Rescaping

Kötürümüm (I'm crippled)

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 11:59:55 +0300

Yes, this is a picture of the inside of my foot. The picture was stupidly expensive. I should have gotten wedding pictures for that price.

Last Sunday, I was hurrying down the hill from the Galata Tower to Karaköy so that I could catch a boat to Asia and meet my friend for breakfast. The sky was overcast, and my mind was full of thoughts about white cheese, olive oil with thyme and red pepper, Anatolian honey, and fresh vegetables. I had on a trusty old pair of Onıtsuka Tigers, which I had hastily slipped on before bolting down my building's spiral staircase and out into the lazy, hazy morning.

The hill is steep, but I have taken it one hundred times before. Midway down the slope, my worn sneakers snagged on an upturned brick in the road (this is Istanbul, small streets are paved in unruly bricks), and in an instant my ankle turned as I rose slightly in the air. A split second later, my body weight came back down in the side of my foot and I heard a loud sound approximately halfway between a snap and crack, kind of like biting through a hard candy.

I said, "ouch."

Cast

Hoping for the best, I tried to continue my trek down to the ferries below. I soon realized I should at least examine the foot to see if it were swelling. I limped to the nearest stairs, which led uphill to a side street and sat down. There, while inhaling the smell of urine from the night before, I carefully removed my shoe and sock. Everything looked normal even if the side of my foot was tender. So, I resolved to continue. No sooner had a replace the shoe and taken a step did I understand that something had, in fact, been really damaged.

A taxi ride and several hundred lira later, I was informed that my outermost metatarsal had been fractured. If you look at the x-ray above, I have highlighted the fracture in red (the left side of the picture).

Now, I have crutches, and a block of plaster that could know someone out. It isn't as much fun navigating the city of winding streets and rooftop cafes while using my arms to hoist myself forward with every other step. Who would have thought? Still, I am able to get around my immediate neighborhood, though with a little difficulty.

It seems that I will have to strengthen my patience (and some underused muscles in my upper body) for another six weeks before I can finally see how pale I would become if I lived in a cave. These six weeks will encompass a trip to Italy. I am going to have to recalibrate my expectations for the journey somewhat. I had planned on camping on mount Etna and hiking to a lava field. There was talk of an all-night bar tour in Milan. I was personally looking forward to visiting four distinct gelaterias in Rome. Now, my plans are looking more like: hanging out in my friend's apartment in Sicily, hanging out in my friend's apartment in Milan, and hanging out in my friend's apartment in Rome. Well, at least I will get to see my friends. I'll take a deck of cards.

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Turkish Hardcore (Geronimo to the Rescue)

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 19:44:24 +0200

Last night, a friend of mine who works for a local independent record company took me to a little bar named after everyone’s favorite hallucinogen, Peyote. (The continuing European obsession with Native Americans as noble savages extends to Istanbul as well. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, just spend some time wandering around the leftist, student quarters of large European cities and you will find shops selling dream catchers and other posters of wolves and Native American inspired smoking pipes. The idealized N.A. also fits into an environmentalist/pre-modern fantasy that is common among some European circles. Now here’s an Orientalism even Asians can enjoy. For the US version, please let me refer you to a Dinosaur Comics from earlier this week.)

Anyway, upstairs at Peyote, I was treated to a show by some really great musicians exploring the harder side of Turkish indie. The band, Nekropsi, struck me as similar to good Pinback recordings, but without the vocals. Their playing was even tighter than Pinback’s, and I wouldn’t doubt it if some of them had been classically trained.

As the effects of Peyote’s elixir set in (for me, this was Gusta beer), I imagined myself adding vocals over the music. In my tipsy mind, it seemed like a good idea. But I often have reveries of singing with a band. However, an hour into the show the music began to seem a little repetitive (b/c my voice was missing?), and the cloud of smoke in the small got increasingly thicker.

Nevertheless, I am glad my friend took me out. As a pre-show treat, she took me to the opening party for ResFest Istanbul, where I got to pre-drink and see some really good digital film with a DJ playing sweet tracks. Ah, the salad days, may they never end!

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A gauntlet of Natashas

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 19:38:02 +0200

Fmebootz

There is a bar in one of the neighborhoods near my apartment that always intrigued me. It is on a dark side street, and there was always a group of men gathered outside. A gaudy gold-painted loin’s head is mounted above the door. To my eyes, it seemed to be something secret, something that was purposely underground.

I had two guesses of what this place might be: a run-down gay bar for old people, or a seedy mafia hang out. On several occasions walking home from a concert or gallery, I have been tempted to go in and see for myself what lies behind the lion’s head. Luckily for me, I didn’t follow my curiosity until I was with a good Turkish friend. He and I walked in front of it a few times, and his instincts were the same as mine: elderly gays and/or criminal masterminds. We were already under the influence of wine/beer/raki/vodka, so we didn’t have the best judgment.

We walked past the group of guys gather in front. They were a rough crowd, markedly different from the moneyed or middle-class guys that the trendy bars in the better-lighted streets nearby. My friend and I were out of place, but we pressed on. One look at me, and the bouncer/coat-check man asked if I were a foreigner. My friend, not so drunk as to lose his cleverness, jumped in with “I’m Turkish,” and we went into the bar.

The décor was a mix between ancient Egyptian kitsch and cheap, fake rococo. Is it any wonder that it appeared gay? However, after our eye adjusted to the dark, we saw that the back part of the bar was taken up almost entirely by women with dyed blond hair waiting for customers. Oh no, we misjudged – it’s a mafia/prostitute bar.

My friend, standing his ground insisted that we stay for a drink. He explained that as a proud Kurd, even a gay one, he wouldn’t be intimidated. So at the bar, we asked for a beer and a vodka. There were maybe twenty bottles of Absolut on the shelf. Only after the bartender told us that they were all out of vodka did we notice that all the bottles on display were, in fact, empty. We settled for a beer and headed to a booth. At that point, one of the blond women came to try and speak with us. My friend thanked the woman but, using his most upper class register, dismissed her. He explained to me that, as Turkey is still a very class stratified society, he was able to show with his accent that he was powerful and connected so that the bouncers wouldn’t try to exhort money from us (a sadly common racket in mafia run bars in Istanbul). Hmm linguistic anthropology is everywhere we look.

One of the common words for “prostitute” in Turkish is “Natasha,” obviously derived from the Russian name. At once funny (from a word-origin standpoint) and depressing (given the realities of human trafficking following the financial crisis in the former Soviet States following perestroika), “Natasha” is often applied to the many big-haired, short-skirted Slavic women, regardless of the way they make their living.

In the bar, I noticed a clue that this place might also be a strip club later in the night. Above the area where the women were seated, a platform and “stripper pole” were suspended in the air. Oddly, there was a mannequin saddled up against the pole and wrapped in what appeared to be christmas tree garlands.

In the end, we escaped unscathed, though we gorged for the price of the beer (roughly $15 for the local equivalent of a Pabst). I also emerged wiser from the situation, and will avoid exploring seedy places on my own.

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I'm a futbol star(ter)

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 19:35:56 +0200

Fenerbahce

Ever since I arrived in Turkey I have been looking for a physical outlet for my energy. I miss my bicycle in Philadelphia like crazy, and the roads and drivers of Istanbul are not amenable to bike traffic. I looked into joining gyms, but they are still bastions of the wealthy in Istanbul, and a membership costs upwards of $100/month for minimal facilities.

I mentioned to my housemate that I wanted to find some kind of physical activity to do here, and a few days later she told me that her co-worker gets together with friends to play soccer a couple of times per week. She gave me his number and a week later I found myself hiking downhill from Beyoğlu to Tarlabaşı where there is a rentable soccer fıeld.

Changing in the locker room, I told the other guys that I am a really bad player and they assured me that everyone was just doing it for fun. Then we went out and had a fun and exhaustıng match. Of both teams I was, indeed, the worst player. Everyone was encouraging, perhaps to a ridiculous extent. Every time I did anything remotely well, one of the players made the point of saying “Bravo!” to me. That was nice and all, but really guy... really?

I hope they invite me to the game tomorrow... Oh, and the pic is here to symbolize that I have changed my alligiance and now I am a Fenerbahçe guy.

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Aborted haircut

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 15:23:16 +0200

Yesterday, inspired by the warm weather and a new pair of sunglasses, I decided it was time for a haircut. Feeling comfortable enough with my Turkish to navigate a barbershop, I resolved to offer my head up to the next erkek küaför

that I came across. Just in case one of you is temped to do the same, please re-think your plan.

I took a step down into the barbershop and greeted the guys there. After putting down my bag and taking off my coat, an older man asked me to sit down in the plush vinyl chair. I explained to him that I just wanted a trim of one or two centimeters all around as he fastened the plastic smock around my neck. Then, without warning, he haphazardly grabbed a lock of my hair near the front and cut off a 4cm handful. I stopped him and asked him why he didn’t do as I had asked and he just laughed at me and assured me that I would be handsome when he was done. Only at this point did I notice that he had a moussed-up puff of a comb-over that was cheaply dyed black so that he probably had inky lines of sweat running off his scalp on hot days. A feeling of panic began to set in. What had I done? He proceeded to snip around my head at random with his scissors. I stopped him again and asked how he knew that it would be even if he weren’t wetting it or using a system. He just kept laughing. As a cloud of regret grew dark and heavy in my mind, I stood up and said, “You are not doing this as I asked. I don’t want you to cut my hair. I am leaving.” I pulled off the smock took my bag and coat, and walked out with a lop-sided, partial ‘do.

Somehow, it doesn’t look too bad. I owe this to the fact that I didn’t let the geezer finish. I’m trying to tell myself that it makes me look devil-may-care. When I start earning money I will go to a nicer place. In the meantime, just humor me, ok?

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“It’s just a like any European city…”

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 14:55:02 +0200

I found myself using this phrase to many describe Istanbul to many potential visitors from the US and Western Europe. People seem fear that people in Istanbul will resemble Saudi Arabia, when in fact it reminds me of Budapest.

However, in spite of my self-made propaganda purporting the city’s open-mindedness, I have found that one group here is strangely conservative and closed to new ideas. Religious people? The elderly? No – the gays. I can’t recall having been somewhere with such rigid minded fags. The average gay guy here is very anti-bi, and (to my mind) abnormally focused on the appropriateness of top/bottom pairings. I have talked to lots guys here for whom being with a bi guy is an unequivocal deal breaker. Also, the seemingly undue emphasis on anal sex within the community is a little off-putting. A good conversation can come to an abrupt end with – “oh, you are also a top? Never mind.”

Given the widespread reality of vast numbers married bisexual men living secret lives with gay lovers, I can somewhat understand this attitude. But the fervency of feeling appears to come from some kind of gay socialization that stigmatizes having a non-exclusively gay sexual identity. To compound the prejudice, there are also overtones of misogynistic and anti-tranny sentiments. One can find corollaries in gay subcultures the world over. But it is interesting that this is the dominant view among Turkish (or, perhaps, just Istanbullu) gay men. Although I have not spent much time in technically gay venues, I have not come across many people that would subscribe to a more broadly-defined queer identity. Anyone else have observations? Comment!

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Is that all there is to a circus?

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 14:31:36 +0200

Today, there is a story on the CNN Turk website about some monkeys that are on loan from Holland to the Boğaziçi Zoo. Apparently, the monkeys are able to sing with human-like voices. I was sadly unsurprised to see this in two newspapers today as well. It’s only a matter of days before the singing monkey story gets picked up by the AP and the whole world gets to learn about their songs. Ugh. Hard-hitting reporting.

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Cold hearted Turks

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 21:58:03 +0200

These ne'er do wells were all over the town on my walk tonight.

Snowman-4

Sure, this one seems harmless enough with that disarming smile. But he was trying to whack someone over the head with that broom. I almost ate his nose.

Snowman-2

Creepy napolian complex n' shit. At least s/he knows how to drink. That always helps.

Snowman-1

I would be frowning too if someone had impaled me with sticks used as directions to bars. That's gotta hurt. Doesn't look like your helmet was any help either.

Snowman-3

Ok, I confess. I made out with this one. But can you blame me? It's wearing a bun; hot snowy librarian!

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Film frenzy, bestiality…

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 19:55:07 +0200

Against my better judgment, I have bought a ridiculous number of tickets for the !F festival. But so far I haven’t regretted it. On Saturday, I saw three films, including the touchingly rendered and exquisitely shot Zoo, which premiered at the last Sundance. Zoo is a documentary retelling of the people involved in the farm in Washington State where a man was killed after being penetrated by a horse in 2005 (see this article from Seattle’s The Stranger). Admittedly, I was drawn to this film for the gross-out factor. But it was a feast for the eyes, with night shots of orchards in bloom and majestic mountains of the Pacific Northwest.

Perhaps the film I am most excited about plays tomorrow: My Winnipeg by Guy Madden. I was won over to Madden with his silent film Cowards Bend the Knee, which I watched three times in one day last year. All in all, I am scheduled to see eight films over the course of the week. It’s so much fun, especially because I almost never visit the cinema in Philadelphia. I will also be fun to go to the queer party sponsored by the festival on Friday. It is being DJ-ed by the venerable Lady Miss Kier, who sang for Dee-Lite in the 90s. Groove will indeed be in the heart this weekend.

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Snow and slush and wet feet

nobody@vox.com(Rescaper) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 19:53:40 +0200

There are times when the small, winding old-world streets of this ancient city seem less than quaint. Although the white decorates the trees and bushes of the city, making it look as beautiful as a holiday display, the streets are slippery invitations to fall on your ass or get your car stuck.

Istanbul consists of a series of hills, and the sloping streets circumscribe the curves of the landscape. Usually, this is one of the features I adore about the metropolis. It allows you to meander just off the beaten path and find new neighborhoods with their own character and architectural physiognomic identities. From moment to moment, you can find yourself in a maze of small houses or face to face with the proud bosphorus. However, after a few days of snow you begin to think about how these same streets prevent any semblance of snow plowing or clearing. The city shuts down. People can’t get out of their mahalles.

I spent all of yesterday huddled in my room, catching up with my friend’s blog Travel Scrabble about her fieldwork in Malawi, and reviewing the news of the world. Today, I actually ventured out, although I didn’t bother going to class. I was told that the school would be closed. But I made it out to a favorite coffee joint where I am better able to focus on studying than in my room. The forecast tells us that the snow will melt tomorrow, leaving us with even more slushy puddles. Now is when I think, “Maybe I should have brought something other than sneakers with me.”

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