Short, sweet, buns

Yesterday I was sitting in a coffeeshop with a friend of mine named Selin. It was my last day in Istanbul, and we were reflecting on what I had to look forward to upon my return to the US. Selin is Turkish, but had spent some time in the States a few years back. In telling me what she missed about it, she started explaining a dessert flavored with cinnamon. "They are sweet," she said. "With sugar. And cinnamon."

It took me awhile to figure out she was talking about cinnamon buns, but not because of any specific fault in her description. Instead, it was her classification of cinnamon buns as a dessert. Cinnamon buns are not desserts. Cinnamon buns are an institution. Any frequent visitor of US airports can attest to the fact that there is an entire restaurant chain devoted to the sale of these tasty-yet-nutritious snacks. As I tried to describe the cinnamon bun within the context of traditional American fast-food cuisine to Selin, I felt a little tug at my homesick heartstrings. There is no comparable analog in Turkish culture. Sure they have baklava shops, but the servings at such places are practical: two, maybe three pieces for an individual serving. At Cinnabon, the minimum order is a roll of six miniature cinnamon buns, but those are for the kids. The real buns, those unreasonable, brick-sized behemoths that can serve as breakfast, lunch or dinner, those are the real thing. Selin would have none of it. Although her English is rather good, she attributed her inability to understand how we could eat dessert all the time to a misunderstanding, and we moved on to less sugary topics. I, however, ended up leaving the conversation with a strange sense of pride, of longing. A desire to be back among my people. People who proudly proclaim, "Food pyramid be damned, we will eat dessert whenever we jolly well please. We are Americans," and "Where is the Cinnabon in this terminal?"

I am currently staying with friends in Dorking, England and will be heading back to the US on the 30th of July for the Watson Fellows Conference, where I will talk about my feelings with a lot of other lonely kids in Nashville, TN. It should be pretty wild. I will then bounce around to Williamstown and Kansas City, before finally settling back down in Northampton at the beginning of September to try my hand at the music gig. This is thus my last post of my Watson year, and I want to thank all of you who have read and kept up with me for the duration of it. I cannot wait to see and meet up with all of you back in the US.

Soon to be stateside,

Auyon

P.S. I am seriously considering re-starting the blog when I get back up to Northampton in September. I have a feeling my burgeoning music career will provide ample hilarious material. I hope you are as excited as I am.

Fourth of July Special

On July 4th, my friend Laura and and I took a half-hour ferry across the Bosphorous to a neighborhood called Kadiköy, on the Asian side of Istanbul. We sat on a rocky beach, drinking Miller Light and declaring our love for the US between bites of homemade chicken salad sandwich. For the bulk of my 11+ months abroad, although I missed home occasionally, I never once wished I could just board a plane and head back to the US. About a week ago, though, something snapped. A combination of the proximity of my return (less than 3 weeks now) with my now-solidified plans when I get back to the US (no job yet, but I am working on it) has left me fantasizing about my return constantly. I have compiled a short list of things I miss greatly about America, as well as things I am looking forward to. I hope you enjoy it.

1) Not having to bargain for everything

In Istanbul, sticker prices are rare outside of grocery stores. The price of any given item is invented on-the-fly, and is a result of three factors: the actual value of the item, the ruthlessness of the vendor, and the gullibility of the customer as gauged by said vendor. I was aware that bargaining occurs at certain places, like the famed Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. I was not aware that bargaining is necessary to buy something like batteries at a neighborhood store, or a memory card at a camera store. The few times that there are sticker prices, they are often the inflated, arbitrary result of some clerk with a sticker machine.

2) Microbrewed beer

When I left the US in August, I was just beginning to appreciate the vast range of beers that are available in an average American spirit shop. In Turkey, there is one beer. It is called Efes, and although it is good, it is not that good.

3) Having a bed

I realize that people regularly sleep in beds in both the US and Turkey, but as the self-interested author of this piece, I will ignore all of those people. When I first moved into my place in Turkey, there was a mattress on the ground. I was told that my landlords would be “purchasing a bed shortly.” After learning that a bed would actually be rather expensive, my landlords informed me that I would not be receiving a bed. I also discovered that the mattress was a bit soft and subsequently removed it. I now sleep on a sleeping pad and some sheets on the hardwood floor. I don´t really mind it all that much, but it is always uncomfortable to ask people to take off their shoes in my room and to kindly not step on my bed. We all know it is a farce. They are not stepping on my bed; they are stepping on the floor, which I have chosen to sleep on. Whose fault is that?

4) Not getting hit on by transvestite prostitutes on the walk home from the supermarket at 2 pm on a Sunday

This is rather self-explanatory.

5) Not feeling guilty about wasting time

Although the initial exoticism of the city has worn off, I still feel guilty when I want to take a nap mid-day, or sit inside and read rather than go to a cafe. I am in Istanbul, I think to myself. I should go eat some baklava, or some Turkish delight at the very least, not sit here in my pajamas and read Lolita, as enjoyable as that may be. This is not a problem I have in the US. I can sit in my pajamas and read for hours in Prairie Village, without a trace of guilt at the end of the day. Sometimes I can even sit and read wearing no pajamas at all, provided I lock the door. In Turkey, my room door has no lock. It does not even have a handle, and I have to jimmy it open with a butter knife every time I want to open it. Fortunately, if I really need to get out in a jiffy, I can just jump through the sheet that I taped on to where the window in the door used to be before it shattered because of a strong cross-breeze.

I think that list about covers it. I will probably post one or two more times before my flight to London on the 27th (and then to Nashville on the 30th).

I am so excited to see all of you.

Much love,

Auyon

Beautiful

Twice a week, every week, I strap a saz to my back, secure a my camera to my belt, and then navigate down a narrow, single-lane road littered with stray cats, dirty kids, speeding automobiles and headscarved Kurdish wives lowering baskets out of their windows to purchase corn from the street vendors. Once I reach the bottom of the hill, I swing a right onto Dolapdere, a major Istanbul artery that runs through some of the less pleasant neighborhoods in the city. The street smells of cigarette butts, exhaust fumes, stale urine and the occasional whiff of kebabs being cooked, all mingled into one. I walk down Dolapdere for about a half mile, past two traffic lights, a number of car-repair shops, and approximately 15-20 mannequin shops. Before arriving in Istanbul, I did not know that mannequin shops existed. I assumed mannequins were the sort of things one orders in a catalog, like fake palm trees or lawn ornaments. I am reminded of my naivete every time I pass by the series of shops featuring white, black, silver, gold and metallic blue men and women, buck-naked and with exquisitely coiffed hair, reclining comfortably within large glass cases. After the second stoplight, I head left up a long flight of stairs and then ring the doorbell at the home of Emre, my saz teacher.

Emre is a stout, heavyset man in his early 30s, with a friendly moustache and a warm disposition. His English is not particularly good, but it is better than my Turkish, which stagnated at basic-conversational after I realized I lacked the funds to continue taking private lessons. As a result, our initial meetings were marked by a strange mix of Turkish, English and enthusiastic hand-gestures. After 2 months together, although my Turkish and his English have not improved significantly, our communication has developed in an intriguing way. Our deplorable language abilities, combined with the extended nature of our interactions, have forged a novel means of communication, a new language of sorts, replete with grammar and vocabulary. The primary rule of engagement of our new language is that if something is not imperative, do not attempt to say it. Another important rule is that all speech must be dumbed down to a simple subject/adjective format. Sometimes we may use verbs, but we do our best not to. For instance, “Yes, thank you, I am hungry.” becomes “I hungry. Me.” Part of the translation difficulties are rooted in the fact that Turkish lacks the verbs “to be” and “to have,” and instead simply adds personal suffixes to denote attributes or possession. Our language has evolved such that the verbs have been done away with altogether, whether we are bastardizing English or Turkish. Pleasanteries are also too complex to be dealt with, and for that reason we operate under the mutual assumption that all statements should be interpreted in the least rude way possible.

Vocabulary is perhaps my favorite part of our interactions. Although we use real English and Turkish words, they are all used in slightly different ways, so that although we both know what the other is saying, an objective onlooker might think we are a strange couple. When Emre likes something I am playing, for example, he tells me I am beautiful (the subject-adjective relationship remains a source of contention.) Under most circumstances, I would have thought it a bit odd that a large, Turkish man should want to repeatedly tell me that I am beautiful, but at our lessons, I have come to expect it. He also describes different improvisational techniques as “attractions,” which I enjoy. It makes the whole lesson seem like a theme park. I could correct him, of course, but why bother? On my end, I am constantly trying to come up with Turkish words that I half-remember. Turkish is laden with little traps, wherein single syllables can transform a word from something innocent into something filthy. I thus often try to say something about my saz only to look up and see that Emre is giggling. To further complicate matters, the word “um” in Turkish is a vulgar reference to the female anatomy.

Our new language is unfortunately not foolproof. Certain things remain lost in translation. Last week, for example, Emre tried to explain to me that we are learning a very difficult technique, called the Konya style (Konya being a city in Turkey). He then went on to explain that when he had been trying to learn the style a few years back, he had done strength training by attaching a heavy metal ashtray to his wrist and then doing speedwork. I glanced at his wrist, which is about as thick as my bicep and probably more muscular. There were a number of things I thought I might say to him, most concerning the fragility of my person and why I think strapping ashtrays to my wrist is a bad idea, but alas, these were all thoughts I lacked the ability to convey. Instead, I smiled, nodded, and told him I would look for a nice ashtray, and perhaps some duct tape. Our new language leaves no room for excuses.

Much love,

Auyon

A day at the temple

On the morning of June 3rd, I found myself ambling along a tree-lined, mulberry-strewn path leading from Selçuk, a small town on the western coast of Turkey, to the ancient city of Ephesus. My mother and older brother were a bit further ahead, and my father, a mulberry enthusiast, was trailing behind as he patrolled the trees for ripe fruit. In inspecting his bounty earlier, I had discovered that mulberries, along with cherries, apples and the Brazilian jaca fruit, induce a rather unpleasant allergic reaction in my mouth, so I made sure to avoid both the berries and my fruit-laden father for the rest of the walk.

About half-way to Ephesus, we left the mulberry path for a short while to visit the Temple of Artemis, which was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Not much remained, save a single column accompanied by a few piles of white marble rubble. What proved to be more enagaging were the vendors who prowled the surrounding area. There were the requisite three or four “ancient coin” sellers: shifty Turkish men with inexplicably large collections of highly valuable, authentic Roman currency jingling in their pockets. Next to them were a number of tables with statuettes of Greek gods, primarily Artemis and Priapus. For those of you who are as uninformed as I was, Artemis is the Greek goddess of the forest and hills, and is typically portrayed as a huntress. Priapus, on the other hand, is a rustic fertility god, protector of livestock, fruit plants, gardens and male genitalia. Priapus' statuettes appropriately featured a small man happily clutching his enormous, erect penis with both hands. My father pointed the sculptures out to the rest of us, and we meditated on the Greek pantheon as a family as we meandered through the wild poppies and grasses that had blanketed the ruins.

As we walked away from the tables, one of the coin-sellers snuck up behind me and tried to strike up a conversation in English. I am always eager to practice my limited Turkish, and responded in his native language, catching him off-guard. Once he regained his composure, the seller posed a familiar question: “Where are you from?” The combination of my dark skin, unruly hair and decidedly handsome moustache tends to fuel Turks with a burning desire to know my ancestry, and I typically have some fun with them.

“America,” I replied.

The man narrowed his eyes, confused, and then asked his question again. When my response did not change, he shook his head. He then asked where my parents were from, and I said India. He nodded understandingly. “So you are Indian.” I politely disagreed and repeated my initial answer. He grew a bit upset, but I did not stick around to pursue anything since my family had moved further afield. I rushed to catch up to them, and described my interaction with the coin-seller with a broad smile on my face.

Afterwards, I was surprised to find that my parents were not as amused as I though they would be. Instead, my father asked, quite simply, if I knew what I was doing (I had told them that this was a favorite game of mine). Of course I did, I told him. I was having some fun at the expense of others. The fact that a coin-seller could not come to terms with immigration was not my problem. The question he meant to ask regarded my heritage, not my homeland, and I felt entitled to play games with the semantics.

My parents frowned at me in unison, and then my father began again. He first assured me that it was fine for me to say whatever I wanted, but thought that I should at least know how I was being interpreted. I was answering the question on my terms, but had not realized that my interrogator's conception of identity was a far cry from my own. In America, individual identity and worth are typically defined by one’s accomplishments and abilities. In places like India and Turkey, much more value is placed on one’s bloodline and roots. Identity is thus synonomous with ancestry, and for me to describe my identity as having nothing to do with my parents or forebears was perceived by the Turks as not only disrespectful, but downright offensive.

When my father finished, I felt uncomfortable and did not know how to respond. Stranger yet, I had trouble putting my finger on what it was about our interaction that had caused my discomfort. I certainly had not realized the baggage that my playful response to the coin-seller had carried with it, but that was not it. Nor was it the unsettling fact that after two months in Turkey, I had remained completely clueless as to the way identity was constructed within the culture. Rather than attempt a rebuttal, I continued to walk alongside my family in silence, shaken but unable to understand why.

We finished our short tour of the pillar, rounded the edge of the field and once again came upon the statuette tables and vendors. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I suggested that we purchase one of the Priapus statuettes for my younger brother, a connoisseur of all things vulgar and lewd. My parents nodded in agreement, and I proceeded to bargain. When the price was right, the vendor plucked the statue from the table by its natural handle, it's manhood, and then proceeded to wave it in the air at my parents to ensure that I had selected the correct piece. My mother blushed with embarrassment and then shooed him away, instructing him to put it down. On cue, I then picked up the statue in the same fashion and waved it even more ostentatiously, so as to inform everyone in the vicinity that my parents wished to buy a little statue of a man with a big johnson. My mother started shaking her head as she suppressed a smile, and it was at that moment I realized what had been bothering me earlier. Having been on my own for the past ten months, I have been forced to undergo a good deal of growing up, and my interactions with my parents have been reflective of it. My father's well-warranted lecture, however, transported all of us back to the instructive parent-child roles of my youth, and that was what had made me so uneasy. Somehow, watching my mother struggle to feign anger while I waved a statue around by its penis clarified this shift, and simultaneously made me realize how content I am to continue existing as my parents' middle, idiot son while I adjust to my new adult skin. The future from here on out will certainly bring about further changes in my sense of self, but the ability to be guided by my parents is something I value too much to lose. Perhaps I should buy a second pocket-sized statue and keep it close at hand, just as a little reminder. I will ask my mother if she will buy it for me.

Much love,

Auyon

My new favorite restaurant

Before beginning my Watson year, I had never lived in a big city. On the contrary, the only two towns I had called home were the sleepy suburb of Prairie Village, Kansas, and Williamstown, Massachussetts, where the 2,000-person college makes up a quarter of the population. It was thus a rather rude shock to come to terms with the sprawling metropolis of Rio de Janeiro. My response to the impossible magnitude of the city was to consult my guidebook at every turn. Since my days primarily consisted of scavenging for food and playing music, the restaurant section got especially dog-eared. Most nights I cooked for myself, but the few times I treated myself to a meal out it was with Lonely Planet´s blessings. Once or twice, I got a bit bold and forayed out without a recommended restaurant in mind, but those instances tended to end poorly because I could not yet read Portuguese. I recall one time when, in my ravenous state, I ordered too quickly and ended up with a massive dish of fried sausages and three side dishes of bitter greens. My stomach did not sit well for the rest of the week.

It was only in my later months that I finally built up enough courage and language skills to venture out into the restaurant-unknown. I lived on the hill of Santa Teresa, and at the bottom there lay the seedier neighborhoods of Lapa and Gloria. I remember the first time I walked out of a hole-in-the-wall joint in Gloria, having successfully ordered a steak with french fries and rice. Although the meal was terrible, I felt great. The experience was indicative of a newfound ability to exist independently of Lonely Planet without making a complete ass of myself. It was as though a whole world opened up within Rio, and I only lamented that I had not gotten a bit braver earlier.

In Istanbul, I was determined to get off-book as soon as possible. Since I had adjusted to big city life, only my Turkish language skills were holding me back. Learning Turkish has been slow-going here. My funds have prevented me from taking intensive lessons like I did in Rio, and English is more broadly spoken here, so I do not get to practice my Turkish unless I wander off into sidestreets and the less-frequented pockets around my apartment. Last week, though, I decided enough was enough. Speaking abilities notwithstanding, I was going to have myself an adventure. I headed into one of the less English-friendly neighborhoods and ducked into the first eatery I saw. It was a single room, with a vertically rotating spit laden with chicken that was shaved off with a large knife, a plastic box of rice, a pan of mixed mystery meats floating in a tomato broth and some vegetables. Nothing more. The owner was a stout little man with a bushy moustache and a thickly jowled frown. I liked him. He grunted at me when I entered, and in response I pointed to the mystery meat. He nodded and prepared to serve me. As he began ladling, I tried to ask what kind of meat it was. He looked at me sharply, and I was quite sure he misunderstood me. To confirm my suspicions, he spooned a piece of steaming meat into his bare right hand, declared it “good,” and then unceremoniously shoved it into my surprised mouth. I was in shock, having never reached that level of intimacy with another man before, but he, unfazed, simply ordered me to sit down. I did. The meal was good. God knows what part of what animal I was eating, but it was tempered nicely by the fresh yogurt.

I am now almost halfway through my time in Istanbul, and a little more than two months away from my return to the United States. I am looking forward to a slew of visits from family and friends in upcoming weeks. It is usually during these visits that I realize how accustomed to life in foreign cities I have grown, and to be able to share my favorite reading spots, music and cafes is a welcome interruption to my mostly solitary lifestyle here. I will be keeping my favorite mystery meat joint a secret, though. With that kind of service, it is a place I want to keep all to myself.

Much love,

Auyon

The Moustache Diaries

This is a fictionalized account of a moustache grower, inspired by my own real-life experiences. It is, in short, based on a true story.

Week 0

Has been 3 days since last shave. Beginning to look grizzled.

Am beginning to get funny looks at work. Boss asked if home life is fine, told him cat is doing well and that I am growing a moustache. He wished me luck and wanted me to say hey to cat for him.

Week 1

Thin but respectable growth all around. Neard (neck beard) area getting uncomfortable, but am hoping to get used to it.

If I squint and dim the lights I look like Eric Bana from Troy.

Cat has gotten friendlier.

Week 2

Week before the big shave. Anxiety attacks are settling in. Have been eating a lot of peanut butter.

Have been writing to keep thoughts organized. Considerations include

1) Height of shave. Peach fuzz on cheeks has gone out of control, but if I shave it will it just come back thicker?

2) Shape of moustache. Have been investigating wikipedia´s entry on moustaches. Cannot decide whether to stay within confines of the 2007 World Beard and Moustache Championship subcategories or to break out.

3) Will cat recognize me?

Week 3

Shorn. Shaved neck, chin and sideburns. Freshly exposed moustache gently rides over upper lip before stopping and lingering sensuously around edges of mouth.

Sensation is akin to having a small, friendly pet living on my face, in which bits of cream cheese occasionally get stuck.

Friends at work are split by sex. Men respect me, want to buy me beers. Women are disgusted. Spirits remain high.

Week 4

Significant improvement in thickness, girth. Overall growth coming along handsomely.

Was able to plant the stem of a spinach leaf just under my nose and then eat said leaf out of the moustache. Guys at lunch were impressed.

Cat no longer knows who I am, has grown lonely, confused. Licks self often, refuses to eat.

Week 5

Re-shaved to define edges. Moustache has started to naturally curl up at the edges, resembling wikipedia´s English.

Am feeling bold, daring. Want to buy a motorcycle.

Tried conditioner this week. Moustache became pleasantly soft, pliable. Will continue.

Cat is in heat.

Week 6

Was woken up several times this week by cat attempting to seduce my face. Stopped using conditioner.

Man in tight pants informed me that my moustache was too bushy to be ironic. Told him I like country music and grew up in Kansas.

Peripheral hairs have been getting unruly, prompting me to stroke moustache with thumb and forefinger frequently. Feels good, natural.

Week 7

Bought motorcycle, quit job and am heading back out west.

Will leave cat and conditioner with boss.

Rio vs Istanbul: a cross-cultural study

Objective
To discern essential cultural differences and between the cities of Rio de Janeiro and Istanbul, focusing on two primary points of analysis: cats and old men.

I. Cats
The majority of local street cats I happened upon in Rio were mangy, flea-ridden creatures. They prowled around the neighborhood of Santa Teresa in small gangs, suspiciously eyeing all passers-by and looking tough until the local dogs were out on their walks. There was one crazy lady who put food out for the cats, but their gaunt, scrawny frames were a testament to the insufficiency of her efforts. The rest of the neighborhood was tolerant of the unsightly, unfortunate things, but one would have been hard-pressed to find anyone harboring much affection for them (outside of the crazy cat lady, of course, but there was a reason we all called her crazy).

Upon my arrival in Istanbul, one of the first things I noticed was a rather tubby cat stretched out in the middle of a sidewalk outside of our hostel. I watched it for a short while, as it lazily rolled in and out of the sun, and noticed that the animal possessed no trace of predatory tendencies. This cat was not a hunter. It was not sleek, sly or cunning. It was a sluggish, fat and arrogant. I was puzzled for a few minutes, but then reasoned that it must be a domestic animal that had found its way into the street. There was no way that any self-respecting street cat would be caught in such a state of indolent lethargy.


As our first week progressed, however, I found more and more pudgy felines puttering around in the streets, in markets and outside of fast-food joints. Unless Turks are utterly incompetent at keeping their pets indoors, my escaped-domestic-animal hypothesis was incorrect. I could not figure it out. At one point, I decided the difference might be explained by the street foods of each city. Brazilians prefer their snacks deep-fried, and fried balls of manioc paste stuffed with meat or cheese leave little in the way of street-droppings. Döner kebabs, on the other hand, which are shavings of cooked meat (usually served between two slices of bread) that can be found on most every street corner in Istanbul, seem to be designed such that half of the meat must fall to the ground. I was rather proud of my explanation until I discovered that I was once again wrong. The truth is that Turkish people just love cats. They feed their street cats. They leave cat food outside of their shops, restaurants and homes, and sometimes butchers even leave bits of offal out for the animals to feast on. One of the neighborhoods, Cihangir, is specifically known for its beloved street cat population. Perhaps the crazy cat lady from Santa Teresa should look into moving here. I have a feeling she would fit right in.

II. Old Men
One of my favorite scenes in Rio was that of old men drinking beer outside of the bars and small restaurants that dot the streets. The men were usually in pairs or groups of three, sipping from small glass cups as they sat around plastic tables with a big bottle of beer between them. I have heard that sharing large bottles of beer is a common phenomenon across Latin America, and I believe that the practice offers an interesting insight into the region’s drinking culture. Beer out of oversized bottles inevitably becomes a shared commodity, and the effect is not unlike breaking bread with a friend. The sharing of beer might even improve upon the metaphor, since no amount of bread would induce an individual to drunkenly profess his or her love to said companion.


In Istanbul, there is no such beer-soaked camaraderie among the elderly. Being the cultural and historical capital of an Islamic state, alcohol is much less publicly visible in Istanbul than one might expect of a major European city. Old men here sit outside just the same, but outside of nargile (hookah) cafés rather than bars, drinking tea rather than beer as they focus on the tavla (backgammon) board between them. There is no laughing or smiling. These are serious men playing a serious game while sipping tea out of voluptuous little glasses. The conviviality of shared libations in Rio replaced by the thrill of competition, the sweet taste of victory and the bitterness of defeat. Welcome to Istanbul.

Further Reading
Ethnic differentiation abilities aside, I have found that the bulk of my interactions and experiences in foreign cities are more predicated on how I am physically perceived than any effort or cultural understanding on my part. In Brazil, for example, when I was clean-shaven and wore my hair tied back, I was almost always mistaken for a native. Since I was not living in the best of neighborhoods, I accepted my faux-Brazilian identity whole-heartedly and never carried a backpack for fear of being labeled a tourist. In Istanbul, in spite of my handsome moustache, I stick out like a sore thumb. My skin is too dark to allow me to seem Turkish, and while there are plenty of fair-skinned tourists, I have seen almost no South Asians since I arrived. Since assimilation is futile, I have reverted to carrying a backpack and camera everywhere. If they all know I am a foreigner, I may as well embrace it. Hopefully my slowly-improving Turkish will soon be good enough to make some shop-keepers and restaurateurs do a double-take, but for now I will have to settle for smiling and nodding and explaining that I would like the part of the meat that is not given to the cats. Yes, yes and a glass of tea. Thanks.

Much love,

Auyon