Istanbul (not Constantinople)

Note: I had planned to write this post a while back, but thought that writing about Turkey (the country) so close to Thanksgiving might tempt me to make a few corny jokes. Sometimes I can't help myself, it's in my blood. So, I waited. Now LSB is pestering me, so it is time...

 

The final stop on my 4-day, London-Paris-Brussels-Istanbul trip was here, a megacity that straddles East and West. There is a curious geography at play here, as the city itself is subdivided by several bodies of water—the Golden Horn, Bosporus Strait, and Sea of Marmara—and sits on two continents, part in Asia and part in Europe.  I was excited, as I've always wanted to visit Turkey and I really like maps. 

There are also less tangible divisions: religious and secular, traditional and modern, Eastern and Western, beautiful and kind of annoying. It is a city of incredible architecture, delicious food, mosques that used to be churches that used to be mosques, modern, European-style shopping districts, ancient subterranean cisterns, spice markets and bazaars, carpet-sellers, hustlers, and palaces once lived in by sultans (you know, the guys with eunuchs and harems). It's a complicated place.

The section of the city known as Sultanahmet sits on a peninsula--the Golden Horn on one side, the Sea of Marmara on the other, and the pointy part reaching out and touching the beginning/end of the Bosporus. This is the “old town,” and clustered in close proximity are an incredible amount of postcard-worthy sites--you could sit directly in front of the Aya Sophia and look across a small park at the Blue Mosque.  Both are almost indescribably impressive, yet there they are, only a stone's throw away from each other, dueling domes and minarets.   

As this is where most of the tourists congregate (i.e. me), this is also where most of the people who prey on tourists hang out. Wandering from mosque to mosque, there is a continuous flow of approaching hustlers (“hello sir, where you from?”) looking for an easy money-making opportunity from the bewildered guide-book clutching masses (yes, I was one of them). I was offered food, carpets, shoe shines, directions, and tours; and while walking around a quiet corner I was even badgered by a barber who shouted out to me—in the midst of giving someone else a trim—and offered to cut my hair. Okay, I was in need of a haircut, but this seemed to be extreme.

 

On my second day in town, after my morning coffee, sour cherry juice, and assortment of fresh cheeses, I strolled to a little park on a hill between mosques and sat down on bench to observe The Hustle. I kept my map in my pocket in an effort to blend in as best I could (I wouldn't say that I actually look Turkish, but I wore my best scowl) and sat for several pleasant, hassle-free minutes, watching the hordes of American, British, German, and Spanish victims get picked off like it was some kind of bizarre video game (“I take you to the Blue Mosque, it is much better” “Deutsch? English? American?” “Hello, do you find Istanbul beautiful?” “Please, sir, I show you the best carpets.” “Spice Market? Grand Bazaar? I take you.”).

Contemplating my next move, I discretely (so I thought) slipped the small, folded map out of my pocket and noticed, at the edge of my peripheral vision, a man seated on a nearby bench twitch. I put the map away, stood, walked down the hill and noticed him beginning his gradual and angled approach, matching my stride and not looking at me until he was right beside me: “Excuse me sir, are you looking for the cistern?” 

Once I got used to the hassle of the hustle (to be honest, it was actually kind of entertaining), I found Istanbul enjoyable. I drank raki and enjoyed nargile (apple and mint) with a colleague. I had a proper tea service on a high hill on the tip of the peninsula overlooking the confluence of the three bodies of water. I took a boat trip up the Bosporus and wandered down İstiklâl Caddesi in Beyoğlu —a pedestrian thoroughfare that apparently 3 million people walk down each day. It was crowded and a bit overwhelming, so we enjoyed a Turkish beer from a balcony overlooking the masses below.

At the airport upon my departure, I was serenaded by a full Turkish band in the middle of the terminal.  It was at that moment that I realized that I won the game.  I never did buy a carpet.   

In the Good Old Days

Sometimes I like to use the word "Flemish."  I like how it sounds.  "Walloon" is also a good word.  Apparently, Brussels is officially in Flanders (or the Flemish region), but there are a lot of Walloons living there, from Walloonia (which is also pleasing to say).  I was there as well. 

I have no idea what this thing is...

I had about 4 hours to kill in Brussels, so I set out to explore the city on a--you guessed it--cold, gray, and rainy afternoon.  Belgium is known for a few things that I like, most notably: beer, chocolate, waffles, mussles, and cartoons.  The Smurfs (Les Schtroumpfs) were Belgian before they were dubbed.  So is Tintin.  I also learned that they have FNAC there, as well as a lot of people with "van der" names.  I heart Belgium. 

On the same wall as this politically-charged graffiti...

My walking tour took me down cobblestone streets, through quant little parks, and past intriguing statues.  I bought chocolates and French music CDs for LSB, and then made my way toward the Grand Place in the center of town, where Grand Places tend to be located.   

...was this. 

I was looking for a specific place (near the Grand one) that a friend recommended, just as the sky opened up.  I ducked into an long, covered alley--a passageway from a former convent, now full of shops--and waited out the downpour.
   

LSB would absolutely love Le Champagnotheque

The rain let up a bit and I resumed my search for Au Bon Vieux Temps, a old, dark, and smokey little bar hidden down an alley off one of the main streets.  I needed a beer.  I needed the Best Beer in The World. 

The entrance to Au Bon Vieux Temps

The bar was something special, like stepping back in time: old wood, brick, and stained glass.  They served a variety of Belgian beer, but were known for selling a hard-to-find, and expensive beer called Westvleteren.  According to the bar's proprietor, Westvletern used to be cheaper and easier to get ahold of, until "some Americans" named it The Best Beer in the World, causing both price and demand to increase.  Damn Americans.  Damn capitalistic monks.   

Brussels by twilight

The beer was very good--a perfectly balanced dark beer with just the right amount of sweetness, hops, and malts.  Perhaps it was even the best in the world, though I think I need to drink more beer before I can make that claim.  I learned later, that the beer is supposedly only sold at the monastery (and the bar across from the monastery), so the beer I drank was probably sold to me illegally (or it was The Best Fake Beer in the World). 

Het Spook Whisperer

Later on in the evening, after enjoying the TBBITW, I went in search of moules frites and then returned to my hotel.  Ghost Whisperer was on, but I had already seen the episode, so I turned off the television and  went to sleep.  Sweet dreams of delicious chocolate Schtroumpfs.   

22 Hours Deep in the Heart

My work takes me to various places.  These trips are often fleeting and sometimes against my will.  Take Houston, Texas for example. 

I've always been sort of reluctant each time I've been sent to this sprawling, characterless city; the home of chain restaurants and hordes of oil industry boogymen.  Still, I like to try to squeeze at least a few hours of interesting experiences out of these brief visits and, this time, the Astros were hosting the Cubs.
 

After finishing a work event, I caught a cab across town to Minute Maid Park and made it in time for the third inning.  I present to you a few fractured experiences/thoughts--mostly in the order in which they occurred--from my evening with the 'stros:   

On the way to my seat--a Shiner Bock in one hand and a chopped beef sandwich in the other--I had to dodge a pair of tea-baggers with matching "get off our backs" t-shirts (I think they were even worn over buttoned-down collared shirts) and a dragonfly.  I'm unsure of the political views of the dragonfly, as it wasn't wearing a t-shirt and it flew by too fast for me to notice if it had any bumper-stickers. 

There's this weird burm-thing in centerfield that I couldn't quite figure out.  Is it just creative landscaping or is there a purpose behind it?  Do outfielders frequently run up the burm and leap over the wall to catch potential homeruns?  After some post game research, I discovered it is called "Tal's Hill" and apparently has no purpose.

I wonder if Bagwell hit all of those homeruns in the pre-burm era.

"Mild" beat "Hot" in the Taco Bell Saucy Sprint®.  I was disappointed in Hot's performance, though I did enjoy watching two people dressed as giant taco sauce packets race around the field.    

The PA announcer sounded exactly like Will Arnett (as Gob from Arrested Development).  Really, for a little while I thought he might be guest announcing. 

The cheap seats were really cheap seats: $6 (you should be ashamed of yourself, Fenway).  While that was nice, I was disturbed by the rigid class structure of the ball park.  I sat up top with the Latino and African-American families, while the white frat boys and, presumably, tea-baggers sat down behind the dugouts and home plate.  At least at Fenway, no one can afford a ticket...except for Ben Affleck.   

At one point during the middle innings, the Jumbotron flashed images of people in the crowd playing air bongos, with cartoon image of bongos superimposed on the screen.  Sometimes it looked as though the people were actually playing the bongos, though most of the time they were just awkwardly flailing about, occasionally looking up and into the distance to see if they were on the screen.  

The leftfielder for the Astros was named Jason Bourgeois.  I wonder how many intellectual baseball conversations among fans include comments like: "We don't have a chance at the penant this year--our outfield is so bourgeois."   

During the 7th inning stretch, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" was immediately followed, with slightly more enthusiasm, by, "Deep In the Heart of Texas."

The day after the game, in a SuperShuttle on the way to the airport, we passed a car with a large "Don't Tread on Me" flag flapping in the wind, several purveyors of "pit trucks" and smokers,  and La Luz del Mundo--a huge, and hugely out-of-place looking church by the highway.  Turns out it may be a scary place as well.   

At IAH, I said farewell to a jaunty George HW Bush in bronze.  I wonder who he was rooting for in the Taco Bell Saucy Sprint®. 

How much for the cute little grey one?

Just up the street and on the gritty side of the Cambridge/Somerville border (that would be Somerville), there is a place where old radiators go to die--or perhaps just hang out until they are adopted by some new family. There they sit--some with badly chipped coats of paint, and others with no paint at all--rusting on the side of Prospect Street. It's a hard knock life for old heating units.

To passersby, A1 New and Used Plumbing and Heating Supplies, near Union Square, is an odd sight. Part supply store, part orphanage, part zoo, and part plumbing museum--hundreds of radiators of all different shapes, sizes, and colors, sit crowded together behind a fence, as if they might escape and take out their vengence on neighborhood residents for upgrading to more modern means of keeping warm through the cold New England winters.

Apparently, they sell replacement toilet tank lids, too. They must keep those inside. Perhaps this is a topic for a future post as fascinating as this one.

Slightly West of Shakespeare

Shakespeare in the park. In his park, actually.

Thus far, I've touched on the periphery--the swine, the poutine, and the death of a small Canadian town--but not the real reason for our trip to Southwestern Ontario.

No, this wasn't the reason.

We came for the theater/re. Every summer, the cultured Canadian (and non-Canadian) masses flock to this quant, small town for Shakespeare, etc. Being the ugly, uncultured ducking among the masses, I was a bit nervous. I've struggled with the bit of Shakespeare that I've been exposed to: the plot and themes are interesting, but I've always found the language really hard to follow. LSB, on the other hand, was raised on the stuff.

Throughout her childhood, her family would pack up the car and drive close to 7 hours across the border and over Lake Ontario, to Stratford for the annual Shakespeare Festival.

Signets upon Avon

To better prepare myself, I Googled my way through various plot synopses of the plays we planned to attend--Shakespeare and others--and printed out my own Cliff's Notes prior to the trip. I had read and seen (in movie form), The Importance of Being Earnest. I had recently seen a peformance of another Chekhov play, The Seagull, so I felt relatively prepared for Three Sisters. However, I was frightened by the Scottish play.

Chinese and Canadian Food

We spent a pleasant few days wandering around Stratford, eating frozen yogurt and poutine, lingering in Shakespeare's Garden, sitting by the river (Avon, of course), eating delicious meals, and going to plays.

Tower of calf's liver

All of the plays were quite good, although MacBeth was a bit non-traditional and pretty intense, as it was set in the violent Africa in the mid-20th century. While I didn't completely solve my Shakespeare problem (I found myself seriously considering the "Shakespeare for Dummies" book in the festival gift shop), I found I could follow what was going on, for the most part. Though, I imagine that Shakespeare's original version of the play didn't have as many explosions or machine gun fire.

A Moveable Feast

crêpes on a sunny day

After our weekend wallowing in The Mountain Cheese, we took the TGV from Annecy to Paris, in order to spend a few days of vacation. We checked-in to our hotel near Montparnasse and jumped on the Metro to Montmartre to take in the view of the city from the Sacré-Coeur basilica, and, more importantly, find a good place for dinner.

the other streets were really crowded

We wandered the crowded streets a bit, debated whether or not we wanted to pay the admission fee to climb the steps to the top of the dome of the basilica, considered whether or not my fear of heights would paralize me halfway up the narrow staircase, and then turned around and bought gelato. Eventually, the hoards of tourists and hunger pangs forced us back down the hill, and an inebriated vagabond, who was trailing a little bit too close behind, flushed us out of the series of narrow alleys we were strolling through to a main street lined with cafés. Still indecisive about dinner--we're always indecisive about dinner--we ducked into a bar near Abbessess to regroup over mojitos and caipirinhas.

Our cocktails came with popcorn

Fortified by our tropical libations, we headed back down the alley in search of food. After spending 4 days in the Haute-Savoie eating large, traditional French meals accompanied with much cheese and wine, we opted for something a bit different for dinner.

Le Mono, a Togolese restaurant we found in a restaurant guide given to us by LSB's folks before the trip, was a bit of a hole in the wall, but in a cozy way. Our Mozambican (which is nowhere near Togo, in case you were wondering) waiter was desheveled and more than a bit odd. He spoke English in long, slow, drawn-out phrases that left a lot space for us to make quick, slightly uncomfortable glances at each other while we waited for him to finish. He pointed out the items on the menu that he recommended, and when I asked about a few of the other things listed, he gave me a strange sideways look, as if to say, "nooo...I wouldn't advise you to order that."

It is probably needless to say, but we ordered from the list of waiter-approved items, which started with an appetizer sampler of various fried things from the sea (cod, crab, oysters, etc.) and the house punch--a seriously potent blend of rum, lemon, muddled (more like pulverized)ginger, and cane sugar. LSB ordered a whole fish (Kingfish, I believe) for the second time on the trip (in spite of her previous well-documented difficulties). I don't remember what I ordered, because something entirely different came out. It was some kind of ochre-based stew or savory broth with chunks of fish in it. I also had manioc (a.k.a yucca or cassava), which our waiter described as "a tree that grows under the ground." I guess that's a good enough way to describe a big root.

The combination of the house punch, odd atmosphere, and way too much--but quite good--food left us sleepy and lethargic, so we called it a night.

The following day started with coffee at a corner café. We wandered mostly around the Left Bank, stopping in St. Sulpice, strolling through Luxembourg Gardens, pausing for crêpes, and continuing on to the Pantheon for some after-lunch crypt-peeping. We crossed the river to visit a speciality food/baking store to buy some gifts for folks back home before heading back toward the Latin Quarter for another decidely unFrench dinner. Wait, that's not exactly true--we did have rosé with our sushi.

In the morning, after a short ride on the Air France bus to Orly, I found myself on Air Iberia once again, for my return trip to Boston (via Madrid). LSB got to sleep in before catching her British Airways flight out of Charles de Gaulle and then was upgraded from her luxurious World Traveller Plus seat to First Class.

At least my plane was not musty this time.

Je t'aime, le fromage de montagne!

There, I said it. Okay, so I know that "I love you, the mountain cheese!" may not make complete sense gramatically. It does to me, though, and to my friend Bucky who first uttered the phrase over 10 years ago in adoration of a different type of cheese from a different French mountain range.

This time, it was the Alps and the Reblochon. I ate alot of it, with almost every meal in the course of our long weekend in the Haute-Savoie. To summarize, I ate it:

- with a baguette in front of a mountain chapel

- with a baguette, some terrine, and some rosé by the lake

- baked in a tartiflette (potatoes, onions, cream and bacon)...twice

- as part of an after dinner cheese course (the cheese course being one of my favorite things about France)

Me and a French dinghy

I learned that "reblochon" basically means "milked again." Further research discovered that it actually comes from the word "reblocher" which literally means: "to pinch a cow's udder again." In the olden days the Man used to tax the farmers on how much milk they produced, so they would only partially milk their cows, measure the milk, pay the taxes, then go back and milk the cow again after the taxman left. Apparently, the remaining milk was richer and used to make this delicious cheese.

Between episodes of mountain cheese consumption, I did other things. LSB has all of the pretty pictures here (including a montage of me looking contemplative on a dock). I'll try to cover the rest below.

We stopped at the store and picked up a baguette and...er...reblochon and hiked up into the mountains. Near the top is La Grotte de St. Germain and a chapel built directly above it. As I understand it, St. Germain was a monk at the priory in Talloires who, in an effort to live a more simple and rustic life, started spending his nights in a small cave (the aforementioned "grotte"). After a while, I think he went a little batty and just stayed up there, living the life of a recluse. A hermit with a view.

la grotte de St. Germain

While LSB was in meetings, I took a boat tour around the lake to Annecy. I met a couple of caravaning Scots on board with their two friendly spaniels: Paddy (a cocker) and Fudge (a springer). I never did get the names of the people, but I learned that they were traveling through France and then onto Italy. It was in Annecy that I ate my first tartiflette of the trip. I washed it down with a bottle of strong "Yeti" beer at a restaurant on a canal.

Yes, that is A Moveable Feast next to my tartiflette (I am the cliché)

Once Leah was free from work, we spent our last afternoon in Talloires, sitting in the grass on the lakeshore, drinking rosé and eating baguettes with a certain mountain cheese that I tend to enjoy.

LSB, Lake Annecy, and Reblochon

I had tartiflette again for dinner that evening and dreamed about a cave-dwelling life, double-milking cows for my livelihood. Strange. Maybe it was all the cheese. Or maybe it had something to do with this guy...

creepy saint at the chapel of St. Germain

Bon nuit!

A Pleasant Evening with Klaus & Werner

Warning: Explicit Language

Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes

Maybe it was an unconscious backlash to my previous delightful movie experience or maybe it was just residual curiousity from a documentary that I saw on IFC several years ago, but while LSB was out schmoozing with ambassadors and the Special Representative to North Korea, I took the opportunity to rent Aguirre: The Wrath of God.

First, some background. I've always been interested in the combative, symbiotic, love/hate relationship between the German director Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski, his nemisis and frequent star of many of his earlier films. I guess that makes me kind of weird, but perhaps this quote will explain my fascination:

Herzog is a miserable, hateful, malevolent, avaricious, money-hungry, nasty, sadistic, treacherous, cowardly creep...he should be thrown alive to the crocodiles! An anaconda should strangle him slowly! A poisonous spider should sting him and paralyze his lungs! The most venomous serpent should bite him and make his brain explode! No panther claws should rip open his throat--that would be much too good for him! Huge red ants should piss into his lying eyes and gobble up his balls and his guts! He should catch the plague! Syphilis! Yellow fever! Leprosy! It's no use; the more I wish him the most gruesome deaths, the more he haunts me.

- Klaus Kinski (on Werner Herzog)

Aguirre was made by Germans, with mostly German actors, about Spanish conquistadors in 16th Century Peru. It follows the story of Aguirre, who leads a expedition up a river in order to find El Dorado and goes increasingly insane in the process. Think Heart of Darkness in the context of Spanish exploitation of South America, in German (with English subtitles). It begins with a bunch of men carrying a cannon over a mountain and ends with loads of hyper little monkeys on a raft. In the middle, people are hit with arrows, decapitated by other (German) Spaniards, eaten by indigenous Peruvians, and avoid starvation by eating the algae growing on the bottom of their raft. If that doesn't interest you enough to go out and rent it, perhaps this trailer or following quotes from the film will:

"That man is a head taller than me. That may change..."

- Aguirre (prior to the above-mentioned beheading)

"Whoever even thinks about deserting will be cut into 198 pieces
and then trampled upon until you can paint the walls with him"

- Aguirre (in an effort to inspire his men)


"If I, Aguirre, want the birds to drop dead from the trees...
the birds will drop dead from the trees."

- Aguirre (just prior to proclaiming himself "The Wrath of God")

Yeah, the movie was pretty awesome.