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.
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.