Clicking again

writing.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 14:39:00 +0000

What I'd like my writing process to be:
Wake up.
Drink water.
Drink coffee.
Write 3 brilliant pages that came to me in a dream.
Eat breakfast while gazing out the window.
Edit those 3 pages of brilliance, then, so inspired, write 5 pages more.
Go about my day smugly satisfied with aforementioned brilliance.

What my writing process apparently is:
Wake up.
Check to see if the grant I applied to months ago has sent out a response yet.
Think about what to do in my near future when I see that it hasn't.
Think about what to do today, and what order to do it in, and how it will all get done.
Drink watercoffeebreakfast.
Sit down with computer, write a paragraph.
Check to see if the grant I applied to months ago has sent out a response yet.
Edit paragraph, feel despair.
Check facebook to see if anyone else is feeling despair.
Do some reading for class, make fun of the writer for the HORRIBLE arguments I see.
Look at edited paragraph.
Write a paragraph in a notebook, because everything will be better if I just write with pen and paper.
Type paragraph from notebook verbatim into Word. Edit in Word.
Move to library, everything will be better at the library...(shuffle and repeat, and also add: make peanut butter and jelly sandwich, look for coffee, drink coffee)

We are such small nations

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 05:18:00 +0000

Urfa to Mardin

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 08:33:00 +0000

My guesthouse in Urfa was a newly opened konak evi, and I awoke on my last morning to a quiet mansion. The caretaker/night guard Musfta slowly made me breakfast after I sat down at the long table in the courtyard. First bringing bread, then a plate, then tea. Only then, the rounding-outs of the guest-house Turkish breakfast. The owner of the guesthouse runs "the" LP-approved local travel agency, and I'm glad he's not around for morning chit-chat. Then again, I'm just glad to be alone.

I gathered my things and asked directions to the otogar, with the intention of finding it myself. Yet as I asked the question, I could see immediately that I was about to find myself in one of the sweetest bits of hospitality I constantly find myself caught up in, which I will call the soft-boiled egg treatment, where I am carefully passed from one local to another in my travels like a very precious and delicate soft-boiled egg until I finally arrive wherever it is I first inquired after.

Mustafa locked the guesthouse, lead me through Urfa’s walled maze, through the courtyard of Ulu cami and to the bus stop, where I was carefully handed off to a driver. He was fully informed of my origin, destination, and soft-boiledness, setting off a chain of handoffs until I found myself at the otogar. Before I knew it, I had landed softly in a seat near the bus’s middle door, and the clean-cut attendant scowled at a man who tried to sit next to me, moving him to the back.

Eyeing my warm bottle of water, the attendant snatched it, tossed it, and replaced it with a cold cup of water, which was tehn replaced, without a word, and without a glance at the other (possibly also thirsty) passengers, with a paper cup of hot Nescafe.

After all passengers had settled down and we pulled away from the station, a shy young girl was patte3d off of her mother’s lap and slid onto the seat beside me. The concerned attendant offered me a seat at the front “with a better view,” but as you can’t hope for better in the bus seat neighbor lottery than a shy young girl, I stayed put.

Looking out over the window revealed only lazy sloping hills of dry grass, burnt yellow by the inescapable summer heat. Sloping up and down and up and down, offering no more aesthetic diversity than the occasional brindled cliff, and no more movement than the occasional flick of a gray horse’s tail, or the slight sway of a lone tree.

Between hills we would sometimes pass a small irrigated oasis, surrounded by a bundle of houses and a quiet roadside market, men relaxing in the shade of the awning with the ubiquitous glass of strong tea. Around the houses were fences made of stone, and families worked in the field.

The bus clock is wrong, so incorrect as to not make even the slightest statement as to the current hour. The shy girl is caught between sleep and wakedness, long eyelashs lifting on every rough bump to check our progress through the scratchy countryside. Her parents have purchased a touristic wooden-crafted model ship as an Urfa souvenir, and every time the bus stops her father carefully pulls the ship out of its overheard compartment, examines it, and slides it carefully back inside.

I just go on sitting in the cool AC, taking what comes to me in space and time, with the thin red numbers shining into the daylight that it is 22:35, and the yellow and the green, and the gray horses and the stone fences. I only just learned it was Sunday when I bought a newspaper for the bus ride.

But as we ride towards Mardin, many of the other passengers staring at the same yellow hills know exactly where we stand in space and time; outside our air-conditioned capsule the beginning of Ramadan is approaching . Now it is only a few days away, and for the first time in years during the long days of summer. But on my loose trip itinerary, it starts “in Hasankeyf.”

As we move east, the landscape seems a relief of the previous fields – wide patches of green with the occasional barren strip. The water rerouted from the nearby Euphrates is sprayed in neat squares and rectangles, with very few drops straying from the careful, but fuzzy, border as the green rows fly by and the high cliffs in the distance creepy by almost imperceptibly.

Домой (1/2)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 08:05:00 +0000

[Was looking through a notebook I carried around this summer and found this entry]

Sitting in one of the many Heathrow departure lounges, I am yet another in a long line of luckily travellers who pause a moment to realize that, if they really wanted to, they could go nearly anywhere. The high barriers of travel: visas, time, money and responsibility – are easily surmounted by us privileged 20-something Americans (emerging adults?).

"Doha, Helsinki, back to Istanbul" Heathrow’s shiny departure boards offer as I eat my 3 pound Boots meal deal and wait for my gate to open. But I’m not heading off to travel somewhere, now I really do have constraints on my near future, and I’m flying back to Michigan.

Looking at the long list, I realized it is not only for holiday I could go to these places. Having done the expat thing in a string of countries now, I know that as a young, educated American, the only real constraints on where I can hang my hat is a real desire to hang it any place in particular. Of course I couldn’t really make the best living at the destination of each of these flights. But I could do it, if I really wanted to, and this seems a bit crushing actually, like choosing between 23 kinds of toothpaste.

Some subtle reminders that I’m in – and going back to – a different kind of place:

Despite a general conscientiousness about littering in London, my attempt to locate a bin at my gate to throw away the packaging of my new toothpaste was met with suspicion by nearly every employee on duty.

Things found in library books

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 18:29:00 +0000

What better procrastination study break than to post about studying. Here are my top three favorite finds hidden in library books this quarter.

A snide margin-scribble...

an angry reader with strong language and a pencil...

And a gift from a kindred spirit (who, I am assuming based on the evidence, is also geeked out about both Istanbul and language shift in Austria...is there a missed connections for this sort of thing?):

Obama in Hyde Park

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 07:37:00 +0000

Midterms this week, so this will be a quick post, but at least it's heavy on the pictures!

Hyde Park is Obama country. Before his current gig, he taught law at the University of Chicago, and his home away from White House is still here in Hyde Park. Local businesses certainly take advantage, to varying degrees of creativity, of this obvious marketing strategy:

Midterms rally this weekend, and Obama was in town. Was my first time hearing him speak live.

Waiting in line

Waiting for Common (yes, he made a guest appearance)

Oğuz waiting for all of the Chicago dems to stop talking. Also funny because you can see the kid in the center wearing a "Where fun comes to die" sweatshirt.

Obama's on stage

Midway's packed

Most prevalent thought while taking this picture: we have a pretty cool president.

Istanbul to Urfa

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 06:58:00 +0000

Half the price of flying last minute but several times the trip length, I board the bus to Urfa at Istanbul’s main otogar in the early afternoon. I settle into my seat with 19 hours of road ahead of me, and I don’t really know where I’m going.

The woman next to me is large and seems to grow larger with each of my attempts to reclaim lost ground (key on an overnight ride of any sort), as I drift closer and closer to the window. Ignoring the rolling hills and the polite, general announcement to refrain from cellular communication, she complains loudly that she had to take the bus instead of flying to Gaziantep. “So she’s getting out before me,” I think with some consolation, which then begins to melt away as she hangs up and folds her hands on her lap, forming a sharp pointed elbow that seems to interpret my forearm as an armrest.

Before leaving Istanbul, I dismissed the good natured advice of some friends to avoid the long distance bus by telling them the not untruth that I enjoy long-hauls. “I don’t mind them, and if you get too tired of it you can always stop to eat at the tesisler…who can resist running into the tesis with everyone on the bus at 3am to eat sütlaç?”

“Yes,” a friend had replied, “ everyone who ends up on the has that romantic view of those places, but it is only because it is the only damn thing to do. Don’t forget the toilets.” Yet a few hours into the drive, I’m looking forward to our first stop with the excitement of a kid whose been promised a Happy Meal “when we get to Kentucky.”

Nearly everywhere interesting outside of Istanbul is at least an overnight bus ride away, so it seems everyone has an overnight bus story or two. [Yet since most of the bus rides go so smoothly, none of them are usually very good.] This shared Turkish travel experience varies slightly depending on your bus company and destination, but for the most part is wonderfully predictable and comfortably dull.

If you’re my height, there are no complaints in the seating department. In accordance with your ticket price and luck, you’ll be entertained in one of the following ways, in decreasing order of desirability: an interactive screen, a la transcontinental in-flight entertainment, strategically placed televisions with Turkish films, sit-coms or dubbed foreign films you’d never otherwise see (I’m thinking “The Lake” and Lohan’s “Love Bug”); Turkish music blaring from one speaker; Turkish music blaring from speakers above every seat, which you may or may not be able to turn off; a single Turkish CD playing again and again and again.

The bus will also have a flight attendant who keeps everything in order, passing out drinks (coffee and tea, water, Coke and some version of orange soda) and – again, depending on your luck – pre-packaged cakes.

Just when you’ve had more than your fair share of the complementary beverages, and usually in exactly the middle of nowhere, brakes huish huish huish into a parking lot, filled with a handful of other busses, all spilling out passengers to the cafeteria. For breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, or for whatever sort of meal you might feel compelled to eat at 2am, while still others pour over the nuts and sweets in kitschy barrels and islands of boxed Turkish Delight, buying bags of gifts for recipients most likely yet to be determined.

But on the bus to Urfa, I was one of the few passengers who even stepped inside these shiny monuments to modern Turkish consumption and construction. I sit in the AC with my lahmacun, looking through the glass store front at the families eating sandwiches and dolma from old yogurt tubs in the sticky air.

I usually indulge in sütlaç at these stops, but sweets aren't as fun alone.

9:30, and I’ve been on the bus for 9 hours. My two friendly attempts to small talk with my neighbor have failed, but I’ve hardly looked at the clock – particularly impressive as the reading lights don’t work.

Riding along on this route – and indeed many routes in Turkey – you realize how big it is, what a large, growing country it is. Riding a bus, with little else to do than look out the window, you’re bound to reflect on where you are, where you’re coming from, where you’re going. It feels like a timeless slice of life, an empty mind stationary yet rolling, and somehow more profound than being an empty mind anywhere else. As the countryside seems endless, I think about where I am. The tesisler, which we find in fields of nothing and so leave them, are new, unarguably clean with the sad reality of the utilitarian multi-purpose space.

On my last long ride, from Istanbul to Athens, I thought for hours about Greece’s long coast, miles and miles of coast, with every gas station boasting a clean, uninterrupted sea view. But I feel that the quintessential Turkish bus ride – not just this one, but the one I’m nurturing and contemplating on this long ride [and again typing my notes from the trip] – is not one winding along turquoise waters, but one lost in the middle of Anatolia.

Ну, давай же!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 06:09:00 +0000

Various fliers around campus advertising the university's Russian language and literature courses.

Gogol. Only if you like non-ironic facial hair.

Ever wonder what this is all about?

Spies like us study Russian.

I should have taken Gogol.

Well, go ahead! Take Russian.

I find the "spies like us" flier particularly perplexing. But all quite entertaining.

expatiations of an former expatriate

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 23:13:00 +0000

My itinerant lifestyle has slowed down a bit, with a lease and significant academic commitments in Hyde Park. But, oh, dear readers, do not despair! For I have saved for you some photos and journal entries from previous travels, and will be rolling them out over the next few weeks. So stay tuned for some memories of Turkey, Tanzania and Ukraine, with a post here and there about my days in Chicago.

Good morning, Chicago

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 21:59:00 +0000

I've been in Hyde Park for just over a week and start classes tomorrow.

Classes registered, books ordered, office supply fetish indulged.

It was nice to come a bit early and get to know some of the other students in my program. The Hyde Park Jazz Festival was yesterday, and a great excuse to hang out with my new friends.

Although I've been back in the States for almost a month now, I'm still holding strong to my jetlag-induced early rising. I finally got out with my camera on this morning's bike ride along Lakeshore Trail.

Mackinac Bridge Walk

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 14:10:00 +0000

I arrived back in Michigan just in time for Labor Day weekend. On that Sunday, my mom and I went to visit my grandmother in St. Ignace, my mom's hometown and the first city you reach in Michigan's Upper Peninsula after croossing the Mackinac Bridge. The plan was to take part in the Mackinac Bridge Walk the following day, but led astray by a false weather report, Sunday night we changed plans and decided to just drive back early in the morning. We went down to the bridge view for some photos that night and shivered, telling ourselves that walking across the bridge the next morning in "scattered t-storms" was a definitely a bad idea.

Grandma and the bridge

I was a bit disappointed, but didn't want to brave both the crowds and the "scattered t-storms." We got up early the next morning to drive back across - the walk takes up two out of four lanes and can cause quite a traffic hassle. After some coffee and oatmeal with cranberries, we were off.

We quickly realized that the weather was perfect for the bridge walk (well, northern-Michigan-September-perfect). And the crowds we had dreaded hadn't arrived either, perhaps also scared off by the possibility of rain. Unfortunately, it was a bit too late to change our minds. Our original plan had been to park the night before in Mackinac City (on the south side of the bridge) so we could drive off immediately after finishing the walk. If we did that in the morning, the parking and lines would have taken a few hours. But, luckily, we approached the south-bound toll booths with hardly any wait.

A good number of northbound vehicles were filled with tourists and locals, ready to walk that bridge!

Some walkers were wearing humorous hats, pins or costumes, but most were just families in windbreakers or raincoats taking part in the 55th year of this Michigan tradition.

The sunrise over Lake Huron made for some beautiful photos. Maybe next year...

Applying for a Fulbright?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 13:22:00 +0000

Note: This post, and indeed the entirety of this blog, is written solely by me and does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Fulbright committee, IIE or the State Department.

Perhaps you’re graduating from university soon and want to go abroad, but not to teach English. Maybe you’re planning to apply to graduate school and want to make your application more competitive. Or you’ve been out of school for a few years and want the chance to improve a foreign language and research a specific issue in the region.

These are the types of things the Fulbright program was designed for, and if you have a recent Bachelor’s or Master’s degree, are a US citizen with skills or interest in learning a specific foreign language and a research question that interests you, there’s no reason you shouldn’t apply. Find out more about the Fulbright program on its website.

In the meantime, here are a few things to keep in mind during the process.

APPLYING

Start early. You need time to make connections in your host country, get letters and write up a workable project proposal.
Prioritize the letter of affiliation. Even if your host country doesn’t list this document as mandatory, consider it so. It will set you apart from candidates who haven’t done their homework by showing initiative and a genuine desire to get your feet on the ground as quickly as possible. If you're not sure who to contact, spend some time searching for organizations, scholars and universities in your host country.
Complete the language forms. Get these done, even if you have very weak skills in the language. Coupled with evidence of language lessons or future coursework, this will be a big plus in your column.
Be specific in your project statement. Provide a timeline to show you have thought through all steps of your research. Give concrete goals, keeping in mind you can change them once you’re on the ground. Have someone with knowledge of the region or discipline give you feedback, and try to find letters of recommendation from people who know your area enough to comment on your project. They also may have ideas of people for you to get in contact with in country.
Show all you have to offer. If you have ideas on how you might spend your free time in country, write about that too. Maybe you have an interest in opera, boat racing or volunteering at a youth center. Fulbright wants people who will get involved, not just sit in a library.
Beware of sensitive issues. Check with a professor if you think your host country might be offended by your project proposal.
Through your school or At-Large? If you’ve been out of school for a while, you have two options: submitting a proposal through your school, or applying on your own. Check with the Fulbright Director at your university to see if you will be able to apply through the school – it may give you a leg up on applicants applying without the university stamp of approval.

CHOOSING A PROJECT

Keep statistics in mind. Some countries are much more competitive than others. If you speak Russian, consider applying to another Russian-speaking country (but be sensitive to the local language in your application, and begin to study it if at all possible). If you speak German, you'll fare much better in a pool of applicants to Austria than to Germany. Speak French? Why not go to Africa?
Read the web page of your host country's Fulbright Office. They have have hints about the kind of projects they are looking for, or other tips for applicants. You could even get in touch with them with any questions you may have. Perhaps they can connect you with former Fulbright students and scholars or others in your area of interest.
Draw on skills and experiences. Maybe your degree is in political science, but you've spent every summer for the past 4 years volunteering at an orphanage. Rather than a project centered in an archive or library, think about basing your project in an NGO or other institution. The Fulbright program is a cultural exchange program in addition to a research opportunity, so don't be afraid to draw on your life experiences in addition to your education.

AFTER YOU’VE APPLIED

Take a deep breath. You’ll be waiting until winter to hear if you made the first cut, and then until late spring for the final word.
Make a Plan B. Having other options in mind ease your anxiety as you wait to get that email.
Don’t lose momentum. Keep working on language preparation, and read about the host country. You should be interested in the place regardless of whether or not your application makes the cut!
Keep in touch. Inform your contacts that you’ve applied, and let them know about the long decision timeline. They might think you’ve forgotten about them! Also be on the look out for more in-country contacts. Even if you don’t end up a Fulbright Student, you may get the chance to go where you’ve applied on another grant.

IF YOU'RE STARTING A FEW YEARS AHEAD

Work language and area studies courses into your schedule. This will show a long-term commitment to the area.
Follow current events and scholarly work related to your area of interest. When the time comes to write your proposal, you want to make sure you can situate your research interests within the country's past and recent history.
Make connections at your own university. While professors won't want to help you on your application just a week before it's due, many will be impressed if you approach them a year or so ahead of time with your plans. They may even have connections in the country, or know of specific courses available to help you hone your project.

And of course, good luck!

Any more ideas? Let me know in the comments!

Greetings from the bubble

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 14:57:00 +0000

I’m finally moved in, staying near the University of Chicago (where I’m starting next week) on 51^st. I’m a quick walk from Lake Michigan, a quick bike ride from campus (on biker-friendly roads!), and my bedroom window looks out at some beautiful houses I thought were breathtaking, but soon learned are to be found all over Hyde Park.

View from my bedroom window

With no shortage of cute, precocious toddlers in expensive strollers eating organic yogurt, and 20- and 30-somethings relaxing with books (required or pleasure reading, I wonder?) on the grass, Hyde Park seems a bit like the American dream, slightly oriented to the left.

But as I jogged to the lakefront trail this morning, I passed someone sleeping under a worn blanket beneath the pedestrian overpass, and a middle-aged black man slowly walking down the trail with tired bundles and a tired face.

Hyde Park is a bit of an island, like many university communities, and you don’t need to stray too far to wear away at that satisfying suburb feeling that all is right with the world. The neighborhood is littered with bike frames with stolen wheels and wheels with stolen frames. Even in the locked bike room of my University housing apartment building, I’ve seen a lonely wheel or two.

Ever since I signed up for my U Chicago email address, I’ve been receiving warnings and incident reports from the university; muggings, break –ins, be-smarts, don’t-go-here-or-theres, and lock-the-door-behind-yous. A Chicago graduate I met in Ukraine told me to choose an apartment “as far north as possible,” and I did.

I am not saying I’m not “safe” here – I am. I’m just thinking about the bubble.

Standing on the lakefront trail, to the left is a compact view of the Chicago skyline. In front of you is Lake Michigan for as long as you can see. And to the right is an industrial cluster pumping brown and gray.

Taken from my phone - a not so great photo of downtown from the Lakefront Trail

Is this what it is like to be a suburb dweller? A most likely white, anything but lower-class American, with places to go and things to lose? Living in your own space, with a cute breakfast place down the street, and a great locally owned shop where you can buy organic flour and hear hipsters make jokes about egg brands, secure in your morning coffee and daily newspaper delivery, but not-so-secretly terrified to slip past this street or that, where life is inconceivably different and you do not belong?

Bumper stickers are slapped on stop signs and poles, with the face of a young black child and the words “Don’t shoot, I want to grow up.”

Perhaps I've just gotten used to European crime rates. When I moved to Istanbul I lived for a week in the Tarlabaşi area, a poor neighborhood with a bad reputation. When I told my Boğaziçi friends I was living there, they all made me promise I would move. “It is such a bad area!” they would say. Knowing nothing about the city, and finding a better deal, I did move, especially after walking by a group of sex workers near my door one night on my way home.

In Istanbul terms, this was a bad neighborhood. But not that bad – foreigners are moving in by the day, and the municipality has plans to kick out and clean up. My German roommate stayed in the flat and said the whole year he lived there, he was the victim of only one crime: someone stole his trousers out of his window while they were drying. Maybe for Istanbullus, Tarlabaşi is dangerous. But relatively speaking, Tarlabaşi is pretty tame. Poor, but tame.

But here in Chicago, and in many places throughout the US, a bad neighborhood is, well, bad. David always jokes that he will never come to America because he’s afraid he’ll be shot. In my first weeks back in America after more than 4 years abroad, I can feel what his joke is getting at. I feel perfectly safe in my semi-permeable Hyde Park bubble. But I suppose that is just what it is. Not just in terms of crime, but in everyday life. How much of America lives like this?

As a foreigner and a traveller, you can move through places and communities with a certain degree of fluidity that is hard to find at home. With low crime rates and your well-honed travel smarts, you want to go everywhere, you don’t believe all the stereotypes about lower socioeconomic groups, or racial, ethnic or religious minorities. You can accept the hospitality of a poor family in a village and end up chatting for hours, feeling right at home, but when you tell your city Turk friends about it, they may seem a bit uncomfortable, or jokingly ask how you possibly could understand “that dialect they speak there.”

But now I am “home,” and I realize although I’m new in town, my world is very different. I have a place, and that place is in the bubble.

If you seek a pleasant peninsula

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 11:19:00 +0000

The Crimea (a country replete with sorrowful remembrances, and stirring associations) appears destined to become the theatre of exciting and important events: a circumstance that may give additional interest to my description of that peninsula, which possess so many attractions for the archeologist, the historian, and the admirer of the sublime, the picturesque, and the beautiful in scenery.

Charles Henry Scott, "The Baltic, The Black Sea, and The Crimea: Comprising travels in Russia, a voyage down the volga to astrachan, and a tour through Crim Tatary."

Today I'm saying goodbye to Crimea on the evening train to Kyiv. In a few days I'll be returning to my own peninsula - Michigan. Farewell, and hope to see you again soon.

Whose side are you on?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 12:44:00 +0000

I recently saw this in Simferopol. Whose side are you on?

On the devil's side: cigarettes, domestic partnerships, gambling. Jesus has got: happiness, peace, and future.

Faces in the rocks at Karadag Nature Reserve

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 15:53:00 +0000

Can you see the Marx and Engels in the first photo, or the elephant in the second?

Petoskey-esque stones from across the pond

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 13:35:00 +0000

On a trip to Karadag Nature Reserve, I saw these Petoskey-esque stones in the park's museum. Look especially at the bottom right rocks in each photo. Reminded me of Michigan!

For my non-Michiganders, the Petoskey Stone is Michigan's much loved official state stone.

Boy about town

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 11:44:00 +0000

I like these two stencils I recently saw in Simferopol, one along the Salgir River and one on the top of Pushkin Street.

Hard selling the hidden gems

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 10:00:00 +0000

Was using this as a bookmark in a book I apparently gave up on in Lviv last fall:

Apparently I got a bit distracted by the coffee and chocolate and cafes, which is exactly what Lviv's PR guys promised me I would. I don't remember anything from the page I was reading but I do remember this little "free info" advertisement card. It reads:

"FOLK ART MARKET. Would definitely recommend coming here! A lovely market with lots of colorful folk jackets and clothes. Painted Easter eggs were fantastic."

This does indeed leave us with the chicken or the painted egg question. Which came first, this meticulously spell checked ad, or oddly worded recommendation that sounds like it came out of a Japanese-produced English-language guidebook?

It reminded me of something I found in a made-for-tourists Lviv In Your Pocket, a sort of advertment/listing/recommendation that seemed a bit off (emphasis mine):

Jewish Pid Zolotoiu Rozoyu C-4, Staroyevreis‘ka 48, near the Synagogue, tel. (+380) 32 236 75 53. This Jewish restaurant is located downhill from the ruins of the Golden Rose Synagogue, the oldest synagogue in Ukraine. The outdoor seating is exceptional and helps make this a dining hotspot. Here are a few things to know before you go. 1. There are no prices listed on the menu as you are expected to barter. Being a foreigner, they‘re likely to just quote you a reasonable price. 2. For the right price you can secretly arrange to have your waiter smuggle in some pork dishes. How kosher is this place? 3. They offer a fantastic selection of salads, vegetable dishes, Galician desserts and traditional Jewish breads. 4. For a taste of Lviv you‘ll never forget, try the homemade vodka. QOpen 11:00 - 01:00.

As the "In Your Pocket" guides are locally produced, it is not a leap to assume the restaurant itself wrote this listing. Is my gut feeling right, that it is a bit odd to advertise that your restaurant is up for bartering and you can bribe your waiter to "smuggle in some pork dishes," or is this what today's backpacker through Eastern Europe wants to read? I suppose so - I remember having a laugh for several days at Bucharest's "In Your Pocket," which boldly declares something to the effect of: "If you have arrived in Bucharest by bus or coach, then something is seriously wrong with your life and no guidebook can ever remedy it."

Speaking of "bartering," here is the back of the ad for the above market:

"It's worth having a bit of a haggle as the first asking price may be a mischievous roll of the dice from the point of view of the seller." Yes, Lviv, this is what us backpackers deserve for "pottering about" and exoticising eastern Europe, raging on in bars and hostels during our travels bragging about our "authentic experiences," which include moonshine, broken down transport and great bargains - "if you know how to haggle." I just hope Central Asia doesn't start trying to somehow market "mystery meat" before the next time I get there.

Seen around

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 07:36:00 +0000

I've seen this Black Sea map on beach bags and coffee mugs here in Crimea- Austin said they were around last year as well. You can see that Abkhazia is marked as a separate nation...

Kharkiv #3 - hanging out, metro and street art

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 18:00:00 +0000

Last Kharkiv post. This is from the early June trip.

Kharkiv is a surprisingly good city to chill in. Daniel and I wandered around, stopping here and there to read a book and chattering on about this or that. We hung out in a few of the city's many parks and a coffee shop called "Coffee Life" that is the closest thing to Starbucks I've seen in Ukraine (btw, there is a Gloria Jean's in Kyiv). Counter service and a non-smoking section (Gloria Jean's doesn't have counter service). It was later confirmed that it is certainly the local Starbucks equivalent when the very cool locals we were hanging out with made fun of us for going there (Gloria Jean's isn't very cool either).

Although nowhere near as good as the art in the Moscow metro (not that I've seen it), the Kharkiv metro has some interesting stuff going on. Even better, it isn't that crowded, and you can take photos, unlike in Moscow. A guy I know apparently went to every metro station in Moscow just to see all the designs, which some people think is weird, but I think is a great Moscow-on-a-shoestring plan, as it seems that for the average backpacker a metro token is about all that is affordable. If you'd like to see a collection of photos from the various Kharkiv metro stations that borders on an obsessive compulsion, click here. And of course there is the post I just made about the Gagarin station if you'd missed it.

Here are some shots from the Kharkiv metro - this station is very "meet George Jetson."

More street art than I had expected. There was an alley of murals sponsored by Caparol which was quite interesting, one of my favorite parts being this photo:

which is a boy playing with this Gazprom building (one of the symbols of Kharkiv, Marina told me) as if it were a lego set:

And here with Lenin, because we can:

Two more from the mural alley:

This next one was near a courtyard with some similar work. Slipping through the gate, we were immediately tracked down by an on-guard babushka. "What are you doing?" "Looking at the paintings." "Look from the other side of the gate." Ok.

"Every window is a door" - it sounds philosophical, but it was on an abandoned building and the only way in was the broken windows. Ta ta!

Kharkiv #2 - Searching for Gagarin

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 21:34:00 +0000

Any traveller who has ever relied on a Lonely Planet (or any guidebook for that matter) knows the pain of searching out something labeled in the book as a "gem," only to arrive and find it closed, destroyed, or just plain disappointing. My last day in Kharkiv I set out on a mission to find "the stained-glass portraits of Yuri Gagarin [the first man in space] above the stairs to the platforms at the pr Gagarina station." Sounds pretty sweet, right? I was expecting something like this, which I had already seen in another station:

Or even as cool as this - the Creator Art Nouveau style, in a cathedral in Cracow:

Being spoiled by such beautiful "stained-glass portraits," I was sure this one was going to be pretty damn good. Who doesn't love Gagarin? Daniel and I were staying with Marina, a great woman we met on couchsurfing, and I noticed on her wall a printout of Gagarin. "I love him!" she gushed when I asked her about it. So I inquired about the stained-glass portrait. Certainly she must know about it! But she didn't, and we set off to have a look.

We arrived at Prospekt Gagarina metro station, and we couldn't find a thing. We were teased just by his name on the station wall, and these stars decorating the walls

Marina called a few friends but no one knew about it. We didn't have the guidebook on us, and I couldn't' remember exactly where it said the portrait was located. We asked a security guide. "Nu....mojet byt est' takoj.. no ya ne znayo gde eta nahoditsya..." He had no idea, and wasn't even prepared to tell us with a remote degree of confidence if it did or didn't exist.

Marina got an idea and brought me to a nearby children's store. Here a somewhat awkward statue of Gagarin was walking down the stairs in his spacesuit.

Call me naive, but I have faith in the Lonely Planet. I insisted that this wasn't what it was talking about. Another phone call to a friend of Marina. No one knew what I was on about. As we were closeby, Marina brought me to an old factory with murals painted on the walls by various artists. One was Gagarin, waving and smiling and he was being shot up into space. Also cool, but I am stubborn, and really wanted to see that "stained-glass portrait."

I convinced Marina to take one more try in the metro. This time, walking down the stairs to the platform (yes, those were the guidebooks original instructions, but we didn't have the guidebook on us), we looked up, and there we saw it. That is we thought we saw it; you need to squint a bit and use your imagination. By using the flash, you can actually see more in the picture than you can at the station:

Here's the other side (he's flying, if you can't tell):

I was pretty excited and decided to go tell the security guard that the whole time the stained-glass (stained with dirt, I suppose) was staring us in the face. He looked at us as if we were something Gagarin had picked up in space and didn't even ask where it was. Marina told me, "It is strange in Ukraine to tell him that we found it." This much I had gathered.

On my overnight train back home that night, I sat across from an older man who wanted to chat about the old days, kak eta byla... I told him my story about the search for Gagarin. His eyes lit up, as he is an amateur astronomer himself. He pointed out a number of stars through the window of our train, and over the next hour or so, slowly folded out his theories on extraterrestrial life. During Soviet times, stories of alien sightings and abductions were suppressed, he told me, but now there are plenty of books in Russian and he reads them non-stop. But he can't find a good book in Russian on black holes and black matter, even in Moscow.

He is retired from the army, but his pension is so little that he frequently rides the overnight train to Kharkiv to pick up new supplies to sell in the bazaar in Sevastopol. "Do you know how much the pension is for a German soldier? Do you know how much! More than a thousand Euros a month, and we get peanuts. And we won the war! They were fascists, fascists! Ponimaesh, da? Nazis!" The next morning he spoke nothing of pensions or extraterrestrials, but gave me some of the treats he had picked up in Kharkiv. Moscow chocolate-coated nuts and biscuits. When we arrived in Simferopol, he gathered his bundles and rushed to catch his two-hour train to Sevastopol. If you are under the mis-impression that Russian and Ukrainians are unfriendly, cold people, ride around on trains for a few days.

After all this, I finally decided on my next cross-stitch pattern (yes, I've picked up cross-stitch, a subject for another post), which I created on Photoshop from the photo on Marina's wall:

Will the Simferopol Airport be named after Amethan Sultan?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 06:27:00 +0000

Portrait of Amethan Sultan. Image source: Wikipedia

According to an article in May 28th's Poluostrov, the Ukrainian minister of transportation is "not against" naming the Simferopol Airport after Amethan Sultan (1920-1971), a famous Crimean Tatar Soviet fighter pilot who twice received the award "Hero of the Soviet Union." Kia news published the internal document last week.

Amethan Sultan's story exposes the hypocrisy of Stalin's deportation of the Crimean Tatars. Claiming the Crimean Tatar population had collaborated with the Nazis, Stalin deported every last Crimean Tatar to Central Asia. Yet thousands of Crimean Tatars fought in WWII. According to the Poluostrov article, 60,000 Crimean Tatars participated in the Great Patriotic War, with 36,000 deaths. Some 40,000 more were actively involved, participating on the home front.

Memorial to Amethan Sultan in his home city of Alupka, Crimea. Image source: Wikipedia

Amethan Sultan is nothing less than a national hero. On Victory Day, Milli Firka, a Crimean Tatar political party, sponsored billboards in Crimea reminding residents of his awards and service. A few Crimean Tatars have proudly told me of his skills as a fighter pilot. "When Amethan Sultan was flying, the Nazis would get nervous, and yell on their radios, 'Amethan Sultan is in the air! Amethan Sultan is in the air!'"

Other Crimean Tatars who received Soviet awards for their service in the Great Patriotic War include Nasibulla Velilyaev, Seit Nebi Abduramanov, Uzeir Abdramanov, Abdul' Tejfuk, Seitnafe Seitveliev and Abduraim Reshidov. Here are plaques in their memory in the play yard of Simferopol's 42nd school, the only school with Crimean Tatar language instruction in Simferopol, located in the mikrorayon Kamenka. Amethan Sultan's plaque is the first on the left.

On a peninsula where history is so contentious and many place names have been changed or even lost, and in a culture that still celebrates with passion year after year the Soviet Victory in the Great Patriotic War, naming the Simferopol Airport after Amethan Sultan would be a large step to recognizing not only the large achievements of the Crimean Tatar people, but the injustice of their merciless deportation and 50 year exile. The first historical name every new visitor to Crimea would come across would not be Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin at Livadia Palace, but instead the name of the Soviet and Crimean Tatar hero Amethan Sultan, before even leaving the airport.