In the beginning, there was Diyarbakır

I really should’ve written during my train trip, but there was too much excitement — and too much blogging for work — to keep up. So I’m going to cheat and use photos to tell the story.

My itinerary: Diyarbakır, Malatya, Gaziantep, Iskenderun, Antakya and Mersin. Basically, I rode the train through most of southeastern Turkey, near the Iraqi and Syrian borders. And it was … incredible. Minus the bomb scare. But that might be a story for another day.

Let’s start with Diyarbakır. It was my fav.

After touring the city and seeing a couple of historic sites (bahring), we headed to the Dicle River, which was infinitely more interesting.

The Dicle River and its regulars.

After leaving the river, we traveled uphill to find women making fresh bread in outdoor stone ovens. More on that in a sec.

In order to fuel the fires that cooked the bread, the villagers use ... wait for it ... dried dung. Not joking. They break it up by hand.

Then they flatten the bread and stick it (somehow) to the sides of the oven, like so. We bought a loaf (?), and, oh my god, so delicious. You can't taste the dung.

Then we posed. The women weren't comfortable with the cameras unless I posed, so I did. I was trying to get a little girl to join. No go.

And that’s pretty much all I have energy for — right now. There’s more to come, but for the time being, you can see more photos on my flickr, and you can check the nonsense I wrote daily for my newspaper’s blog. (You might have to scroll until you see my name.)

Southeastward

Are you so amazed that two posts came within a 30-day period? You should be.

Tomorrow, I head to Turkey’s Southeast, the part of the country that borders Iraq and Syria, land of the PKK and the ever-popular cocktail topic, the Kurds. My first stop on the Hurriyet human rights train will be Diyarbakır, a city notorious for its … well, maybe we shouldn’t get into that. Let’s just say that when my colleague was on the train near Van, the military spent three hours “clearing the way” for the train to continue through the mountains. Problem yok, ya.

“The train” needs a bit of explanation, I think, mostly because that link I gave you, though nicely designed and all, is in Turkish. My company, Hürriyet, is sponsoring a 50-something-day-long trip through Turkey on its private 14-car train. It stops in dozens of cities, and, with the help of its “partners” (Coca-Cola among them), it promotes Turkey’s version of human rights through activities with the community, mostly the kids. Promotion + human rights, basically. Maybe not the most sound way to get the message across, but at least the message is a respectable one, right?

Because our reporters are doing things that are actually newsworthy, the Daily News was gracious enough to send the few of us who rarely get out of the office, ie, the copy editors. Barring any unforeseen problems – ahem, fear of flying, ahem – I’ll be in Diyarbakır, Malatya, Gaziantep, İskenderun, Mersin and Adana this week. I’m back in cozy, comfortable Istanbul on Saturday.

Part of the deal of getting to spend a week on a train on the company’s dime is that I’ll be blogging about my various, business-appropriate adventures on the newspaper’s site. Though I take pride in my tendency to see the interesting in the bizarre, this is one part of the trip that I’m hesitant about. It’s now that I’m kicking myself for not knowing enough Turkish after a year to do a simple interview. Honestly, I’m banking on finding a few people who speak English to do a bit of pro bono translation during the day to give me something, anything, to write about – of course, other than how cool it is to watch an episode of “Arrested Development” while riding a train on the Syrian border. I say we take a swig every time Lucille does, no?

Onward! Southeastward! Wish me luck.

Yowza

There’s no excuse, really, for my despicable blogging record, so this’ll just be a quick review of my May through September, in the hopes that if we get this out of the way, we can get back to the idea of regular chronicling. For now, though, this’ll have to do. You can thank @cthornton for my grand return. (Btdubs, you should follow her on Twitter. She’s oh-so entertaining.)

And here we go.

May: In which I went to the Prince’s Islands once or twice with my flatmate Ben. The five or six islands are a 45-minute ferry ride from the city. We hiked around, avoiding the pay beaches, and found this series of rocky coves. When Saturday’s your only day off for the week, this is not a bad way to kill some time:

Ben thought it would be fun to stalk with the zoom. I was unawares.

June: In which I decided it was finally time to take pictures of my newish apartment in Tarlabaşı. My room:

Note the big awesome coffee table (20 lira from a friend who was moving) and the tacky yet awesome red lamp.

The view from my bedroom window. I have shutters. (!)

I also went to Greece in June, partly for a visa run and partly because I hadn’t left Istanbul for anything resembling a vacation since I got here.

I actually just went to a Greek island. Above: the view from my villa (yes, villa).

It was an ordeal just to get to Chios, which is just a short hop on a ferry from Cesme. Once I got there, exhausted from the 12-hour bus ride, I was outraged to find out that the hostel I booked was actually on Ios, an island two days away by ferry. (To my consolation, the Web site I booked it with had the islands confused.) A French travel agent came to my rescue.

I must’ve looked pretty pathetic: There was a huge storm looming, and I was armed with essentially a beach towel, a Tom Robbins book, a swim suit, and the expectation that a service bus was taking me to my alcohol-filled, beachside hostel. She booked me a room (actually, the entire downstairs) in her friend’s villa for the price I would’ve paid for the hostel and drove me there in her car.

Needless to say, the panic passed with the storm, and I spent the next three days on the beach:

After about nine months straight in the city, this was nothing short of paradise, let me tell you.

My travel companions: Mythos, the Greek version of Efes; Tom Robbins' "Fierce Invalids Back from Hot Climates"; and Greek salads, pretty much the only thing I ate while I was there. (Mom, those are candy cigarettes. Convincing, no?)

July: Of which I have very few photos. If memory serves, which it usually doesn’t, July was a month of drinking with Leylo Meylo, working and hanging around the house, where Poppy also lives:

Who peed on my carpet last night. Our friendship is on hold.

August: The beginning of which I spent counting down the days until I got to go home. After drinking many, many airplane-sized bottles of gin and popping sleeping pills (not at the same time, of course), I made it from Istanbul to London to Atlanta to Madison to Chicago (via Ruby, my beloved, to Poynter reunion 2k9) to Tuscaloosa to New York (via Amtrak, to PLP/Frenchie/Kevin/Ali/Alex reunion 2k9).  It wasn’t as much a vacation as it was 13 days of trying to get in all of my American socializing for the year. I failed, of course, but it was a hella fun attempt.

That brings us up to now. For those who aren’t privy to my late-night text messages or Skype dials (see you there? jenniferamur), I’m moving away from the copy desk and onto the Web desk, where I’ll be helping run my daily’s new Web site. Excitement doesn’t cut it. But I’m sure I’ll be talking about that a lot more later.

Revival repeats

Lately, the city has sounded like Regina Spektor on repeat – the achingly beautiful melodies that accompany warmer temps, fewer layers of clothing and longer days, that are somewhat marred by those tracks that make you hold your nose, cover your ears and hope for happier harmonies. Apologies to the RS enthusiasts out there. 

Otherwise, things are “normal.” Work from 9-6, home afterward for New Zealand’s homemade something (curry, usually), for playtime with Popstar (the rescued street dog), for beer, for reading (is Tom Robbins married?), and for the occasional weeknight out. How boring grown-up am I, right?

And there’s no “but.” Friends are coming to visit soon (Matt! Sanja! Nina!), I’m not dying of some weird strand of greener grass – or swine flu, for that matter – and I have rad sunglasses (see: facebook). 

And to cap things off, there’s nothing like a little comic evangelism (courtesy of Regina) to dot the ı in İstanbul.

You know that statue
That statue of baby Jesus
In the window
In the window of the 99 cent store

Last night I saw the owner kiss it
And whisper in its ear
I was walking home from Walgreen’s
And he did not hear me see him

And on the very, very next morning
All the subway cars were hallelu-leluing
Welcome back the baby king, the baby king
All the believers, they were smiling
And winking at each other
I could honestly say I was
Scared for my life!

They said:
All the non-believers, they get to eat dirt
And the believers get to spit on their graves
All the non-believers, they get to eat dirt
And the believers get to spit on their graves

… And we’re back.

We couldn’t have looked more like yabancis (foreigners): my friend Rachael, with her white-blonde hair, and me, with my nose ring and hair pulled back. We were also wide-eyed, in awe of this massive bazaar that we stumbled upon a few steps from what we hope will be our new (cheap) five-room place in a neighborhood called Tarlabasi.

Taking our time — it was Sunday — we wandered past table after table of oranges, beyaz peynir (white cheese), house slippers, fish with bloody gills, shirts, spoons, bras, buckets and buckets of olives, house cleaner, pots and pans, packaged food. Everything. I bought simit, essentially sesame-covered bagels, three for a lira. The whole affair must’ve stretched for a mile, and we wondered if this could possibly be a weekly thing. We found out later that it is.

To say we were a little lost at the end of it would be something of an understatement. After getting our bearings, we strolled toward what we thought was probably (maybe) Taksim. We knew we were in a shit part of town — maybe the worst — but it was daylight, the rain wouldn’t start for a few more hours, and we — yabancis that we are — had (figurative) balls of steel.

Fifty meters later, we’re stopped by a man, late 50s, stout, dirty, mischievous, in front of a tire shop. He motions toward my simit, reaching with his index finger and thumb. I thought, He’s not serious, then immediately reconsidered.

So I say: “Lutfen?” (Please?) I was being half sarcastic, but really, if some random is going to take some of my delicious simit, the least said stranger could do is feign civility. Right?

Wrong. So wrong. He ignores me (and my, ahem, flawless Turkish) and proceeds to help himself to a chunk of my breakfast. He says thanks; I say you’re welcome; and Rach and I are off on our way. How’s that for Turkish hospitality?

—

For the unawares, a quick update: About a month and a half ago, I was offered a job at Oxford Business Group, a company that does annual economic reports about emerging markets. The pay, the hours and the benefits were better, so I accepted. I gave Zaman my two-weeks’ notice and dreamt daily of my oh-so-desired 9-5, M-F.

A few days after my last day at Zaman (and less than a week before my scheduled first day at Oxford), I was notified — via email — that Oxford had rescinded my offer because of a hiring freeze that was a result of the “current economic situation.” Bastards, right? Right.

After three-four weeks of not-fun unemployment, I landed a (now full-time) editing gig at the Hurriyet Daily News and Economic Review. The differences are astronomical, but the pay is less than exciting. So, I’m Tarlabasi-bound, but indescribably happy to be employed again.

Take that, recession.

The never-ending week

My friend Kate (we interned together in Milwaukee) is here for a few days, which has given me a chance to show off what little Turkish I know and realize how much of the city I haven’t seen.

I started Turkish classes on Wednesday, which means that I now have four 12-hour days per week instead of just one. Welcome back, raccoon eyes.

On Tuesday, I’m flying to London to renew my, ahem, visa. I’m coming back on Thursday. Maybe I’ll see people from Index? One can only hope.

On Saturday, I’m moving out of Bakirkoy and into Cihangir (woo!). Seriously, so excited. For a lack of a better comparison, Cihangir is Manhattan, and Bakirkoy is Queens. Or even Albany.

Tonight, Kate and I are meeting up with a friend I met in a hostel here in 2007. Ready for one of those full circles? The hostel is called World House, and it was a good experience. Solid, you know? A few days ago, while I was talking to my new (!!) landlord, he said I should just drop off the deposit at his hostel. You see where this is going.

This place shrinks every day.

A belated toast

Because it’s the end of the day, the end of a Friday — which, for the unaware, means the end of a 13-14 hour day that usually leaves me feeling as delirious as I did on New Year’s morning — I’m going to be lazy about the whole posting Christmas photos thing. They’re on flickr, for all to see.

I’ve finally met a good group of people, expats though they might be, who have reminded me what it’s like to have a social life. They’re all witty and interesting and the opposite of boring, which means that most of you reading at home would like them. And when you come here to visit me, you’ll meet them and love them and we’ll sing “Kumbaya” around the campfire. Or something.

But because of them, Christmas was as it should have been, with good food, good wine and good company. There was still this unfamiliar pang that I wasn’t where I should’ve been, which was at home, rolling my eyes at the family drama and laughing too loudly at my sisters’ quirky moments.

We rang in the New Year with plenty of drinks and dancing, but with none of the fireworks that you’d expect from a city of 15 million. All of the municipality’s “events” were canceled to show the country’s solidarity with the Palestinians in Gaza, a friendly reminder that though the vodka is flowing and Ed Banger blaring from the club’s speakers, this is not your average rodeo.

So, to go along with the rest of the adjustments I find myself making in this place, I’m setting higher expectations. But I won’t list them here, because I’m not about to be that lame blogger that details a whole bunch of unachievable resolutions for the sake of a fake sense of self-righteousness.

So! Happy 2009, interwebs. It’s bound to be a good one.

Of culture and meat

Almost two full weeks have passed, but I am no less incredulous now than I was then of the Feast of the Sacrifice (Eid al-Adha). The premise is pretty simple. If you feel so obliged, you buy an animal — cow or sheep, depending on family size and slaughtering ability — and you, well, sacrifice it. You think I kid? Oh, I wish.

It’s the second of two bayrams, or Muslim holidays. What that meant to me was five days off of work, including my weekend. The plan was this: My roommate and I would leave town Sunday night and head to her parents house in Inegol, which is near Bursa, which is about five hours from Istanbul. Then her mother would cook and we would eat and sleep and be merry. Sort of like Christmas without the presents and with way more gore. Sort of like a Christmas horror. A Christmorror.

But Sunday night came, and after realizing that we both had a night off with no immediate obligations the next day, we decided to do what any sane 20something workaholic females would: We listened to traditional Turkish music. And drank, of course.

On Monday, we were on our way. As we approached the metro, I spied this on the sidewalk:

Yep, that's what you think it is. Dead cow. On the ground.

It can only get better from here, right? Right.

Behind the metro station, in what appeared to be a mixture of a landfill, a construction site and a drainage ditch, was this:

If you can't tell, that's blood, gore, more blood and bayram butchers.

I wasn’t expecting this, to say the least. But, as any good semi-permanent tourist, I had my camera on hand, ready to bring you the latest and greatest from the country that never ceases to surprise.

In other, less bloodtastic news, I bought a Christmas tree. Observe:

Ta-da!

I managed to convince Za-Man to give me Christmas Day off, so I’ll be accepting phone calls, text messages, love letters and care packages all day.

Get excited

Remember how, like, two months ago, I promised photos? Today is Day of Fulfilled Promises (and also of Stealing Za-Man’s Internet, as usual).

Observe:

In which I spend 60 hours of my week. Pretty, yeah?

From the elusive Tourist Day

Beer! Also, I'm a lightweight. Disappointing, I know.

There’s more: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jenniferamur. Of course, all curious parties should click the linky-link, but C. Olwell, C. French and C. Thornton (C to the third? C. Olenchorton?) are required. Otherwise, you’ll miss … things.

Other than finally making good on the photos, there’s not much to report. Work is steady, home-life is steady. Thanks to my skills of persuasion and some managerial pity, the Boss People are going to let me leave work early three days a week to take Turkish classes for two months. Progress!

There are so many things to discuss — the lack of snow; the Christmas music/cups/decor at Starbucks; the recent absence of Sebastian, my stray cat; Turkish politics; office politics; bombings at the offices of Turkish political parties; glue sniffers; pastry shop owners; Bhutan’s Gross National Happiness; atheism.

We’ve got nothing but time, right? Right.

Day of (T)urkeys

On this day of feasting on birds (which, by the way, still grosses me out), Turks are markedly unexcited about Thanksgiving. Not surprising. The only Indians on Turkey’s plate are the ones who are making the news in Mumbai.

My first TG away from home (I think. Right, Mom?). The Canadian who sits on the other side of the desk asked if it’s weird. Meh? It’s bizarre, but only in the way that it’s bizarre that the nearest country-neighbors are Greece and Bulgaria. And there’s no chunky stuffing in Turkey. No Stovetop stuffing, either, for that matter.

…

Stuck on that Stovetop void. Bastards.