Driving in Greece

So, remember when your girlfriend in high school told you that the
stop signs with a white border are optional? Turns out no one told the
Greeks it was just a joke (though I don't think US police would think
it was so funny). No one obeys stop signs, or even stop lights for the
most part. It is pure insanity; pedestrians jump in front of you and
motorcycles drive between cars and around you, through intersections
when the light is red. Of course, Greece does have the highest
accident rate in Europe; I suspect I'd die from the stress before
getting hit, though. Good thing papa Wheeler was driving. I serenely
read War and Peace while the battle for my life raged in the streets
around us.

That didn't stop us from visiting the little towns our last day in
Crete. We left the major cities, and took an idyllic drive through the
Cretian countryside to little towns we'd never have seen otherwise. We
saw a tour in a travel agency going to little towns, and figured we'd
be able to do it on our own. Accordingly, we found three or four of
the little towns they had planned to see, stopped at the little
museums they had recommended and ate lunch at a little café
recommended by the woman running the local cultural museum. The food
was great, as was the local--it was located in the shade of some large
trees, and it was breezy and cool despite a strong summer sun (since
it's now summer).

Minoan Treasures

The Minoan archeology museum is one of the highlights of Heraklion--
which makes it all that more sad that it's closed for the next two
years. There is a temporary exhibit, that carries a few things (the
highlights of the main exhibit), but it wasn't the same.

It was fairly remarkable to see the shifting style of art--the
prehistoric Minoans used very bland lines--curvy figures that only
looked human if you were comparing it to a lizard. Which is fine--I
think the same of some south American art. The Minoans use a lot of
bulls, snakes and dolphins in their art. I suppose there are a lot of
dolphins in the waters--and they are well respected. I wonder if they
ever tried to catch one? How would you go about catching a dolphin if
you were a prehistoric semi-caveman? You wouldn't want to kill it--I'm
sure they recognized the natural beauty and intelligence of the
animals. But could you lure it over? The big problem would be getting
a net. Ropes in the old days were probably not very waterproof and
hard to come by. (I muse over this as I anticipate I may be stranded
in a cave someday, in either a recreation of Lost, as justice for not
having watched it, or a Cast-away like adventure. And of course I'll
need a pet dolphin if I am stranded). In any event, it was a pretty
cool museum.

Follow up the museum with the actual place--The Palace of Knossos! We
drove out there (now with Papa Wheeler in tow, fresh off the boat...
or plane, in this case) and walked around the old site. They don't
have much info about it. Some bloke Evans went and tried to
reconstruct the palace as he imagined it had looked in the early 20th
century, and laid down cement slabs and rebuilt frescoes and
everything. It made a bit of a mess of it all, and they weren't very
sure about any of it in the firs place. I felt Evans went overboard in
a few places--for instace, in one place he says is looks like a
theater, and called the corner the theater. Well, with a less active
imagination and a bit more logic, what I saw in the same spot was a
bunch of shallow steps you'd have a tough time sitting on for more
than ten minutes--a poor theater if ever there was one. But Evans
"discovered" Knossos, and cemented over everything before anyone could
disagree, so his definition stands. Very well. We decided to not get a
tour guide, so I acted as the tour guide for the Wheeler party,
describing vistas and storehouses as I saw fit (drawing liberally from
the posted signs). It was a riot! (Not to be confused with what's
going on in Athens, though...)

Nous sommes arrivé!

From crêpes to paintings of Le Tour Eiffel (though I saw them in Istan
bul, too), I feel like I am home in Rhodes. An old addiction I had
forgotten about was silently fed when we stopped at the dessert stand
this afternoon. In my Parisian days (see blog posts from early 2008) I
ate crêpes like a maniac. Mostly banana with nutella, though sometimes
lemon and sugar. The best was for the birthday of my dear friend Susie
Dooz, when we got nutella and added our own strawberries and
raspberries. In any event, I feel like I am home. I've spent over 2.5
of the last 6 years in Europe--and there is a dramatic difference
between southern Turkey and the Greek isles. Not in the sun or in the
water--I am sure you could strand me on the beach for a week and I
couldn't tell the difference between them--but in the town and in the
city.

Speaking of beaches, for all the glamour (sp? am I becoming a Brit? I
used to do it as a joke, but sometimes I don't know the difference
anymore) of these Mediterranean beaches, I am shocked at how rocky
they all are. Big smooth stones--makes for a great view, but not as
much fun to walk on.

I was recently advised that my posts are too long to read in one
sitting, so I'm making efforts to shorten them a bit.

Lastly, Rhodes is the ancient site of the Colossus of Rhodes, one of
the 7 wonders of the anciet world. Also included (as per Antipater,
the Greek) are the hanging gardens in Babylon, the pyramid of Giza,
the lighthouse of Alexandria, the statue of Zeus at Olympus, the
temple of Artemis at Ephesus (which I, sadly, chose to skip this time
around) and the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus.

Sadly, the colossus isn't there anymore. It was built in 280 BC, then
knocked down in 226BC by a monsterous earthquake. It was the last of
the seven to be finished, and the first to be destroyed. Sigh... I
guess good things just don't last, do they?

Reading on a Rooftop Terrace

So, I am sitting on a rooftop terrace on the far eastern tip of the
mediterranean sea, in the south of Turkey. I won't be able to post
this until I've left Turkey, since I don't have an Internet
connection, but I figured it would be a good time to catch up anyway.
I type out my posts on my email, then post them by sending the emails
in. So, I can type but not send.

I'm quite enthralled by this view. I can see below and around me for
miles. There's a town, Kalkan, on the other side of the cove, and
beautiful Mediterranean mountains and azure water below. It's been
75-85 degrees farenheit the whole time I've been here--a delicious
breeze gently taps at the corners of my books' pages, and young
swallows (European, mind you, though we're in Asia) chirrup the end of
spring and the start of summer.

A couple of days ago we went to the sunken city of Kekova. Apparently
it was knocked loose and sunk when an earthquake hit, so now it's
totally covered by water. We decided to bolster the local economy by
going on a kayaking tour over the ruins. We covered a Byzantine
church, roman baths and houses. It was pretty neat.

We noticed there were some boat tours available to cover the same
ground (or sea, I suppose) with a glass topped boat, but instead we
went on a day long cruise where we sailed out, stopped in a cove for
45 minutes and swam, snorkled and played around, then went to the next
spot. It mat sounds a little dull, but with phenomenal weather, azure
skies and turqoise (sp?) water it was amazing. The water isn't super
warm beneath the upper layers, so we all had to keep our legs up. No
one minded. I jumped from the side of the boat, off of one of the
tables we later ate lunch at.

Before all that water adventure, we did a quick trip to see all the
Greek ruins. Xanthos, Myra, Patara, and Latoon, were all on the list.
At Xanthos the entire local population committed mass suicide on two
separate occasions rather than allow themselves to be taken over.
That's dedication. I guess. But being taken over would have been
pretty crappy in those days, if Gladiator is any measure of a slave's
life. Even if it isn't, people weren't nearly as polite and civil
rights friendly as they are now. Myra is recorded in Acts 27:5 as one
of the places that the apostle Paul visited. That's interesting... I
climbed to the top of the amphitheater and wondered if he gave a
sermon there, and what the people thought of him. Did they feel the
spirit rushing over them, or did they only see a crazed foreigner
trying to subject them to him csrzed foreign religion? I wonder what
Paul was like on a day to day basis. He was clearly strong willed and
independent, a strong proponent of the truth (once he himself was
converted). I remember being exhausted at the ms of my mission. I
wonder if he felt that way when he was in Myra? They didn't have much
in the way of decent bedding, from the looks of it (though animal
hides are long gone by now). Always fun to think about. Patara is the
ancient capital / assembly place of the Lycians (a subset of the
Greeks, since there wasn't a "Greece" per se in those days), and there
were several amphitheaters and other ruins around. It was very
interesting. I can't really remember Letoon. I think I took some
pictures, but after a while crumbled walls and old bricks start to
look the same--it's all the stories and the memories whine them that
stick in my mind.

We are still at our friend's house for now. We have another day and a
half here, sitting and reading and enjoying the view and all, and then
we are going to Rhodes, in Greece, to see where the colossus stood.

I am particularly enjoying the birds and the gentle breeze. It's
phenomenal up here. I've got a great view. Very restful. Hooray!

Some more pictures:

Tree restaurant. In the mountains, we stopped at this restaurant that
was in the shade of Mount Olympus, that was built into the branches of
this really old, gigantic tree. It was pretty cool. Our only options
were fish, chicken or lamb. The appetizer and deserts were set. It was
really tasty (I chose the lamb). Mmm... Just thinking about it makes
me hungry. There was also this great bread that came out of the oven
looking huge, but then settled down to look like Indian naan bread. It
was great. I wrapped my lamb in it, and made a little sandwich (at my
host's suggestion).

A Tale of Two Continents

A Tale of Two Continents

It was the prettiest of cities, it was the dirtiest if cities. It was
the height of learning, it was the depth of ignorance. Cleaved in two
by the Bosphorous, Istanbul is split into two parts, an Asian and a(n?
Would you say "an university" or "a university"? You certainly would
say "an ugly duckling"--the other just sounds so funny) European side.
The palace and government all rest in the European half (since, I
presume, everyone would rather be in Europe than Asia). Interestingly,
they only built a bridge spanning from Europe to Asia in 1973--before
that you had to take a boat from one side to the other. The Asian side
even includes a palace used by sultans when they were afraid of being
deposed (before it actually happened for good in 1922).

It's crazy for me that there were still kings and queens and sultans
in 1922. I mean, my grandmother was born in 1924--and she's not even
that old. There are people alive who could have known the sultans and
their kin. Or the Romanovs. But that's another story for another time
(next summer? Anyone interested?).

I am in the south if Turkey, but this consists of my last memories of
dark, stormy, rainy Istanbul for a jaunt down memory lane.

We stayed in a 3 star hotel, the Istanbul Holiday Hotel. It was a
decent spot--better than I would have sprung for on my own (mind you,
I was originally planning to go on my own, but when I forwarded my
flight confirmation to my mother, she was aghast at the idea that I go
on my own), but I wouldn't want mama wheeler sleeping in a European
campsite. Either that, or I offered and mama Wheeler chose not to. I
can't imagine why... In any event, it was a place to wash my face and
lay my head, till I went into the bathroom one night and tapped on the
faucet, and to my surprise the entire faucet came off in the sink and
water shot upward like Old Faithful. Whoops! 3 stars doesn't get you
what it used to.

After I washed my face, I sat on my bed to read for a few hours before
sleeping. We'd get in for the day at 8pm or so, then sleep at 11. They
had a nightly call to prayer at 8:45 and 10:30, where they announced
from the minarets surrounding the mosques "God is great. Come to
prayer" several times over (according to one gentleman we talked to).
The call, though I didn't understand the words, sounds like a mix of
whining and wailing and announcement. It's interesting. In fact, to my
untrained ear, much of their music sounds like whining and wailing.
It's a markedly different style. Not the type I'm going to bring home
and start listening to, but interesting to hear and experience.

There are mosques everywhere here. They are as thick as chapels in
Utah--with their distinctive minarets jutting out from every street
corner, it seems. That was the first thing that struck me about the
city. It sounds like they mostly just come to pray at them--most of
the time there is no ceremony or meeting, like we would have in a
church. It makes me wonder how much more we would pray if we were
called to prayer five times a day? Would we pray more? Would we be
more fervent in our prayers, or would they grow more rote? I prefer to
pray in private, on my own, but it's an interesting thought.

They let anyone into any mosque, though they ask you not photograph
the people as they pray. That's a fair request, so I haven't got their
photos, though I did get a number of pictures of the inside (with the
same dizzyingly semetrical tile pattern as in the palaces and the
tombs). At one of the mosques, I even got to practice my French, as
the door was shut and the tourists standing in front were French. It
was fun--and helpful. They told me that the gentleman in charge of the
mosque has stepped out, and that we were to wait for him. When he
returned, he opened the door and let us in. He also offered to sell us
a pile of pictures, which my mom felt we ought to buy to support him
in his quest to maintain the mosque (despite the fact that he had just
informed us that the government payed to maintain it).

Making friends

Turns out the Turks are fairly patriotic folk. Not that I wouldn't be
if I were from here, just like--don't be alarmed--if I went somewhere
other than Barcelona as a missionary I'd probably still say I went to
the best mission on earth... It just might be a little less true if
I'd gone somewhere else. That being said, I'm reading a fascinating
book called "Sway" on why people believe irrational things, despite
strong evidence to the contrary (using examples such as airline
pilots, the Challenger explosion, and people in love). I haven't
decided how I feel about it yet, but it's certainly food for thought...

Speaking of irrational, my dear mother hasn't figured out that people
here don't speak English. Some school kids walked by us in the
Sultan's palace today, shouting "Hello! Hello" as they went by. I
smiled, waved and said "Hello" back, but not enthusiastically enough
for my mother, who pointed out that they probably wanted to practice,
and started speaking in full sentences to the bewildered 6-year olds.
That was all fine and dandy, but I clearly wasn't into it enough, so
she turned to the kindly Turkish woman next to her and emphatically
said "They just want to practice their English, don't they?" the
perplexed Turk said something back in Turkish (we'll never be sure
what she said—I'll bet she was concurring with my mother, though).
This led my mom to repeat herself, adding on details about how cute
the children were... I'm sure you can guess where this goes. But
that's fine. You may no longer wonder where I got my cockeyed optimism
from--though I maintain I'm much more pragmatic than my dear family.

Even if we didn't manage to win over the confused Turkish woman, we
did win over the machine gun-toting guards standing at the gate, with
my overpriced t-shirt from the previous entry (pictured above). Turns
out their patriotism is genuine. I had at least five people comment on
how much they liked the shirt (mostly in broken English, though the
one who spoke fluently asked for a USA shirt he could wear to support
my country).

The Sultan's palace did make me wonder, though, at the differences
between cultures. I've always been shocked by how similar people are
across the world. Anywhere you go, people respond to smiles, waves,
and even the mysterious dude-nod (which I tried on a Turkish dude here
earlier today. He dude-nodded back, and we were bound as dudes).

The art, especially, strikes me as being different. Since they can't
make any graven images, and that includes people and animals (and
landscape apparently, since I haven't seen a lake, river or mountain
in any of their artwork yet). So, that leaves them with flowers,
trees, a bird (in only one painting I've seen). It's very interesting
in one or two rooms, but I find it busy and difficult to appreciate in
such huge quantities. To compensate, they also have beautiful
caligraphy that adorns every building. It makes me wish that I spoke /
read Arabic, since there is writing everywhere. I presume it carries
the meaning of life, and that's what I'm missing out on.*

On top of the art, they have very different attitudes towards women.
Coming from a family full of strong-willed women, I can't imagine
keeping them all indoors all the time, or having them perpetually
covered. I'll leave it at that, since I'm not an expert on Islam.
Let's just say it's a stark contrast to the 3 train I was on last week.

I appreciate how cultures have developed differently. It's kinda a
shame that they are becoming an amalgam, mixing everything together
like we have. I suppose the economist in me ought to appreciate that
we're just taking the most efficient (read: best practices) elements
of each culture and combining them, but some part of me still roots
for The Shop Around the Corner over Fox Books.

One thing you can't mass produce, though, are the Hamams, or the
Turkish Baths. You go in, lay down on the hot marble panels and sweat
your brains our for 15 minutes next to three other dudes doing the
same thing (unless you're not a dude. They're pretty strict about guys
and girls stating in their own sides) in a kilt-like linen towel, then
they come and massage / wash you off for 15 minutes, then leave you to
bask in the heat for as long as you'd like. I'm not sure how long I
was there, but man it was relaxing, and gave me a good chance to clear
my mind of everything else. There was a clock over the doorway that I
didn't realize was stuck at 4:55 for about an hour... Luckily my mom
had some good reading material. We stopped and grabbed some freshly
squeezed OJ on our walk home, and made it back to the hotel without
getting lost once. Take that, Istanbul!

Jay-dub

PS It really made my day when the Palace bookstore played a cover of
They Might Be Giants' "Istanbul" by some guys who clearly didn't speak
English. Bless their hearts!

PPS A few clarifications from last time, for those who don't know me /
the Kebab world so well.

1) Döner and Durum are two types of kebabs. Kebab refers to the meat,
while Döner, Dürum and Shish are differet kinds of kebabs. We used to
eat them all the time (as often as I could afford, which wasn't very
often on my €120 a month living stipend) in Spain. So tasty! Dare I
say it was my favorite food in Spain? Good thing I'm finally visiting
Turkey to try it on their own turf. My new favorite here is the apple
herbal tea.

2) Let it be known that the "Summer of Unrest," while designed to rest
me from my taxing job with the federal government before I start law
school, refers to my visits to Greece and Thailand this summer (where
I hope to not die--I won't be wearing my red Turkish shirt there,
despite how much people here love it).

*For the culterally sensitive, note that I'm not making fun of or
teasing their culture. I respect it a lot, and I'm actually really
impressed by what they've done with the handwriting and the flowers,
but I'm a product of the 21st century, and I lived one subway stop
from Times Square, so I'm used to more visual stimulation than that.
Not better or worse, just different.

Döner vs Dürum?

I thought such difficult decisions were a thing of the past, but fortunately they aren't. That's right, I am finally in the kebab homeland. The "Patria de los Kebabs," if you will. And I will!

After driving from Duck Beach to Hartford to Boston, then busing back to New York, I was plenty tired and plenty ready to jump on my direct flight to Istanbul on Friday. It was an excitin time—I was leaving an old life behind me and preparing for new adventures and stories to tell. Unfortunately, the lady next to whom I sat couldn't partake in any of my joy—or even move to let me use the restroom before consulting with her son. It turns out my encounter with her, a native Turk who spoke no English, has been mostly representative of my travel and time here. It's actually a bit strange for me. Everyone in Europe spoke Spanish, English or French (enough that I could at communicate the essentials like "where's my hotel?" "where is the bathroom?" and "I'll have two Döner, please!"). Germans, Swedes, the Ugandans and Tanzanians, and even the Chinese spoke my language, but here they really don't, and they don't care. It's probably better for me—I'm trying to learn a few words in Turkish, but honestly I'll only use it if I come back. It's bordering on rude of me, but I figure as long as I'm meek about it and pay the tourist price on my meals and souveniers, they can't complain too much. I decided to buy a shirt that looked like the flag of Turkey, and the vendor asked for 15 lira. I said I wasn't sure, started to walk away an he offered 13. I was planning to buy it at some point anyway, so I offered him 10, and knew I'd overpaid when he smiled big, pumped my hand and handed me the shirt. That's fine. I hope he buys his wife something nice with all the dough he got from that silly American who paid $6 for a T-shirt!

Other than that, I've been rained on, j-walked (several times, but only once in front of a truck), haggled in the largest indoor market in the world over oriental rugs (mama Wheeler's thinking about buying) and sipped herbal tea with newfound friends.

To Turkey and the good life!