Casanova's Hope

"Hello..how are you?" he asks relentlessly, everytime I pass him by in the neighborhood. I am not sure what he does. He is always engaged in frantic discussions with the cigar-smoking, retirees in the Sicilian social club. But he always stops himself in mid-sentence and asks "Hello, how are you?"

Using the well-ingrained tactics to avoid strange men who approach me on the street, I dodge him. I look ahead or turn my head the other way. I swiftly look in his direction with bold eyes but do not answer him. Through it all, I hope he understands that I am not interested. He never gives up. He doesn't miss a chance to give a holler.

He is not bad looking, not in bad shape, not without friends. I am not exactly sure what he does, but he survives. Well, almost...

The other day I noticed him limping. He had done that for a while, but I thought maybe he had fallen off a ladder or something. He had resurfaced with his clutches. Yet this time, his pant was dangling from his left foot. Because there was no left foot. He said "Hello, how are you?" I kept my eyes on the ground, pretending to be embaressed by our encounter but more so curious about his leg. I wanted to stare and figure out what exactly happened, but I didn't want him to feel like a circus animal, so I let it go. He knew that I knew he was missing a limb. He didn't skip a beat though; "Hi!" he said. I kept to our ritual and did not respond.


The plumber came today. Water is seeping from my bathroom to my downstairs neighbor's. We chat up. He knows everything about the neighborhood, as he goes into every house. He asks me about the crazy one across. "Gone, " I say. He thinks she bought a co-op somewhere else. "Good grief, with what money?" I gossip. Then I bring up the hello guy. "What happened to his foot?" I ask. "You mean Casanova? I think he had cancer. He had gangrene, but not a diabetic..." he looks to me over his glasses while meddling with my water tank. "Wow, poor guy. Is that his real name?" I ask naively. "Well, that's what everyone calls him. You know he is always asking the ladies how they are doing, hello, hello, hello..." he imitates.

"Really?" I fake ponder. "Why is he always on the prowl though? He doesn't have a steady one?" "He likes it that way, I guess. Believe me he had many opportunities to marry. This one girlfriend of his who was Russian but spoke Italian fluently, she figured him out."

"How so?" I ask, curious to finally get some clues about Casanova's life. "Well, she realized he had been here for years but didn't get a steady job, doesn't speak Italian even that well, he doesn't speak English..."

"He doesn't?" I was baffled. How did he carry conversations which he so desperately hoped to initiate. "Nope, he doesn't. All he knows is this hello, how are you?" Obviously, some people take to that.

Casanova still walks around the neighborhood with clutches under his arms. His handicap doesn't seem to stop him from hoping to meet a fine lady. He never misses an opportunity to say hello...He will never give up.

What Would Ataturk Say?

In the beginning of March, a Turkish court decided to ban access to Youtube in reaction to a video posted on the site by a Greek user, claiming that the video insulted Ataturk and Turkish national identity. Luckily, the ban lasted only a couple of days and it was lifted amidst pressures from within the country and international organizations supporting freedom of speech. Who was the ban truly punishing? The Greek user or the millions of young Turkish Internet users who visit the site to upload mini documentaries, view videos of favorite show clips while chatting with friends?

I have not watched the video in question, nor do I intend to. It sounds like bogus, archaic, political propaganda. Plus, I am secure enough in my identity that I know it cannot be boiled down to a a bunch of online seconds and some messages loosely thrown around by an ultra-nationalist individual. I do not need someone else telling me what I should watch or not. And I have the freedom to state my opinion to counter views with which I disagree. I may even have the wherewithall to make sure my messages go further than those stuck in the last century. That's the beauty of democracy and freedom of expression. It's empowering, not restricting.

And I can't help but wonder, what Ataturk--the amazing visionary--would have said about all this pettiness? I am guessing he would have asked why more people from Turkey were not accessing the Web and why all those hundreds of thousands buzzing in forums and chat rooms were not using these same tools to show their smarts, their treasures, their identity to the whole world...What do you think? Am I being too nationalistic?

Half and Half...or Both!

I had been meaning to write this post for the longest time, but I guess 20 minutes before bed time is when it comes to fruition. The whole birthday brouhaha made me think really hard about something special I could do for my dad. It's hard to shop for him at this point. I've given him all the ties and tshirts and pencil holders. He appreciates everything I give him, but it's difficult to come up with an original idea when you both like the same things and have bought the same desk chockies and framed prints. For a while, I was into crafty things created with love (and some glazing mistakes) at the pottery studio. I have not been "potting," so no supplies there. Then it dawned on me that I could write something for him. It would be one of a kind. And the man who still keeps my first letter written at age six would surely appreciate Web publishing.

As I tried to think of a suitable topic, I realized the whole blog and the purpose behind it was a tribute to him. My brother and I were raised in a secular, multi-lingual and multi-cultural household. My dad spoke Greek with his mom, French and Turkish with his dad. My mom spoke in Ladino with her parents. They spoke Turkish to us and affirmed that we were from Turkey and belonged to that country, were part of its history. My dad would sort through this mish mash of cultures whizzing in the background by relentleslly iterating the importance of friendship, humanity and equality. He was sensitive towards differences. He would notice when a classmate, politician, journalist or even a friend would say something thoughtless. He would disapprove immediately, make a public remark and set the bar for us.

He was Greek Istanbuli with his mother, Jewish Istanbuli with his dad and to us kids that was normal. He was not half and half as some might say. He was both. He heard and understood more than others, he identified with more and he knew about more. That was his richness. That's what he taught us. That has been his gift to us all along.