar alone.  If I ever return to Istanbul, I will spend more time there, focusing on the all there is to see there, limiting my purchases to a pomegranate juice or some tea. We found that the shop owners weren't so keen to haggle, as we had been told...many prices are fixed so, unless you are in for a big ticket item, like a rug or some jewelry, don't expect to talk anyone down too much.  Or maybe we were just not very good at it.


  
                                                                                      BOSPHORESCENCE

                                                                       my favorite color, warm and cool all at once 

                                                                        Galata Tower, overlooking the Golden Horn



 So blue so green, so aquamarine. That's the Bosphorus, the strait which divides Europe and Asia Minor, a slinky link between the Marmara and the Black Seas, whose name in ancient Greek means "ferry" or "ford".
  There are several charming, fishing villages on the Bosphorus Coast. On Christmas Day, we took the ferry from the Golden Horn (short tram ride from Sultanahmet) and cruised the foamy strait to Andalukovagi, enjoying the sunny but very windy day, sipping hot tea from dainty glass cups, ( elegant and shapely, but impractically scorching to the touch), gazing and amazing at the ancient sites along the way.  This day was one of my favorite days on the entire ten day visit. 
  The people of Andalukovagi, set apart as they are from the  bustle and congestion of Istanbul, are laid back, small town friendly. The vendors here are not nearly as enthusiastic about , as those in the big city. We were able to walk from the harbor, through the town, and up to the fortress ruins with nary a disturbance. It was lovely...of course, we met several friendly cats along the way. 
  For obvious reasons, sea food restaurants were plentiful, so we chose a place close to the harbor, with an eye of the time and the ferry, and enjoyed the fresh seafood.  I must say that food service, in every place we visited in Turkey, was with a smile (but not obsequious) and very quick.
  As we ferried back to Istanbul, the afternoon began to turn to dusk, and the cloudy sky was stitched with the gold of the sinking sun. I have never seen any city skyline as beautiful as that of Istanbul, viewed in the early evening from the Bosphorus.

                                                                                     Istanbul on the Bosphorus 

                                                                    Boone, with Rumeli Fortress in the background

                                                                                                Andalukovagi  

                                                                                   timid kitten in Andalukovagi  

                                                                                            scenic Anatolia

                                                                   Bosphorus flowing into the Black Sea beyond

                                                                       Anatolian kitty, begging for fish sandwich

                                                                              sweets for sale in Andalukovagi

                                                                                        end of a golden day

                                                                               

                                                                               Christmas night back in Istanbul


                              THE SPICE MARKET, BASILICA CISTERN, AND TOPKAPI PALACE

                                                                                  lucious and fragrant spices


  


    We had great luck with weather in Istanbul. All predictions warned of constant rain and clouds. Instead, we were blessed with party cloudy, rainless days illuminated by a cheerful sun.
  The Spice Market in Istanbul is in the same neighborhood as the ferry terminal, a short tram ride away from our hotel. The covered building is part of the Yeni Mosque, and rents from the shops within were used at one time to cover the cost of mosque upkeep. Here, the vendors are every bit as extroverted with their salesmanship, but the crowds were not as daunting. We were lured into one sweets shop with the promise of tea, which was kept, and we purchased boxes of delicious pistachio Turkish delight.

                                                                 the peppers and other dried treats sell themselves

                                                                                      dried rosebuds for tea

                                                                                      delightfully turkish

                                       daily ablutions outside the spice market mosque, never mind the cold breeze


  It took 7000 slaves to build the gorgeously utilitarian Basilica Cistern, which filtered water for the great buildings on The First Hill of Constantinople. This structure is a tribute to the beautiful marriage of function and form.

                                                            the illuminated, shallow waters of the Basilica Cistern

                                                      one of the dozens of handsome carp that call the Cistern home

                                                       one of two mysterious Medusa heads...their purpose unknown

                       

      Those fortunate Ottoman sultans of old...part of the job requirement was to reside in grand and gorgeous Topkapi Palace. At one point in time this royal residence was a small city, housing as many as 4000 people on its grounds. The spread is luxurious but not gaudy, organized but not rigid, with a grand view of the Bosphorus to the east. A person could spend a good chunk of the day here, strolling through tiled corridors and harem chambers over cold, glacier gray marble floors inside, through restful courtyards outside, paved with smooth rocks arranged in thoughtful, geometric designs. My focus was the fanciful tilework, painted in every rich shade of blue, a few green hues, or an occasional yellow or gold. Some rooms, particularly in the harem's chambers, were covered entirely in tile, some squares individually decorated, some part of a bigger design, a cypress tree, an intricate vine, or vaguely floral motif. I would love to have toured the gigantic palace bakeries, to have stood next to (what I assume to be) one of several  massive ovens, but this area was off limits and I had to be satisfied with staring up at the exterior oven vents, their own huge size offering an idea as to the proportions of the ovens beneath the roof.  Three hours, give yourself three hours, the guidebook advised. I think I'd like spend that time sprawled on the low-ridin' sofas in the Sultan's sitting room for a while, gazing out of the barred windows at the realm, if only someone had offered to bring me a spot of apple tea and maybe something from the palace ovens, covered in pistachios and dripping with honey. As if.

                                                                 Topkapi oven vents                   

                                                                 Topkapi Palace grounds

                                         

                                                          Topkapi apartments, inner palace

                                                           It's all about the tile at Topkapi

                                                                           fireplace in the concubines' apartments

                                                                                                 

                                                                                             Topkapi Blues

                                                                                         sultan's sitting room

                                                                       even the drains at Topkapi are lovely

                                                                                    

                                                                ON TO ASIA MINOR

    You know, when you travel to a place, it's a swell idea to carry a little book and a pen along. That's what they do in the movies, right? Some very organized, fastidious people do this, those who manage their time well.  An experienced travel writer might also remember to pack pen and paper, but I'm not one of those people, alas. I wish so much that I was and that I  had packed those things with me because the best way to recall such a visitation is to have something on hand at all times upon which to jot down the hundreds of impressions, smells, ordinary but somehow sublime observations. These days, an iPhone might serve the same purpose, but there's nothing like the physical act of writing and holding hard copy that makes the  act of documentation so much richer. 

  If I had carried pen and paper, I could have written down descriptions of the smart and entertaining young servers at a favored restaurant, the hotel host who loved American indie films and discussion of them (we chatted about "Paris, Texas"), the dense crowds in this city of 14 million souls, multitudinous felines and the love they were shown by the people of the city, the exotic, dreamy bubble of Sultanahmet,  the consistent offers of small vials of tea (on land or sea), the humble bliss of gazing into blue-green  Bosphorus and gradually noticing a school of translucent jellyfish rising gracefully to the water's surface.  These little moments really fine tune the experience of travelling, adding so much flavor and texture to the grander sights. I'm not sure how else to say it, if there is a less trite way to say it, but I am being sincere when I declare that I love Istanbul and would go back to spend much more time if ever I could. 

               the Star Hotel smoking room, where wasting time is practiced as an art form. my kinda place

        the Rumist, personally, my favorite restaurant in Istanbul. one of the few dinners at which I did not order kebab

                                                                           pigeons roosting in the old city wall

                                                                                             aya sofya at dusk

                                                  from rooftop of our hotel.  much of Turkish life is spent on rooftops. 

  

                                                                       early morning departure...farewell Istanbul

              

                                                                                                   ANATOLIA!

  Five days spent in Istanbul flew by and soon we were in another taxi cab winding our way through the city streets and congested traffic, back to the airport, to catch a flight to Izmir, over in Asia Minor.

   The flight was a quick one and soon we were on the ground, tightly packed into Osman's sport utility, speeding toward Selçuk, a small city in the Anatolian hills.  Osman is the owner and host of the Nazar Hotel, and a fine host he was indeed. He was almost, but not too much, like a mother hen (gracious hospitality is his art), toasting bread for our breakfast over a flame,  steadily and frequently offering vials of tea, preparing boiled potatoes for Aidan after he got a little stomach bug. A few of these ministrations featured a brief but expressive lecture  about their  many benefits. Osman was busy but never flustered, was as kind and sincere as he could possibly be. Really, a master of Turkish hospitality. When we arrived at the hotel, several members of his family were drinking tea in the breakfast area/lobby, including Osman's mother, who was lying still and silent upon the couch. She had recently suffered a stroke, but she acknowledged us kindly with a weak but sincere greeting. A cute little dog peered out of her doghouse on the backyard patio.

  We all took an afternoon stroll around Selçuk and soon became charmed by it. The same Turkish friendliness was evident here, the salesmanship slightly less aggressive, the way of life much more basic than what we witnessed on our peninsular haven in Istanbul. A basilica ruin sits upon a small hillside overlooking Selçuk; a Byzantine aquaduct, which serves as a nesting spot for storks, creates an ancient cross section of the town. There are plenty of cars passing through, but a lot of people get around on bikes or even tractors. As dusk began to settle and the chilly night air rose, folks began burning firewood and coke and soon the sky was dusty pink, a smog settled into the town, and the stench of burning coke stung our noses which, for the curious, is reminiscient of burning plastic.

                                                                                      sweet Alice, at the Nazar

                                                                                                baking bread

                                                                                     aquaduct with stork's nest

  

                                                                                               local mosque

                                                                                Selçuk, from St. John's basilica

                                                                                          basilica ruin pavers

                                                                                          chopping kindling

  

    Selçuk enjoys a healthy little tourism industry...it serves as a handy home base, a launching pad of sorts, to the incredible ancient attractions that are so close by. 

  Our first full day in Anatolia was spent on an excellent three site tour.  The guide was youngish and engaging, a local son, and his historic knowledge of Priene, Miletus, and Didyma, three Ionian cities in western Anatolia, was encyclopedic and fascinating. Priene, built in the mountains, was our first stop. This ruin was my favorite of the three. 

                                                                           PRIENE

I admit that I was not always rapt with attention during our guide's lectures, as I wandered over fallen columns and through primeval rooms, overgrown with aged, gorgeously gnarled olive trees. The climate here, the rocks, the vegetation...perfect. Mediterranean. Truly a land of plenty.

  Although Priene now sits a tad inland, at its height it was a coastal city, overlooking the Aegean from a series of terraces. This site (there was an older site, located closer to the sea) was completed in the 4th century BCE and was one of he wealthier cities of its time, complete with indoor plumbing and sewer system.

    Priene sleeps at the base of Mt. Mycale and for this reason among several, I fell hard for this ruin. I dreamt about it the evening of our tour...ever since I was very young, I have had reoccurring dreams about living in a steep city built into a mountainside and Priene seemed to have escaped from my dreams in that regard. The marble and limestone butte provides a dramatic backdrop for the stunning Temple of Athena. I  got delightfully lost in the fallen beauty of the place, hiking through old stands of olive groves, up narrow, marble staircases that led to views both serene and breathtaking. 

                                       fallen olives at Priene...again, it's the small things that tug at my heartstrings

                                              some embellishment or other, among many, at Priene

              I can't begin to guess what this is but I'd love to have it in my own ruin garden. I should have been listening.

                                                                             approaching the Temple of Athena

       the arresting sight of Athena's temple with Mt. Mycale behind. the perfect place to worship the goddess!

    

                                  one member of a small herd of free range cattle grazing in a tiny meadow at Priene

                                                                         MILETUS

                                                                                       the theatre at Miletus

  Once upon a time, Miletus was ancient Greece's wealthiest and most exceptional city. It was Isidore of Miletus' hometown; Isidore was the Aya Sofya's chief architect. Greek philosophical tradition is thought to have originated there. Miletus was where philosophers began toying with the idea that certain natural phenomena might also have natural causes as opposed to being a result of godly whim. Sixth century  B.C. in these parts was bursting with ideas and creativity, and Miletus was at the center of it all. Once a coastal city, it shared a large bay with Priene. Since then, the sea has receded (or something) and what's left of Miletus now sprawls across a gently sloping, rocky plain. We began our tour at the great theatre and followed the Sacred Way past the agora, the baths of Faustina, and lonely Ionic ruins. Unfortunately, my camera battery was low and I had to be conservative with usage. 

                                                                      modern settlement from the top of the theatre

                                                                  relief of a gladiator and bear, base of the theatre

    Almost immediately after stepping off the bus at Miletus, a mother dog, teats a-swingin', politely approached our small group with the hope of receving a small morsel or two. None of us had anything to give her, unfortunately, but she seemed to be a pro at the art of dignified begging and she knew another load of humans would arrive soon enough. We found her litter of adorable pups hiding among the nooks and crannies at the base of the theatre.

                                                        animals are always photo worthy, despite low camera battery

                                     horseman galloping along The Sacred Way, with Ionic stoa in the background

                                                                       Apollo Delphinios (Apollo of the Dolphins)

                                                                         DIDYMA

     We finally reached the Aegean coast on our third and final stop on the tour. Didyma was an Ionian sanctuary, home to the magnificent oracle of Apollo. It was part of Miletus'  considerable sprawl, and pilgrims to the sanctuary would follow the Sacred Way to reach it.  The name of the sanctuary, Didyma, refers to the twins, Apollo and Artemis;  the ruins of Artemis' temple, with only a couple of columns remaining, lie close to Ephesus, just outside Selcuk.

  The lawn around this Apollo's temple is lush, green, and spongy...the source of a sacred spring bubbles to the surface here, a spring which nourishes the holy laurel trees that populate the grounds around the oracle. 

  The family which had long administered the sanctuary at Didyma was sent away by the Persians, after Darius seized the site in the fifth B.C. He then burned the temple to the ground, making off with the bronze statue of Apollo. A couple of hundred years later, Alexander the Great overthrew Darius III and began the restoration and resanctification of Didyma.

  The site is certainly grand. The sheer size of the inner temple is awe inspiring. We were allowed to freely scale and scramble over the ruin, around and amongst random finials and discs, solemn in their fallen positions,  fastened there by time.

                                                             sad Medusa, surrounded by sacred laurels at Didyma

                                                                                   fanciful bas relief, Didyma

                                                                           open for exploration, temple of Apollo

                                                                       fallen finial, resting in the marshy grass

                                                                 subdued by centuries, once towering discs at rest

                                                                   handsome marble bull's head at the sanctuary

                                                            THE EPHESIAN WAY

    The outskirts of our little homebase of Selçuk brushes up against the outskirts of that ancient metropolis, Ephesus. From the Nazar, we all walked the half kilometer distance to the once magnificent Temple of Artemis (Apollo's twin), a lonely little ruin of a once grand sanctuary, whittled down to a single column that sits in the depression that used to be the foundation of the temple. Dozens of domestic geese filled the grassy depression and its borders were defended by an loyal canine who ran half the length of the border, barking his warning.

                                                                                      the Temple of Artemis

  Through the ages, Ephesus had seen it all. The first inhabitants set up household in 6000 B.C. and through the ages, the city was a major player economically, politically, and socially. A time lapse film of Ephesus over the years might look like a stop motion animation of rubble piles rising and diminishing, with clusters of humans scurrying about, as earthquakes and warfare periodically laid waste. The action ended in the 15th century, after the Turks dominated the region, and by that time the city's glory days were long behind her. What's left is pretty damn glorious still. 

  

                                                                                           fresh Ephesian figs

                                                                                                Curetes Street

  

                                                                                          

                                                                                         the Odeon of Ephesus

                                                                                                Hadrian's Arch

                                                                     peeking at the Library from around Town Hall

                                                                             sign directing shoppers to the agora

                                                                          sign directing patients to the physician

                                                                                           greek inscriptions

                                                                                         

                                                                                                 Curetes Street

   Curetes Street is one of the three main Streets in Ephesus. Homes of the wealthy were built along the slope of one side of Curetes, while shops, fountains, and galleries lined the other side. 

  

                                                                              fountain of Trajan,  Curetes Street

                                           Ephesian feline, crossing the floor of a private residence on Curetes Street

                                                                             Boone and Aidan at Hercules' Gate

                                                                           archway at the Baths of Scholastica

During the Roman period, a great library was built in Ephesus, the Celsus Library. Ionic and Corinthian columns are stacked two levels high...however, two more levels once stood above the remaining ones, making the library one of the most imposing buildings in the city. The library is connected to the Great Theatre, where the apostle Paul gave sermons to the Corinthian Christians, by the Marble Road, which was part of the Sacred Way to the Temple of Artemis a few kilometers away.

   Our tour of Ephesus ended at the theatre. The Arcadian Way, which leads from the theatre to where the harbor once was, is flanked by the remains of two gymnasiums and the lower agora. By this time, we were a little tired and also quite hungry so we left Ephesus via the northern entrance, satisfied with our time spent in the ancient city.

                                                                          the Marble Way, up close and personal

                                                                       Boone and I, in front of the Celsus Library

                                                                               second level of the Celsus Library

                                                         a view of the lower agora, from inside the Celsus Library

                                                                                  signs from the Lower Agora

                                                                              marble stairs of the Great Theatre

                                                                                 the Great Theatre of Ephesus

   After spending quality morning time with the ancient ruins, we still had half a day left to explore....something. Somewhere.

  Turkey is not generally known for its wine-making. There might be ample reason for that (one of them being that most of its citizens are Muslim), but the country produces wine nonetheless. In fact, Turkey is one of the oldest wine-making regions in the world. The climate is ideal, after all, for growing grapes of all varieties. The mountains above Selçuk grow some hardy vines and the village of Sirince is as charming, even more so, a hamlet as any in the Napa Valley.

  Sirinçe is a few kilometers up the mountainside, so we hopped one of the regular shuttle buses and wound our way up the dusty road. Remarkably, I did not get car sick.

  Sirinçe, whose name means "ugly town" is anything but. The old, Greek town still contains the remains of an old church, but the town is solidly Turkish nowadays. We spent about an hour or two exploring the village, munching on dried figs, making semi-educated wine purchases. 

                                                                              dormant vineyards around Sirinçe

                                                         the ubiquitous pomegranate, Sirinçe

                                                                                              dried delights

                                                      practically begging you, please,  take a load off, enjoy some tea

                                                                                          cat family in Sirinçe

                                                                        the Nazar are everywhere, watching you....

                                            dried fruit and nut vendor...we ate most of a big bag of figs within the hour

                                                                                                  alley snoop

                                                                                            repurposed shoes

                                                                                                purty (party?)  wagon

                                                               Sirince, a little sleeping beauty, taking a winter's rest

   We only spent a sliver of time in Sirinçe, but next to Andaluvagi, I thought that time was some of the best spent. Of course, when visiting a place like Turkey, tourists must visit the most famous antiquites. It would be ridiculous not to do so. However, it really does pay off to indulge a bit in spontaneity and whim. Sirinçe is a treasure, a place so precious, worth every jostle and bounce in the shuttle on the way up as well as the dangerously overcrowded conditions on the same shuttle coming back down the narrow mountain road. Tea and dinner were waiting to be served to us somewhere.

                                                                                       tea, at selçuk köftecisi

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     There's really no better way to finish off a successful journey abroad, jam-packed full of amazing sights, new knowledge, and precious experience, than to spend the last day in town, with no specific agenda. And that's what we did on our last day in Turkey. Our big outing was a visit to the Ephesus museum in town. It's relatively small, as museums go, but full of beautifully displayed artifacts inside and out.

  

                                                                   eros riding a dolphin

                                                  floor of an Ephesian private residence, with popular dolphin motif

                                                                                     griffin, Ephesus museum

                                                                            restful vignette, Ephesus museum 

                adorable statuette...she's one of the things I would have made off with if I had been an antiquities thief

                                                                love these ancient glassworks too, amazing colors

    We spent the rest of the day just wanderin'. Which is what I would if I'm ever in Turkey again, having witnessed much of what must be seen the first time around. I loved Sultanahmet in Istanbul, and would definitely stay in that neighborhood again, but would spend more time outside that neighborhood, exploring the grittier parts of the city. We were told time and again how wonderful Cappadocia is....I think that region merits a trip of its own. It may be a cliché, but it sure rings true, that there is so much to do in this world and so little time. Best to savor the moments you are doled out and appreciate that you were able to experience them. That's how I will always feel about out trip to Istanbul, that it was a jewel of a time in my life.

                                           A FEW, DELICIOUS PICTORAL CRUMBS 

                                                                                                kindly imam

                                                                             contemplative mosque courtyard

                                                                                             beautiful shards

                                                                                                  bath ruin

                                                                                road marker, taking a cig break

                                                                                      lemon tree, very pretty

favorite restaurant in Selçuk...tiny but excellent, they inundate you with mezzas until you are too full for the excellent                   kebab, which you can watch being prepared

                                                           incredibly cute and friendly Turkish girls..."my name is?"

                                                                            the village from St. John's basilica

                                                                ruin of St. John's basilica, crusade pilgrimage site

                                                                                   mosque below the basilica

                                                                       optunia growing among the basilica ruin

                                                                            lantana with optunia, basilica ruin

                                                                                              

                                                                           St John's basilica...goodnight, Turkey