Turkey in the Straw

Up until now we’ve been managing short hops to regions nearby: checking out the neighborhood, as it were. With an extended school vacation, Ann wanted to extend our reach to something more exotic, and Turkey has so far filled the bill quite nicely. What better place to start than the historic bridge between Europe and Asia (and not just geographically): Istanbul.

Upon arrival, I realized I was equally adept at speaking Turkish as I am at many other languages. Ann and Perri seemed a bit confused and somewhat annoyed at finding themselves unable to understand what was being announced, or unable to follow simple signage at the airport. I, on the other hand, have been practicing for three months to maintain my composure while having almost no idea what’s going on around me (some of you might argue 3 months is a conservative estimate).

We were pleasantly surprised to find our hotel, booked frantically at the last minute, magically located in the heart of old Istanbul and surrounded by amazing historic sites. Even more surprising was the view of these same sites from our hotel rooftop breakfast restaurant. I won’t sugarcoat it: Old Istanbul is fantastic (new Istanbul not so much). We visited the Hagia Sophia former Byzantine cathedral turned Ottoman mosque and largest building in the world for 5 or 6 centuries. She’s a brute to be sure, but amazing considering construction started 1500 years ago. The interior isn’t so spectacular but is noteworthy in that the depiction of Jesus, the virgin Mary, at least one Byzantine Empress, and gobs of Islamic scripture are all on display. You don’t get that mix very often. The entry lineup was proportional to the building’s size unfortunately.

The afternoon was spent on a guided tour of the Topkapi palace - home of the Ottoman sultans for 400 years or so. We splurged for a guide to keep us attentive, keeping in mind the fourteen-year-old comatose-with-no-television traveling companion.

Quick aside about Turkish television (I can’t help checking out available channels on the hotel tv).

Lots of channels dominated by two major themes:

1. muslim religious programing
2. extremely graphic info channels for sex hotlines or ‘dates’.

I think Turks are conflicted.

The treasury was the most interesting part of the tour, in my estimation, displaying the famous Topkapi Dagger among scores of turban accessories dripping with diamonds. My favorites were a gold bucket filled with chicken egg sized emeralds and two 5 foot tall 50 kilogram solid gold candlestick holders (just for special occasions, I would imagine). Sadly, no photographs allowed.

The next day we visited the Blue Mosque, which is a working mosque and not open to the public during prayers. One might say the Blue Mosque is the yin to the Hagia Sophia’s yang. It is almost delicate when compared to the big sister across the square. After spending time in those dark and drafty european churches, the Blue Mosque “had me at hello”, to quote Hollywood. The minute you lay your eyes on the place you know you’re in for something special, and the interior does not disappoint. 

Open, cheerful, bright, and comfortable (plush carpeting) are all grossly inadequate adjectives to describe the experience. Somebody hired the right architect and the right contractor.

I wasn’t about to convert but I will say Islam probably hooks a few based strictly on the wow factor. The next day we went to the Suleymaniye Mosque, which might exceed the Blue Mosque in beauty and detail, which, having been through the former, is a strong statement. But first, cleanliness is next to godliness...

The girls were awestruck...

probably seeing something like this...

We also stopped by a giant underground water tank, which doesn’t sound too exciting until you use the word cistern and add Byzantine and Emperor Justinian to the mix. Then you’ve got yourself a serious tourist attraction. Again, it was pretty cool although the cheesy photo-op booth on the way in tended to diminish the historical significance of a 5th century plumbing system which lay undiscovered for almost 1000 years. 

By the way, we participated in said cheesy photo-op.

A long day was followed by a unique Turkish cultural experience which we could really appreciate: a Turkish bath. We went as a family which avoided awkward situations like getting a massage and then having the guy at the desk apologize for the masseur not being available that day, or disturbing visuals of very hairy, mostly naked Turkish men. Ann went for the body scrub while Perri and I chose the massage (normally one is expected to do both). I was unable to get any pictures. Needless to say Perri may never recover from the sight of her mother being handled roughly by a sturdy Turkish woman. Thankfully I was a few rooms away having my shoulders dislocated by a professional.

No trip with the girls would be complete without a shopping component, and old Istanbul provides plenty of opportunities in the Grand bazaar and the Spice bazaar. The first has over 4000 shops and stalls, covering a wide variety of products. Jewelry, carpets and leather goods dominate the landscape. There was no way we getting out of there without buying something because everything was priced to move and usually the salesman would find it in their hearts to give us an even better deal. Imagine!

The Spice bazaar is much smaller but tends to focus on food related products and for that reason alone I liked it better than the Grand Bazaar. We ended up buying a bunch of stuff we didn’t really need but was darn good (e.g. peanuts dipped in honey and rolled in sesame seeds). The funny thing was the sales guys knew how to work you (“would the two princesses like to try some Turkish delight?” - wait a second - that could mean more than one thing, now that I see it in print). Anyway, he knew he was working us. We knew he was working us. He knew we knew he was working us, but we didn’t really care because we were leaving with a kilo of really tasty pistachio nuts or dried strawberries and not a 6000 euro carpet.

So far Turkey gets two thumbs up (more, if I had them).

We now move to the road-trip phase of the trip, where we will be saving tons of money by experiencing the joys of an overnight bus ride (who needs a hotel?) on no less than two occasions. I’ve heard taking the bus at night on winding mountain roads in Turkey is statistically safer than draping yourself in a confederate flag while whistling dixie through some boroughs of New York city. What’s the worst that can happen?

One last shot of some mosque (I’m honestly not sure which) shot from the waterfront late in the day...

Special Thanksgiving Issue

As the middle of October creeps by, I find myself yearning for an entire pumpkin pie with whipped cream, lots of whipped cream. Crystallizing the concept of Thanksgiving, I want to let everyone know I am very thankful for the curious new world in which I find myself, and the blind luck to be sharing it with my family (and the cats, who I guess are part of the family, but would be less so should we run out of food, in, say, an emergency). So perhaps this issue is less about Thanksgiving ‘the holiday’ and more about Thanksgiving ‘the food’.

After three months I can say I’m getting the hang of most of the food here. Some things I know simply don’t translate between cultures: pancakes (crepes just aren’t the same), Chinese food buffets (it’s so bad I’m surprised the French haven’t put a torch to the local restaurant, yet it is always busy), and parts of animals I didn’t think were eaten by humans (the butcher section at the supermarket is interesting).  I also saw turkey legs at the butcher counter, which I wouldn’t have given a second glance if they had been labeled ‘ostrich legs’, which may explain why they don’t sell the whole bird.

At the same time, many things here are kind of the same (without half the labeling being in English) including: really salty instant rice products, too-sweet breakfast cereals, frozen dinnery things that are nutritional aberrations, and the potato chip aisle. For things we used to eat in Canada which are not available here, I can usually find some local substitute (e.g. croissants instead of Taber corn). Also, there are many yummy things here I wouldn’t find easily in Canada (e.g. giant tins of duck grease, or 75 varieties of fois gras). At the end of the day, two or three strawberry tarts from the local bakery can suppress any perceived dietary deficiencies with one exception: beef.

Coming from Alberta, the home of the best beef in the world (apologies to Australia, Argentina, Texas, and perhaps Japan), I have struggled. Beef has proven to be a bit of a black hole in our nutritional landscape. To start, the beef here could be from a two year-old grain-fed Limousin or Blonde d’aquitaine breed. A little research tells me these breeds were once well-known as work animals. Hmm… is ‘tender’ the first word to pop into your head when you think about something pulling a plow?  The beef could also be from a former dairy cow, aged beyond milk productivity, but perfectly willing to supply some fine cuts suitable for your barbeque.  Interesting choice. For a while we decided to become selective omnivores, avoiding large mammals as a source of protein, including humans, for those of you who were wondering. So instead of a tender prime rib steak we went with duck breasts. Instead of filet mignon, we might have seafood. Instead of every other cut of beef, we would have chicken, and occasionally pork. This worked for a couple of months but I still found myself looking longingly at the juicy slabs of beef in the meat section. Only the image of some little French dairy farmer backing his trailer up to the barn kept me from breaking down and buying something. Also, the beef here is very, very red. My pals on the internet tell me the French don’t hang their beef for very long (zero days, zero minutes, zero seconds) so the meat retains a very fresh look.  I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure there is a tenderizing aspect to hanging meat. Eventually, I went to the internet for help, and there was plenty to be had. Many people must wonder about beef in France and the experts were there to give advice. I was quite pleased until I saw one website suggest a good rump roast as an excellent cut for a fine meal. Further inquiries gave similar suspect advice (rump roast will yield edible meat after no less than 100 hours in a pressure cooker). And then I realized I had been getting advice from citizens of the United Kingdom, home of the food de-flavorizer and mad cow disease. Oh-oh. 

Tomorrow we’re having duck breasts.

Milan with a Plan

48 hours doesn’t give you time to absorb the essence of many places, but that was the challenge laid down for us on this weekend’s adventure. Never mind that Perri is teetering on the precipice of total emotional breakdown with the imagined spectre of repeating grade nine looming over her at every moment (“c’mon, you’ll only be missing one day. What’s the worst that can happen?”). With that same ‘can do’ attitude our settler forefathers displayed, we boarded a discount airline flight to Milan. The plan was simple: see a bunch of old stuff, buy some expensive, but hopefully not too expensive clothes, see a soccer game, eat too much good Italian food, and get home safely.

At the end of the weekend, I can say, with confidence, we met expectations.

After finding our bed and breakfast, which included only two stops to ask for directions, which for us is a record, we set forth upon the multi-faceted public transit system armed with our newly minted 48-hour passes. Milan has an extensive underground metro, a comprehensive bus system, as well as a trolley and tram system. Please, no questions about the difference between a trolley and a tram. Let’s just say there were all kinds of public conveyances available, and move on. At our first stop, as we emerged from the underground, ours eyes were assailed by the image of our first significant ‘old thing to be seen’: the duomo, Milan’s grand cathedral.

It might have been better planning had we gone somewhere else first, as the Duomo is quite spectacular and everything after that felt less so. It was built over a couple of hundred years and finished during Napoleon’s reign (I think he was crowned ‘king of Italy’ there). I’ve seen a few big old churches in my day but the Duomo manages to be imposing and delicate at the same time. We took advantage of the hike to the roof where the attention to detail is overwhelming. Why somebody decided to put all that detail 100 meters from the ground I’ll never know. Maybe you get to have a close look on the way to heaven. I have pictures for those of you destined for other eternities:

I got a shot of some dumb tourists taking their own picture. They must have been Americans (no insult intended to those of my readers from the land of undefinable national debt).

Ooops. Wrong tourists.

We spent the rest of the day exploring the sites and shops around the Duomo. We saw the Castello Sforzesco, which was interesting but quite un-photogenic. I’m afraid the trip to Carcassonne has set a minimum standard for castles and Castello Sforzesco doesn’t make the cut.  

It also happened to be fashion week in Milan, punctuated by giant posters and billboards, as well as the occasional freakishly tall and skinny 20 year-old girl. The main shopping street had a three-block-long red carpet and Perri couldn’t resist:

We closed the day with a tremendous meal, which, by itself, would have made the trip worthwhile.

Up early the next morning (at least by Milan standards), we wandered through the streets leaving no shoe store or boutique unexamined. By accident, we found ourselves standing in front of La Scala, one of the greatest opera houses in the history of such things. Not much to look at on the outside, we ventured into the opera house museum, which occasionally allows visitors to stick their noses into the opera house itself. It was not to be that day, as the company was rehearsing. The upside is that we were allowed to watch some of the rehearsal, and it was … fantastic. If they had offered tickets to that night’s performance on the way out, I’m sure I would have paid whatever they asked (tickets start at 200 euro for the cheap seats, when they are available, which they weren’t). I was busy that night anyway.

Near the opera house, and the Duomo, is the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, a funky shopping mall containing very exclusive designer stores … and a McDonald’s. One of the other curiosities within the galleria, is a tile mosaic whose centerpiece is a bull, whose naughty bits have been replaced by a shallow hole in the tiles. The local traditional suggests placing your heal in the hole and giving yourself a quick spin will bring you good luck. When in Rome, or Milan…

A couple of more meals, one technology museum with too much information, and what seemed like 100 stores later, we were on our way to Milan’s second great church: San Siro, the soccer stadium for both of Milan’s professional teams. I’ve been told that Catholicism is the ugly step-sister to soccer in Milan, religiously speaking: she never gets dates on game-day. And, with two professional teams, I imagine there are a few poorly attended masses over the course of a season. At the risk of wearing out sports clichés, there was a buzz in the air as we emerged from the metro. The fans were there in force and we merely had to keep our feet moving with the crowd to get to the stadium. Outside the stadium were probably 100 different food and paraphernalia vendors, and the joint was jumping! I had already looked into the match for the evening and was pleased and disappointed, in equal measures, that the opposition was a fairly useless team who was not considered a significant rival. This meant a good chance of a victory, and a small chance of a full-scale riot (but not a zero chance).

Once we got our tickets, we approached the stadium, which holds over 60,000 fans when required, and I can say it is an impressive structure. 

What was more impressive was the security: tickets were reviewed with photo id twice, metal detector, bag search, electronic ticket-entry gate system, and one more ticket review for each section. Ann wasn’t sure whether or not to be pleased with security exceeding that of an international airport. I expected a fairly full house, as acquiring tickets was a fairly arduous process.  Once we’d settled into our filthy seats (I quickly understood why many of the fans brought seat cushions sporting the team colors), I realized it wasn’t going to be a full house.

Once the game actually started, I would estimate the stadium was perhaps half full. However, the team booster section, was full, and, oddly enough, fenced-off. They were so loud I was pretty sure I would have permanent hearing damage. I also noticed a significant lack of ushers and security personnel in the same section and once the road flares started going off (how did they get those through security?)

I realized being in an almost empty section wasn’t so bad. The home side won 1-0 and I missed the only goal because I was watching the shenanigans going on in the crazy fan section. The giant video-tron seemed determined to only show us the time of day, not even the game time, rather than the score, or any replays we might be interested in. I imagine the lack of replays helps the life expectancy of the referees and linesmen.

The next day we were up at 8 and back in Bordeaux by 2 p.m.. Perri got her homework done and, Bob's your uncle, we’re all ready to face the week.

A few random thoughts on Milan: They like their baked pastries filled with custard or cream – so do I. I didn’t see a single insect the whole time we were there until the lights went out in our B&B, at which time the local mosquito breeding facility came to life (of course the windows were open – it was 26C). I believe the nearest green space was 6 blocks away, so I am interested to know from whence they came. There aren’t nearly as many kids in Italy as France. Ann tells me they are having a population implosion because it costs too much to get your own place and raise kids. One result is an even higher number of momma’s boys than before. Hard to believe. 


To close I’d like to cast aside all doubt as to the inadequacy of seeing a place with as rich a history and culture as Milan in the brief time we were there. We didn’t even get a chance to see Da Vinci’s ‘The Last Supper’ (you had to book ahead) although we saw a rendition at the technology museum (not the same, I know). I would estimate at least another 6 or 7 hours would have been necessary to see the whole thing.

No immediate plans except for Tuesday, when Perri’s teachers embrace their right to strike for the day. Thankfully, I have a tee time booked already. The October school break requires us to find something to do for a week and Sardinia, or Corsica, is on the radar. I favor Corsica because I’ve never really liked sardines. Ann also mentioned one of the Stans but I'm not in favour because I don't know one from the other and I think half of them are not particularly safe right now and I'd hate to get it wrong (Khurdistan? Khazakstan? Derkaderkastan?).

The Most Dangerous Game

Last week, as I was running along a bike path through a park not far from my house, I was distracted from my hyperventilating by the sound of two sharp reports. “Gunshots?” I asked myself, immediately launching into an oxygen-deprived half-dream about interrupting a drug deal gone bad or a violent domestic dispute.  A few minutes later a happy springer spaniel with a cow bell on his collar bounded up to me, tail a waggin’. “This clearly isn’t the sort of dog a drug lord would have”, I thought to myself just as an older gentlemen, sporting camouflage gear and a shotgun appeared out of the trees. We swapped ‘bon jours’ and I continued on my way wondering if the shotgun could have possibly been the source of the sounds I had heard earlier. I only had to wonder for about thirty seconds as two more shots were fired from the general vicinity of the nice man and his dog. I decided wind sprints were in order and briskly trotted back to the main road and then home.  Later that day, my neighbor, Luc, was out washing his Audi for the 12^th time in six days and I thought he might be able to tell me whether or not joggers were in season. Luc has no English – absolutely none. However, he does have a lot of French, which he generously shares with me at every opportunity, knowing full well I have almost no French comprehension.  After an extended mime session on both our parts, he was able to tell me that hunting season had started the week before, and I wasn’t likely to be shot while jogging, provided I stayed upright to avoid any resemblance to a boar or a rabbit. He didn’t seem the least surprised that someone was blasting away in the park. He also probably mentioned he was a hunter himself, and would be out hunting pheasants with his dog Vulcan (pronounced Vool-Khan), and would I be interested in one or two should he manage to be successful, I think.  Apparently, his wife doesn’t like to eat dead things unless they’re killed and cleaned by strangers. I nodded in my best mime that I would be happy to take any dead things should he happen to bag one or two. For the uninitiated, most Saskatchewan boys know how to turn a dead thing into supper as long as a sharp knife or two is available. I forgot how disgusting the experience could be, as my last dead thing cleaning experience pre-dates MTV, compact disks and personal computers. The mission was accomplished on the back deck, much to the joy and amusement of the neighbours's cats. I give you a pheasant (female) before and after:

Baked (stuffed with sliced apple and onion) and served with baby potatoes and carrots, a pheasant provides just enough for three not terribly hungry people. Fortunately we had dessert.

Normally that would be enough excitement for one weekend, but not for Ann. She had signed all three of us up for a team running relay Sunday morning. My initial thoughts on this matter were neutral but I knew I had French bureaucracy working for me. As it turns out, a person can’t enter a checkers tournament without a medical certificate, and we weren’t able to find a doctor who could see us on short notice. Darn! Now I would have to spend Sunday morning watching France destroy Canada at the rugby world cup. Too much to hope for as the nice man running the relay race was able to provide us with a doctor who would happily see all three of us on Friday at 6:45 p.m..  How is that possible? Does this doctor person have no social life? No family?

Certificates in hand, we arrived bright and early Sunday morning for three-leg relay (not  a three-legged relay) where each leg starts and finishes at the same place (Eikeden). Ann would start with a 6 km leg, I would take the second position with a 10 km stretch, and Perri would anchor with a 5 km leg. Our goal was simple: don’t finish last.

After a quick perusal of the other competitors I began to wonder whether we had set the bar too high and, as Ann chugged out of the starting gates, I began to unconsciously change the goal to “finish”.  To my surprise, Ann returned much, much, later in a respectable 28th position (2^nd or 3^rd last). I then loped away just as some of the better teams were lapping us (a 5 km loop). Eventually, I found the finish, having reeled in a few of the runners on recreational teams with names like “beerhounds” and “couch potatoes”.

I then handed off to Perri, who was fairly excited about the whole event, who then took off like a rocket, in spite of my repeated advice to start slow. She survived, but the bitter harvest of a summer resisting physical exercise was almost too much to stomach as she oozed across the finish line.

 To be fair, she had just recovered from a cold, so she wasn’t at her best, and we exceeded expectations by finishing 27^th in a field of 31. Yippee!!

Normally 27^th place doesn’t get you much. However, when you are the only team in the ‘family’ division, good things happen:

The girls got roses with the cup. We were also treated to a box of fresh oysters (enjoyed with the pheasant), cookies from a local patisserie, and some passes to the local fitness club. Not a bad payoff for a bunch of foreigners.

Seriously now, next week: Milan.

   

Le Weekend - Basque to the Future

If it’s the weekend then we must be going somewhere. This time Ann has discovered some obscure boat race in San Sabastian, a mere two hours drive down the coast, just across the Spanish line.  The race has its roots in the fishing business when rowboats were the tool of choice when putting out nets. Eventually egos got in the way and now there are races every year with teams from towns up and down the coast.

Since the race was Sunday and Ann is a strong believer in the old adage about idle hands being the playthings of the devil, we headed off Saturday morning to explore some terrain in Basque country near the town of Bayonne. You know you’re in Basque country when the road signs become completely incomprehensible, through the addition of x’s and q’s and the removal of helpful vowels. One could argue the Basques are slightly spicier than their northern neighbors in both attitude and cuisine. It became clear to us that this may derive from their generous use of locally grown peppers.

We stumbled across a pepper farm conveniently attached to a gift shop on a little back road near Bayonne. Upon entering, the salesperson commenced upon a comprehensive lecture about the rules around hot pepper designations (along with pork, cheese, and curiously, chocolate. Who knew the Spanish gave up on the chocolate business when running the Jews out of town back during the Inquisition? Apparently, the displaced population moved to Bayonne and brought the cocoa importing business with them, making Bayonne the chocolate capital of Europe.  I hope the Belgians, and perhaps the Swiss, have been informed).  We also completed an informative walking tour of the pepper plants while just barely dodging heat stroke. I think the walking tour softens you up for the gift shop. I expect many poor purchasing decisions are made while dangerously dehydrated. 

From there, we had a nice picnic lunch (note how Perri's disposition changes as a meal approaches) and just made the last funicular to the top of a local mountain. It was never made clear to me why a funicular was built 100 years ago to go to the top of this particular mountain, as a couple of restaurants are the only things of interest once you get there. The view is nice but I would think the neighboring peaks provide something competitive.

  

We managed to reach Bayonne before dusk and checked into a quaint hotel. Ann assured me the hotel represented traditional Basque hospitality and not to worry about the name (Best Western). We were in the old part of town, just up the street from the cathedral, which I thought was very nice until the next morning.

 I remember waking to the sound of church bells and trying to guess the time by the number of tolls. Well, I must have really slept in, because by my count it must have been about 800 o’clock. No pun intended, but what the hell?  You can be sure that in future, church proximity will be a significant factor in choosing a hotel locations. On the bright side, we were up, fed, and ready to go by 11 o’clock sharp for our day in San Sabastian.

San Sabastian is a typical beach vacation town, with a protected harbor and a couple of nice beaches: one with big waves and one without. I wasn’t sure what to expect with this boat race but the crowds around the bay suggested it was a big event. Once we finally found parking, I was astounded by the volumes of people, television coverage (including helicopters), and vocal fan support. Each boat was a distinct color  and the fans dressed so their was no doubt about their allegiances.

There was also plenty to eat, and the specialty of the day seemed to be grilled sardines with fresh bread, which I studiously avoided.

My personal high note of the weekend was reached when a sandwich vendor thought I was French. It wasn’t until later that I realized I’ve got some serious problems when I think being mistaken as French is a highlight. Still, it meant I didn’t have to attempt Spanish, which is worse than my French, for a few short minutes.

Once the races finished and we had had our lunch, we decided to wander through the park up to the old battlements. On our way there, I couldn’t help but notice the many street vendors providing cold beer and wine-by-the-bottle with no apparent concern for the age of the customers. It wasn’t until we were well into the park that the harsh repercussions of this policy were realized. Imagine stumbling into high school graduation party where the liquor cabinet had been left open and unattended. Now take that image and multiply by many thousands and you will have in your heads what we had before our eyes as we ascended through this no-longer-quite-so-beautiful park. Needless to say, there was plenty of grist for the ‘drinking is bad’ mill and Perri was entertained by many graphic examples of ‘there is such a thing as too much fun’. I couldn’t take any pictures for ethical reasons and, more importantly, I didn’t want to get beaten up by the many groups of drunken Spanish youths who were wary of our presence.  It seemed there was an unspoken agreement whereby adults allowed binge drinking by their kids provided it was done out of sight. I can't think of a better example of the value of local knowledge. With the exception of small clutches of terrified tourists, Ann and I were the only representatives of the adult demographic in a very large park. Ann later insisted on a picture of me although I could scarcely suppress the nausea and disgust I had experienced shortly before the shot.

The lesson from this experience: Next year, arrive early so Perri can get started with the local kids.