The South: A Photo Essay (pt. 5)

Friday Night Lights 

Baseball may be America’s Pastime, but in the South, Football is King.  Every community, town, or city has a field – and it doesn’t matter if you’re playing next to a cornfield or in a big stadium, as long as you’re playing.  Once football season kicks off in the fall, Friday nights are owned by high school games; Saturdays belong to the college series; and Sundays are reserved for the NFL.

On College campuses throughout Dixieland, quarterbacks are revered as demigods; the field is their dominion.  Coaches are escorted in and out of stadiums with as much security as the US President.  It is no coincidence that the South Eastern Conference dominates college football each year and almost always has a team playing in the National Championship.

Yes, football reigns supreme here, and though I’ve never lived in any other Southern state, I can’t imagine anyone taking football (high school, at least) more seriously than the Georgians…except maybe the Texans.

*****

“The utter darkness of a rural southern sky is pierced by the lights shining down on the field.  I’m down and set on the line of scrimmage.  The night air is so hot and humid that my vision is blurred by the sweat dripping down my face.  All I can hear are the short, deep gasps coming from my teammates.  The roar of the crowd has been pushed from my head.  I take a deep breath through my nose.  I smell the familiar odors of football:  the grass of the field, the stench of sweat.  But most of all I feel the tension.  The air is thick with it.  I can hardly remain still; my adrenaline won’t allow it.  Finally, my quarterback steps up.  “Red!  Set!  Hut!” and the ball is snapped…

…I fire off the line and plow into the man in front of me.  Our pads clash and we are engaged in yet another ten second battle of strength.  My quarterback receives the ball and shoots forward.  He dives right up the middle and…SCORE!  There seems to be an eerie silence, a second that lasts forever.  But then, the crowd erupts into an explosion of cheering.  I laugh.  I can’t believe it.  Randolph Southern just scored its first touchdown! “

The South: A Photo Essay by W. J. Newsome is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The South: A Photo Essay (pt. 4)

Round the Supper Table

I love everything about food: the way it looks, the way it’s prepared, the way it smells, the way it brings people together, and of course, the way it tastes.  Then it’s no wonder that I’m happy that food is a central aspect of Southern culture.  Food is naturally important to every culture; it sustains its people and how it’s prepared and enjoyed says a lot about the culture itself.

I’ve been fortunate enough to meet people from all over the world, and when discussing a variety of things, we’ve all agreed on one thing:  there is a huge difference between “food” and “meal.”  Food is something that you eat to survive; a meal is an experience, centered around food, that is shared by people.

Growing up in the South, we had a home-cooked meal almost every night and unless there was something special on, we all sat around the supper table to eat it, not in front of the TV.  Kitchens back home are loud and always seem to be busy.  A Southern kitchen is still traditionally a woman’s domain and it’s where your Mama, your Nanny, your Auntie, or your Grandmama turn food into the best meals of your life.  You may have heard of the saying “Food so good, it’ll make you want to slap yo’ mama!”  Well, I think Southern food is so good, your mama will want to slap herself!

The Southern smorgasbord of food includes all of the classics: fried chicken, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, grits, tomato sandwiches, and cornbread, just to name a few.  And no self-respecting Southern pantry is complete without hot sauce.  But there is also some stuff that’s only for the more adventurous folks, like chittlins, neck bone, and pigs’ feet.

Which fresh vegetables you have depends on the season and recipes are never in “cups” or “ounces,” but instead call for “a pinch,” “a bit,” or “a lot.”  A lot is usually meant for the oil, because we’ll eat most anything fried, from chicken, to pork chops, to ribs, to steak.  Some of the best cornbread is fried, and I’ve even heard of someone frying an Oreo.

So, no, Southern food isn’t the healthiest (a Southern breakfast with pancakes, eggs, and sausage probably has about 5,000 calories…per bite), but whether it is home cookin-soul food, real Southern barbeque, or a fresh hunk of meat hot off the grill, it’ll be some of the best tasting food you’ve ever put in your mouth.

Having fresh-squeezed lemonade on the porch may be a little romanticized, but you can bet that every Southern refrigerator has a gallon of tea sitting in it.  And “tea” in the South, mind you, isn’t hot or served in a dainty little cup.  It’s sweetened, served cold with plenty of ice, and we drink it from glass cups, mason jars, or red solo cups.  I don’t have to tell any of you that there’s nothing more refreshing when you’ve been working out in the yard than a cold glass of sweet tea.

Like I mentioned before, it’s not just the food that’s special; it’s how it is served, shared and eaten that adds the Southern flair.  Sure, we know how to set a table with all the fancy silverware and fine China, but I’d much rather pile my food high on a paper plate and eat it out on the porch step.  We usually eat together anyway, but when there’s any type of special occasion – if someone got good news at work, or if the semester ended well, or if you have company – you better watch out.  We’ll call all of the immediate family and there’ll be a sure ‘nough get together.  I love it when there’s such a gathering.  The table doesn’t fit all of the chairs, so you’ve got chairs pulled up to the corners and squeezed in between people.  Everyone’s reaching over everybody else trying to fix their plate, and between the clinking of the forks on the plates and the “pass me the peas” and “hand me a piece of cornbread,” you can hear stories (of the day or of times gone past) and laughter.  That is a meal.

Eventually comes a point when all plates are clean (though you already passed the point of being full a drumstick and a helping of tomato gravy ago), but no one gets up just yet.  More stories have to be told first.

Then comes the dessert.  And as far as I’m concerned, banana puddin’ is the South’s gift to the world.  But if sweet, banana, sent-straight-from-heaven, custardy goodness isn’t your thing, there’s probably a cake sitting around somewhere.  I’ve come to discover that being able to bake a good pound cake or a good three-layered cake is like a right of passage for a Southern lady.  Now, judging someone’s status based on their baking ability may be a little harsh, but you won’t hear me complaining when the competition produces an eight pound caramel cake or a red velvet cake that’s recipe has been carefully guarded for over fifty years.

So, as you can see, food is a passion of mine.  Luckily, both sides of my family know how to cook.  I love Sunday morning pancakes, the taste of a steak right off the grill, my Grandma’s homemade lasagna and vegetable soup, and “Farm gourmet” suppers.  But more than the food itself, I love sharing a meal with family and friends.  Whether it’s my family from down the road, or my friends from half way across the globe, I love that we can share a common table, a common experience, a common friendship.

The South: A Photo Essay by W. J. Newsome is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The South: A Photo Essay (pt. 3)

On the Porch 

This is probably my favorite spot in the whole world: sitting on the porch at the Farm.  It may not be as exciting as sitting on the wall of a 1,000-year-old castle in Germany, but I love it nonetheless.  Whenever I have too much to do, or whenever the world or people are getting on my nerves, or even when I’m just missing home, I close my eyes and picture myself rocking on the Farm’s back porch.

There, you can have a hot cup of coffee in the morning, a cup of sweet tea in the afternoon, and a cold beer in the evening.  You can sit and watch the hummingbirds feed, check out the flowers’ growth, and see the occasional deer at the wood line.  And a car won’t drive by for days.

In my own personal opinion, a porch epitomizes life in the South.  Sure, the particular foods, and family, and accents, and politics – all of that is important, but the Porch is the nexus, the meeting point of all those things.  All Southern houses have one, most have one on the front and out back, and if you’re lucky, you live in one of those old houses that has a porch all the way around.

All good Southern food can be enjoyed on a porch, whether in a chair or down on the porch step, and the cooler is never more than an arm’s length away (whether it’s your own arm, or the arm of someone down at the other end).  Every good dog loves a porch because that’s where their world of the yard meets your world of the house.

On the porch is where lifelong friends and strangers alike can sit and tell stories about the good old days, or pass on little tid-bits of wisdom.  And let’s face it; the porch is one of the best places to catch up on a little gossip.  But, just a little.

But the porch is the absolute best place to simply sit and stare off ou’chyonda (and for any of you poor souls who have never stared off ou’chyonda – bless your hearts – or aren’t fluent enough in Southern to understand what I’m saying, I’m talking about simply sitting on the porch and staring off out into the distance and not saying a word).

Of course, you better choose wisely when you want to sit on the porch.  If you try to do some porch sittin’ in the middle of a Southern summer day, you’ll probably regret it very quickly.  The Dog Days of summer belong to unbearable temperatures, the gnats, and the ‘skeeters’ (more commonly known as mosquitoes) and if you don’t keep up your guard, they’ll eat you alive and carry away your corpse in pieces.

And let’s get one thing straight: Hollywood and Northern authors like to speak of “sultry Southern nights” or “sultry Southern summer afternoons” as if they’re something dreams are made of.  But any honest Southerner will tell you that “sultry” is just a glamorized and romanticized way of saying “hotter than hell and so humid that you can’t stand outside for one minute without being covered in sweat from head to toe.”  But, I guess “sultry” does make it sound better.

So, the porch is a place for meeting and greeting; it’s a place for listening and talking, sippin’ and drankin’.  The porch can be loaded with the members of your family, all of your friends, or it’s a perfect place to sit alone and think (or NOT think).  Time on a porch – like the pace of life in most Southern towns – seems to go much slower.

You’re always welcome on the porch, and when you leave, there’s one thing you will always hear:  “Ya’ll come back!”

The South: A Photo Essay by W. J. Newsome is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The South: A Photo Essay (pt. 2)

Southern Hospitality

Southern Hospitality is no mere catchphrase or cliché; it exists and is alive and well.  You can experience it as soon as you cross the Southern border.  When I stepped off the plane from my last trip to Germany, I was greeted with a warm, “Welcome to Atlanta, darlin’.”

But, it’s down the road and outside of the big cities where you’ll find true Southern Hospitality.  In a small town like Cuthbert, part of the appeal is that everyone knows everybody.  You can walk into a restaurant and they already know what you want.  Or, you can stop by the Cuthbert Cleaners and your clothes will already be waiting for you.  Plus, you’ll be greeted with Miss Dawn’s smiling face and one of the sweetest and longest Southern drawls you’ve ever heard!  Miss Dawn and her family are some of my family’s dearest friends, so picking up my clothes is never just business; after telling how everyone on her side is doing, she’ll always check in on us, too.  You simply leave with a warm feeling, and I have to admit, every now and then I have to stop in just to get me a good ole Southern hug from Miss Dawn!

Here in the South, we throw up a wave or a nod at everybody passing by, whether in a car or on foot…and whether we know them or not.  Not to would simply be rude!

Every Southern Gentleman and Southern Lady – hell, everybody down here – knows the proper use of “ya’ll” and we cringe at the Northern substitutes: “You all; You guys.”  “Ya’ll” may not be considered “proper” by all, but I’ll defend its grammatical correctness to the day I die.

Southern Hospitality dictates that you always ask someone how they’re doing.  Southern Hospitality also dictates that you always answer positively – unless it’s just visibly apparent that you’re not “just fine.”  Then you just stay at home and wait on people to come by and check on you.

I also think that the South is the only place where you can learn someone’s life story in the grocery store line.  But I would also urge caution:  everybody knowing everybody also has a less-than-sweet flipside.  You better not do anything that you wouldn’t want the whole town to know.  Because by the time a pot of coffee can brew or a pitcher of tea can steep, your business is going to be spread all over town via the Southern Gossip Network, which contrary to popular belief is made up of just as many men as women.

But, it’s alright.  You can say most anything you want to as long as you follow it up with “bless his heart.”  It’s a saying that someone who hasn’t lived in the South for a while wouldn’t understand how to use.  It can be used as a ‘cover up’ so to speak, a phrase to make everything alright:  “The Johnsons’ little girl is just about as dumb as the day is long, bless her heart.”  Or “That dog has a face that only a mother could love, bless its heart.”  OR it can be used sincerely as a way of showing just how sweet or darlin’ something is.  “That boy is always checkin’ in on his mama.  Bless his heart.”

It’s all part of Southern Charm, a charm that should never be underestimated.  “Is he always like that?  So calm and down to earth?” someone asked me at my uncle’s office in the heart of New York City’s financial district.  My uncle grew up on a farm and now does business with billionaires, heads of state, and royalty across the globe.  In the rat race and lightning-paced world of Wall Street, he still speaks slowly and with a slight Southern twang.  People love it; they’re enamored with him.  “Yeah,” I answered, “That’s just Uncle Jim.”  The guy looked at me and then added, “Huh.  I guess it’s just that Southern Charm!”

You’re damn right.

The South: A Photo Essay by W. J. Newsome is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The South: A Photo Essay

Now that I’m back home in the South for a few days, I thought I’d post this photo essay that I put together a couple of years ago when I moved to Buffalo.  I’ll post a new entry each day until it’s done.  Yall enjoy! 

In a country as vast as the United States, it goes without saying that several distinct cultures will exist within our borders.  And while each is unique in its own way, I believe there is one region of the US that is most distinctive and most unique: the South.  Depending on whom you ask, the South is either the best or the worst place to live in America.  And while there are indeed both good and bad things about Dixie, the virtues far outweigh the imperfections for those of us who call the South home.

Hollywood likes to portray Southerners as a bunch of Confederate Flag waving hillbillies.  And yeah – yeah, those Southerners sure do exist, but the South also produces poets, entrepreneurs, and world leaders.  Slavery, segregation, and racism have tarnished the South’s past, but at the same time, the South is the birthplace of Martin Luther King, Jr., the iconic leader of the Civil Rights movement.

The South is known as America’s Bible Belt for a reason.  In many small towns, the pastor’s words from the pulpit carry as much sway as anything released from the mayor’s office.  Politically, the South is now a Republican stronghold, though at one time it used to be the Democrat’s saving grace.  And not only does the South help shape politics on the national level, it often times leads.  Five of the last eight presidents have hailed from the South.

King Cotton once ruled the Southland, and while the crop may not be as important today, the South’s is still a predominantly agricultural economy.  There are still places where you can drive for hours and see only vast expanses of cotton, peanuts, soybeans, corn, peaches, or tobacco.

The South is a domain where football is king, and the only question of where you’ll be going on a Fall Friday night is the home bleachers, or the visitors’ stand.  Southern Hospitality is not a myth; sweet talkin’ and warm huggin’ is the greeting of choice around here.  But you better watch out: some of those little old ladies’ tongues are as sharp as their smiles are wide.

Food and Family are the pillars of Southern culture, and what Mama says goes.  The kitchen turns food into a Meal, which is something enjoyed by all sitting around the supper table.  And yes, we have ‘supper’ every night and save ‘dinner’ for Sunday at noon.  Down here in the South, the only things longer than our conversations on the porches are our accents.

While California and New York may now be the world famous destinations for rising stars, Blues, Soul, Rock & Roll – music as we know it – all began in the South.  And though it may not be your cup of tea, all of today’s leading Hip-Hop and Rap artists sing and rap about their home: “the Dirty South.”  Many of them got their breaks in Atlanta, host of the 1996 Olympics, the birthplace of Coca-Cola, home to the busiest airport in the world, and the Capital of the New South.

Life South of the Mason-Dixon Line may be slower and even a little more rural than up North or out West, but I don’t think we’d have it any other way.

*****

Following is a series of photographs that I have taken.  They are pictures either of things that I will miss about living in the South since I now live up here with the “damn Yankees,” or simply things that I feel embody different aspects of life in the South.  More simply put: they are pictures of Home.

The South: A Photo Essay by W. J. Newsome is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Ich bin ein Berliner!

In 1963, two years after the construction of the Wall, as a symbol of U.S. support, President John F. Kennedy visited West Berlin, an island of democracy surrounded by Communist East Germany.  In a speech before thousands, he stated that all free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and then as a free man, he proudly proclaimed, “Ich bin ein Berliner!”  I am a Berliner! 

Kennedy’s statement was met with cheers, but also with good-mannered laughs.  He said the phrase in German as a way to reach across the language barrier, but was unaware that a “Berliner” in German is a jelly-filled donut.  The word now, of course refers to a citizen of Berlin, just as a “New Yorker” refers to someone living in the Big Apple. 

I had been looking forward to going back to Berlin, the Bundeshauptstadt Deutschlands (Federal Capital of Germany), ever since I left the city over two years ago.  When I last visited, it was with a big group of friends and during 2006 as Germany hosted the World Cup.  The weekend that we went, Germany was playing Argentina in Berlin (Germany won) and so there were millions of people packed into the capital city.  It was an incredible time, and Berlin was draped in Red, Black, and Gold, Germany’s national colors.  I had loads of fun taking part in the celebration, and it’s an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything, but ever since then I’ve wanted to go back when I wasn’t distracted by millions of screaming soccer fans.  I wanted to meet the real Berlin.

So, when my friend asked if we could visit Berlin when she came to Germany, I believe my answer was something to the effect of “YES!”  And so, during the stress of studying for finals, I would always tell myself that my reward would be a trip to Berlin.

As I’ve already said, as luck would have it, I started getting sick about four days before we headed to Berlin.  Well, when we woke up on Tuesday morning, I felt pretty miserable.  So, I went tearing through my toiletries bag and medicine cabinet to see what I had (since the medicinal tea was working too slowly); I was NOT going to be sick while I was in Berlin.  And to my surprise, I found a sleeve of Sudafed Severe Cold formula.  I had to make a decision: there was only enough for me to either take it slowly during the four days in Berlin, or just take one full day of it and hope to knock it out.

I decided on the latter choice and, the entire day I launched an assault of alternating Sudafed-Advil on my cold, and it seemed to be a good choice.  I think the cold/sickness/disease had gotten rather comfortable in my body and put its defenses down since it thought that all I had in my arsenal was herbal tea.  So, my surprise attack bombarded it and knocked it out and I felt just fine for my stay in Berlin.

After an almost two-hour delay, we arrived at the Berlin airport Tuesday evening and took a bus to the Hauptbahnhof (Main Train Station).  Oh man was I excited to step into the absolutely massive, glass complex!  It’s brand new, just finished in May 2006 to handle the influx of visitors coming into Germany for the World Cup.  The main portion is four stories tall (with the office towers on each side continuing up to 6 stories), and when you walk in, there are full sized trains arriving and departing under your feet and over your head; there is every imaginable type of shop located throughout the entire edifice.  Did I mention that it’s HUGE?  And since the whole thing is made out of glass, whether you’re coming from the subway below, or exiting your train on the top floor, the first thing you see is the city of Berlin all around you.

the Berlin Hauptbahnhof

By this time, night was falling pretty fast, so we took an S-Bahn (“Street Train” – which are different from the underground U-Bahns) to our hostel, which was in the former East Berlin.  The city of Berlin is very large and spread out, so the train ride to our hostel lasted about 25 minutes from downtown Berlin.  Once we checked in to “the Generator” (the same hostel where I stayed last time), we made our way into our room, which was painted lime green and blue.

Sandy decided to stay in the room and go to sleep early in an attempt to save up her strength for the next day.  It was only about 7pm and I knew there was one thing that I couldn’t sleep without seeing.  So, I zipped up my jacket, wrapped my scarf tight, and headed out into the Berlin night.  I squinted as the piercing wind whipped around the buildings, but grinned a little as I heard the snow crunching beneath my feet.  I hopped on an S-Bahn and a short while later arrived back at the Hauptbahnhof.

As I left the south exit, I couldn’t help but smile.  The night was terribly cold, but it felt good against my skin; it made me feel alive.   I thrust my hands deeper into my pockets and then walked with a mission.  Something was calling my name…

After several minutes, I was standing in absolute awe, in front of my goal:  the German Reichstag.  I fell in love with the building two years ago on a hot, busy July day.  And now, seeing it lit up on a freezing February night, snow all around, I was speechless.

the German Reichstag

The building was constructed in 1894 to house the Imperial Parliament (Reichstag) of the newly formed German Reich (Empire).  Today, since Germany is no longer an empire, the parliament or congress is known as the Bundestag (Federal Parliament), however the name “Reichstag” has stuck with the building.  The inscription above the entrance reads, Dem Deutschen Volke . “To the German People”

In 1933, four months after Adolf Hitler was sworn in as Chancellor of Germany, the inner governmental chambers were burned.  A radical communist was arrested as the arsonist, but there is still debate as to whether he worked alone or if there was also Nazi involvement.  The Nazis and Communists were bitter enemies, so why would they work together you might ask?  Well, Hitler used the Reichstag Fire to show that the Communists were trying to take over the German government.  So, many historians believe, with some evidence behind them, that Hitler and high-ranking Nazi officials had the Reichstag burned and pinned it on the Communist as an excuse to crack down on all political opposition and help secure total power.

Hitler restored the building, but it was again badly damaged by the bombing of the Second World War.

After WWII, the building was slowly restored and in 1999, the newest addition to the Reichstag was completed:  the glass dome.  The dome provides a 360-degree view of Berlin and from the top, one can look down into the main governmental chamber of the Parliament below. Because of the dome, some Germans call the Reichstag the “big washing machine.”

The architecture of the dome, however, has its symbolic significance. The dome is open every day to visitors, free of charge. You can take an elevator up to the base of the dome and then walk up a spiral walkway to the pinnacle.

With all of the glass, and the ability to look down into the governmental chambers, the message of the dome is that anyone should be able to walk in off the street and watch their government at work. They should be able to sit above the congressmen and watch them carry out their duties. Along the same lines, should the congressmen ever forget who they’re working for, they need only look up and see the People.  Government should be transparent. For many, it symbolizes the heart of democracy.

I had told Sandy that I would wait for her to go up into the building’s Dome, but while I was standing there, there was no line at all, whereas during the day you can easily wait several hours to get in.  I looked around me at the few people walking by; maybe they were Berliners, or maybe they were just visitors, like me.  I looked back up at the building, with its façade lit up against the dark and overcast sky, and it just felt like it was calling me in.

And so I walked up the gargantuan steps and went through the stringent security before being allowed to ride up to the Dome.  That high up, the sting of the wind was worse, so I quickly scurried to the protection of the Dome’s glass.  It provided for an awesome view of Berlin by night, and though there were no congressmen at work (it was 8pm) it was neat to see the governmental chambers from above.

After about an hour, I left the Reichstag, walked back to the Hauptbahnhof, and rode back to the hostel feeling very content.

At first I wasn’t sure why I am so fascinated and in awe of the Reichstag, but I knew that I had some kind of ‘connection’ with it.  I knew it’s not just because of the sheer size and appearance of it, either.  No, it’s something a little deeper than that.  After thinking about it for a while, I think I’ve figured it out.

To me, that building acts as a symbol for Germany and Germans.  It was built, in all its splendor, as the seat of the Reich Parliament.  In 1933, its insides were burned and the democracy of the Weimar Republic died along with it.  Hitler revived the building, but no functioning parliament resided in its halls.  Then, the building was once again mangled, but this time by Allied bombs.  Now, over 60 years later, Berlin is again the capital of a united Germany.  The Reichstag and its glass dome, in a nation plagued by its tyrannical past, now acts as a symbol of German Democracy.

And for me, the building acts not only as a political symbol; but also as a symbol of German resilience.  Germany has been destroyed more than once, and was divided for one-third of its existence, and yet, each time it faces its obstacles and then carries on.

And so, I guess that’s why the Reichstag holds me spellbound; because it embodies the German spirit.

The next day, Sandy still wasn’t feeling well enough to face the cold, so I took a day trip to a Wannsee, a lakeside region that can best be described as a suburb of Berlin.  The locality gets its name from Wannsee, a large lake in the middle of the community.  I had heard that Wannsee was pretty, but there was something very important that happened there during the Nazi reign, something that drastically shifted the course of history.  And that was what I was going to see.

The S-Bahn ride to Wannsee took about an hour, and went all around the outskirts Berlin, so I was able to see some of the more residential areas.  Once in Wannsee, I left the station and had a pleasant, twenty-minute stroll around one edge of the lake.  The entire lake was frozen over and there were even people ice-fishing out in the middle. I left the main road and began winding my way through the residential streets, heading towards my destination.  Most of the houses, which butted up to the lake, were essentially small castles.  If I’m not mistaken, Wannsee was always a place where rich aristocrats and royalty kept residence outside of the city life of Berlin.  The area still looked to be a very rich neighborhood and I imagine that these houses have been passed down through the family lines.

Finally, I stopped at a very large house and I had to ring a buzzer to be let through the large, iron gate.  The official name of this estate is no longer important; it’s simply known as “das Haus der Wannsee Konferenz” the House of the Wannsee Conference.

The house itself is beautiful; it sits well off of the road and its wooded grounds make it easy to forget that you are not secluded in the middle of the country.  The back of the house has a breathtaking view of the Wannsee Lake.

But in contrast to its beautiful appearance, the house unfortunately has a dark stain on its history.

It was here in this house, in January 1942 that top ranking Nazi officials met to come up with a “Final Solution to the Jewish Question.”  It was the first time that representatives from each branch of government met together to discuss the topic.  They sat around a conference table, occasionally taking a break for lunch or tea or a cigar, and discussed the most efficient way to kill a man.  The conference, in truth was a farce, simply a formality to help assure that each branch of government felt that they had a voice.  In actuality, Reinhard Heydrich, the man in charge, had already made up his mind and Hitler had given him free reign; he decided that shooting was too expensive, time consuming, and too demoralizing for the soldiers who had to carry out the orders.  His solution: gassing.  At the Wannsee Conference he informed everyone that they were to work towards the establishment of vast camps, apart from the concentration camps, which would be located outside of Germany-proper, and who’s sole purpose would be to efficiently manufacture death.

With this in my mind, I walked down the driveway and pushed open the heavy oak doors into the Wannsee House.  I walked into the foyer where the officials would have given their coats to servants as they arrived.  I then made my way into the room where the extensive lunch was set up for those present to maintain a full stomach, while millions in camps thousands of miles away starved. I then stopped at the open doors of the conference room and got chill bumps as I truly realized who had walked through those doors 67 years before me.

I stood where the table would have been and listened, wondering if I’d be able to hear any whispers of the past.  I then walked over to the window that looked out through the trees to the lake, and I knew that this view looked very similar to what it would have looked like on that January day in 1942.

About that time, a school group came in and the silence was broken, so I got my jacket and walked out onto the house grounds.  I sighed; silence again.  One of the things that made the Wannsee House one of the better historical sights to visit is the fact that it’s outside of Berlin, and thus away from the hordes of tourists.  I was able to stand there, in the back garden, alone and think about how that day in 1942 altered history.

But, I must admit that I was disappointed by the House’s exhibition.  It had essentially been turned into a museum; all furniture had been removed and large, modern tablets full of information had been fastened to the walls.  I know that the act of Informing is, in itself, a memorial; it’s a way of remembrance.  But every line of information which hung on that wall (apart from the series of plaques that detailed the journey of one family) could be found in any library.

Informing is important, but it has its place.  There, at that house, the world had a gem of an opportunity:  most Nazi structures were destroyed during or after the War.  But, here is the very house in which they implemented their infamous Final Solution.  I believe that the House would be much more powerful and effective if it had been preserved and set up to look exactly the way it did on January 20, 1942; if the conference room looked like everyone in it had simply stepped out for a smoke, and food was still set out, ready for their return.  It would make the entire thing more memorable.  Perhaps those students who were too busy laughing and texting to listen to their guide would have been more interested if they could really see with their own eyes just how civilized genocide can be.

I thought all of this as I stood out back and stared at the lake.  I was standing in nearly the exact same spot that Reinhard Heydrich was when he allegedly told one of his colleagues, “This house is magnificent, is it not?  I think I shall live here when the war is over.”

He was right; the house is magnificent.  It’s just too bad that it will always be tainted by the horrific actions that transpired within its walls.

After I left the Wannsee House, I took an S-Bahn back into Berlin to find a café that Dr. Johnson had recommended to me as his favorite place to eat in Berlin.  After a little searching, I found it – Café Bleibtreu.  I walked in and started to go for a table in the back, but I stopped and decided to take the table in the window.  That way I could have a good meal and watch people walk by on the street at the same time.  I could tell why Dr Johnson loved it so much; it was decorated in American pop culture (which is one of his specialties).  Posters of James Dean and “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” were hanging above my table.  I took a walk around the place and it was filled with pictures of Dirty Harry, Scarlett & Rhett, Marylyn Monroe, and such icons.  There were a couple of antique Coke iceboxes and even a red, antique phone booth in the room next to me; the Beetles were playing over the speakers.

I spent two hours there sitting, eating, people-watching, and more sitting.  I had a delicious pasta dish named after the café and, of course, a tall, German beer.  After that was done and I sat some more and then finished the evening off with a cup of coffee.  By the time I left, it was dark, so I decided to start heading back to the hostel.

On the way back, however, I got sidetracked.  As I was riding on the S-Bahn, I noticed something out of the window, so I got off at the next stop and walked back to the building that I had caught only a glimpse of.

And when I rounded the corner and saw the building in its entirety, it took my breath away.  It was the Berliner Dom, the Berlin Cathedral.

the Berliner Dom

It is one of the most impressive buildings I’ve ever seen due to its sheer size and intricate detail.

It was built between 1895 and 1905 and is the largest Protestant church in Germany and one of the most lavish Protestant cathedrals in the world, second perhaps, only to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.  Before my trip to Germany, I never knew the difference between a cathedral and a church.  Apparently, cathedrals are usually Catholic and are large, lavish, and extravagant.  The Catholic Church’s idea behind the cathedrals was that if you are building a house for God, it should be worthy of his glory (even if people were starving around them).  The Protestant Reformation (which was led in Germany and has deep roots here in Marburg) broke away from such ideas of the Catholic Church, and held the belief that people should live simpler lives.  That is why it is rare to see a Protestant Cathedral such as the Berliner Dom.  I wanted to go in and see the inside of the cathedral, but they were charging admission, and I didn’t feel like I should have to pay to enter a church, so I simply admired the outside of the enormous building.

Afterwards, I made it back to the hostel and that ended my first full day in Berlin.  The next morning, Sandy still didn’t want to leave the room, so I made sure she had enough medicine, juice, and soup and then got ready for my second, and last full day.  That day, Thursday, it started snowing again, and with the wind blowing so hard, it made it pretty hard to see.  Still, I took it as an adventure and walked out into the cold.

My first stop of the day was the largest remaining segment of the Berlin Wall.  There are smaller segments of the wall all around the city, but this one is probably ¾ of a mile long and is intact, except for a few driveways that now punctuate it every now and then.  I was able to see a bit of the Wall the last time I went, but it was blocked off and I couldn’t get close to it.  This section, however, you could walk right up to, touch it, add your own graffiti, essentially anything you wanted.  There were no barriers.  I walked down the sidewalk for the whole length of the Wall, pondering all of the graffiti along the way. There were many elaborate scenes painted on the concrete, but one thing that caught my attention was a simple phrase, hastily scribbled in red spray-paint.  It said, “Abschlussreise 2007.” I stopped to stare at it for a moment.  It was the equivalent of writing “Senior Trip ’07!”  To me, it underscored the stark difference of the Wall’s meaning 25 years ago, and its meaning today.

From there, I headed to a place I had really wanted to see two years ago.  But as I stepped out of the S-Bahn station and caught a glance of the enormous stadium, I knew it was worth the wait.  I had finally made it to the Olympic Stadium, sight of the 1936 Olympic Games.    By this time, Hitler was both Chancellor and President of Germany and instead of cancelling the already planned Games, he saw it as a chance for Germany to step back onto the world stage after World War One.  He had the Olympic complex built and hosted one of the most elaborate ceremonies up to that point (I believe China this past year wins the prize for best ceremonies).  During the time of the Games, Hitler gave the order to take down or hide all anti-racist and anti-Jewish propaganda. Nazi swastika banners, however, were ever-present.   (Another FYI: Hitler started the tradition of carrying the Olympic torch from Greece, around the world and to the sight of the hosting city.)

the 1936 Olympic Stadium in Berlin

The entire complex of the Olympic grounds was more than remarkable and, true to Nazi architecture, it all looked like something out of ancient Rome.  Indeed, the stadium itself looked like a slightly smaller coliseum.  Acting as the main gates to the grounds were two, enormous pillars, easily 200ft tall each, with the Olympic Rings suspended between them.  Standing there, you just felt so miniscule.  I’ve noticed that about Nazi structures that I’ve seen:  Their architecture doesn’t use intricate details; instead there are bold, powerful straight lines made of sturdy rock.  It’s usually about size and power.  And I have to say, it’s very impressive.  I can see where, if 70 years go, someone told me that such structures were for me and the glory of my nation, it would be hard not to get swept up in some kind of emotion.

Unfortunately, because of the weather, I wasn’t able to go inside the actual stadium, but I did stay and walk around the grounds for about an hour and a half before moving on to my next destination.

What I visited next is known as the Tiergarten, a huge wooded area, comparable to New York’s Central Park.  I entered the Tiergarten on its western edge and decided to walk through its heart and come out on the other side at downtown Berlin.  Perhaps I read too much into it, or over emphasize it, but I feel that the Tiergarten acts as a perfect symbol for the German reverence for Nature.  I mean, Germany may be one of the most technologically advanced nations in the world and perhaps the leading power in Europe, but in the center of their capital is the Tiergarten, a 630-acre park that runs right up to the streets of the government district.  It says to me that Germans may have the development of the Western world, but they are still going to have their trees, grass, and Nature right in the heart of their capital.

I’ve heard that Berlin is the world’s greenest capital, and not because of its eco-friendliness, but because of its color; in other words, because it has so much plant life throughout the city.  In fact, while I was walking through the Tiergarten, I forgot that I was in a city; it felt just like walking through a forest.  And the snow was just too tempting; I couldn’t help but make a snowman.

In the heart of the Tiergarten is the Victory Colum, the Siegessäule, a 220ft tall tower commemorating the formation of Germany in 1871.   *Cue history lesson*: Before Germany was united, the area that is now Germany was a collection of smaller kingdoms. The two most powerful were Prussia (in the north) and Bavaria (in the south). Prussia, especially towards the end of the 1800s was a military powerhouse in Europe. In 1864, this Tower was designed to commemorate the Prussian victory in the Danish-Prussian War. However, by the time it was inaugurated in 1873, Prussia had also defeated Austria and France. In 1871, the Minister-President of Prussia, Otto von Bismarck, united the “german” kingdoms into one nation state, and Germany was founded. The same year, a man by the name of Wilhelm was named the first Kaiser (Emperor) of the now united German Reich (Empire). So, the Victory Column commemorates the formation of the German Reich, and as such in 1871, it was decided (contrary to the original plans) to place a 27ft high, 35 ton sculpture of Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory at the top of the tower.

Berliners, with their fondness for giving nicknames to famous buildings call the statue Goldelse, “Golden Lizzy.” The Column was originally located in front of the Reichstag, but its location got in the way of the Nazi’s plans for the remodeling of Berlin, so they moved it to its present day location.  During WW II, the column was relatively unharmed because during that time, radar was nowhere as good as it is today (and there definitely wasn’t such thing as a satellite guided bomb) so the tower acted as a guiding point for Allied bombers to make their way down the main street and bomb the city.

Two girls and I were the only ones brave/stupid/eager enough to climb the 275 spiraled steps to the top of the tower.  The view from the top was a good one, but you couldn’t stay up there for too long, unless you wanted to become a human popsicle.

After I climbed down the tower, I finished walking down the main street that divides the Tiergarten, and ended up at the base of the Brandenburg Gate, perhaps Germany’s most recognizable structure.   *Time for another short history lesson*:  The Brandenburg Gate was built in 1788 and was commissioned as a symbol of peace. It is a former city gate of Berlin, and during the division of East and West Berlin, it acted as a main checkpoint.  On top of the gate is the Roman goddess of Victory, in a chariot, being led by four horses. When Napoleon conquered Prussia (the sight of modern day Berlin) in 1806, he took the statue back to Paris as a trophy. When Prussian forces defeated France eight years later, they brought it back to Berlin.  During the Nazi’s time, the Gate was used as a symbol of power.  And in 1987, President Reagan stood at the Gate and called, now famously, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

After seeing the Gate, it was getting kind of late, and I decided that I probably should go back and check on Sandy.  But, instead of using the S-Bahn station that was only a few blocks away, I decided to take a “detour” and use the Hauptbahnhof; that would take me by the Reichstag again.  I stopped for a while and watched the people make snowmen on the lawn in front of their nation’s capital and then I headed back to the hostel.

The next day was Friday and our last day in Berlin.  Sandy had to get out of the room because we had to check out at 10am and our flight wasn’t until 7pm.  So, she decided to take a tour-bus around the city; at least she’d be warm.

I, on the other hand, had one more thing to see; something that I had left for the last day.  I made my way under the Brandenburg Gate and towards Postdamer Platz.  After only a couple of minutes of walking, I reached my goal:  the national Holocaust memorial.

I had seen pictures of it, so I recognized it at once:  an entire plaza full of 2,711 concrete  stelae, or columns, of varying height.  There is no entrance or exit to the memorial; one may enter or leave the grid of pillars at any point.

a picture of the memorial, from the Internet, to show the grid pattern

If you didn’t already know it was the Holocaust memorial, you wouldn’t be able to tell just from looking at it.  In fact, that’s the point.  The memorial doesn’t dictate what you should think.  It is a break from traditional memorials in the fact that it doesn’t use symbolism; you must simply experience it.  And it doesn’t matter how many times you leave or enter the memorial, or how long you stay amongst the pillars (some of which reach 13ft tall), you don’t get any better understanding.  After all, how can you truly understand something like the Holocaust?

I had read that the pattern of columns is only a grid at first sight.  And I have to say that when I was first saw the memorial, I was a little perplexed, because even though I knew to look for something other than a perfectly aligned gird, that is all that I saw.  But once I entered the memorial and made my way deeper into the pillars, a chill ran down my spine; it became unsettlingly apparent that the columns were neither straight nor level.  Some leaned towards each other while others slightly angled themselves away.   This uneven layout is no mistake.  The architect, on the layout: “It suggests that when a supposedly rational and ordered system grows too large and out of proportion to its intended purpose, it in fact loses touch with human reason. It then begins to reveal the innate disturbances and potential chaos in all systems of seeming order.”   To me, this symbolizes the bureaucracy of the Nazis, the way they orderly and methodically carried out everything they did.  It was an Order that had lost touch with humanity and reason; it was an Order based on efficiency – the efficiency of killing.  It was an illusion of Order; it was essentially veiled chaos.

Even though you are in the busy government district (the memorial is built on the ruins of the Nazi Chancellory) of Berlin, the columns block out all of the sound, and once you are inside, it becomes eerily quite and you can’t help but to feel alone.  The only sound to penetrate the silence was the crunching of the snow beneath my feet, echoing off the pillars.  I found myself wondering if that’s how the people in the Camps felt:  cold and alone.

One of the reasons I think the memorial is so effective is because there are no plaques of information visible.  The memorial is not a museum.  The Information Center is located underground, below the memorial.  So, visitors do have the ability to receive information, but it is not the main focus of the memorial.

I have to say that the memorial is very powerful, and though I know nothing of architecture, I think that the architect of the memorial is a genius.  The way that the memorial is open and doesn’t tell people what they should think sparks discussion.  And discussion is a way of remembrance and a way to help assure that something like that, on that scale, doesn’t happen again.  In that sense it’s not the 2700 concrete pillars that are the actual memorial; in that sense, the true memorial is what’s in the mind of the visitor; it’s what the pillars inspire.

the Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, and Holocaust memorial

And so, that was my trip to Berlin.  I can honestly say that Berlin is my favorite city that I’ve ever been to.  It offers so much:  The city itself is large and spread out.  And it’s so diverse.  You can see relics of the forging of the German Reich alongside some of the most modern buildings in the world.  The city is a History student’s heaven, and is full of culture:  cafés, universities, museums, operas, and symphonies.  But it also provides for its young, student inhabitants as well by offering some of the best nightlife in the world.  You can take a stroll through a forest, or step into its Hauptbahnhof, an edifice of steel and glass where one steps off the train and feels that you’ve arrived in the future.

Those four days in Berlin were some of the most exciting, humbling, and deeply fulfilling of my life.  I’ve found that for me, traveling is almost a religious experience.  You leave your Home, your sphere, and you venture into a new area, a foreign sphere, and you are at that city’s mercy.  There is so much excitement and adventure, and yet at the same time a little anxiety or reserve.  And it’s all caused by the same thing:  there are new, unfamiliar things to uncover.

That is why I enjoy traveling alone.  I need (at least once) to get to know the city; to see what it has to offer.  I need some one-on-one time to discover the city’s unique persona and aura.  I can go at my own pace, and not just take from the city, but interact with it as well.  Luckily, I was able to do this with Berlin and it made its way into my heart.

I know I could now go back with friends, maybe even to party, and I’d feel right at home.  But that’s only because I was able to spend some time alone with the city.  I feel that Berlin and I now share some type of unseen, perhaps unknowable connection.  What I do know is that a piece of me will always reside in Berlin.

46 years after Kennedy, I visited Berlin.  As I rode to the airport to head back to Marburg, I already found myself missing Germany’s capital.  Though my motivations and those of the young U.S. President may not have been exactly the same, in my heart, I proclaimed: Ich bin ein Berliner!

“Ich bin ein Berliner!” by W. J. Newsome is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Atlanta’s Hometown Airline

Following is an article from the March ’11 edition of Delta’s Sky Magazine.  Written by Richard Anderson, the Chief Executive Officer for Delta Air Lines, it talks about Delta’s relationship with the Capital of the South and its headquarter city, Atlanta.  I liked it, so I thought I’d share with you all.

FROM ATLANTA TO THE WORLD FOR 70 YEARS: Building a Global Airline and a Global City

Delta Air Lines’ founder C. E. Woolman reached an agreement with Atlanta Mayor William Hartsfield 70 years ago that changed our airline and the City of Atlanta forever.  In exchange for an affordable, long-term lease, Mr. Woolman agreed to move the center of Delta operations from Monroe, Louisiana, to Atlanta.  Delta – then with just 53 employees running 113 seats on eight flights a day – relocated its headquarters to Altanta in 1941.  It was a pivotal moment not just for Delta, but for the promise of U.S. air travel.

The move planted the seed for Atlanta’s rise as the busiest passenger hub and Delta’s eventual transformation into a leading global airline.  Since 1941, metro Atlanta has grown from 800,000 residents to about 6 million today, while at the same time Delta has grown from eight Atlanta fights to more than 1,000 departures headed to approximately 220 points across the globe.

Along the way, Delta and Atlanta together have recorded a lot of firsts:  In the 1950s, Delta pioneered a concept in Atlanta that became known as the “hub and spoke,” which ultimately led to the development of the world’s largest airline hub in our hometown.  In the 1970s, Delta launched the first nonstop transAtlantic flights between Atlanta and London, propelling Atlanta’s vision of becoming a global capital.  And in the 1990s, Delta and Atlanta partnered to win the 1996 Summer Olympic Games, leading us into an era in which we have increased nonstop international service from Atlanta by nearly 500 percent.

But even with all the changes, our alues and many of our partners remain the same.  The Coca-Cola Company, in fact, is Delta’s longest-standing corporate partner, with onboard Coke service dating to the 1940s.  Last month, we saluted this history by christening a Boeing 777-200LR as the “Spirit of Atlanta” with a bottle of our hometown drink.  The christening harkened back to December 1940, when Douglas Aircraft Company christened one of Delta’s early DC-3s as the “City of Atlanta” – also with a bottle of Coke.

The Spirit of Atlanta

The last 70 years prove that, together, the people of Delta, metro Atlanta, the State of Georgia, our customers and our business and charitable partners are a powerful combination.  Our partnership with Atlanta has created something that can’t be replicated – a city that 12 Fortune 500 companies call home and a company, Delta, that has remained Georgia’s largest private employer for a generation.

If your travels take you through Atlanta today, we hope you’ll join us in lifting your glass to our hometown.  We look forward to another 70 years and more in Atlanta.  And we look forward to continuing to bring you a strong global network and premium product that will keep our customers worldwide flying Delta for years to come.

In the Shadow of a Castle

“Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life.” 

– Bertolt Brecht –

Journal entry from 9/26/08:

The stone is cold beneath me and against my back, and I sit mere inches from a 50ft precipice. The trees sway and dance in rhythm with the chilly breeze of the coming night. Marburg lay spread out below me.

It’s Friday evening, the closing of a stress-filled week, and I have finally made it back up to Marburg’s castle. It actually feels as if I’m here for the first time. Last time was too quick. We came; we glanced; and then we hurriedly left, hungrily looking for the next “site to see.”

And so, this morning, I slept in – in an attempt to catch up on some much needed rest – and then decided to make my way into town, alone, to really begin to experience Marburg for myself. I naturally found myself heading straight for the castle.

It’s very strange: though we came to this exact spot last time, I now notice so much that I overlooked earlier.

There were too many people on the front side of the castle, so I made my way around to this back, much quieter, side. I found a perfect place to sit and write atop the castle’s wall, which overlooks a steep cliff down the mountainside. Then, stretched out before me is Marburg – as I have never really seen it before. And as I look down at the towering spires of the Elizabethkirche, I realize something. One would think that while perched on the wall of a solid fortress, glaring down at the city below, you would feel…powerful.

But as I sit here and watch the shadow of the castle behind me inch slowly over the city like a protective shield, I cannot help but to be overcome by how tranquil it is. It is shockingly quiet. The city noise is left far below. Only the distant hum of cars and the rustling of leaves as they give way to the ever-colder wind break the silence.

Perhaps this is why the royalty built the castle here; not to feel domineering, but to escape the hustle; to be able to sit here and think…or perhaps to sit here and not think.

The “one month mark” of my trip is almost here and it has yet to even begin to sink in that I will be here for an entire year. But, past the stress and the worry (and yes, the complaining) I am so very glad that I decided to embark on this adventure. And though I may feel lonely at times, I am also glad that I came alone.

Sure, I have traveled throughout Europe before, always finding myself in somewhat uncertain situations. And I have spent a month living in a village in the middle of the rainforest, with everything that that entails.

But never have I ever been really on my own. On my other trips, I went with groups. Even when I started college, I came with my best friends. So, to be transported here, to this new culture (which may not be as different as Mayan culture, but significantly different none the less) by myself, is certainly the greatest adventure of my life so far.

And already this trip is causing much more self-analysis and self-reflection than I expected. So, not only am I learning about the rich German culture, but I’m hopefully learning more about myself as well.

Well, it seems that Night is only over the next mountain ridge, and it is coming as quickly as the temperature is dropping. So, I suppose that it is time for me to leave the refuge of the castle and head back down to the life of the city below.

Istanbul: the Gateway to the East

Following is a journal entry that I wrote on 3/28/09 after I took a week long trip to Istanbul, Turkey.  

“If the Earth were a single state, Istanbul would be its capital.”

– Napoleon Bonaparte – 

THE GATEWAY TO THE EAST

Imagine a land whose history stretches back to the dawn of human civilization; a land that is one of the oldest, continually inhabited regions in the world.  It’s a land once known as Anatolia and the site of one of the world’s first empires, settled by the Hittites roughly 1700 years before Christ.  Five hundred years later, it came under the influence of the Greeks and became home to one of the most famous ancient settlements in the world, Troy.  It is a land that has seen a rule under Alexander the Great, and by 500 BC, it had succumbed to the power of Rome, which ruled the region under different names for nearly 2,000 years.  By the 1300s AD, the Ottoman Empire rose as an Islamic successor to the Roman Empire, and in a couple hundred years was one of the world’s most powerful political entities, often locking horns with the Holy Roman Empire.  The Ottoman Empire was defeated in the First World War and a new parliamentary republic was forged.  This land is known today as Turkey.

Now imagine a city which has been at the center of this history for millennia.  It has had many names throughout history:  It was first known as Byzantium and acted as the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, while Rome remained the capital of the Western Empire.  By the Fourth Century AD, the city of Rome became less important in the Roman Empire, as the city of Byzantium became increasingly more powerful.  With the fall of Rome, the emperor Constantine moved the capital of the Roman Empire east to Byzantium, which was then renamed Constantinople in his honor.  Constantinople acted as the seat of the Roman Empire (or generally known today as the Byzantine Empire, to distinguish it from the Roman Empire based out of Rome) for a thousand years until it fell to the Ottoman Empire in 1453.  It is under Ottoman rule when this city took on its present day title.  It’s the 4^th largest city in the world, with an estimated 16 million inhabitants, roughly double the population of New York City.  It’s the only metropolis situated on two continents and thus earned it the nickname, “The Gateway to Europe and Asia.”  This city is Istanbul.

***

After spending an entire week in Istanbul and now faced with the task of writing about it, I find myself facing a daunting question:  Where to start?  The traditional style of simply recounting all I did would take far too long, and would undoubtedly get a little dry.  And so, after thinking about it, I thought I’d just do what I love to do: tell stories.  So, it might not be in perfect chronological order, but here it is, my trip to Istanbul:

Usually I like to do some research about the places that I’m visiting before I leave; not necessarily make a plan of action, but just acquaint myself with the history of the city and the different things to see while I’m there.  But, I ended up not “researching” so deeply into Istanbul.  Sure, I knew the general outline of its history, but mainly I knew that I’d have my friend Leyla, who was born in Istanbul and taught at VSU last year as a visiting Fulbright Scholar.  Plus, I thought it might be more of an adventure if I just showed up and then experienced what the city had to offer.  I already knew that the city was an intersection and mixing of cultures and with a name like Istanbul, which just sounded exotic to me, I just couldn’t wait to get there.

So on Saturday afternoon, I got off the plane and was heading through passport control when I hit my first snag.  I guess I had just gotten so used to traveling around in the European Union where I didn’t need to worry about Visas (or even my passport), that it didn’t quite fully hit me that I was traveling outside of the EU (there’s a large debate as to whether or not Turkey should be let into the EU, as to just how “European” it is).  So, I got to the passport controller and found out that I needed a visa to enter the country.  Luckily, they were selling visas for only $40, so I was able to buy one and then head on in to Turkey; crisis quickly averted.

And after taking a bus and a train to the airport in Frankfurt, and then (obviously) a plane to Istanbul, I met Leyla and then took a taxi to a boat, which led us to another taxi.  And while on the boat, as we skirted along the coast, I was able to get an idea of just how HUGE Istanbul is.  It may have double the population of New York City, but Istanbul is more spread out (NYC has a pop. density of 27,000 people per sq. mile / Istanbul has 16,000 people per sq. mile).  The city just stretched on and on!  When Leyla and I took the taxi from the docks to her apartment, I got my first taste of the speed of Istanbul.  We squealed away from the curb, and I started scrambling (though trying to look cool and calm) to hook up my seat belt.  I was torn between looking out of the window to see the city as we went barreling by, and keeping my eyes focused on the back of the driver’s seat so that I wouldn’t see how many cars we were cutting off.  The entire time, Leyla was talking, and I was trying to answer without having a “I’m on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” look on my face as the driver floored it to beat a red light.  Finally, Leyla told the driver to stop and I almost face planted into the back of his seat as he locked up the brakes.  I gladly got out of the car and back onto my own two feet.

Little did I know, that was only a small taste of what was to come.  I got my first full dose of Istanbul street life the next day as Leyla and I headed to the European side to see the sights.  It was a sunny day, but cool enough to need a light jacket; I was glad to finally see the sun again and even was able to wear my sunglasses.  We had barely made it to the curb when I heard honking that was obviously headed our way.  I looked up to see what looked like a slightly larger version of a sky blue Volkswagen Bus flashing his lights.  I, naturally, took a couple of steps back, but Leyla stepped forward.  “Yep, this one’ll do.”  The bus lurched to a halt in front of us, tire hitting the curb, and door sliding open.  Leyla got on and then before my foot had even fully left the ground, the bus was speeding along again.  I grabbed the handrail above, barely able to stop myself from falling flat on my face.

This was a Mini Bus, Leyla told me; the fastest and cheapest form of transportation in the city.  You just get on wherever you want, tell the driver where you’re going and he charges you accordingly.  We continued speeding down the road, the driver constantly honking his horn, letting people know he was coming in case they needed a ride.  I remember thinking, Well, if there are no stops, how does the driver know when to let people off? Silly me.  The answer is simple enough.  You just stand up, yell “Stop!” and the driver slams on brakes, sometimes ramping onto the sidewalk, or simply stopping in the middle of the road to let you out.

And this was not just how the hundreds (maybe thousands) of mini buses drove; this is how EVERYONE drove.  The painted lanes of the road were a joke; people simply made lanes wherever they needed.  Traffic lights were mere suggestions.  Usually, at least once a day on my one-hour long mini bus ride from Leyla’s apartment to the ferries, the driver would run a red light.  He might slow down to make sure no traffic was coming (which was rare) or he’d simply go on through and make those with a green light wait.  Once, there was a delivery truck stopped in the street to unload its delivery; therefore, the line at the red light was longer since there was only one “lane” open.  I guess my mini bus driver got tired of waiting, so he just ramped the concrete divider, into the lanes of oncoming traffic.  This was on my fourth of fifth day there, so I wasn’t scared anymore (I knew these people had been driving like that their entire lives and knew what they were doing); I was just laughing to myself the entire time. We drove on, forcing everyone to get over, until we got past the red light and then we ramped the divider back into our own lane.

And just as each ride was an adventure, the people and overall atmosphere of Istanbul were incredibly lively.  People spoke with elaborate hand gestures and, in restaurants people laughed or talked loudly over a delicious dinner.  Street vendors were everywhere and selling everything from roasted chestnuts to perfume.  People walked down the street enthralled in animated conversations.  And when I saw a couple of old men walking down the street arm-in-arm (which wasn’t uncommon, even for younger guys), I told Leyla that it looked like they were best friends discussing the matters of Life.  In reality, who knows what they were talking about.

Most every restaurant had a man standing outside the door, trying to “win” customers.  In the more touristy spots, the men would let loose a string of greetings in multiple languages.  These are some that I heard:  Hello, Sir, perhaps you would like to eat here / Hello, hello, hello, good food / Yes! Yes! Yes! / Please Sir, Pease Sir, come in, come in / You want to eat here.  Very good restaurant.  Best in world / And once I heard a “Thank you, sir” without even doing anything.  On some side streets, with less traffic, the men would stand inside until they saw you coming and then three or four would step outside and start advertising, “Not there sir, eat here.  Better food.”

Watching these people trying to “win” customers was almost as funny as watching the street vendors trying to sell umbrellas on Thursday when it rained.  “Umbrellas Umbrellas Umbrellas!” they would yell, with barely a pause between words.  I saw one guy actually sprint towards a group of guys, yelling “Umbrellas!” when he saw that they didn’t have one.  Pretty Damn Funny.  But, that’s one reason I love the city.

Even the animals contribute to the energy of the city.  Of course there were more than a kajillion pigeons and seagulls, but there were also a lot of stray cats and dogs throughout the city.  Contrary to looking ragged and making the city feel dirty, the strays were all well fed and seemed perfectly content with wandering the streets or sunbathing on the grass.

two stray cats on headstones

So, the vibrant feel of the city was amazing, but Leyla’s hospitality was out of this world.  She treated me like royalty!  On my first night, we got to her apartment and she showed me to my room.  We only stayed long enough to set my stuff down because she said that she wanted to take me out to eat for some traditional Turkish food.  We took another mini bus and I got to see Istanbul all lit up at night.  We arrived at the restaurant, and let’s just say, it was nicer than I was used to.  The waiters were all in tuxes and bowties and the head waiter (Matron-de?) showed us to our table and then asked what I would like to drink.  Of course, Leyla had to answer for me.  Leyla told him that I was from America and didn’t speak Turkish, but was just visiting and wanted to have some good Turkish food.  The guy started going on about something (and I wasn’t sure it was a good thing or not), but when he left, Leyla told me, “Wow, he’s impressed that you’re here and not in some touristy spot on the European side.  He said that he’s going to wait on us personally and make sure you get some real Turkish hospitality.”

Before we even ordered, several waiters started bringing plate after plate of food, filling up our table with different dishes of mouth-watering food.  Turkey’s is a Mediterranean culture, and as such, their food is comprised mainly of lamb & veal, tomatoes & cucumbers, olives & olive oil, breads (such as pita bread), cheeses (such as feta), yogurt & yogurt sauces, and other vegetables.  We couldn’t even finish one plate before it was taken away and a new one set before us.  These were all the recommendations of the head waiter.  When it came time for desert, we were served something that I had actually had before: Baklava, a flaky pastry with chopped nuts (usually pistachios) and dipped in honey.  When we asked for the bill, after a couple of hours of food and conversation, we were surprised to see that the guy had almost given us everything.  Leyla insisted that the meal was her treat.

As it turned out, everything was her treat that weekend: the extensive Turkish breakfast on Sunday, every mini bus or ferry ride, lunch, a mid-day coffee and desert, and the supper Sunday night.  Every morning I was there, I had fresh towels.  Monday, I woke up to discover that she had prepared a large breakfast for me with toast, cereal, cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, coffee, juice and milk…all before going to work at her university!  I was even more surprised to see that this breakfast was laid out for me every morning!  And not to mention that on Sunday she was able to lead me down Istanbul’s side streets and show me where artists like to paint, or punkers congregate, or where intellectuals gather to voice their opinions amongst one another.  She was able to tell me the history behind all of the places we walked through, which allowed me to appreciate them all the more.  I told her that she was spoiling me.  Her answer: “Well, you deserve to be spoiled; you’re my guest!”  When she gave me a spare key to her apartment and told me to come and go as I please, it made me feel right at home.

I had always wanted to be in a country where I could speak and no one would be able to understand me.  The idea of it would tantalize me any time I would hear people speaking Spanish back home, or when I would hear other international students here speaking their own language.  Unfortunately for me and any English speaker, it’s kind of hard to find a place where you can speak without being understood.  But, when I arrived in Istanbul, I got my wish, though it didn’t really hit me until Monday, when Leyla had to go to work and I was on my own.  I, naturally, couldn’t speak Turkish, but I just figured that it would be like any other place that I’ve been, meaning that everyone (or at least the people in shops and stores) would speak at least a little English.  But the truth is, outside of the tourist area, no one spoke English; at all.

Luckily, Leyla wrote down the names of the places I wanted to go to, so I was able to just show the paper to the mini bus driver and he’d know how much to charge.  The rest of the time at the markets or around the city, I was able to get by with pointing or other body language.  It’s a strange feeling not being able to communicate with another person with words.  On Monday night, after my first day on my own, Leyla met me at the ferries (an area called Kadiköy) in order to show me how to find a mini bus that was going in the right direction.  She was surprised when I told her that I had gotten there about an hour earlier, so I went to a café and had some tea and desert.  How’d you manage that? she asked.  Well, I explained that I picked up that the word for tea, ça “chai,” and I knew the name of the desert I wanted: Baklava; so that was all I needed to know.  And like I said, body language can take care of the rest (though it’s funny how people – myself included – will still talk away, knowing perfectly well that the other person can’t understand a word you’re saying).  Not being able to speak their language made Istanbul seem more foreign, and real – not just a Disney attraction set up for tourists; it seemed more adventurous, but that’s not saying that everything was always fine and dandy.

I did hit a snag a couple of times as far as the language barrier goes.  There was one time in particular when I just wanted to shake somebody and yell, “Why can’t you understand me?!” and of course, I’m sure he wanted to do the same to me.  It was after dark and I had just gotten off the ferry from the European side.  It was Wednesday, so my third day of getting around by myself, so I was pretty proud of making it that far.  I made it to the spot where I had gone the past two nights, only to see that the mini buses there didn’t have the “Pendik” sign in their window like they normally did.  I took out my mini-notebook and found a guy who seemed to be directing the mini buses.  I pointed to “Pendik?” and he looked down the line of mini buses, even got in one and asked the driver, and then got back out, held up his hand in the international “wait” sign and then pointed towards the end of the line, something that I took as meaning “Hold on just a little bit; the ones to Pendik are at the end of the line and will be here in a second.”

So, I waited.  And waited.  All the while the same guy knew I was standing there and waiting on a bus in the direction of Pendik.  By that time, I had been waiting for thirty minutes and wasn’t very happy, but I didn’t want to call in help (aka Leyla) just yet.  But after a few more minutes with no “Pendik” signs in sight, I admitted defeat and texted Leyla, asking her to text back “Where are the buses to Pendik?” in Turkish so that I could show it to the guy.  Instead, she just called back, and told me that I could have taken any one of those that I had been letting drive off for the past half-hour.  Oh.  Well at least I knew that I wouldn’t end up in some random corner of Asian Istanbul.  So, I got on, showed the driver the address where I needed to go, paid, and took my seat.  A few minutes later, I heard the guy rambling on, only to realize that he was looking at me (and so was everyone else on the bus, wondering why I wasn’t answering).  The guy was pointing to the door, saying that I needed to get out.  I thought I might have been on the wrong bus, and so got off, but as soon as I did, I realized that he hadn’t given me my money back.  But it was too late; he shut the door right behind me and left.

That set me off and I was fuming.  I got Leyla to call me back, because by that time I had been there for an hour.  I told Leyla to talk to somebody and explain to them where I need to go.  I found the first guy and shoved my cell phone at him.  Understandably, he looked kind of freaked out and took a few steps back.  “No, you have to talk on this phone,” I was saying, knowing that he had no idea what I was saying.  So, I pointed to him and then back to the phone.  He shook his head and was probably thinking “What a freak!”  But I just nodded, insisting, and essentially shoving the phone to his ear.  Now that I think about it, it makes me laugh.  But I just knew that if he heard someone on the other end speaking Turkish, he’d understand.  And he did.  Leyla explained everything to him, and he put me on the right bus, telling the driver where I needed to go.  I spent the hour-ride home in a pretty sour mood, but by the time I got to the apartment and was telling Leyla about it, we were both laughing pretty hard at how it must have looked for that poor guy.

But apart from that incident, I found that the Turkish people were very helpful as a whole.  On the plane to Istanbul, for example, I was sitting next to two Turks, one of whom was a plump, motherly looking woman.  When the stewardess asked me (what I only imagined was) what I wanted to drink, I just answered, in English, “red wine.”  Most people in her position have to know English, so I don’t know if she understood “I’m fine” or what, but she just walked off.  The Turkish woman looked over to me, and then back to the aisle with a “Aw, hell naw!” look on her face.  She snapped her fingers and got another stewardess’s attention and then turned and asked me in German what I wanted to drink.  I told her and she relayed the message back to the stewardess.  That woman looked out for me for the rest of the trip.

Another display of the transnational willingness of people to help foreigners actually involved a mini bus.  It was the day that I was heading over to visit the largest of the four islands off Istanbul’s coast that make up the Princes’ Islands.  Normally, when heading to the European side, I just rode the mini bus to the end stop, Kadiköy.  But on this day, I needed to get off before then and take a short walk to another set of docks to head to the Islands.  So, Leyla wrote, in Turkish, in my little notebook: “Hi, I don’t speak Turkish, so could you let me know when we get to this street?”  I showed it to the mini bus driver and, as he was still driving, he started pointing up to the ceiling of the mini bus and then to the steering wheel.  I guess the look of confusion was pretty obvious on my face, so he just patted my knee and then gave me the “wait” sign with his hand.  After driving along for a little while, we stopped in the middle of the road, which was nothing out of the ordinary, but then I realized that there was another mini bus stopped beside us and the two drivers were talking to each other.  My driver then looked at me and then pointed to the other bus; I then realized that my driver wasn’t going in the direction that I needed, so he had waved down another mini bus and told them where I needed to go.  So, that renewed my faith that not all mini bus drivers just wanted to take my money, squeal off, and leave me stranded.

I loved having Leyla show me around on Sunday but, as you can guess, I also loved exploring the city on my own during the day.  It was so different than any of the other cities that I’ve visited.  I’ve almost exclusively seen Western cities (with the exception of the month in the rainforests of Belize), but now I was finally getting to see some Eastern culture.  I think the one thing that was perhaps the most different was seeing all of the mosques, and there was no shortage of them.  I read that while there is still a sizeable Christian and Jewish population in the city, there are just under 3,000 mosques in Istanbul!  And mosques can usually be spotted by their tall spires, or minarets.  In the old days, the minarets acted as watchtowers.  Depending on how large or important the mosque is, it has more minarets.   Minarets have been described as the “gate from heaven and earth.”

Minarets: the Gates from Heaven and Earth

These spires were (and still are) where the call for prayer is announced.  Of course, back then a man stood at the top and actually called for prayer; today the Call is usually played over speakers.  One of the pillars of Islam is that Muslims should pray (at least) five times a day, and the mosques announce the Call for prayer at dawn, mid morning, mid-day, afternoon, and at dusk.  More traditional Muslims will walk to a mosque to pray during these times, but of course you may pray on your own in your home.  And of course, if you are doing something such as driving, you are not expected to stop the car and pray.  Many moderate Muslims today believe that simply saying a prayer to yourself throughout the day is sufficient.

Walking down the street and suddenly hearing the poetic Arabic calling the faithful to prayer was something that took me by surprise at first, but it was something that I got to where I looked forward to it.  I don’t know if it was just the fact that it was just so radically different from anything I’ve experienced, or if it was just the way the long and soulful Arabic sounded while echoing off the buildings around me.  Either way, I always found myself smiling when I would hear those first eloquent notes coming from the loudspeakers.

I’ve already written about how loud and lively the city of Istanbul is.  So you can imagine that I was pretty unsuccessful when I was trying to find a quiet place to jot a few things down in my journal.  But I was able to find one coffee house with enough chairs and tables, and where the people working there left you alone.  Okay, so I’ll admit it: it wasn’t a “coffee house;” it was a Starbucks.  Dr. Johnson would be ashamed, but like I said, I was able to have my own table, enjoy some coffee, and just sit uninterrupted for a while and write.   I found it pretty amusing that almost every voice I heard in there was either American or German, because don’t let those Germans fool you; they love Starbucks just as much as we do.

But while I was out exploring the city, there was one spot that I always seemed to end up.   Its official name is the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, but it’s more commonly known as the Blue Mosque, a gigantic and towering structure built in 1609 by the Ottoman Empire.   The Sultan Ahmed ordered the edifice to be built to placate God, and as such, wanted it to be one of the largest, grandest mosques in the world.  His orders were that the mosque was to have six minarets, but the problem was that the mosque in Mecca, the holiest city in Islam, had the same number of minarets.  The Sultan then paid for a seventh minaret to be erected in Mecca so that his own could still have six.  The Blue Mosque gets its name not from the color of its exterior, but from the intricate and beautiful blue tile-work within.  I was able to go inside twice (everyone must remove their shoes, and all women must use a scarf to cover their hair) and both times was blown away by the beauty of the structure.  The first time I was there, the imam was also there, poetically reading from the Koran (the entire Koran is literally written in poetry).  It was a surreal feeling, even if there were a mob of other tourists there, all trying to take a million pictures.

I think the reason that the Blue Mosque had such a hold over me is because it symbolized the Difference of Istanbul, versus any of the other places I’ve been.  I’ve stood in the shadow of Notre Dame in Paris, been awestruck by the size of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and gazed at the Berliner Dom in Berlin.  But all of these things have one thing in common: they’re emblems of the West; of Christianity.  Before my arrival in Istanbul, I had never even seen a mosque, and had only seen a woman in a burqa once.  And then, there I was, trying to take in the last great mosque of the classical period, and seeing several women a day covered from head to toe by a burqa.  It was almost too much for me to fathom.

With just as interesting a story was the Blue Mosque’s “neighbor.”  About four hundred yards away, directly across a colorful garden, sat the much older Haghia (“St.”) Sophia church.  The church of Haghia Sophia was founded only a couple of hundred years after the death of Christ, though the first two original buildings were each destroyed by fire.  The building that stands today, and which is simply known as the Haghia Sophia, was built in 532 AD, by the order of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian.  It became the seat of Orthodox Christianity and was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly a thousand years.  In 1453, the Ottomans conquered Constantinople (renaming it Istanbul), and Sultan Mehmed II ordered that the church be converted into a mosque.  The most visible signs of this conversion are the four minarets that were added and still stand today.  Ironically, the Haghia Sophia, one of the oldest Christian churches, and which was considered the jewel of Byzantine architecture, became a model for Ottoman mosques, such as the Blue Mosque.

the Haghia Sophia

The story of the Haghia Sophia, to me, represents the journey of Turkey.  It began under Byzantine (Roman) rule as the site of one of the earliest Christian churches in the world; it then became a mosque under the Islamic rule of the Ottoman Empire, and now acts as a neutral museum under the secular government of modern-day Turkey.  But to me, the proximity of the Haghia Sophia and the Blue Mosque to one another represents more.  Each one is an embodiment of one of the world’s most influential religions.  They sit, facing each other, sharing land and history, divided only by a beautiful and peaceful garden.  The Haghia Sophia and Blue Mosque symbolize the intersection of cultures, the crossroad of East and West, and suggest that these two religions and cultures may reside together peacefully.

On Thursday, I took a break at a coffee house (okay, it was the Starbucks again!), regrouped, and then decided to follow some signs and finally find out what the “Grand Bazaar” was.  I had seen signs for it all week, but my map didn’t really give any details.  I walked down some crowded and noisy streets and then found myself walking through a large, stone doorway.  Once inside, I just stopped (probably pissing off the people behind me) and chuckled; what I had just stepped into was simply too surprising for any other reaction.  I had arrived at the Grand Bazaar, an AMAZING market and, in fact, one of the largest covered markets in the world, with more than 58 streets and over 1200 shops.  It was constructed in 1455 by the Ottomans, and to this day, you can still buy almost anything: gold, silk, porcelain, leather, pottery, spices, and of course, all things touristy.  I played tourist for a little while, haggling with the owners and buying a thing or two (including an awesome, hand-made journal for next semester).

Saying “playing tourist” reminds me of something that I’ve often thought about during my time here: the difference between “traveler” and “tourist.”  I usually hesitate to call myself a tourist, but I realize the difference between tourist and traveler is sometimes blurred (or non-existent).  Often what I associate with tourist is people, usually traveling in a group, who walk around with a guidebook, only glancing up to snap a picture for their “traveling repertoire,” and then looking back in the book to rush off to the next destination.  To me, a tourist stays in the Hilton or the Best Western, and you will never find them on the side streets, away from where the signs aren’t written in English.

And so, I like to think of myself as a traveler, a person who’s not afraid to, and in fact prefers to, wander off the beaten path and see how the locals live.  Of course, around Germany it’s quite easy for me to be a traveler; I live here and speak the language.

But when I go to other places, I try not to be a tourist.  But sometimes, like this past week in Istanbul, I can’t get around it; that’s just what I was: a tourist.  I was only visiting for a week, I didn’t speak the language, and while I may not have had a guidebook, I had a Leyla.  And while I don’t mind admitting to being a tourist in such situations, that doesn’t mean that I’m going to dig out my fanny-pack and visor.  Oh, no!  I may be a tourist in some degree, but I can’t quiet the traveler in me who wants to meander, without destination, down side streets and try the local food.

So in keeping with my desire to see the “real” Istanbul, I had Leyla recommend a few places for me to visit.  One spot was an area on the Asian side near the water called Moda.  On that day, I slept in a little and then spent the day walking around the area, full of bookstores and antique shops.  Later that evening, I stopped in a döner shop (luckily the menu had pictures, so I could just point), ate and then headed back home.

Leyla also suggested that I spend one day going to see a group of islands off the coast of Istanbul’s Asian side, known as the Princes’ Islands.  I decided to spend the day on the largest of the four islands, Büyükada.  The ferry ride provided for a good view of Istanbul as we sailed further away, and as soon as I got to the island, I got as far away from the piers as possible; I didn’t want to be bothered by any street vendors or people trying to convince/force me to eat in their water-side restaurant.  As I left the hustle of the docks, I discovered a pleasant surprise.  It was apparent that the island was/is a refuge for the rich (and from the sound of the name of the islands – the “Princes’ Islands” they have been a rich haven since the imperial times).  All of the houses there were mansions, though very few (if any) were new; it looked like they were all over a hundred years old, with some looking a couple hundred years old.  Some were immaculate; others were abandoned long ago, left to rot.  But they all had one thing in common: they were big!

No cars are allowed on the island, so it was peacefully quiet.  The weather was great: warm enough for me to roll up my sleeves and enjoy the sun.  I walked up and down the mansion-lined streets for about an hour and half and then took a horse-carriage ride around the perimeter of the island.  Once you left the residential area and headed to the backside of the island, the houses disappeared and there were pine tree forests.  Horses, which I’m guessing were enjoying a break from hauling the carriages around, simply roamed free.  The whole thing was, as my driver kept reminding me in the only English he knew, “Very Nice.”  I ended up getting ripped off by the driver, which put me into a not-so-great mood, but I knew that giving those rides was how he made his living, so I didn’t let it bother me too long.

After leaving the island, I met Leyla and Itir, her best friend (who was also a Fulbright Scholar in the U.S. last year – at Cornell), at the docks.  We went walking down the main street of the Asian side, Baghdad St., and then I was surprised where we stopped to eat: Pizza Hut!  Itir said that if I wanted to experience the “real Istanbul,” that meant eating at a Turkish-ized American fast food place.  It was a little nicer and offered a few more things (like lots of pasta) than American Pizza Huts do, but otherwise it was nice to have a little, greasy taste of America.  Afterwards we went walking again and then stopped in a café for some coffee.

We all got a cup of Turkish coffee, which – like Arabic coffee – is served in a very small cup since it is so strong and concentrated.  After we were done, Leyla told me that Itir could read my fortune from my coffee grounds.  Intrigued, I agreed and I turned my little cup upside down on the plate and we waited for it to cool. Even though I don’t usually believe in that stuff, it was a lot of fun (even though she did say some things that were eerily accurate.  For example: she said that I would be visiting an island soon.  I dismissed that as wrong; sure, I had just come from an island but I wasn’t going back.  But after about ten minutes it hit me that next week I’m going to Great Britain, an island.  She told me that she saw my mother as a bird, with her wings swooped over, protecting her children, and that she sensed I had a strong Scorpio presence in my life; my dad is a Scorpio.  At the end, she said, “This is weird, but I’m seeing teeth.  Does that make sense?  Something to do with teeth in your life?”  My wisdom teeth have been giving me hell for the past three years.  So, some of it was broad and general; some that she told me was just wrong; but a couple of things, like the Island and the Teeth made me think twice…)

For my last day in Istanbul, Leyla suggested a place that she thought was the most beautiful spot in Istanbul.  It was a region, further up the Bosphorus Strait on the European side called Bebek (Turkish for “baby” though I’m not sure why it’s called that).  Judging by the map, it was going to take me years to walk there, so I took a taxi, but ended up not liking the view as it went whizzing by.  When we got there, I think the taxi driver was trying to talk me into letting him drive me around a while, but I just told him to let me out by the water.  And wow, what a sight!  Leyla was right; it was gorgeous.  The sky was blue, the grass was green, and the water was beautiful.  When the French first came to Turkey, they were so impressed by the color of the water in its shores, they named an entirely new color for it: “turquoise,” which is still the French word for “Turkish.”

Turquoise: the French word for “Turkish”

I decided that it was a nice day for a walk, and so started walking back along the water.  Right at the edge of the Bebek region is a reminder of Istanbul’s diverse past: large walls and fortifications built by the Romans.  They were impressive, but it was actually nothing to see Roman remains alongside Ottoman structures.  Not far from the Blue Mosque is a large section of Roman aqueducts, constructed to supply water to cities and industrial sites all throughout their empire. These aqueducts were among the greatest engineering feats of the ancient world, and set a standard not equaled for over a thousand years after the fall of Rome.

Roman Aqueducts in Istanbul

After a while of walking in the sun, I lost track of time, and ended up walking all the way back to “downtown,” a distance that I later found out was over 6 miles.  But hey, it was nice and I enjoyed it.  On the way, I came across a row of food stands and some locals eating something that I had never seen before.  Well, of course I got excited and went up and ordered one.  As it turns out, it’s called a Kümpir, and is a local favorite.  Imagine this: Cheese, yogurt sauce, red cabbage, green & black olives, English peas, carrots, corn, pickles, sausage, lintels, topped with mayo & ketchup….all inside a baked potato! Yes, that is the monstrosity of a potato known as a Kümpir.  It may sound disgusting, but the food addict in me jumped for joy.  The locals were eating it, and you know the old saying, “When in the capital of the former East Roman Empire, later known as Constantinople, and now known as Istanbul!”

The monstrosity of a potato known as a Kümpir

Afterwards, when I realized that it was getting a little late, I told Leyla that I’d be a little bit later getting home because I wanted to stay and see the Blue Mosque at night.  But night wasn’t for another couple of hours, so I made my way back to that “coffee house” (yep, you guessed it: Starbucks AGAIN) to wait, read, and think.

As I sat there, drinking my coffee and listening to all of the American and German around me, I realized that there were two things in particular that shocked me about Turkey. One was political:  Though Turkey is a parliamentary republic, Leyla explained to me that her country didn’t have the same freedoms that America does.  For example, instead of freedom “of” religion, Turkey has what I might call a freedom “from” religion; Leyla called it a forced secularism from the government.  Atatürk founded Turkey on very secular principles and this “separation of church and state” has apparently been pushed into public life as well.  According to Leyla, you are free to worship in any way you please, but it is required to be a very personal thing.  If anyone tries to witness to you, or influence you in any way, you may report them and have them arrested.  With that being said, religion is obviously not dead in Turkey; there is still a large Jewish and Christian presence, though the majority of the population is Muslim.  Many, I would say most, women I saw wore a headscarf, and I saw several women each day wearing the full burqa.  Leyla was very outspoken against such practices, but I pointed out that Turkey was not like Afghanistan under the Taliban where women were forced to wear the burqa.  In Turkey, if they were being forced, they could have their husband arrested, so they were obviously wearing them by choice (though I’m sure how “freely” they chose could be argued).

Leyla also told me that there was no freedom of speech in Turkey, and that under the new government (elected in 2006 maybe?), many professors and authors have been arrested for speaking out against the government.  I guess that’s maybe connected to the fact that Turks are a very nationalistic/patriotic people.  There were Turkish flags everywhere – even more than you see American flags in the U.S.  Every schoolyard had a statue or bust of Mustafa Atatürk, their founder, along with a gigantic Turkish flag.  It was also election time and there were party flags tied up everywhere imaginable.  Thousands hung over the streets or along the sidewalks.  Vans and buses, with large pictures of their party leaders, drove down the streets playing music, or political messages.  Of course, my mind wondered if that was how it looked/felt in early 1930s Germany when the National Socialist German Workers (Nazi) Party was running for election.

Okay, I got a little side tracked; my point was that I realized that Democracy ≠ Free.  People in Turkey elected their leaders, but that didn’t by default assure a freedom of speech.

The second thing that really shocked me: I realized that every time you got on a ferry, you had to go through security.  And I also noticed thousands of surveillance cameras around the city.  The police held a noticeable presence and you’d sometimes see them with large guns.  I asked Leyla about it, and I’m sure my parents will love her answer.  She told me that Istanbul had had three suicide bomb attacks in the past few years, and so security had been beefed up after that.  I have to say, I didn’t expect that answer.

So, I sat in the “coffee house” for a while, but when the sky got that perfect color – when the sun dips far enough below the horizon and the sky turns a remarkable and unique blue that makes it seem as if the sky itself is glowing with a light coming from everywhere and nowhere at once – I left and made the short walk to the garden between the Haghia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.

I got there and just stood and stared.  The sight was too magnificent for words.  The towers and domes stood in contrast to the glowing blue sky of dusk; Dusk – a time when the sky looks more like a photographer’s backdrop than the actual sky itself.

I raised my camera and took a few pictures, but quickly realized that I didn’t want to spend any more time looking at such a sight through a lens.  So, I put my camera away and just sat and stared at the edifice.  It was unbelievable; I just couldn’t believe, and still can’t grasp, that I’ve been able to see such things in my short life.

Haghia Sophia at Dusk

After the sky had faded from blue to the dark of night, I headed down the streets, back to the ferry.  I left with a familiar feeling – a feeling that I get when I see something like the Blue Mosque, or the Reichstag, or the Coliseum.  After the initial feeling of being overwhelmed or blown away fades, a feeling of contentment settles over me.

It’s a feeling I can’t quite explain.  When you first see such an impressive structure, your eyes dart around greedily, trying to take it all in; you can’t believe it’s so massive, or so intricately detailed.  But then comes a point when your heart settles a bit and you see the thing in its entirety.  You realize that it was built by people – just human beings.  Someone had a vision, and people gathered to put it all together.  It’s all just a mixture of stone and paint.  But once the last brick is laid, or the last tile is in place, the structure becomes its own entity.  Yes, it is the end result, the compilation of the work of many people – but once it’s completed, it then stands on its own.  It’s more than just height and size; it’s a capsule – a statement that captures the essence of a culture.  It is that culture’s bid at immortality, knowing that in a generation, centuries, or even in a millennium, people will stand in front of the Building and be reminded of the People who built it.

It’s at that point that you finally feel at ease enough that you can pull your eyes away.  And so, I took a deep breath and turned away from the Blue Mosque, saying goodbye, and walking down the streets with a small smile playing at the corner of my lips.

The Blue Mosque at night

The next morning – Saturday – Leyla fixed me one last Turkish breakfast, and then we went to the airport.  Finally, at around 8pm Saturday, after taking a taxi, boat, bus, plane, and a train, I made it back to Marburg.  Though I wasn’t happy to leave Istanbul, I was glad to be back in Marburg.  This city just feels right; it felt like coming home.

And so, that was my trip to Istanbul.  It was unlike any other place that I’ve ever been.  It’s the furthest East I’ve ever traveled, and was in fact my first time on the Asian continent.  I saw my first mosques and enjoyed hearing their Call.  I got to wake up in Asia and then spend the day in Europe.  The people were loud and energetic, the food was amazing, and the history was simply humbling.  I’m not sure I could ever live in Istanbul, because I don’t think I could keep up with its pace; but it sure is an awesome place to visit, and I will definitely go back again.  I’m just glad that I have a friend like Leyla there who has told me that her door is constantly open.

I saved one last story, which I think epitomizes the Difference of Istanbul for me:  It happened on the first night that I arrived.  Tired from my trip, but happy from the great welcome Leyla had given me, I quickly fell into a deep sleep that Saturday night.  Despite how well I was sleeping, something woke me up Sunday morning, around 6am, while it was still dark out.   I leaned up, slightly startled, and still too groggy to figure out what was going on.  I was hearing a very loud voice, a man’s voice that, after a while, I realized was speaking  – or singing perhaps – Arabic.  I was trying to wake myself up so that I could figure out where this bodiless voice was coming from, but as suddenly as it began, it ended.

A few hours later, after waking up, I laid there for about fifteen minutes, wondering if the voice I heard was real, or if it was just a vivid dream.  I honestly could not decide and it began to really bother me.  On top of that, I wasn’t sure if I should ask Leyla about it.  I could only imagine what her reaction would be when I told her about hearing a strange, foreign voice – one that I wasn’t sure was real or not.

But after breakfast, while we were walking down the street, I awkwardly broached the topic, not sure how to ask, “Did you hear a loud voice coming from nowhere last night?”  At first Leyla just looked at me incredulously, but then said, “Oh!” and laughed.  “That was the calling to prayer from the mosque near my house. I guess I’ve just gotten used to it.  Welcome to Istanbul!”

And so that was my first experience with the Difference of Istanbul.  As you can imagine, for someone like me growing up in the Southern Baptist buckle of the Bible Belt, suddenly hearing the Muslim call for prayer at six in the morning was quite a shock.  But like I said, I got to where I looked forward to hearing the Call throughout the day and it was something that I deeply enjoyed about Istanbul.  After that first night, it never woke me up again.

As different as Istanbul was, there were many things that I realized were not different at all from back Home.  People went to the grocery store and to work, taking care of their family.  They went to church or mosque, hoping to find peace, or giving thanks for what they had.  And I’ve been to enough places in the World to know that some things, like the willingness to help a stranger in need, go beyond national borders.  And hospitality, I’ve found, isn’t just confined to the South (though, I must say that we do specialize in it!), because if the rich mixture of culture and history of Istanbul was the proverbial Cake, then Leyla’s true Turkish hospitality was the Icing.

2.63 Times around the Globe

MyFlightMemory.com is an awesome site for anyone who likes to travel.  You can go in and enter the information from your past flights and it calculates tons of information.  For example, I have flown:

65,514 miles (that’s the same as 2.63 times around the earth) , 142 hours and 7 minutes, a total of 50 flights.  I’ve traveled the same distance as 0.274 the distance to the moon, and my top three airports are Atlanta, Frankfurt, and Buffalo.

To check out my My Flight Memory online account, click here.  But here are all the graphs from my travels:

And to get your own account and start building your own flight data base, click here. Have fun!