The morning of the second day we set off for Vergina, me sitting next to Gabriela, who had just that morning introduced me to her compatriot, Anamaria, our lady of the coat. She sat across the aisle from me and we talked about Istanbul (where she had worked as a language teacher) and Lisbon (which she had visited). Gabriela and she were talking about the train journey lying ahead of them- 24 hours to Bucharest. It sounded all very romantic to me of course, the whole thing was like a scene from Fortunes of War, actually, Anamaria a very propable character from the Manning story. Thus I felt ensconced and fancied myself as Guy Pringle. We passed many pink infused peach orchards and then arrived at what our guide called the telly-tubby mound, with good reason.
The tombs and the jewellery were impressive, but I could not enjoy them much due to very little amount of sleep. I tried to wake myself up afterwards with a cup of tea-bag tea (and Liptpn at that!) and found myself sitting at the same table as my compatriots, who had already started ticking the Turks off their list. Yes, I was another item on the list. We made polite talk, I was as terse as possible without being rude (an attitude which I have not yet decided whether to rue or not)
After the visit we decided to have lunch with the Romanian contingent (still very happy in my role as Pringle) and after Mr. Parker suggested that we have a sandwich at the Three Little Pigs joint, we passed, and then came to a restaurant where everything happened to be at least a euro more expensive on the bill, as compared to what the menu said. Anamaria said she would complain, Gabriela and I convinced her not to. Our fish was good, and they had brought us deserts "on the house". Then we walked to Aristotle Square where I met up with my parents, and the girls veered off to the bazaar, where they had been hoping to find nice jewellery, but which did not yield much, contrary to the guide's suggestion. We bumped into them as we ourselves were looking for the wool rug, and then we had conversations about Bursa, Istanbul and Yozgat with various members of the shopfolk in the bezesteni, I ended up buying a nice coral ring.
My mother and I then took several urban buses which took us to outskirts, and then I barely made it to my own session. After that my parents left for their hotel, and we went upstairs for the "gala dinner". There were even more Romanians at the table, so I was more than happy, thinking I must really get that train at some point in good Pringle style. After the food, the Greeks did halay, and invited all to join, and join the others did. It was a very convivial atmosphere indeed, best I've ever experienced at a conference. Dancing, I mean, how can you beat that?
Friday, March 23, 2007
Calypso's Tales
Once upon a time in Oxford, many, many moons ago, A Greek professor was talking about Turkey's entry to the EU, defining Europe as a place where she/one would go, and still feel at home. My retort to that had been, it also worked the other way around. Turkey was European to the extent that I (as a Turk) felt at home wherever I travelled in Europe, and said that I felt completely at home in England, and especially London (as a hijabi, among other hijabis)
She then said that Turkey was not only Istanbul, and that one had to consider all those chador wearing women in Anatolia (not wanting to take over the discussion I refrained from explaining that the chador was more of an urban clothing, that women in Anatolian villages preferred local clothing- baggy trousers and flowery headscarves, nothing to do with chador whatsoever)
Calypso had already said that, for all she cared, she wanted Istanbul to be part of the EU, for that was where her grandparents were from. That had done it. I swore (unconsciously, it must have been, for I only realized this urge when I saw the call for papers for Salonica) that I would say the opposite of that at some point in the future- make known that expulsions had not been one way. "I am very happy to be here today, the city where my grandfather is from"
But of course, in the event, I said no such thing. Because I had other worries, plans and aims at that time... but it is always so with me, my prepared lines are overwritten by more pressing needs and interests, and I guess I like it that way too.
I kept returning to Calypso's statement throughout my stay in Thessaloniki. So, then, this is where Europeans (as I know them) would feel at home? women crossing themselves each time they pass a church, the stores closing for siesta right after lunchtime (and woe to you if you should want to have a snack and do some last minute shopping), the waiters adding their tips onto the bill by themselves, where the third letter of the alphabet is not C, but G (a friend of mine kept looking for building (G)amma where she was staying at, which turned out to be the third building on the compound, not the seventh..... I raised my proverbial glass to Calypso and said "Have it your way darling!" and rued that I had not known the state of affairs those many moons ago to enjoy the (unintended?) irony of what she said.
She then said that Turkey was not only Istanbul, and that one had to consider all those chador wearing women in Anatolia (not wanting to take over the discussion I refrained from explaining that the chador was more of an urban clothing, that women in Anatolian villages preferred local clothing- baggy trousers and flowery headscarves, nothing to do with chador whatsoever)
Calypso had already said that, for all she cared, she wanted Istanbul to be part of the EU, for that was where her grandparents were from. That had done it. I swore (unconsciously, it must have been, for I only realized this urge when I saw the call for papers for Salonica) that I would say the opposite of that at some point in the future- make known that expulsions had not been one way. "I am very happy to be here today, the city where my grandfather is from"
But of course, in the event, I said no such thing. Because I had other worries, plans and aims at that time... but it is always so with me, my prepared lines are overwritten by more pressing needs and interests, and I guess I like it that way too.
I kept returning to Calypso's statement throughout my stay in Thessaloniki. So, then, this is where Europeans (as I know them) would feel at home? women crossing themselves each time they pass a church, the stores closing for siesta right after lunchtime (and woe to you if you should want to have a snack and do some last minute shopping), the waiters adding their tips onto the bill by themselves, where the third letter of the alphabet is not C, but G (a friend of mine kept looking for building (G)amma where she was staying at, which turned out to be the third building on the compound, not the seventh..... I raised my proverbial glass to Calypso and said "Have it your way darling!" and rued that I had not known the state of affairs those many moons ago to enjoy the (unintended?) irony of what she said.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Selanik-Salonica-Thessaloniki
After I missed dinner at the Capsis Hotel, putting my parents to bed and sending off various e-mails for deadlines, I got one of the Greek girls, whose twin, I later discovered, was hovering about the place as well (I've got the imprreshaun, I'm just a cawpy) got me a cab, and it took even her to explain where the taxi driver was to take me a couple of minutes. The place turned out to be one of a pair of communist blocks- in one of them was the concierge who took me to my own building, which had a sort of porters lodge with pigeonholes and a green steering- phone device of some sort which looked like it had seen the days of Stalin, and upon which various icons of Maria, Dimitrios and Child Jesus were selotaped. From the main building came some alternative rock music sounds but I was too dead to engage in the social life of the Esties.
After passing a couple of pairs playing table tennis in the spacious entrance hall (one of the elements of the communist look), I took a lift to my floor, reminiscent of the high-rise Heidelberg student accomodations and I entered my room happy to find there was a washbasin in international student-room style, though tilted it was and leaking, just like the radiator. The green curtain had got loose in parts and it was not wide enough to cover the windows anyway. The window gave onto the upper part of the hill with some more buildings Kuşadası style, and then the green summit of the hill. I went to the window at the end of the hall, to discover a nice view of the town, albeit none of the sea itself. I then ventured onto the loo to find that the floor was of that hideous (mock?) grey-blue marble which I thought was particular to Turkish public toilets (which the Turks have, thank God, given up almost completely, but it remains my childhood nightmare still). I shall not get into the nitty gritty, but it was not pleasant, let's put it that way. I then got out of the toilet using, it turns out, the wrong exit. For the toilets had two doors on either side opening onto the two adjescent wings of the building. I got in and got out, had a Matrix moment, and then found my way back to my room and then slept like a log (after connecting to the wireless for a fleeting second actually)
After attending a conference session where two Turks were speaking- rather intelligently for that matter, one about Rushdie and one about Moris Fahri, someone I really must get my teeth in (he has a blurb on the Mazower book) I met my parents of Egnatia, and we walked to the sea front, not much of a sight due to the haze. After inquiring after the Friday prayer to a few random Turks we bumped into, discovering there was no mosque, and me learning that Greece was the only European country that did not have a functioning mosque in its capital, we were in time for the prayer at the Rotunda, where my father prayed sitting by the Ottoman fountain, and me, in the shade of the minaret, looking onto the Byzantine ruins. We also discovered Ottoman tombs in the garden, and the minbar of the mosque lying on the ground under the newly blossoming peach trees. From there, we walked upto Atatürk's house, like excommunicated Catholics to the Vatican. I then set out for my conference, missed the free lunch, had spinach böreks at a nearby cafe and then entered the next session: translation as cannabalism, abjection as negating all that does belong to one's body, and immigrants being baptized in to Orthodoxy and assuming Greek names.
Hovering around and above these sessions was one of the organizers who then turned out to be named Dionysos, you get the picture. The euphemism is, I think statuesque, rather big is the colloqial adjective. He was the perfect chimera- dark curly hair and very thick glasses, reminiscent of this Jewish-butcher acquaintance of mine, and yet at the same time fitting into the stereotype of the rather large Orthodox monk engrained in Turkish cultural memory. And of course, Salonica being what it is, he can well be both.
After that session I went to Venizelos' statue where my parents had started to hang out and then we took a cab to the Yedi Kule (Seven Towers), named after the seven towers prison in Istanbul, however, possessing only one tower. The driver turned out to be from a family from Istanbul islands and to prove his lineage he gave us a saying in Turkish "Gavur yan yan yürüyor, bir de kendini beğeniyor" (The non-muslim/heathen is walking side ways, and yet he likes himself) I wondered whether he actually knew what it meant, I guessed this was what his grandfather must have been confronted with often, to have the sentence be passed on in the family.
The tower was closed, and we walked down to the ramparts where we enjoyed really nice views of the city, mistaking Panorama for Olympos mountain. Then we walked down to the town through a circutous way, through the old Ottoman quarter and typical Ottoman houses. I caught the last half of the modern dance and started talking to a Romanian lady, ended up having dinner at the same table, biber dolma (I asked for yogurt but they didn't have any) and for desert helva and wonderful kadayıf with Greek syrup and cinnamon.
On the way back the Polish woman who had been eyeing me mustered up the courage to ask me if she had to wear a headscarf should she visit Turkey. I was too tired to retort with "So tell me, do I have to wear a two centimeters skirt like the one you are wearing when I come to Poland?" and just asked "Whatever gave you that idea?" She said, "No it's just that I have never been to an Islamic country".
"I'm sorry" I said "to have dispelled the myth. You wanted me to say, yes, didn't you, you actually wanted to be forced to wear one, now you're all upset because you won't have to buy a beautiful scarf and wear it". The Romanian lady laughed and told me I shouldn't shatter people's prejudices and expectations just like that. We were both very mean :-)
After passing a couple of pairs playing table tennis in the spacious entrance hall (one of the elements of the communist look), I took a lift to my floor, reminiscent of the high-rise Heidelberg student accomodations and I entered my room happy to find there was a washbasin in international student-room style, though tilted it was and leaking, just like the radiator. The green curtain had got loose in parts and it was not wide enough to cover the windows anyway. The window gave onto the upper part of the hill with some more buildings Kuşadası style, and then the green summit of the hill. I went to the window at the end of the hall, to discover a nice view of the town, albeit none of the sea itself. I then ventured onto the loo to find that the floor was of that hideous (mock?) grey-blue marble which I thought was particular to Turkish public toilets (which the Turks have, thank God, given up almost completely, but it remains my childhood nightmare still). I shall not get into the nitty gritty, but it was not pleasant, let's put it that way. I then got out of the toilet using, it turns out, the wrong exit. For the toilets had two doors on either side opening onto the two adjescent wings of the building. I got in and got out, had a Matrix moment, and then found my way back to my room and then slept like a log (after connecting to the wireless for a fleeting second actually)
After attending a conference session where two Turks were speaking- rather intelligently for that matter, one about Rushdie and one about Moris Fahri, someone I really must get my teeth in (he has a blurb on the Mazower book) I met my parents of Egnatia, and we walked to the sea front, not much of a sight due to the haze. After inquiring after the Friday prayer to a few random Turks we bumped into, discovering there was no mosque, and me learning that Greece was the only European country that did not have a functioning mosque in its capital, we were in time for the prayer at the Rotunda, where my father prayed sitting by the Ottoman fountain, and me, in the shade of the minaret, looking onto the Byzantine ruins. We also discovered Ottoman tombs in the garden, and the minbar of the mosque lying on the ground under the newly blossoming peach trees. From there, we walked upto Atatürk's house, like excommunicated Catholics to the Vatican. I then set out for my conference, missed the free lunch, had spinach böreks at a nearby cafe and then entered the next session: translation as cannabalism, abjection as negating all that does belong to one's body, and immigrants being baptized in to Orthodoxy and assuming Greek names.
Hovering around and above these sessions was one of the organizers who then turned out to be named Dionysos, you get the picture. The euphemism is, I think statuesque, rather big is the colloqial adjective. He was the perfect chimera- dark curly hair and very thick glasses, reminiscent of this Jewish-butcher acquaintance of mine, and yet at the same time fitting into the stereotype of the rather large Orthodox monk engrained in Turkish cultural memory. And of course, Salonica being what it is, he can well be both.
After that session I went to Venizelos' statue where my parents had started to hang out and then we took a cab to the Yedi Kule (Seven Towers), named after the seven towers prison in Istanbul, however, possessing only one tower. The driver turned out to be from a family from Istanbul islands and to prove his lineage he gave us a saying in Turkish "Gavur yan yan yürüyor, bir de kendini beğeniyor" (The non-muslim/heathen is walking side ways, and yet he likes himself) I wondered whether he actually knew what it meant, I guessed this was what his grandfather must have been confronted with often, to have the sentence be passed on in the family.
The tower was closed, and we walked down to the ramparts where we enjoyed really nice views of the city, mistaking Panorama for Olympos mountain. Then we walked down to the town through a circutous way, through the old Ottoman quarter and typical Ottoman houses. I caught the last half of the modern dance and started talking to a Romanian lady, ended up having dinner at the same table, biber dolma (I asked for yogurt but they didn't have any) and for desert helva and wonderful kadayıf with Greek syrup and cinnamon.
On the way back the Polish woman who had been eyeing me mustered up the courage to ask me if she had to wear a headscarf should she visit Turkey. I was too tired to retort with "So tell me, do I have to wear a two centimeters skirt like the one you are wearing when I come to Poland?" and just asked "Whatever gave you that idea?" She said, "No it's just that I have never been to an Islamic country".
"I'm sorry" I said "to have dispelled the myth. You wanted me to say, yes, didn't you, you actually wanted to be forced to wear one, now you're all upset because you won't have to buy a beautiful scarf and wear it". The Romanian lady laughed and told me I shouldn't shatter people's prejudices and expectations just like that. We were both very mean :-)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
A Sweet Lineage
"The very sweet-toothed should not leave Veria without trying the local speciality, revani, a syrup-soaked sponge cake" (The Rough Guide)
Revani, in the shape of "yogurt tatlısı" has been our staple sweet at home, nowadays only cooked for Bairam due to our ever expanding figures as a family. This year for Ramadan Bairam I was the one who cooked this desert, a rite de passage, and a passage of tradition all in one. Here's a recipe for it in English
http://www.yogurtland.com/2006/10/19/yogurt-tatlisi-yogurt-dessert/
and a Turkish one for good measure
http://www.maksimum.com/yemeicme/tarif/1535.php
Revani, in the shape of "yogurt tatlısı" has been our staple sweet at home, nowadays only cooked for Bairam due to our ever expanding figures as a family. This year for Ramadan Bairam I was the one who cooked this desert, a rite de passage, and a passage of tradition all in one. Here's a recipe for it in English
http://www.yogurtland.com/2006/10/19/yogurt-tatlisi-yogurt-dessert/
and a Turkish one for good measure
http://www.maksimum.com/yemeicme/tarif/1535.php
Oxford-Tiflis-Cairo-Salonica
The first people to greet me in Salonic were the two Turkish speaking Rum ladies from Tblisi, who were complaining of their lot, and who kept making compliments about my Turkish. They had been estranged from their "own people", and thought them far too degenerate, telling me again and again the tea that they had been offered in the port town of Samsun in Turkey on their ardous journey to their new Jerusalem, Salonica. Only later did I realize that this was now a socio-cultural phenomenon in Greece, they were opening their doors to "Rums" from all over the place in order to boost their population, the country has one of the lowest birth rates in Europe.
Just as I was congratulating myself on the progress I was making on my itinerary to the Esties, the Student Guest House, I lost the way when I got off the bus, having dropped my hard-attained city map on the bus as I was having the heated conversation with the Georgians. I asked the way a couple of time, even tried to take a taxi to the place, but all to no avail, the Greek experience had begun. Although they were really nice and smiling, noone seemed to be able to help me, all faces registering wonderment when I showed them the name of the place as if I was speaking of an address in middle earth. One particularly sweet girl warned me that buses would not be running regularly today anyway because of student demonstrations, and that I should keep trying the impossible taxis.
Then I approached another guy who turned out to be a Ph. D. student from Cairo, studying veterinary medicine. He was doing the "sister-brother" thing and insisted that we take the bus, totally ignorant of the fact of the demonstration and not taking me seriously when I told him about it. But he was to believe me soon afterwards because just as he was suggesting that we wait at a busttop at a road which was so obviously cordonned off, we saw people coming from the head of the street, their faces covered in snow caps, or whatever they're called, and then the police moved in, we crossed the street, and then heard gun shots. After that the students started to pelt the police with cobble stones, as we hurried to get inside what seemed to be a stationary store, underground. The last I saw of the squabble was two, not one but two students lighting molotov cocktails and hurling them in the direction of the police. Welcome to the country of unrest, I thought with imperial glee. They were always thus, and always shall be.
The commotion lasted surprisingly short and then we came out, and saw nothing but a couple of stones on the pavement as testimony of what had happened. I also thought of the group of young people sitting at the three lavish outdoor lounges at the bottom of the street like it was Nice in July in their fancy dresses, and where they had run to during the confrontation. Also the terror in my Egyptian friend's eyes and my insouciant folly as we hurried into the stationary. He had actually been afraid, while I felt as if the city was putting on a show for me. One of us had probably experienced violence at first hand, and one of us was used to be just a news-audience.
We went to the top of the street and walked along the main artery for while, two main attractions appearing on our right hand side, the Galerius arch and the Rotunda, and he telling me that Atatürk's house was not far from that spot. I had tried nicely to tell him that he need not bother himself with me anymore, that I could find myself from then on, he took it badly, and told me he was acting only like a "brother". That shut me up alright. We took a cab with a couple of other young people and when we arrived at the hotel where the conference was to take place, we got out and he did not let me pay.
Like the Rum taxi driver who had spent time in Beşiktaş had not let my parents pay when he took them to the hotel. I was watching a modern dance troupe whose piece talked to me of immigration but was actually, it turns out, about cloning. "I've got the impreshaun, I'm just a cawpy" one of the girls kept saying. And then they packed bags and unpacked bags which later led to the hotel staff to put Anamaria's Turkish coat into that prop-case, a coat which she would be looking for for two days, and a coat after which she was inquiring when I formed my first false impressions about her.
Just as I was congratulating myself on the progress I was making on my itinerary to the Esties, the Student Guest House, I lost the way when I got off the bus, having dropped my hard-attained city map on the bus as I was having the heated conversation with the Georgians. I asked the way a couple of time, even tried to take a taxi to the place, but all to no avail, the Greek experience had begun. Although they were really nice and smiling, noone seemed to be able to help me, all faces registering wonderment when I showed them the name of the place as if I was speaking of an address in middle earth. One particularly sweet girl warned me that buses would not be running regularly today anyway because of student demonstrations, and that I should keep trying the impossible taxis.
Then I approached another guy who turned out to be a Ph. D. student from Cairo, studying veterinary medicine. He was doing the "sister-brother" thing and insisted that we take the bus, totally ignorant of the fact of the demonstration and not taking me seriously when I told him about it. But he was to believe me soon afterwards because just as he was suggesting that we wait at a busttop at a road which was so obviously cordonned off, we saw people coming from the head of the street, their faces covered in snow caps, or whatever they're called, and then the police moved in, we crossed the street, and then heard gun shots. After that the students started to pelt the police with cobble stones, as we hurried to get inside what seemed to be a stationary store, underground. The last I saw of the squabble was two, not one but two students lighting molotov cocktails and hurling them in the direction of the police. Welcome to the country of unrest, I thought with imperial glee. They were always thus, and always shall be.
The commotion lasted surprisingly short and then we came out, and saw nothing but a couple of stones on the pavement as testimony of what had happened. I also thought of the group of young people sitting at the three lavish outdoor lounges at the bottom of the street like it was Nice in July in their fancy dresses, and where they had run to during the confrontation. Also the terror in my Egyptian friend's eyes and my insouciant folly as we hurried into the stationary. He had actually been afraid, while I felt as if the city was putting on a show for me. One of us had probably experienced violence at first hand, and one of us was used to be just a news-audience.
We went to the top of the street and walked along the main artery for while, two main attractions appearing on our right hand side, the Galerius arch and the Rotunda, and he telling me that Atatürk's house was not far from that spot. I had tried nicely to tell him that he need not bother himself with me anymore, that I could find myself from then on, he took it badly, and told me he was acting only like a "brother". That shut me up alright. We took a cab with a couple of other young people and when we arrived at the hotel where the conference was to take place, we got out and he did not let me pay.
Like the Rum taxi driver who had spent time in Beşiktaş had not let my parents pay when he took them to the hotel. I was watching a modern dance troupe whose piece talked to me of immigration but was actually, it turns out, about cloning. "I've got the impreshaun, I'm just a cawpy" one of the girls kept saying. And then they packed bags and unpacked bags which later led to the hotel staff to put Anamaria's Turkish coat into that prop-case, a coat which she would be looking for for two days, and a coat after which she was inquiring when I formed my first false impressions about her.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Ka-ra-ve-ri-a
Veria, oh Veria
shall you remain
a country of the mind,
a lost heaven
for the fallen angels
of an Empire?
Veria, oh Veria
years of neglect
and forgetfulness
erased you from the annals
of written history
while you remained
a tune on the lips
of my grandmother who'd never seen you
harping
on the years of hardship
particular to the dispossessed
Veria, oh Veria
I have seen your peach trees,
admired your lush plains
without knowing
your name, your black name
what's in a name?
once found
twice lost
Ka-ra-fe-ri-a
shall you remain
a country of the mind,
a lost heaven
for the fallen angels
of an Empire?
Veria, oh Veria
years of neglect
and forgetfulness
erased you from the annals
of written history
while you remained
a tune on the lips
of my grandmother who'd never seen you
harping
on the years of hardship
particular to the dispossessed
Veria, oh Veria
I have seen your peach trees,
admired your lush plains
without knowing
your name, your black name
what's in a name?
once found
twice lost
Ka-ra-fe-ri-a
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Life of the Party
As I visit
the friendships
that meant everything
to-the-girl-with-the-clown's face
to the girl with the clown's face
'round here
Oxford, 10th March
the friendships
that meant everything
to-the-girl-with-the-clown's face
to the girl with the clown's face
'round here
Oxford, 10th March
Friday, March 09, 2007
Zombies and Tramps
Once more onto the breach-
sitting in Wellington Square
cross-legged, cross-eyed
wishing myself surrounded by own kin
I wait
for my time to come
crawling towards Bethlehem.
sitting in Wellington Square
cross-legged, cross-eyed
wishing myself surrounded by own kin
I wait
for my time to come
crawling towards Bethlehem.
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