Adventures on the Lycian Way

Ahhhh nature. Soothing nature with its tall pines, arching plane trees, and the silence that ripples through the forest as I walk along the path. The thrill when I am swimming with strange fish, the schools darting away from me, and the sunlight pours through the clear water to cast shadows on the crevices and nooks of the underworld. The vibrancy of an orange grove that has overgrown ancient ruins of a people group long gone. The stars shining as they should, the Bursa smog absent. And the conversation that a river has with its bed, waterfalls, side streams, and the smooth whisper of the creek moving by. As I breath deeply, my soul feels a peace of substance that for me only comes in nature's presence. It is as if I am being nourished with each breath, taking in the dose of emollient medicine that nature's serenity and beauty offers. The holiday marks Abraham's sacrifice to YHWH of a ram in the stead of his son Isaac. Millions of sheep will be slaughtered in the Muslim world, and we repeatedly see the animals being taken to their final destination while trekking through the mountains on the Lycian Way, a 500km (330 mi.) trail that meanders along the Mediterranean coast of southern Turkey. We will eventually cover sixty-five kilometres of the trail, moving from village to village, mountain to sea, and back again. It is these villages that were once a harmonious mixture of Greek and Turk only to be homogenized in the callous deportations that marked the end of polyethnic societies in this part of the world. On our trip we will meet no Greeks though the remains of their ancestors are promoted as tourist destinations. This coast in time past was the haven of pirates that terrorized the shipping lanes of Athens and Rome, but since their proteges have taken up shop in Somalia, we are free to tour the area.


We start on Mount Olimpos at an elevation of 8500ft via the gondola. It feels like cheating to so easily ascend the mighty peak, but the views are spectacular, the sea stretching out beyond the jagged peaks to the horizon. Quickly descending from the barren summit to more fertile forests, I discover my travel plans to be flawed as our legs are not prepared to shoulder a pack while descending 5000ft. By nightfall we already feel the lactic acid working on our muscles, and long-silent joints are vociferously articulating their discontent. We make our one and only fire and settle down to a night's sleep.



I don't even like beer! Jana and I are lightheaded as we search for the next trail marker. I remember clearly my Grandma Jo telling me that she only has a craving for beer when her body is short on electrolytes. So when Jana mentioned a craving for the drink, I immediately assessed and diagnosed the chemical imbalance and prescribed the proper medication. But a beer on an empty stomach and little water is not held well, and after a bottle of Efes (Ephesus) Jana is quite tipsy, and I am not thinking as clearly as I would like when we have lost our trail. The packs do not help our situation as they together weigh fifty-five pounds. Oh the mistakes one makes.

Wandering along the beachfront at night should be pleasant, but right now it is just grating. We have walked seventeen kilometres (11 mi.), Jana has a headache, my hips are giving me hell, and we are starving. Every food establishment is closed, we have not seen a market, and the small hotels that line the road are not open. Definitely a low point on our travels, but hope was in sight; a brightly-lit sign, "restaurant" written in English, and they are open! Buffet-style, soup, salad, kofte (meatballs), sweet pastries that look like hair, and the most delicious french fries I have ever partaken of, and to make it even better, Jana realizes halfway through our meal that it is Thanksgiving! A Turkish Thanksgiving, eating as much as we possibly can, minus the Turkey. Yes yes, make the necessary joke at this time, whatever the variation may be:) Truly fantastic, we stuff ourselves with meatballs and other unfamiliar foods. We warm ourselves by the fire, ignorant of the coming night. Foolishly choosing to forego the tent, we slap our bags down on the sand, listening to raki-intoxicated Turks singing in the darkness at the water's edge. And we wake up in the morning fairly soaked. The sea has become dew on our bags, and we are freezing, especially Jana with her $20 piece-of-crap summer bag. Sore limbs are the signature of the day.


I am lying in a 2300-year old sarcophagus. The Lycian for whom it was made is long gone, and now only my body is absorbing the musty air, but I will not exit by the stone door at my feet, representing the way to Hades. The inscription on the tomb is Greek as these people were absorbed into the Athenian League present during the Classical Age of Athens when Plato, Socrates, and Alexander the Great made their mark on our world. After our dew-soaked morning, we made our way down the beach on the next leg of our journey. Nineteen kilometres were planned, but after just two we are lured away to the Mediterranean. Two hours later, full of pomegranate juice, crackers, and sun, we pull our aching legs away from the water. I have already made the executive decision to abandon the rest of today's hike. Our unconditioned legs have had it with us, Jana is walking like a toddler, and I want time to read. The next kilometre is full of Lycian tombs, and we both lie down in the burial chamber to rest in peace. We continue on through the ruins of a Byzantine church, crawling along an overgrown path, followed by Dog, our canine companion for the morning. The parallel swamp has made the former city a jungle, but we eventually emerge into an orange grove. The fruit is ripe and plenteous as the Lycian Peninsula is fertile land for agriculture. Wandering through I come across an abandoned tomb, cast aside in neglect, a mere rock in the orchard, and history goes marching on. We settle on a party pension in the present-day village of Olimpos, but thankfully the season is quiet. The rest of the day is filled with hammocks, coffee, bad wine, dry chicken, and a fantastic fire. I realize that many of the things I mention seem trivial and prosaic, but on a hike the simple things of life are once again appreciated for their fundamental greatness.


The next day is rugged. A rugged hike and rugged beauty occupy our day as we made an arduous transit from Olimpos to Adrasan, a distance of 17 km. We wind up walking ten, hitching a ride from a friendly Turk for the other portion. We drive by an elderly man sitting on the side of the road, a goat's horns in his hands, and he is still strong as the animal attempts to free itself for an attack. By nightfall, the animal was undoubtedly a sacrificial symbol of Abraham's act of faith. Already exhausted by the start of the actual sixteen km hike, we eat crackers with peanut butter, a real treat in a country that does not sell Jiff or Smucker's. The Cape of Gelidonia is infamous for ship wrecks, and the pirate coves that infest its coast are exquisite, the blue bays demanding photographs while the pine forest falls down the steep slopes like vines, resting on the ground, incredibly intertwined, lovely, and we are so tired. But the views are fantastic, and every time we stop the scene is just magical. At nightfall we arrive at the tip, the lighthouse and imminent islands creating a stunning scene as the sunset fades to the west. Ibuprofen numbs our disgruntled legs, and wine revives our spirits as the night is broken by the intermittent light of the tower. We have loads of soups and oatmeal waiting to be enjoyed, but fire proves elusive as I discover the olive branch to be remarkably resilient to heat. A shame that this conundrum could not be put to better use in Palestine, Sudan, or Kashmir. Cheese, olives, sausage, and wine with complimenting Haribo gummy bears constitutes our jerry-rigged dinner. Tonight I let Jana sleep in my bag, hoping that she will actually have a good night of sleep in that wonderful piece of my life. Charles Schulz's Linus may have his blanket, but I have my sleeping bag, and to be honest, there have been months where I have discarded the conventional blanket on the bed for my trusty REI mummy bag.


The next day we are treated to a bayram meal by Kadir. He is the friendly beer-swigging farmer who gave us a ride into town. In the morning I had attempted another fire, this time utilizing pine fuel, and I came to the conclusion that just maybe Gelidonia is not meant to be burnt, the wood fireproof. Is that possible? I do not know, but we head off early, skipping my pre-hike ambition of swimming out to the islands. The water is fantastic, and the opportunity to go swimming in December is not to be missed. I find a cliff to jump off, doing the necessary backflip from twenty-five feet to get my adrenaline fix. Shortly after, Kadir pulls up and we abandon another canine friend to get into his car. Quickly I smell alcohol, anxiously scrutinizing the road for how high the cliffs are. Kadir reassures me by grabbing the beer resting on his emergency brake, giggling a bit as he looks at me and takes another gulp. The beer is that treacherous Efes that had bamboozled us a few days earlier. But we do get to his farm, and we have a tasty meal of well-cooked lamb, cucumbers, tomatoes, and bread served by his wife and three daughters. Thankfully no marriage offers are made. Kadir then drives us to the next town where we can catch a bus home, continuing to drink his beer as we traverse the fifty-foot cliffs that descend into the sea. By this time I am fairly confident that he holds his alcohol well, and that we are not being exposed to any additional danger besides the usual peril inherent with Turkish driving. We arrive safely, but not before receiving an addition to our heavy packs. Somewhere on the trip he began to name vegetables, and Jana affirmed each type with "Tamam", Turkish for "Ok". What we had unwittingly agreed to was approximately ten pounds of vegetables that we duly lug home and are at present attempting to consume before they rot.


We are running after our bus. Having four hours till our bus left, we committed that cardinal sin of oversleeping, pulling out our sleeping bags in a quiet corner of the terminal and catching a few winks. What follows is the proverbial walk of shame as the foreigner walks down the aisle, irritated eyes following our procession. We then embark on the bus ride from hell, literally, as we are cooked alive. Outside the temperature is 32F, but inside it must be 100F. I wake up multiple times with sweat dripping down my face, my neck sopping, and to make matters worse, somebody near us has apparently soiled themselves. Combined with the heat, I will simply say it was a long trip. Coming home was sweet, and I am thoroughly enjoying my Starbucks Cafe Americano as I write this. Scrolling through the pictures of my trip, I am reminded, oddly enough, of Just Married, a comedy starring Ashton Kutcher and Brittney Murphey. Estranged by the end of their honeymoon, Kutcher is taken aside by his father who sagely speaks of marriage as consisting of pictures and the time between pictures. Generally we do not take pictures during bad times. We just do not take pictures of people when they are crying, unless you are a news agency. Then it is okay for some inane reason. Anyways, we take pictures when the sun is out, moods are good, and beauty and happiness are present. These pictures are no different. The good times are captured indissolubly in megabytes while the low points will slowly disintegrate into distant, remote feelings of haze. Scrolling through my album an uninformed stranger would think we had a flawless trip of fun and beauty, but if he only knew I think he would question why we went at all! Traveling is so much work, and I have quite often found travel to be more work than fun. All things considered, when I look back on my pictures I am wrapped up in nostalgic happiness, the bad times fade, and I bask in the warm memories that my travels have created.

To see a proper misrepresentation of my trip, go to my facebook page and look at the pictures:)

http://www.facebook.com/#/album.php?aid=2044446&id=1257302680&ref=mf

Pontificating on TEFL & Turkish Culture

Jana pulls up, sets her feet, and launches another three-pointer. The Turkish adolescent moans "Oh no" as the ball swishes cleanly through the net. She gets another round of applause from the boys we are playing with. I haven't received any vocal praise. Then again, I am not a girl, and in Turkey, girls don't play basketball. They swim and play tennis, but the physical nature of basketball is too much for the country's conservative nature. What makes the applause so great is that Jana is one of the best players on the court, and she isn't afraid to drive inside for a close shot. The Turkish boys are friendly and my fear of her being molested in some way is put to rest. The game is spirited and fast, and I think the Turks are pleased to play against citizens of the sport's original country.

Unfortunately, my citizenship does not help on the football pitch (soccer field). Although I am in better shape than almost every player, I imagine myself to resemble a chicken with its head cut off, seemingly purposeless in the direction I run. I manage to muff a number of shots on goal, and after a couple of miserable attempts at dribbling downfield, I resort to passing as quickly as possible so as to avoid further embarrassment. Maybe I could blame my clumsiness on the time. Due to work during the day, Turkish men (women don't play football) usually don't play until late at night, our game having started at 11 P.M. These late-night matches are a national custom, and on the ride home I see many brightly-lit fields filled with men, their inherently Turkish bellies protruding out at the mid-section. A stranger named Karim is driving me home, and there is a little conversation though he has forgotten much of his English. Due to this, I am not sure whether, after my confession of poor football skill, he actually said, "You are really bad."

Every country has its taboos concerning appropriate topics that can be discussed, and Turkish tend to be more open and direct than the American and British person is comfortable with. Karim's brazen remark caught me off-guard, but should it have? My female colleagues describe how they have, on numerous occasions, been approached by a student who, utilizing the indirect question form, pleasantly remarks "You've gained a few kilos, haven't you?" They, of course, respond "Why yes I have, thank you for noticing and being so kind as to inform me of my appearance." Actually, their response was closer to silence, though the Turks do not seem to notice. Here are a few more cultural differences I have observed:

▪ The Turks are very generous with their food. They always offer me a portion of a snack, regardless of whether it is a bag of pretzels or a candy bar. The candy bar is particularly difficult for me since personally I know that if I buy a Snickers bar, I just do not want to share that small treat with anyone. I must learn from their openhandedness.
▪ A spotlessly clean house is a Turkish requirement, and the American standard of "clean" does not float here. We actually have a cleaning lady which makes me feel like a rich colonialist.
▪ Since I don't speak Turkish, the popular newspapers here can be divided into two categories. One would be the serious press of long articles and small pictures. The other is the equivalent of USA Today, except that the pages are plastered with pictures of non-Middle Eastern women in scanty clothing. This blatant appeal to eros seems an aberration in a culture where I never see a woman's midriff, low-cut tops are rare, and the naked legs of the fairer sex are never seen, that is except on the front page of eighty percent of the newspapers. My theory is that these pictures are a product of a self-deceiving, conservative society who would like to perceive the West as licentious while Turkish women are chaste and pure. If so, it is a cover for the Turkish man who is practically expected to have extramarital affairs.

"Our work keeps us free of three great evils: boredom, vice, and poverty." So says Voltaire's Turk at the end of his masterpiece Candide, as a guiding principle for how humans should conduct their lives. Ironically, this race that Voltaire despised so much has taken the message to heart with the average person working around sixty hours a week. A six-day week is quite usual here, working ten hours a day to make a decent living. It is the requisite life in a developing economy that wishes to raise itself to the top tier of nations. For a foreigner, it is equally difficult. I did not come here to be overloaded with work, but rather to explore a culture, and yet this very culture wishes to sweep me off with the current to the perpetual grindstone. I presently work six days, accumulating a mass sum of forty-five hours a week. Throughout the month I have the opportunity to teach eight different classes ranging from 10-year old children at the elementary level to high school advanced to university students to adults and even an exam class for those who would like to study at a North American school. Some classes are good, some are dull. After two distinguished years in the illustrious profession of TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language), I have come to the pragmatic philosophy that as a teacher, I can only prove to be a conduit, a spark plug while the student must provide the steady energy that powers language learning. I have often taught the identical lesson to two different groups with drastically different but predictable results. The enthusiastic class thrives and indubitable progress is made. I feel like the world's greatest teacher, like a conductor directing the execution of his masterpiece, and I leave work energized. Meanwhile, their counterpart, the slugs, bring time to a halt. The clocks melt languidly on the wall as in a Salvador Dali painting, the energy level in the classroom approaches absolute zero, and I feel like an oompa-loompa kicking at a hibernating grizzly bear with my short stubby orange legs, attempting to rouse the slumbering beast to a communication exercise. More to the point, the TEFL teacher must guard against the idealistic notion that he or she can inspire a class if only the lesson were a bit more creative, if only I could find something that interested them, if only a bit more time had been spent combing the dark entrails of the internet, if only I could find something that interested them (hey, what am I, a dancing monkey or something?), if only, if only, if only...yet I, along with the U.S. government must desist. Just as public spending will never sustainably fill the gap that the American consumer has vacated for vogue thrift, so I must come to terms with the unquenchable vacuum that encompasses the indifferent language student. On the sanguine side of things, I have had the privilege to teach many ebullient pupils, and it is always a fulfilling pleasure to work with these lovely people.

Izmir, or Smyrna if you are Greek

I have a commanding view of Izmir from my location, the Kedifekale. It is the excessively restored fortress of Alexander the Great who built the new city around this high hill according to the bidding of goddesses who visited him when he slept there. There is not much left. Some walls, a large Turkish flag flying overhead, a cistern that dates to the Byzantines, and one tower. Urban topography and wealth usually have a positive correlation, but here the relationship has been inverted, and the summit is reserved for squatters from the eastern parts of Turkey. Butting up against Alex's walls, their ramshackle huts provoke pangs of conscience in this tourist. Alexander's empire was remarkable, stretching from Greece to present-day Pakistan. And he is one fallacious reason for the disastrous Greek "liberation" of Smyrna that resulted in the massacring of Turks and Greeks.



I begin walking down the hill and pass some roadwork, the heavy machinery digging away around the underground pipes. The great thing is that all the menfolk are perched on the edge of the hole, peering down, turning the construction into a community event, although the men must leave shortly for the Friday sermon. I visit the local ethnographic museum, and it is well done. Since I am not much of a museum connoisseur, the highlight was learning about camel fighting. The camels can fight for up to forty-five minutes, using their head, teeth, and bodies to force their opponent to the ground, whereupon the winner is declared. Camels are so awkward, which is why I thought the fights to be silly, but upon closer inspection I think it looks quite vicious actually. Another highlight was the circumcision room, where an expression of absolute terror is worn by a young male mannequin as he looks at the bed where this painful rite of passage will happen. Poor guy.



From there I walk along the boardwalk. Izmir was once the great cosmopolitan city of the Ottoman Empire, a great port city where commerce flowed and diplomats, foreigner merchants, Greeks, Armenians, Jews and Turks lived happily side by side for centuries. It was nicknamed "infidel Smyrna" since most of the population was not Muslim, and the architecture was European though almost all of it was burned in the fire that destroyed three-fourths of the city in 1922. The seaside promenade is still fantastic, and it is here that the Turkish Greeks celebrated as Greek soldiers landed, taking Smyrna from the dying hands of the Ottoman Empire. In the name of Christ these soldiers came to restore Greek Byzantium, to convert back the mosque to its original use as a church. Instead, they re-enacted the horrors of the Crusades, slaughtering the Muslims, raping the women and killing any Turkish merchant who would not sing the Greek national anthem, all of this in the name of their bloody religion! But their spiritual zeal was all for not, as they overextended themselves in the interior of Turkey and were consequently defeated and driven back to Smyrna and subsequently Greece. In defeated retreat, they did manage to bless the Turks with Christian charity by ransacking and burning every village and farm along their path back to Smyrna.

The 29th of October is a holiday in Turkey, celebrating the creation of the country in 1923. The modern state of Turkey rose out of the ashes of the Ottoman Empire's death, the burnt land the retreating Greeks left, the incineration of the Greek's empire-building blueprints, and the great fire that destroyed Smyrna. In the metro a historical display has photos of the Greek's landing. A vivid portrait shows a Greek soldier standing over a dazed elderly Muslim who sits on the dirt road while blood pours from his temple. The soldier is depicted in motion, his rifle raised high for maximum force as he will swing the heavy butt of the weapon into the man's head. Another photo depicts the western clothing of the residents, the architecture akin to Paris or Riga. Then there are the photos of the fire. Nobody knows who started it, but it happened, and a lot of people died. Maybe the Armenians, maybe those pyro Greeks who wanted to leave the Turks nothing, or possibly the Turks who hated the European city that represented the civilization that destroyed their empire. But one significant part of the story is not depicted in the display, and that is the Greeks and foreigners who fled to the waterfront once it became clear that the Turks were bent on repeating the atrocities of the Greeks. Here over 200,000 refugees found deliverance from Allied warships though they did not intervene till thousands had died, drowning in the bay. Yes, that picture had somehow been lost.



On Thursday, the holiday is celebrated. Turkish flags are everywhere. Ataturk, the father, creator, lord, and god of Turkey is ubiquitous. He is Turkey's George Washington, but inexpressibly so much more. There are no Greeks here, the cosmopolitan nature of the city is gone, though it has retained the liberality of its past. Izmir is known as the most liberal city, and the sea of conservative headscarves that is Bursa is not to be seen here. It is sad for me, sad to know the history of this place and the atrocities committed in the name of God and nationalism. A great work of historical fiction that I read on the war between the Greeks and Turks was Birds Without Wings, and I recommend it highly to anyone interested in this part of the world. The author, Louis de Bernieres, writes passionately against the brutalities of this war and I think his words are appropriate to share:

So don't misunderstand me, it isn't that I think the Old Greeks are worse than the Turks. What irritates me is that they think they're so much better when really they're exactly the same. God made them Cain and Abel, and whichever one happens to have the upper hand takes his turn as Cain. Whoever is unfortunate enough to be playing the role of Abel seizes the opportunity to bemoan the barbarism of the other. If I ever get to meet God In Person I shall suggest quite forcefully that He impartially abolish their religions, and then they will be friends for ever.

His analogy is perfect, though I disagree with his prescribed cure. As far as abolishing militant, political religion, used for furthering national ambitions and greed, then yes I agree. But what the Greeks did was to imitate not Christ but the Crusaders, that bloody lot that enraged the Muslim world even to this day. The biblical Jesus did not set out to create an earthly kingdom. He was apolitical. James, his disciple and half-brother, said "Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world." (1:27). Jesus said to love your enemies and pray for them, not rape, murder and pillage in hateful hysteria. Those are the relevant guidelines of the faith I practice.

TEFL Apartments, Pharisaical Arabic, & Iskander Efendi

At first I thought it was the town derelict or neighborhood loony. Every morning, occasionally rousing me from sleep, I hear someone bawling, distant, then closer, closer, louder, louder, progressively till the unmistakable conclusion is that the possessed man is outside my window. I clamber out of my sleeping bag, into the hall, and attain the balcony. Wiping moisture from my eyes I am stupefied upon discovering the source of the dolorous sound. A floating pyramid of hooped bread on a platform wanders out from beneath me, and a man appears below the specter. I could not be more dumbfounded. Today I bought one of those bands from the simit man, the moniker for this mixture of flour, water, yeast and sesame seed. And the torturous bellowing goes on, perpetually, throughout the day these men balance their wares atop their melon, walking up and down the hills of Bursa.



In 1867 İskender Efendi opened his first restaurant in Bursa and solely served the eponymous kebab that would make him famous, or for that matter infamous from the stomach's point of view. Utilizing an awkward waddle on my way home, I realize I've been impregnated with what, according to imaginative observation, feels like a third-trimester fetus, an iskender kebab fetus to be precise. This corporeal description of the notorious dish was an ebullient warning by my roommates who seem to possess a masochistic bent. Wikipedia defines the dish as "a kind of döner kebab prepared from thinly cut grilled lamb or beef basted with tomato sauce over pieces of pide bread and generously slathered with melted butter and yogurt..." Initially only the meat, tomato sauce, yogurt and pida bread is brought out. One is left gazing at this capillary-filler, this pile of cholesterol and fat that will lay waste to your innards. But the apex of this sadistic culinary experience is when the chef proceeds to make his entrance carrying a sauce-pan sizzling with hot butter, and as he pours the liquid onto your dish you can only gape in wonder, futilely attempting to calculate exactly how many sticks of molten butter have just saturated your main course. Initially skeptical of the detrimental effects based on my previous experiences of heavy food, I was devastated by this dish. When fellow patrons are served their iskender, the air in the restaurant takes on a buttery quality, so potent that one feels a slight glaze of yellow cream coating your skin. The pores inundated with grease evoke the image of biblical Esther as she basks in oils of myrrh, the exception being that her ointment was emollient and ours noxious. Yes, I have had iskender, and while my friends say the memory will pass as a woman's memory of childbirth does, I somehow do not think the siren will seem so seductive the next time around.

"All they care about is reading in Arabic", he says with a flourish of the hands. A Muslim, we are discussing religion after attending a service at the local fellowship. We are drinking chai (tea) out of the characteristically shaped glass that tea is served in throughout Turkey. "I have twenty of these every day" he says, gesturing to the ochre liquid. We continue on the topic of imams and Koranic scholars, whose Pharisaical pretentiousness scandalizes my interlocutor. He invokes the Great Prophet's emphasis on actually reading the text. "These people just learn Arabic, but they don't learn the Koran. They just show to people that they can read in the original language. It is only for other people, not for themselves. And when you go into the mosque, they are irritable, not friendly." I have again stumbled across a liberal Muslim thinker, not surprising when one considers that he was sufficiently broad-mindedl to attend an infidel's service. "Just visiting" he clarifies when I inquire of his faith. He expounds a faith of good works, an emphasis upon treating one's fellow man well, a Muslim universalist. I am going to start studying the Koran soon, and we are going to get together again to discuss the book's tenants. A conservative imam would also be fascinating to converse with, and I hope to one day have that opportunity, but many days spent in Turkish language books will transpire before that meeting occurs.

TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) living accommodations when provided by the employer and inhabited continuously tend to become an amalgamated menagerie of previous teachers' undesirables. Take, for example, the televisions in my flat. We have three, two grey, one black. The latter are 26" inch while blackie is a cramped 13''. The irony is that the first grey box has fantastic speakers, but no reception. The second grey box has a plethora of channels, but no sound. And lo and behold, the unprepossessing blackie has both audio and reception, though the selection of channels is truncated in comparison to the other. An eclectic collection of misfit televisions, they are clumped together, the larger screens mocking you while you concertedly squint at the diminutive blackie. Or how about the seventy-five beer bottles stacked on the porch, the legacy of the previous residents who according to others had a good time here. The dearth of kitchenware, decor, and cozy ambience are all inherent to a flat that is often abandoned by absconding foreigners. The piles of dusty teaching materials, stray condoms, broken furniture, and plain crap do not composite the essence of fung shui, but I must admit that I am happy in this flat. I have a spacious living room, my own private bedroom, a washing machine, stand-up shower, and a kitchen with a stove. What more can I ask for? And other than suffering the prying eyes of our curious neighbors, it is a lovely neighborhood with much verdant foliage. We have much to be thankful for in life, and one must always remember that when reflecting.

First Impressions

I am riding the metro into Istanbul's heart. The man next to me mutters to himself, occasionally glancing up from his droopy state to look at the foreigner with his large, red backpack. Having initially ignored him, my ears perk up when a lady sits down on the other side of this man. She asks him a question. He replies, "Turk". He gestures to reciprocate the query."Iran", she says. "Sunni?" "Shi'ite", she corrects. "You?" "Sunni" he says nonchalantly. But quickly they come to the agreeable conclusion that "Sunni, Shi'ite, all the same". I certainly don't speak Turkish, but this conversation is quotidian, the conclusion agreed upon all over the States. Yet to hear two Muslims say this is novel, notable, an indication of a desire for peace, at least within Islam. Outside we pass the ancient walls of Byzantium and the ubiquitous minaret reminds me of history's march.

"Really?" I blurt out. "You can hear it up here?" It is the call to prayer, and I turn to spot a minaret extending its phallic form above the trees and ski resorts. I'm trekking Mount Uladag, elevation 2,543 m (8,343 ft). Ancient Greeks believed the gods chose to dwell on the peak for the striking views of the Trojan War. If that's true, they must have come in more than the traditional toga since it is freezing on this ridge! The wind comes up from the valleys and sweeps along the backside up to the summit. I am wrapped in a fleece jacket and windbreaker, but I am not happy. An abandoned building at the peak is frosted over with ice crystals, splayed in every direction that the wind takes upon impact with the wall. I look to the west and the Sea of Marmara is visible through the smog that covers the Bursa region. The industrial city was once worse, I am told, but it still inhibits my view significantly. To the north tucked invisibly behind a mountain ride is Iznik, the modern city that once was Nicaea. There, in 325 AD leading ecumenical figures canonized the books that together compose our modern New Testament. And I am getting off this mountain before my hands break off from the cold.

Tonight Bursa is the political center of the country. The prime minister of Armenia is visiting, reciprocating the visit of the Turkish president to the former's capital, Yerevan. 'Football diplomacy' is the coined term for this tentative opening of negotiations between the historical enemies. For the past twenty or so years Turkey has kept a closed border with its neighbor, severing all political ties ostensibly in support of Azerbaijan's claim to a small strip of land that Armenia has managed to control militarily. But the history goes much further back, to the massacres of the early 20th c. Perpetuated by both sides, the Turks claim to have lost around 25,000 to roving Armenian militias while the Armenians spade that with a death toll of anywhere from 600,000 to 1.5 million. A gruesome tragedy, closure was never brought to the situation, the West's fault initially as the great powers dreamed of partitioning what is today the modern state of Turkey. Now, for Turkey to admit any wrongdoing would theoretically give credence to irredentist Armenians. International politics is an awfully squalid affair. Turkey wins the match 2-0. Nationalist Turks have slapped the Turkish and Azerbaijani flags on stickers, covering streetlight poles and walls with this symbol, the impetus a convoluted mess of nationalism, paranoia, xenophobia and innocuous love for their country's football team.

My home is approximately three miles west of the stadium. The area is called Chekirgae and is known as a more wealthy part of the city. I have a fantastic view of the urban area, industrial centers puffing out pollution on the far side of the valley while minarets poke up through the apartment roofs. In fact, only a hundred yards from my flat a newly constructed mosque fills the sky with two pristine minarets. My roommates and I discuss life on the balcony, cigarette smoke curling in the breeze. It is difficult to carry on conversation when the call to prayer rings out. One must cup the ears in order to hear what the other is saying. I know what you are thinking: He is obsessed with minarets. This may be true at the moment. As I mentioned previously, they are everywhere I go, and I hear the call at least three times every day. It is the most striking characteristic of my new life in a muslim country. I look forward to sharing the experiences of my time here with you and hope to hear your impressions of the life I describe. As I write this sentence the afternoon call to prayer rings out.