magicboxtravels

Idea on How to Curate a Virtual Global Conversation – One Global Voice

2010-10-25T22:45:00.000-04:00

Idea on How to Curate a Virtual Global Conversation – One Global Voice

Red de Juderias de Espana

2010-06-24T22:55:00.002-04:00

Ciudades de la Red de Juderías de España from Red de Juderías de España on Vimeo.

Turkish Parents

2009-12-16T10:36:00.003-05:00

In certain respects, Turkish and American cultures are like cars in opposite lanes. When one is going away, the other one is approachıng. Or like those HSBC ads, what's considered giving and support in one culture ıs qualified as burden or dependence by the other.

You can say what you want about my accent in English or assume that I am Americanized. But when it comes to parenting (or my views of parenting), I am back to my core. This is what I know: parents are always parents and there is no end to giving between parents and children, nor is there a charge. Everything is done from the heart...

Hatice, our cleaning lady, had left her cell phone behind the other day. She came to pick it up at 10PM. She was coming from her late shift, her second job. Why did she take on more physical work as a 55 year old grandma? Because her son was laid off recently. Someone needs to feed his little daughter and help his bride, while he is looking for a job and temping 8 hours a day.

Ahmet, the cabby, actually retired from his position as the general manager of a well-known furniture shop. He battles Istanbul traffic day in day out. His son has epilepsy. He can't always use his hands right, he can't flex his fingers comfotably. Ahmet signed him up for drawing lessons. A bit therapy, a bit of education. Whatever it takes to help his son.

My parents continue to care for my 98 year old grandpa. I don't think the thought of putting him up in an old people home crosses their mind. Or they just would not dare. That's for people with no family.

There are plenty of examples like this at home. This is what I come from...

If My Parents Lived in Long Island...

2009-12-11T11:57:00.002-05:00

Every time my Dad gets fed up with the daily challenges of living in Istanbul, he tells me "Well, as you know, we'll get a small place in Long Island and move next to you.." (Think joint homes in My Big Fat Greek Wedding") We both laugh because we know that it's not going to happen for various social and economic reasons.

But as I have been the lone soldier, planning and preparing for a wedding, I wonder how all this might have been different if my parents could be here every day.

Now I update them over the phone and convince my mom that the decisions I make are actually within reason - given what's out there and what it takes to do a wedding in NY. She agrees with me - after half an hour of fast-paced discussion usually filled with phrases like "I can't hear you. What? No way! Do it this way, no do it that way! Ok, you're right."

Would it be any better if they were here? Or would we just yell about the same things in person?

In Istanbul, we know people, people know us, we know the way, we have help from friends and family. Here, everyone is busy, offer help over the phone, or do not want to get involved for whatever reason.

It may be stressful, it may be expensive or do-it-yourself, it may be fun or dull... but it shouldn't be lonely...

I wish my Dad had gotten that place in Long Island.

Hiding Behind The First Amendment

2009-09-27T22:41:00.003-04:00

On Friday, I received a note from our synagogue, warning that a hate group could be protesting in front of Jewish organizations in Brooklyn. Their advice was simple - not to engage, not to protest against them. Instead, they suggested spreading messages of tolerance and peace. Very well, I said and dived back into work. I have such confidence in America and the judiciary system here that I always feel that even if I get sided by someone with their anti-semitic comments, I can take it up with the right party and show the wrong doing in this.

Little did I know that I would be caught in the middle of the action on Saturday. I was just walking up Court Street to buy a much belated birthday gift for a friend. I heard people screaming, booing and saw them shaking fists, raising signs up in the air. There was a crowd of Brooklynites on one side of the street, buffering the Kane Street Synagogue. On the other side, there were bunch of who-knows-where-they-came-from types, chanting anti-semitic slogans.

I put two and two together and understood that this was the group I was warned about. Now, having grown up in Turkey and being exposed to such unruly acts, my instinct should have been to flee the scene as quickly as possible. You don't want to be stuck in the middle of an angry crowd.

Yet, I proceeded towards the scene despite what common sense would suggest. I wanted to see what an anti-semite looked like. (These ugly heads pop up everywhere. I have heard them in schools, at work, and even in seemingly close friend circles.) But I wanted to see if there would be any of the faces I imagined. I stood on the side of the synagogue as NYPD dispersed the protesters. I noticed the anti-gay signs then. When looking into locations for our wedding, I had read that Kane Street Synagogue honored same-sex unions. I thought the protesters could be against anything or anyone, removing logic and decency from anything. I didn't see any faces. Not in this country. Not in this time, I thought. I walked away wiping tears of anger and frustration.

I told my family about it. They dismissed it as insignificant. They believe in America. They are convinced it's safer here than anywhere else. I guess you can yell about what you think in a free country.

Yummy Nathan's

2009-09-08T00:17:00.003-04:00

Today G and I had lunch at Nathan's in Coney Island. We decided to go there once more before they shut down the amusement park and turn it into a row of condominiums. The guy who owns a t-shirt shop down there said there had been talks of demolition for the past 12 years. He's thinking it may or may not happen after he retires. Cheers (I mean cheese) to keeping the tradition alive in Coney Island.

Park Slope Proverb

2009-09-08T00:13:00.002-04:00

I cracked up when I saw this written up in front of a Park Slope diner. I think the owners are Arab - so this is a tongue in cheek comment. :-)

I Will Survive This Wedding!

2009-08-24T20:33:00.005-04:00

I was a bit absent from this blog, but now I am BACK! Boy, was I busy. I finished my book. It will be on shelves on January 07, 2010. And the next piece of big news is that I got engaged!!! I was never the Princess Bride type, so I decided to soak in the moment and not worry about wedding plans for a couple weeks until we took off to visit my parents in Marmaris. Uhm, I was wrong. If you tell people you got engaged, they will not leave you alone. Whenisit, whereisit, howisit, when, when, when? They will ask in one breath. (As if they'll be invited!) What will you do with that bit of information? Compost? Pickles? Even I do not know what I am doing for my wedding! I wanted to scream and kick each time someone I did not know grabbed my hand to take a look at my diamonds -- apparently it's customary in the US. Especially girls are supposed to look at their friends', colleagues' and their friends' friends' rings and say 'oooo' 'aaaaah' as if they are at the dentist, but this time enjoying it.

Well, I got news for you all: This is the ultimate low-class act. Unless you are my close, close friend, you should not feel so comfortable that you will want to pull my finger and study my ring. You don't understand its clarity, value, color and all that other jack shit anyhow. And I like it, so what's it to you? I am not seeking validation. No ma'am, not at this point.

It was interesting to see the office peeps flock to my room and have open-mouth spasms about it. Some were genuinely happy for me... I think... (OK, where's my birthday card then - you guys forget it every year.)

A-n-y-w-a-y-s...So I survived the ring shock. We went on our mini holiday. My parents greeted us with much love and enthusiasm as usual. We roasted under the sun for almost three weeks. We were shielded from all things wedding related. We decided that it would be easier to get married in New York, then in Istanbul since most of our friends are in New York. My family said that they would travel. So, a small wedding on the cusp of spring and summer in New York. Beautiful!

Wrooonnnng! When we got back, we decided to take a look some locations. The prices were outrageous. If you want something decent and affordable - fuggedaboutit, as they say in New York. Nothing seemed to be in our budget. Until I asked friend of mine who owns a restaurant if they did weddings. The answer was affirmative. He was more than helpful and kind. So we found our reception location. Yay!

Having grown up in Istanbul, I am used to seeing Jewish couples get married in a Synagogue. It's not a question of if, but rather which. You get married in the morning or by early afternoon the latest. Then your guests go home, don their best outfits and come out for an evening reception at another location of your choice. I am not suggesting this is the way it should be done, but this is what I am used to. Even when we were looking at wedding halls and they would show me some wall or some garden corner where we could set up huppa, I felt like something was missing. True, our ceremony and guests would make the place special, and I am not super religious, but I am spiritual at life events. I think at major turning points in your life, you may want to acknowledge tradition. There is beauty in repeating something that has been done by your people for thousands of years. There is meaning in walking down an aisle that many have walked down on for the same reason (Ok, I guess that can still be said about wedding halls.) In short, I wanted a place with history and culture.

So, our hunt for a Synagogue began. I first called the Spanish Sephardic Synagogue on the Upper West Side. I thought I would be greeted with open arms, but quite the contrary. The executive director asked me if I were Jewish and confirm that we could get married under Jewish law. I didn't understand why anyone who's not Jewish would take the time to call around Synagogues for a wedding date, but I replied with my full name and confirmed yes. Then, we went back and forth on some details. He kept reiterating the ceremony would only be possible if we became members of the Synagogue. Fair enough - I asked how much this whole shinding would cost "before I took more of his time." He revealed the cost of inclusion and acceptance: $10,000. Yup, that's a comma not a period. G read it first and called me in despair. I said no way, we can't do this. So, my dreams about getting married in a place I knew was my own went up in smoke. Since I am Spanish Sephardic (that's like saying Spanish Spanish in Hebrew or rice pilaf in Turkish :-P), I thought that's where I should have gone. But clouds of suspicion and lack of dinero got in the way.

Trying to keep a stiff upper lip, I called around and reached out to friends who might know places, rabbis. I didn't hear back from anyone until I got a hold of the lady who organizes events at Elridge. She was lovely to talk to. She was responsive to my emails and phone calls. The price was reasonable. She just needed to confirm details with the rabbi. I waited for a few days and asked again. She was extremely apologetic, but the rabbi couldn't do it. See, my darling G was raised Jewish in a multi-cultural family that defined themselves as Jewish. The rabbi was Orthodox and G was not Jewish enough for him. I said I respect his view (I really do), but I disagreed with him. G did not need to convert!!! (To what???) The lady who was the messenger in this case was almost as upset as I was, but there was nothing we could do.

Then came the help of Google. I searched under Brooklyn Synagogues and came across The Brooklyn Heights Synagogue. I spoke with the executive director who was amazingly warm and open-minded. She insisted that she didn't want us to become members just so that we could have our wedding there. She wanted us to come in and see what it was like there; to see if "they were our cup of tea." How refreshing!! I will have that tea, thank you.

We went in one Friday for services. The rabbi was the most modern-thinking, welcoming, engaging and humorous clergy member I had ever seen or heard of. He said many things that made me think and chuckle at the same time. His rule was simple: He cast a wide net for people of all knowledge and interest levels. He welcomed them all, since they made the effort to respect His House and pray. Who won in the end? Both Judaism and the people!

Well, is the Heights Synagogue like the ones I am used to in Istanbul? No. (And you might say, well are the ones in Istanbul like the Heights? No.) Does it represent the values I believe in? Absolutely. This brownstone in Brooklyn will symbolize the beginning of my new life with G. And we will make it our own.

Korea Gallery Show in New York City

2009-04-18T11:48:00.005-04:00

So proud of Greg for curating this show and so proud of the friends - Jennifer, Tomas and Brian - who came together and created the show. You can see it until May 1st at the Korean Consulate's Gallery, during the week from 10AM until 5PM. It's worth it!

Blind Ambition

2009-04-18T11:46:00.003-04:00

The other day, I saw a blind man go down the escalators on 53rd and Lexington stop. He was going down the steps himself, to get downstairs faster! Only in New York!!

I am heartbroken Istanbul...

2009-02-01T23:31:00.002-05:00

You've changed Istanbul. I don't recognize you anymore. You had this majestic, all encompassing beauty. The beat of your drum was so lively. I loved your chaotic beauty, principled hills, evergreen trees. Your people thought I was one. They considered me the same. I considered them the same. Did we sound different? Did we look different? Not even... What is this now - store signs saying I am not allowed to enter? Since when did we grow so apart that we do not recognize each other? Do you hate me so?

Istanbul, I am heartbroken. Why would you assume I am more loyal to the Israeli consulate than to the star and the crescent? And if I am a foreigner in my own city, then where is your so famed hospitality? Aren't you tired of hosting for the past 500 years? Isn't it obvious these passengers have settled? They don't have another city. They don't know another country.

I did erase my name on the doorbell Istanbul. Because I am scared that someone will find me and harm me. But I can't erase my past, Istanbul. And I can't let go Istanbul.

My Heart is Beating Fast! History in the Making!

2008-11-04T21:46:00.002-05:00

I have never seen this country so involved in politics. I have never been in America when so much was at stake. I can't vote, as I am not an American citizen yet. I wish I could. I would have voted for Obama with my mind and my heart. I believe he has the integrity, the will and the intellect to pull this country together and to make peace with the world.

I saw people get teary today as they told how they voted. New York is an obvious blue state. They were moved. They knew they were making history for people here and abroad - wherever America touches.

Grocery Loyalty

2008-10-26T21:16:00.002-04:00

I must admit, I was curious about the Gourmet Fresh store opening up on my end of Carroll Gardens. I was pretty happy with Sue's little shop where I bought veggies and the Italian brothers' shop where I got my meat and everything else. I occasionally ventured into Caputo's to get olive bread, parma proscuitto, home made pasta, sauce, and anything else that caught my eye until it was my turn to pay. So, the addition of Gourmet Fresh to my food chain seemed like a notch up on my life quality.

I went in there the first day to admire the new shelves and small but convenient shopping carts, the red of all red tomatoes and looked for my favorite olive oil. Then I recognized the crew from the crummy Key Food store which was replaced by the CVS a couple years ago. Everything was the same, but with new make up and dress. Yes, everything was available and nicely organized. I thought 'Poor Sue,' 'Poor Bro's' ...what would they do now?

I noticed the first write up in a blog, called A Brooklyn Life. And today, NY Times did a story on the situation, pointing to the gentrification of the area.

I don't like the quote they picked from the GF shopper though, who was saying that she appreciates finding it all in one place. Yes, sometimes we're pressed for time and need to buy and go but these 3 stores are smack next to each other. So, let's just pretend it's one long stretch of options.

I'll tell you what - I am sticking with Sue and the Italian store. When I was getting my apartment painted and nearly lost my mind over the ever extending schedule, Sue and her family helped me out by ushering the keys when I was at work. I can trust them with my apartment! Every time I go in to the Italian store, Michael - one of the brothers - practices his few Turkish words with me and asks me about my parents. (And my parents really ask about them over the phone.) And when I see Al in the morning, rushing to open his store, he takes a moment to greet me and wish me a good morning.

If I want the generic upper-middle class experience, I'll go to GF. But I do appreciate the familiar feeling of Sue's store and the authentic nature of the Italian store. That's why I like living in this neighborhood.

When Barnes and Noble opened up on Court Street, by Atlantic Avenue, a lot of Cobble Hill residents supported the local book store and tried to shop from there as much as possible. I hope Carroll Gardeners do the same, so we don't lose our flavor - literally!

News in Russia

2008-10-18T22:20:00.002-04:00

From the minute I stepped into the hotel lobby in Moscow, I felt at home. The young receptionist with the swanky hair style asked if I had a Turkish Airlines frequent flyer card after seeing my passport. I said 'Why yes,' and handed it over. (Note to self: Positives about cluttered purses include ability to access any random airline card on call.) I was to get points thanks to an agreement between SwissOtel and Turkish Airlines. Very well. Kaching, kaching...

Another young man, with an accent I recognized from my subway line in Brooklyn, helped carry my luggage to my room. I plunked the large green Samsonite on the couch. This rugged bag had carried me back and forth between Pennsylvania and Istanbul during my student years. To fight my jetlag, I turned on the TV. I started zapping and gazing down the cardboard left by my bed side, listing available channels.

To my welcomed surprise, there were four Turkish channels listed. It dawned on me that the surge of Turkish businessmen carrying out deals in Moscow had made the hotel include these channels as a gesture to its guests. And we were so close to Istanbul - by American geography standards - that it may have been just the local cable package.

For the next four days, I lived in a small piece of my homeland within a vast foreign city. Every time I stepped back into my room to grab a notebook, to change clothes, to rest, I turned on the TV and got stunned, horrified and cried. Channel after channel showed the news about the 17 Turkish soldiers ambushed on the Eastern border, their funerals and people beating their chests in an outcry about the ongoing problem of terrorism. The news programs were interspersed between comedy series with sub-titles. The King of Queens was not enough to distract me from the documentary on NTV, where past terrorism victims were being interviewed.

Outside was the impressive Kremlin buildings and Red Square with its dream-like captivity. The conference hall was the most elegant I had seen. The event organizers buzzed around, being helpful, keeping cheery, friendly faces, hosting the speakers with the utmost generosity. Inside, my people were hurting, mourning and bracing each other with more fear than hope.

Bar Fight Suggests It's Time To Go To Bed

2008-09-14T22:09:00.002-04:00

I had not seen my friend Jay in months. Consumed with the guilt of not staying in touch, I dragged G out to Jay's pseudo post birthday get together. I had traded my flip flops for uncomfortable but flashy heels - so our commute was problematic. Especially when it came to climbing the stairs to the roof. But we made it! There we were standing on the edge of a roof covered in water, wine sipping French people who replied in French when we spoke in English and some people in bathing suits, who apparently had gotten the memo about the hot tubs. Jay greeted us warmly. Unable to make new friends, we left in half an hour.

We took a fast cab to Brooklyn and ended up at PJ Hanley's - the friendly, naighboughood bahr. I pulled the straps of my shoes down and relaxed with a tall glass of Stella. G dug into the jalapenos in the nachos mix, saying 'I know I am going to get nightmares, but I do not care." Conversations carried across closely situated tables. Everybody was loud and merry. I heard college stories from the table on the right and almost fell into the gossip story on my left 'He didn't want a girlfriend? How come?'

We asked for the check and G gave the waiter his bank debit card. Within a minute of this perfectly normal bar behavior, another perfectly normal bar event broke out: A fight! Some rugby player pushed another. Someone broke a glass. Another lifted a plastic chair. In the middle of it all stood our waiter, pretending to be a bouncer with his flimsy chest. Of course, he got punched. The half drunk crowd cheered the punchers as they jumped out of the bar's garden wall and chased some guy down the street 'to get him before he gets far."

As smart people sitting in a bar would do, we just stared and watched the whole thing unfold, wondering if the bank card was ever going to come back. After some in-depth searching behind the bar's dark corners, the little Citi card emerged. We left, convincing ourselves that we had fun and wondering what the people on the roof were doing.

The Last Beach Weekend - As Told by G

2008-08-31T23:25:00.002-04:00

This week, I have a guest writer. And those are not typos, it's his style :-P)

Mimi and i were going to the beach at robert moses state park,due to labor day traffic,we were told it be a short cab ride and a ferry would be faster.
so we did so and enjoyed a few hours on the beach.we decided we would take the bus back however, and figured we would walk what we thought would not be far to where the bus picks us up.
we walked for quite a bit, and as most people drove, few knew where the bus was. we saw a police man and he said past the tower.

it seems the tower was a good mile away, we walked in the heat,without food or water.although i appreciate the Thoreau like eruptive experience of nature, i started to see how moses must have felt.
soon i started to hallucinate my legs heavy, throat parched. i though of eating Mimi, as i didn't know if i'd ever see civilization again. then i saw some crabs scurrying along.

we finally made it after a brief argument of the fastest exit to the bus.i was exhausted yet happy to have fully discovered myself amongst the wild.

G Takes to Turkey

2008-07-07T22:23:00.002-04:00

G is getting used to being part of a Turkish family. First, he's got the slipper thing down. He has 'bahce' (garden) slippers and 'house' sliooers and he knows to take off his shoes upon entering the house. He also puts his shows on in the entrance or outside on the porch. He's figured out the Turkish mom's ultimate rule: What's outside, doesn't come inside!

Now he mixes up his cold water with room temperature water and doesn't ask for ice. He helps clean up the table and folds my mom's table cloth, offers to take out the garbage and succumbs to the one last piece of baklava forced into his mouth by persistent, generous hosts.

He does well here. He fusses over his tan, where he'll eat, where he'll sleep and then how long he's going to keep his tan. He affectionately calls me 'ekmek' (bread) as he tells me it's time to go eat 'yemek' (food). He takes to life here, this G. And people who meet him take to him.

Soccer in Turkey

2008-06-24T23:34:00.004-04:00

When everything else fails, thank God we can count on soccer. Who? The Turks! The grandchildren of Ottomans, who commanded across three continents... were kinda like the US is now... The lands may be gone, but the pride is still there and it manifests itself through soccer. I've seen Prime Ministers attend games, stock market rising after major international wins, people traveling overseas to support the national team. During the ongoing UEFA European Championship, we made it to the semi-finals with an amazing, last-minute win against Croatia.

On days when there are big games with high stakes, NY Turks of all backgrounds -- bankers, tradesmen, lawyers, restaurant workers, dudes and dudettes mysteriously disappear from their jobs in midday and huddle in front high TVs in British pubs that show satellite sports programs. Then comes the screaming, the ouffs, the 'hadi beee's, the comments on the referrees, the 'kooossshh!,' and the 'agggh!' When we win, everyone goes back to work with a certain glow in their cheeks. And if we win big, few return to work, most take to the streets with horns blasting, flags flying... Tourists find this most entertaining.

Tomorrow, we're playing against Germany. I can guarantee you that every Turkish man in the NY area is going to bed with the dream of winning this game, sticking it to EU commissioners who criticize the country and teaching their American friends a few soccer tricks.

Inventing Your Old Country

2008-06-01T18:05:00.002-04:00

I was doing a bit of a brainstorming exercise with my colleagues the other week. I asked them if they had any embarassing moments of learning a new language or whether they remembered proud moments of accomplishment. Many provided me with humbling stories. One, gave me a pre-historic group email. A six-page letter addressed to many members of his family in 1985!

My American colleague was living in Israel at the time and, with great humor, he had itemized 52 observation from his newfound old land. Two of his items struck me in particular. Whether happening to an American exploring Israel in 1985 or to a Turkish student dabbling into American college life in 1992, it was the same experience. Here, I share it with you:

#50. New immigrants have an unusually heavy psychological dependence upon the mailbox. An empty mailbox is like an empty heart.

#51. I don't know if two years is a long time, but I find myself imagining, not remembering America. "Back home" is becoming an invention. Soon, it will be a discovery.

I remember looking at the steaming apple pie that had come out of my American friend's care package. My parents cared for me too. Very much. But no pie would survive the two week mail trip...Oh well, maybe they could have tried to ship baklava. Next time!

And I remember realizing that I was beginning to forget details of my parents' faces. I mainly kept in my mind the countours I had picked from their photos. I always needed to re-adjust my memory at the airport.

Learning a new country will play tricks on your memory. Without constant stimulation about your family and your familiar surroundings, you start building an idealistic image of the old one - correcting and fixing along the way. You remember what you want to remember or what you wanted it to be. When living in an adopted country, your mind is in an invented space.

The Visitor

2008-05-24T22:59:00.002-04:00

So, G and I reached a mature stage in our relationship. We went to the movie theater together but split our own ways. Before he dived into the Indiana Jones salon, he wished me good luck with the Visitor - clearly, a sentiment-loaded flick. As my Americano bf watched the latest stunts in Hollywood, I - who suffered through five years of green card processing - cried through the story of a Syrian immigrant being deported for no good reason whatsoever.

I was lucky. I was always part of the system with a visa. I didn't have to leave abruptly, overnight. I came here on my own will and managed with visas and then the magic greenie.

The movie, The Visitor, made me remember how rigid the system was and how many families hold their breath not to be caught while they try to catch the American Dream. The most striking scene in the movie is when the main characters take a ferry ride to Staten Island. Zaynab says, she and Tarik wanted to feel like they were going somewhere, so they hopped on the ferry and went back and forth without getting off at Staten Island.

I remember feeling stuck at jobs. I remember going to Argentina, the only country that wouldn't ask me for a visa, so that I could feel like I could move. I remember listening to friends for hours on the phone, after they were advised not to leave because they would not be allowed to come back in...

The Visitor is a realistic account of the lives we pass by everyday in the subway, in the market, at the store.

The Mike Is Hot!

2008-05-14T23:58:00.003-04:00

I stand behind the podium, getting ready to speak. The AV guy is fixing some stuff on the Mac. He leans back and turns to me. "The mike is hot!" he says. We're in Miami, I have the Spanish look, I should know the urban lingo. I stand back, thinking he just fixed some cables. The mike is too hot to touch. I wait. He waits. The audience waits. "The mike is hot!" he says, stressing his last syllable. "I shouldn't touch it, right?" He cracks a smile, white cosmo girl, he probably thinks. "Go ahead, it's ready for you, it's hot," he explains.

Obama - True America

2008-04-27T21:44:00.002-04:00

Although I've been living in the US for more than 15 years, I cannot vote yet. I follow, live and breathe the news. I face the daily challenges of my city. I contribute to this society, but I cannot vote yet. I am not sworn in as an American citizen, but I feel I should have a say in who becomes the President of the United States of America. Why not? It affects me, living in New York. It affects my family, living in Istanbul. It affects my friends in Spain, Israel, Kenya, India and beyond.

If I could vote, I'd choose Obama. To me, he's America. He's black and white. He's local and international. He can cross borders without crossing people. He can empathize and sympathize. And I'm thinking, we need a leader who is both one of us and one of them, to articulate the vision of a multi-cultural society and restore peace.

From New World to Old Land

2008-04-06T11:20:00.003-04:00

The new world means options, wealth and freedom to many. The promise of life in the USA makes people leave their families and steady but low-paying jobs behind. Having lived abroad for so many years, I became part of this international cocoon with members who constantly shift around. They sometimes go back home. But most of the time they move to another city with new hopes. Perhaps this one will truly embrace them, perhaps this one will give them the job they love, the person they will love...

Zehra is going back to Istanbul. She kicked and screamed here about what she wanted to do. A few heard and even fewer gave her a chance. She was mostly told to take a number and correct her accent. She got the career opportunity of a lifetime in Istanbul, where many know how great she is. Her mama misses her but she says not to come. "The situation is bleak here. We are on the verge of a crisis," she cries to her on the phone. But Zehra had enough, living in a tiny room, saving every penny, begging for recognition. She is serious about what she wants and can do. So, off she goes...

Riv is moving from Istanbul to Tel-Aviv. Hadn't she just left NJ? She wanted to be near her family. But she spoke English too perfectly and she was way too professional for an office that ran on a favors system. Before moving, she's going on a trip to Poland. She is going to participate in the March of Dimes. Maybe she will be happier in Israel, where she won't have to explain where her name comes from.

I am waiting in Brooklyn. I watch new condos go up every day. I read about "movers but not shakers" service in the paper. I contemplate moving to the next neighborhood over. Mostly, I dream about writing in Italian, Spanish or French countryside some day.

Shit Loads of Money

2008-03-15T20:25:00.005-04:00

I used to breeze by 16th street, near Union Square everyday. Twice. Rushing my feet to get to the office, running home after work. Particularly between 5th and 6th avenues, the street required particular attention. As I am always curious about the way others live, I'd peek into street-level windows, while avoiding the various sizes and shapes of road mines. Notice, I didn't say various colors because it was at the end of the day the same shit. Amongst historic New York buildings, across from a breathtaking church, next to the private prep school, there always was some shit. You had to be rich to live off of 5th avenue. So what was this shit? They could afford dogs but they could not pay someone to follow behind them with a scooper or a bag? It amazed me to see how the rich lived in shit.

I lie awake in a loft apartment on the corner of Bethune and Washington. The noise from the cranes outside is so strong, my white noise machine is a mere swoosh in the background. Superior Ink used to be there. Now there is "Something Superior." According to the New York Times ad, the superior condo townhouses will go for just a tad bit more than 12 million dollars. That's superior to what the artists at Westbeth pay across the street. Everyone living on that block, whether on the superior side or not will breathe the same air, hear the same highway noise. And they will certainly walk into the same shit every morning. Watch out for the mighty dog walker who comes around the corner at 8AM with a thousand leashes stemming from his thin, overstretched arms.

G and I are on the bus back from our adventurous trip to the Fairway in Red Hook. G is not sharing my enthusiasm to buy produce that day. He is not digging the neighborhood. "But doesn't this feel familiar?" I say. He mumbles, "Uhmm yeah, maybe," looking over to the Park Slope lady with the fur coat. "So what, we checked out a new neighborhood," I say with forced enthusiasm as we wait for the bus. It finally arrives. We get on and take our seats. We are the only people who are not from the neighborhood in the bus. If you're not living there, you drive in and out. Well, we're neither superior, nor from the hood, so we take the bus. We get stared down. Our faces are fresh and unwanted. Sensing the tension and the increasing value of our seats, we get off the bus somewhere on Smith Street. "I think they knew we were not from that side of the BQE," I say to G as we shuffle with our groceries towards Court Street. "No shit," he replies.

Return to Normal

2008-02-28T22:33:00.003-05:00

I got the bug that's been going around New York. Not the one that makes you cough and sneeze for weeks. Nor the one that pops up unexpectedly in your kitchen or bathroom from time to time. This one seizes everyone once the move to the city or need to move again in the city. It's the New York real estate bug!! When I first came to New York 10 years ago, I found it entertaining to see how rentals creeped their way into every single awkward conversation at parties with people who had just met each other.

Following right after the natural capitalist starter question, "What do you do?", stranger A would assess stranger B's income level and try to estimate - without moving fingers and toes - how much of a broker's fee they might be able to pay. Then would come the second, softer question, suggesting growing intimacy between the two strangers: "Where do you live?" And finally, the final blow would come down "How much is your rent?" Depending on the answer, stranger A might say "Wow, is that rent controlled?" (and curse under his breath at B's undeserved luck) or share his high rent to offer consolation to B.

My conversation would trail in a slightly different course. A would go into shock after hearing I own and then assume I am a Middle Eastern sheikh's daughter who obviously had to come down a step or two in Brooklyn, but still fared better than others. Then A would spend the rest of the evening thinking I am a distant cousin of richie rich and coil in jealousy. The truth of the matter is, I ain't no richie missy. After a bad experience with a crAzY landlady, I calculated that it would be cheaper to move once than to move a million times every time I had a problem with a place. So I took a reasonable plunge, putting down a modest amount in a top-floor walk up in an up-and-coming but you-better-not-walk-around-alone-too-late-at-night corner of Brooklyn.

I loved my apartment. I decorated it bit by bit with relics I carried on my back from Turkey. Over time, like any beautiful bride or handsome groom, it lost a little bit of its luster. I started noticing cracks in the walls. I tried to ignore the icicles in the fridge. Hey, the bathroom door swelled up from humidity and the window panes needed filling in, but that was normal after so many years of wear and tear. Inspired by false broker promises to lend me wads of cash, I willingly swallowed the real estate bug. I decided to cheat on my apartment and get a new place.

I searched high and low. I went into neighborhoods invented by condo developers. I saw apartments situated across from graveyards or on top of highways. (Have you heard of RAMBO? It's right after Manhattan Brooklyn overpass...please stop laughing...) Nothing... I found nothing on this imaginary, but sold as reality, Brooklyn Monopoly board.

So I came back home. My curtains looked whiter. My kitchen and bathroom had pulled themselves together. My rooms seemed bigger. My walls gave me a warm welcome, indicating that I was safe now.

I still get email updates from Streeteasy and Trulia - the automated dealers - but I am mainly over the obsessive state caused by the bug. Delusional, no more. At least temporarily. You know, it's New York... you can't snooze for long.

Lonely Candy

2007-12-16T12:15:00.000-05:00

"I'd like you to send me half a kilo of Mabel chocolates, tu sais des bonbons..." my grandpa told my aunt.
She huffed, "What for?"
"I need to have some sweets in my pocket. I run into friends. I give a little something to them as we catch up."
"I don't think they're expecting this. Dad, why don't you stop coming up with irreverent requests? Do you realize how much this costs?"
"But they are expecting it. Plus, they call me Seker Dede (Sweet Grandpa). I have a name to protect!" he protested.
"Dad, why don't you buy half a kilo of meat instead?" she smacked back, raising her voice.
"Fine, we'll see.." Grandpa hung up after a long, deep sigh.

Grandpa came over for lunch with Esma, his live-in aid. Since he lost much of his eyesight, Esma helps him around the house, cleans up after him, cuts his meat. Today at lunch, we all watched him chase his food. Esma pushed her plate aside and made sure his spoon was full of rice, his fork latched onto the tomato slice.

He knew we were watching. He ate so quickly--so that we could look some other way, Esma could eat her food and he could be a normal, competent man sitting in his chair.
"Do you want me to make you some coffee Grandpa?" I ask, trying to break the ice.
"Later maybe... Don't want you to get tired... Enjoy yourself, rest a bit after lunch..." he responds in a nonchalant fashion.
"No, no it's nothing... I'll get to it, " I insist.

We move into the living room. I sit beside him with our small coffee cups. He says he's not sure if he'll be around next time I come to visit him in Turkey. He always complained about this and that, but this time he means it. He's lost all hope. I can sense it. I know it.

My mom is about to slip off the armchair. She's exhausted. Grandpa takes notice, " Why don't you go rest a bit and I'll take off soon." Mom wants him to stay but go. He's lonely, he misses us, but she's still reeling from her operation. She needs rest. The simplest things, including putting a couple extra plates on the table, exhaust her.

Grandpa, with our and Esma's help, proceeds to the apartment door. We help him put on his jacket. Esma puts on his scarf, holds his bag. I kiss him good bye. He pulls two pieces of candy from his pocket and stashes them in my palm.

"A little something for you, " says Sweet Grandpa.

Manamu

2007-12-15T11:37:00.000-05:00

During the holidays travel craziness, nations split into lines at the JFK airport. Moroccans in front of Air Morocco, Turks in front of Turkish Airlines and Greeks in front of Olympus. Then it all becomes a big mess when everyone drops off their bags and rushes to go through passport control. The Mediterraneans form close knit groups that forgo any sense of personal space. Israelis look for ways to cut in, Swedes stand tall and above it all, Korean moms make sure their children don't stray far. And all wave good bye.

While leaving for Istanbul this year, I lined up behind a Greek woman waving 'adiosas' to her family. I wanted to hear her speak the beautiful, lyrical language. I missed my Grandma Marianthi, I missed my family speaking in Greek with her.

The woman's little granddaughter kept yelling, "Bye bye Yaya! Bye bye Yaya!" She replied to her, calling her with all the love words I heard growing up, "Bye bye manamu, aghorichimu, naseharo!" Same words my grandma would call out to me after I told her a story, did a dance for her, showed her something new I got from the street bazaar...or sometimes in the middle of the day, just cause.

The family exchanged more phrases about going there, coming back. I looked up at the ceiling and then to the flight board ahead, with tears trickling down my cheeks. They had not said anything to me. They were not aware of my eves dropping. I counted the arriving flights to divert my attention: Air Morocco, Turkish Airlines, Olympus.

And the little girl continued screaming - good bye Yaya! Bye Yaya!

Bank at Home

2007-12-11T23:25:00.000-05:00

I am obsessing over my retirement account - not that I have much in there. It goes up and then it comes down. I must have chosen my stocks poorly. Or I simply lack long-term vision, as the phone-assisted investment analyst tells me. I worry even more about the little amount of money my parents put into an account for me in Turkey. I don't get quarterly updates, although I was promised personalized emails. I keep asking my mom if she has gotten anything in the mail. She says, "Don't worry, we'll figure it out at the end of the year." Everybody trusts their business to God in Turkey, but I am used to the American way: A detailed breakdown please. I want to see a plus sign somewhere and a fat booklet in gibberish about why the analyst team worked so hard to bring my .0001 cents to .0002, managing that fund.

I don't get anything in the mail, so as any well-trained daughter would do, I nag my mom. She has access or she can get it, that I am sure.

"By the way, have you gotten anything from the bank?"
"No, I told you,"
"Still, I wanted to ask. Maybe something changed since last week. Never mind... I am pulling my money out!! Out! That's it!!"
"Your principal is too small to report. That's what I think is happening..."
"Ma, don't be ridiculous. Bank doesn't care how much I have. It doesn't have feelings or a strike of politeness to spare me the embarrassment of seeing my account details..."
"Offf, tamam, tamam...ok ok..." she says.
"We'll sort it out when you visit here," she brushes me off.

Following week, I get good news. The bank representative has agreed to share information. She heard through the grapevine that my mom is still recovering. She doesn't want my mom to get tired so she will come over to my parents' and go over everything, in-person, in our living room! I am sure Mom will offer her coffee and she will insist that the rep stays just a bit more and have a tiny bite of something.

That beats my online banking, I say.

The Subway Stare Down

2007-12-09T22:50:00.000-05:00

I've been accused of staring at people in the subway before. I always intend to read and mind my own business but sometimes I am just too tired. I blank out and I stare.

I look and look until the person across from me crosses his or her eyebrows and gives me the silent NY diss "Whatchuwant? Huh?" Then I wake up and pick someone else and then someone else. I continue until the doors are about to jam close and I need to dart out.

This time though, I got stared. I looked up and pulled away. She did too! She opened her book, turned to where she had left off. But then looked up again, curious, forcing her mind to match my face to someone she knew. Did I know her from some...place? She...looked...familiar... As we pulled from Delancey into Brooklyn, I placed her! She had the Moroccan gift shop I loved to frequent on Court Street.

I used to go into her store, Kasbah, stare, stare and touch and play with everything in sight--jewelry, rugs, painted glasses, ornate shelves, goat skin lamp shades. I loved these exotic escapades. Then I would buy the token of the day: a small tin lamp like Aladdin's or a blue tea glass and say farewell until we met again the following weekend.

She moved her shop: first to Red Hook, then to East Village. It's called Timbuktu now. It has a wider variety of gifts and relics. For some reason, Timbuktu is more accessible for the American crowd than a Moroccan Kasbah.

I smiled at her. She remembered too. She smiled back, nodding her head; miming "How are you?"

"Off to Red Hook?"
"Yes," she said.
"Same place?"
"Yes," she said.

I smiled and looked down. She returned to her book. I decided to stare at the baby in the stroller -- the one on the left.

Thanksgiving at Honey Girl's

2007-11-25T22:33:00.000-05:00

I got in the car with Honey Girl, G and their mom at 6:30 AM, the morning after Thanksgiving. We drove for an hour and got to a barren station where a train headed for DC were to arrive. Honey Girl and G's mom was nervous -- seeing her children go, having the house empty... But she knew this was the routine. And they would be back. She hugged us all, with tears in her eyes.

'Oh Mom...' Honey Girl said, sympathizing and understanding.

'C'mon Mom, what are those now?' G giggled and brushed the air with his hand, trying to make light of what could be a dark moment after dawn.

We hugged and hung on for a while. I had been there before - my parents also cried, dropping me off at the bus station, airport, passport control, wherever. I told her we'd be back, we'd be in touch. She sighed.

We pushed our luggages up the train steps. She had a more stern look in her face, as she told the conductor to take good care of us. G may have reacted and said something about being offered protection at this age, but he was too sleepy and was already on the hunt for the first comfortable seat he could find.

The conductor made his announcement and started collecting tickets. Everyone on the train paid, except for us. The mom had taken care of us.

The next five hours passed with coffee and sandwich breaks, short naps, newspaper shuffles, cartoon contests between Honey Girl and G. When we arrived in NY, Honey Girl and I hugged to say good bye.

'I had so much fun, thank you for having me over,' I said. It really had been the most peaceful and enjoyable Thanksgiving vacation.

"You're welcome. Well, now you've seen my world... and his world," Honey Girl said with a slight nod towards G. She was being generous -- as always. She had open the door to me when we first became friends during a random bar night, some six months ago. She had invited me to her home many times. But her world was different, It was farther and bigger than her address suggested. Now I had seen that.

Loneliness A L'Extreme

2007-11-03T19:42:00.000-04:00

My mom had a major operation last week. She lied face down, unconscious for 8 hours in a closed place, held down by people with masks, two continents and 7 hours away from me. I, on the other hand, woke up, put on my work clothes, checked my watch, looked at my cell for text updates from my dad, took the subway, rode the elevator with people who do not and will not know each other and got to my desk. I typed, emailed, talked on the phone. I worried, worried, worried. I looked at the skyscraper outside my window and got dizzy. My mommy lied down with a 30 cm opening in her back. They put in new bones, they put in screws - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and 10. I know how to count -- I am just telling you. I called my dad to see how things were going. He said everything was moving along as planned. My aunts were there, my aunts' friends were there.

A vendor called. Someone invited me to a meeting. I checked my watch. Two more hours to go I said. And then one more.

Mommy came out of the operation. My dad's voice was shaky, his speech was rushed. I let him go. He was exhausted. I was exhausted. I hid behind my screen and waited for my eyes to dry. No one noticed. No one called. No one asked.

They serve soup du jour here. It helps liven up the menu, to sprinkle some French. It makes people feel as if they are in Europe perhaps. Maybe for some, that's as close as they will get. They keep their heads down and have their soup. They sign their check, tip the waiter and then exit. No chit chat, no how are you. I am here to eat and you are here to serve. It's the driest relationship. It's means to an end.

I got served the coldest dish in New York the day my mom went under the knife. It was called loneliness a l'extreme...I don't recommend it.

Look Sweetie

2007-10-28T23:15:00.000-04:00

I pulled the door's handle too strong - again. I looked at the driver to see if he also felt the big bang. He didn't seemed phased. He was counting a bundle of dollars and putting them into his pocket. 'Where?' he asked with an expressionless face, ready to go wherever my money would carry us. '16th and 7th Avenue,' I said. He nodded his head and turned the wheel towards Park Slope.

My hair was still wet from the rushed shower I had taken to be on time for the appointment. I had recently become a poor time manager, hopping into four-door sedans and arriving in posh style. I did this to look at apartments I could maybe afford if I sold everything I owned. After each ride, I promised myself that I would start saving and that I would rely more on the subway.

'Ziksteen zitreet?' the driver asked in basic, broken English. 'Yes,' I said and proceeded to give lengthy instructions out of fear that we may be lost and I may be late.

'Ah know, ah know...' he said, waving his hand at me not to worry.

'OK," I said and sank back into my seat.

'Ju're going to your friend's apartment?" the driver asked. I didn't mind when they dived into my personal life -- it made good conversation.

'No, I am looking for an apartment. I am meeting with a broker,' I explained. I didn't expect much of a reach. I was not sure if he knew about brokers and all that stuff.

'How much?" he asked... I understood that to be the price of the property...I told him.

'Too much!' he protested. 'Waz it for? Houwse?' he asked

"No, an apartment..."

"Too much for this ah-rea..." he said. I was pleasantly surprised to come across some newfound expertise.

"These are the going rates," I said in a sigh.

'Buy yoh own home...OK? I know, I have one.." said the driver.

"It's too expensive," I whined.

"No, no, listen - you put what you have and you hask da bank..ok?" he said as someone who had figured out the American system before the natives invented it.

"I live Bay Ridge. I have home. And I have tenant downztairz... I don't pay no rent. Tenant pay my mortgage. I live for free..." he said, giving me a run-down of his hard to knock argument.

I knew I was stepping into a raw deal, wasting another Sunday at an open house with 5 other families who would look but not touch.

"What's this? It's like prison!" he claimed pointing to the tall brick building across the condo on 16th street.

"Himm, I'm not sure. I am just looking anyhow..." I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

"Sure, sweetie, look, look...." he said as he dropped me off and took my seven dollars plus tip.

Sam's Club

2007-09-24T23:11:00.000-04:00

G and I are on a reverse Cobble Hill tour. Everyone comes to Cobble Hill, known as the Gobble Hill, to check out the latest restaurants. Asian Fusian with Mexican on the side, but American underneath. And that's next to the French bistro and the Spanish tapas place on Smith Street. Instead of buzzing in and out of these little shops, we opt in for the homegrown talent. The real deal. Those guys that had seen Smith and Court Street before the Louis Vuittons and the Mini BMWs flooded the 'naybohood.' In fact, they were born somewhere between Smith and Court.

After taking a peek at the checkered table cloths, old curtains on the windows and the red, diner style booths in the basement floor restaurant, we decide to go in. With one of the boyz jumping in front of me on the stoop, only to hold the door for us, we step in to 1950s America.

We are asked to wait No, we just wait because noone gives a hoot that we are there. There are plenty of customers sitting down, but they look like they know what to do when they come to this joint. I finally motion to the bar tender, who also seems to be the waiter and the maitre' d. He says one minute and he goes on to wipe some glasses, then some tables. My eyes are on the booth at the back, by the window. Nice and cozy. Perfect for a romantic, casual dinner. I ask if he can give us that booth. He says no and points to some flimsy metal pile in the middle of a row of picnic tables. I ask again, trying to reason with him. It's 9:30pm. He doesn't have many customers trickling in and I see many couples sitting at the booths. Before he answers us, the boyz get up to give us their space. They 'know' Sammy, through I-forget-who-now and tell the bartender they can go to the back room.

That doesn't work either. Sammy comes out to settle the matter. Back room is closed. The booth will go to a party of four. And yes, they can hang my bag with bamboo sticks somewhere so missy can sit comfortable at the small table. G is about the faint from hunger. I wish them plenty of customers for the booth and take the assigned seat.

We order pizza with meatballs. Suddenly, we make it to the friendlies list, reserved for those who opt out of salad. G adds a couple glasses of wine to the order and wins the bartender's heart. I ask for brown sugar for my espresso. G and the bartender laugh - for two minutes. G turns and asks him if he has 'soy milk.' They laugh some more. I eat G's slice. He doesn't notice.

Then I spot him. Him! Hiiimmm! Solitaire dude, sitting with a book in his hand at the booth. He ain't no party of four. 'How come?' I think, trying to figure out just how naive and preppy I look not to deserve a booth at Sammy's.

"We need to earn points," I say to G.
"What points?"
"To get to the booth," I explain. "We need to become regulars!"
G looks back at the booth and then at me. He raises his glass, 'Here's looking at you kid!' he says.

Curls, Ah Curls!

2007-09-03T23:35:00.000-04:00

I am talking three different things while walking down the street. G patiently hums along. And this and that and this and that. Do this and I'll do that. G might as well be under water. He worked 40 hours in the the last three days. He's out of it - essentially. Then I catch my shadow on the ground. "Eeek!" I scream. "What? What happened?" he wakes up from his daydream. "My hair looks weird?" "Huh?" he asks, not understanding how I can have a notion about the state of my hair in the middle of a narrow street with no store windows. "I can see it in my shadow. It's weird!" "???!!!" "It's wiggly, I'm telling you..." I insist. He looks at my blop of curls, trying to see what I am describing. "It's beautiful. It's really nice..." he says with love in his eyes. I look back at my shadow on cement. I love what I see.

Girlscout passed through town last week. She breezed through lunches and dinners and coffees with tens of her friends. And she traveled to Chicago for a dear friend's grandson's bar-mitzvah. In between the turbo-charged love fest, we met up three times. She was the same as ever. She didn't have homework anymore, she had clients who called her up for advice -- anxious parents who sought her counsel for their children. She selflessly gave to her clients, her patients, her friends. Her face was pure, without makeup or any other interruptions. Her thick black curly hair was coming down in straight strands - going against their nature, but presumably under her control. She had started straightening her hair, since her ex didn't like her hair wild and floating around her shoulders. He liked things a certain style. He tried to fit her into a mold. He left her life three years ago, but girlscout still straightens her hair. Perhaps to show him that it is her who has control, not him. Perhaps she likes it better this way. Perhaps she was told she was not pretty any other way. One day, someone will tell girlscout she is pretty ever which way...we'll have coffee in Soho again, between a flight and a client. And her dreamy curls will breathe the air.

Rebeccah picks up my call with significant enthusiasm. "I got an apartment!" she says. "What?" "I signed a lease. I am going to just pack up some clothes and have some time to think to myself at least," she explains in one breath, with the victorious auro of someone who has won a challenge after a long fight. "OK, great, " I say relieved that she is pulling herself out of a stifled situation, and is able to regain control over her life. She doesn't have to wonder where he'll move, which job he'll take, whether he'll propose, or anything of the sort. He may reach out to her, waking up to her absence. She'll be at the new apartment, not conveniently in the living room. "What are you going to do next?" I ask, expecting to hear a back-to-school prep story from the lifelong teacher. "I am going to get my hair straightened. It's a lot of money, but I am ready for a change!" she says with the same determinism. "It looks great either way," I say, thinking whether he is worth spending several more hundreds of dollars. "I am doing it for myself," Rebeccah says as if reading my mind. "I felt great the last time I did it" I do remember that time. She did feel like a new person. Heck, she looked like a new person. Enough with unpredictable waves that just won't calm down. In this case, it may be time to press down some unruly curls.

Dollar Signs

2007-08-26T20:40:00.000-04:00

My mom and I talk on the phone every Sunday - sometimes hours at a time. Topics range from my job to her health situation and mostly we drill down on Turkish politics and economy. She asks me about my life here and takes me by surprise with how much she knows about local and national affairs. Many people read or talked about the Fed rate cut. I heard it from my mom. Wolfowitz visit to Ankara, I learned from my mom. The election outcomes -- my mom had a few things to say. Hillary's candidacy; again: mom!

Nowadays, she's most concerned about the mortgage market. She keeps asking me how much of my 401K is sunk in real estate funds. 'I dunno,' I say, trying to remember what funds I am in and with which investment company I am. I pull up an image of graphs and bank lingo printed on off-white paper, stapled for my recycling taste. 'I don't think I am in any mom...In any event, I am diversified," I say trying to calm her down. I remember the man who came to the office to coach us about our retirement investments had said diversification was good. "Well, what sorts of funds are you invested in?" "Uhmmm, some Fortune 500, some mid-size, some small, some international...don't worry," I say diversified and all.

"Anyways, I saw it on TV. People are losing their houses and crying..." And Gungor Uras (mom's favorite columnist and TV commentator in Turkey) said that housing prices may come down. You just be careful!" she says as moms often say.

"So, what is the sentiment in New York?"
"Uhmm, it's really hot. People were sick of the rain but the heat now is unbearable," I offer.
"No, I mean the housing issue. Are people selling? Holding on? Are they able to get mortgages?"
"I dunno Mom..."
"How can you not know? Even I know more than you do about your own country's situation!"
I laugh, impressed with my mom's wits. "Well, how do you know so much?" I ask, egging her to tell me more.

"We live by the dollar here. Dollar goes up, dollar goes down. Bush said this, Condaleza did that. Fed cuts, NASDAQ, it all affects us. Everyone's eyes are on the dollar - how can I not know? You guys are not concerned?"

I think about friends who avoid the city heat by taking the jitney to the Hamptons. On slow Sunday mornings I contemplate going down four flights of stairs to pick up the Times. I usually fill time watching Mun2 -- awesome music program on Telemundo-- and pretend I am in the Carribean or in Mexico. My mom on the other hand, keeps tabs on America.

Babylon

2007-08-13T23:36:00.000-04:00

Finishing a book is never so easy. When starting a book, you take a deep breath and dive in. You read and stop. Comes in TV, work, friends and other things. The book carries through, the characters slowly pull you in and give you a seat at the table, a corner in the room, a lane on the road. You weave in and out. You plough through the pages. And there comes the last 50 pages. The drum beat gets stronger and stronger. Like a dancer spinning around and around, while waiting for that last hit to drop to the ground, you read on -- waiting for the end, squinting your eyes before the crash.

We are on the train to Babylon. G is tired from last night's work shift. He is snoozing on and off while the train rattles to the right and to the left. I charge on for the last 50. Here it comes, after 460 some pages of reading about 15 characters tied to Istanbul, gathered at the Ataturk Airport, I have to, have to finish it before we get to Babylon. The book, Istanbullular, by Buket Uzuner, beats on about the multi-cultural, diverse city in its modern day. People hailing from New York, Adana, Athens, San Francisco, Van, Maras, the Black Sea, Germany and previous lives to Istanbul.

The train is getting closer to Babylon, away from Istanbul. I am racing to the gates of the Ataturk Airport along with the crowd in the book. Racing onto the last pages where the main characters live on amidst the chaos of it all. They survive, they reunite in Istanbul. Their lives are changed, but they will add to the mix of Istanbul and re-create the city with their stories.

I look at G - he is drawing cartoons on a piece of paper he had stashed in his pocket with his fine tip, black ink pen. He is waiting for me to get out of that airport. He tells me Babylon is next. I have 1.5 pages left, I tell him. And I hold my breath - until I leave Istanbul and until we reach Babylon.

Uzuner brings Istanbul down with the story of an explosion at the airport and then promises the legends of the city will continue to tell their stories. The cyle will continue. I am far from Istanbul now, but she tells me that it would not be unlikely for me to return. And it would never be the final return.

G shows me the character he's drawn for our intended Istanbul-New York story. I smile. I am done with the book. I slap it closed and move my hand up and down on the back cover. He looks at my exagerrated ceremony, thinking I am being cute. It's not me who's acting up. Istanbul is pulling my strings.

We get off the train at Babylon. It's quiet, orderly -- as if the hundreds of people who all spoke a different language left. The town is covered with a coat of Hollywood studio backdrop for Pleasantville. We walk to the bus that will take us to the beach. The Asian kids are politely introducing their new friends to the circle. The white kids are annoyed by the delayed bus. The Spanish lady drags her metal shopping cart. The Jamaican family gathers around the father. We find ourselves a spot under the shade and listen to mixed rhythms of English.

Babylon is the end of the train line. We need the bus to reach the ocean. And over the ocean, somewhere beyond Europe, is Istanbul. Just as the book says.

___ _____________________ ____________________ ______________

PS: Buket Uzuner thinks of Istanbul an old love that one never gives up; and New York as the first love that one is always excited to run into...here is an excerpt in English from her New York Log.

A Vote of Silence

2007-07-26T22:47:00.000-04:00

I could not vote in the last elections in Turkey. I approached the voter registrar's desk at the Ataturk International Airport with all my intention to raise my voice in the most democratic sense, but they told me I was registered at the elementary school near our old home and could not vote at the airport. I said "How come? I live abroad and we moved from that address." But there was not much they could do. My green card didn't work there. The city of Istanbul remembered me as a young girl who never left the neighborhood where she grew up.

I was fired up about it. I even mentioned what happened to the poor boy sitting next to me on the plane even though his sleepy eyes and slow droll made it clear to me that he was not as concerned. "It's just one vote..." he kept saying. I suspected he was going to vote for the ruling, Islamic party. "Maybe he is sure of his victory," I thought to myself with disdain and watched four movies in a row to distract myself.

On the election day, I went to Coney Island with G. We walked around the amusement park that will be demolished and rebuilt in the next few years. We hopped on the Wonder Wheel and went all the way to the top. Looking over the Atlantic, I didn't think of home. I was just happy to be upheld by a mass of steel bars...next to G. Everyday happiness, no politics and not much more thinking than what to order at Nathan's. While my parents and brother sided with the secularists several time zones away, I stayed on the beach...didn't tip in the ocean.

My dad was shocked at the results. Islamicist had won with an even greater share of the votes than before. I was not. I was far enough from the country to see that we were a minority in our way of thinking and living. "The intellectual elite no more," were crying the cabbies, the shop owners, the first generation Istanbulis.

G brought a New York Times article to dinner the other night. He thought I might be interested in reading an editorial, titled "Democracy Affirmed." The article applauded the Islamicist party's win and congratulated Turks for going through another election without a military intervention. "A true win for democracy," the author claimed, calling AK Party the most competent government in recent decades pointing to the economic progress of recent years. It should have called them the most adept at organizing grassroots movements and winning votes going door to door. (Maybe the socialist party would have benefited from the same tactics!)

I almost burst into fumes, when I read that the author opined "Muslim Democracy" could and would most surely be the future of Turkey. Who was this person? Who paid him? Did he live in the Upper East or Upper West? DC or Ankara? How did he know so little about Turkey to prophesize as such?

So I wrote down:

"To The Editor:I was disappointed by your non-discerning account ofthe latest Turkish elections. As a modern Turkishwoman, I do not regard the results a win for democracy. This is a dangerous case of mixing ofpolitics and religion.

The grand majority of Turkish population is Muslim andIslam is very much in our cultural fabric. However, civic institutions should not have apreference for faith. Legal and economic issues neednot be addressed from a religious platform. The essence of democracy allows for multiple views andlifestyles to co-habit. Meanwhile, the concept of‘Muslim Democracy’ suggests a particular religious preference will always be the guiding principle in the state’s decision making process.

Before avoiding a military intervention or securing foreign investments, the newly elected officials should assure those of us that didn’t vote for them(more than half the country) that Turkey will continueto rise as a strong, independent, secular force. "

But I didn't send it in... I thought of the unlikely scenario where my letter would get published and someone with a fundamentalist view would track me down to give me an answer. I thought of the other unlikely scenario where I would be accused of threatening the integrity of the State since the Islamic party I questioned was now part of the State.

I thanked G for his encouragement and shared my neurotic thinking. It was a bit embarassing to explain to a bold expressionist that I was choosing silence. But he did understand. He also thought of the Wonder Wheel. Neither one of us wanted the demolition to begin.

Serena

2007-07-18T23:33:00.000-04:00

Lucy doesn't always get it right. She calls me Joanne sometimes. Almost every time I pay for the bellydance class at Serena's studios, she asks me how I spell my name and writes down that I paid.

I've been going there for the past six years...And many others are seasoned veterans. We meet every Tuesday at 7pm and dance for an hour with coin belts around the hips, bare feet and midriff, arms slightly bent at the elbow, chest up, stomach in, we dance...I think the lady who always dances with such passion is an accountant. I know Michelle has a son who waits for her outside the studio, watching something on his DVD player. Kim paints with her husband. Heline speaks French and Hebrew. I don't know Sahara's real name, that's what she goes by on stage. Doesn't matter. We come together every Tuesday and line up to dance.

Serena leads, Serena teaches. She is most passionate about the dance. She treats it with respect. She expects us to do the same. This is a form of art. The figure eight is the most graceful turn a woman's hips can make. Serena watches. Serena shows. She catches when the turns are not just right or when the head could tilt further back. She is a musician, a dancer, a poet, an artist. Serena tells a story to the beat of the dumbek and the wail of the oud. She treats each one of us as real performers. Otherwise, why would you be taking her workshop? She doesn't care what else you do. To her, you are there to honor a centuries old tradition and to learn. Following her, we leave the day behind and take our spots on stage. We move to some other place.

I thought Lucy had it wrong again when she said, "You have not heard what happened to Serena?" I said no, expecting to hear that maybe she was sick. Lucy looked down to the money envelope, wrote my name down and said "God...took her," shaking her tiny blonde bun and pursing her red lips.

I didn't cry right away. The class had started. Another teacher was leading. I grabbed a veil from under the closet and took my spot. I looked around. Kim seemed OK, but Sahara was a ghost. Her pink outfit was shouting love and life, but she was struggling not to sulk. We took turns to walk four beats and turn back to the right and then to the left. I don't think I did it right. Serena would not have let it slip...The teacher tried to keep the flow going. She just wanted to keep the class alive, I guess.

I knew it was true when I saw the dancer next time break into tears while waiting for her turn to do the routine. Lucy was right? How could it be?

I had had my last class with Serena and I did not know. She didn't either. Does she remember me now, wherever she is? I remember her...my body remembers her in each lift...in every pose...I promise I'll spot when I turn. I promise I'll practice my zills at home. I promise, I will smile when I perform. Lips parted...we parted...she parted...

90s Are Back!

2007-07-14T22:45:00.000-04:00

My grandpa continues to amuse -- me for sure. Not my parents...they see him like a kid who needs to be under constant watch. To me, he's a fun friend, a confidant. He doesn't have the authority he had when he was running his business, telling my grandma to hurry up and bring him salt or snore through the night only to remain oblivious to complaints from the crowded household the next morning. He lost much of his sight now. He can't cook for himself. He needs to be taken to doctors. He alternates between my aunts' and our house over the weekends. He has help at home, but if you ask him, the woman's presence in his house is a natural result of my dad and my aunt's oppressive plan to control his life.

So he takes off! To break loose a bit. He jumps in the middle of the crazy Istanbul traffic. He calls the cabbies who slow down as he crosses the street his friends. He knows every single pot hole in his neighborhood. And despite being attacked by street dogs once, he still walks in the park everyday. He needs air. He needs movement. He needs to feel free.

He feels his best in Buyukada, the largest of the five Prince Islands near the Istanbul coastline where he has an apartment. Along with much of the population, he moves to his summer location in May. There, he is happiest. He says the trees are particularly lush this year, that's why he cannot see the sea from the terrace anymore. The city apparently fixed the roads. He listens to gossiping women at the club and tours the island between 7 and 8AM every morning.
He comes to his own in Buyukada. A 95 year old boy, who still has his eye on the highest branch. He is convinced he can climb it in one try.

That's why he didn't tell us about his first brain spasm. He knew well that my dad would ban his move to the island and he would be trapped in the city instead of splashing around at the beach. Then came the second one. Luckily for him, after he made it to the island where noone would or could drag him to a hospital. He shrugged this one off too. Apparently when someone is shy of a century, their zest for life becomes stronger than their fear of death.

So he plunged ahead and went for a swim in the middle of a heat wave. We learned only after the help called saying "Papa" had lost his speech again. Only this time, it didn't come back for a longer while. My dad's face got dark when he heard the news. The same darkness I had seen when he lost his mother. "This is bad ... this is really bad..." he kept repeating to himself, beating his leg with the back of his hand.

When grandpa's speech came back and his blood pressure leveled off, my dad fumed over the phone line "whathehellwashethinkingtakingadivelikethat?" "I just went for a little while, don't make a big deal out of it. It was early in the morning too, before the heat," I heard grandpa keep his ground. He may have been tired, but he was resolute. "What if something happened to you while in the sea?" my dad pressed on with rhetoricals. "I got my friends there, they would have come to my help," grandpa offered wisely referring to a group averaging around 85. "Unbelieavable, unbelievable!" my dad said, pursing his lips and handing the phone to me.

"Hey grandpa!"
"Hi Mimika!" he chuckled with joy upon hearing my voice.
"What happened? What did you do to yourself?"
"I didn't think this one through I must admit...but don't you worry about me. Have a wonderful trip back. And just so that you know, I have full confidence in you. Don't ever think what would grandpa say. If you have to make a decision there, I would be ok with it here..."

An avid listener of his grandchildren's love affairs, that was his code for saying I had his blessing, with whomever I chose -- should he not live long enough to see. We went through this ritual over the phone every six months or so.

"I'll call you once I settle in Brooklyn," I said, thankful for our silly conversation.

I called him the first day back, before immersing myself back into my US life. The live-in aid had to call him to phone. He was entertaining some guests. He thanked me for remembering to call him and indicated that he could not stay on the phone for long, because the guests had brought some cookies and other sweets. "It's all free, it's awesome," he added. He was himself again -- 90 or 5.

Do You Know Where You Live?

2007-06-10T23:22:00.000-04:00

Planning ahead for their retirement, my parents bought a place in Marmaris (southwest part of Turkey) some 15 years ago. They made the house their own with bamboo furniture, ceramics and my mom's painted wood relics. My dad went to the small town's bazaar to buy the numbers "1" and "8" painted on ceramic tiles with decorative fringes. He nailed them above the fire place on the front porch. We were number 18 on the villa row, what they called...until a few years ago.

When Dad went to pay the electricity bill, he was told that the address didn't correspond with the town records. He explained he was pretty sure where he lived, but nope - our address had changed. Now we were number 20. They had counted things wrong initially and we now had to go back and change our records on all sorts of bills and papers. So we updated, with number 18 cemented on the porch and number 20 on the garden gate.

A few weeks ago, our address changed again. Not that we moved, but the city changed its mind. There was an error with that area's planning and we are now on street 141, door number who knows what. I asked my dad how he was going to go through all the papers to update. He replied with a voice that had given up on sensible order long time ago, "I am not going to do anything...They seem to know where we live anyhow..."

Baby, baby!

2007-05-27T10:24:00.000-04:00

If Carroll Gardens is a village, then I am the village idiot...

I bumped into my friend Betsy on Smith Street the other day. I had not seen her since she had her baby a year ago. You know how time passes between baby naps, bottles, diapers, new jobs, i'll call you's and I am on vacation, but when I get backs...

So we hugged and kissed. I cooed over the lovely little girl chewing her foot in the stroller. I looked up at Beth, exhilirated with the excitement of seeing my college friend who still looked as mischevious as she was back then, now a mommy. She had her hair up in an impromptu bun, her eyes looked a bit tired. She was wearing flip flops, a random pair of pants and had pulled a large white shirt over her head. She looked good!

She was skinny as ever, but I did notice the bulge on her tummy. And because every other friend of mine is pregnant, because everyone in Park Slope and on Smith street is pregnant, and because some people I know are onto their second children, I put my hand on Betsy's tummy. (C'mon, we're old friends!) I gave it a nice rub for a few milliseconds to make her eyes flare a "What the hell?" in my direction.

Unaware of my inappropriate behavior, I took it up a notch: "Are you expecting a second one??" Betsy looked startled, "No, I just have not lost all the baby weight yet..."

I think I apologized 30 times over, non-stop. I blamed it on the wind that was blowing her t-shirt and giving me the illusion of a tummy. But the damage was done. Betsy, who at age 20 was convinced that she had wrinkles under her eyes, was irrepairably hurt. " I am sensitive about this stuff," she said as she tried to switch topics. "I knoooowwwwww," I wanted to wail.

With one stupid sentence, uttered without thought or any drop of self-control, there were two of us there chewing on their foot.

E-coup in Turkey

2007-04-29T13:15:00.000-04:00

I remember military coup of 1981 in Turkey. I was in second grade and the military had taken control of the country, bringing an abrupt (albeit painful) end to civil strife between right- and left-wing political groups. My parents were relieved. My teacher was relieved. Everybody felt safer -- including the children. The months following the coup were somewhat startling. Every night, the national TV channel broadcasted groups of "terrorists" caught in various cities. My dad sent me to my room sometimes when these news came up, because he didn't want me to be affected. But I already was so drawn into the stories, there was no escape. I recorded everything I saw and heard -- the woman who was attacked in her house for her gold bracelets, the butcher who was shot in his shop because he claimed the wrong political side, the teachers who were held at gunpoint in the classrooms. The military, acting in defense of the common people, had stepped in to re-establish order.

Following the coup of 1981, it took some years for Turkey to transition into a freer environment of social debate. Some criticised the military intervention as undemocratic, but all were appreciative of the chance to start anew and to have a chance at becoming a prospering, forward-looking nation.

Years have passed, faces of fighters changed, yet the cycle has remained the same. Turkey is yet again at a significant cross-roads. The military issued the following release on Friday evening:

http://www.tsk.mil.tr/bashalk/basac/2007/a08.htm

For those who cannot read Turkish, let me translate: It's essentially a statement directed to those politicians who are using religion (Islam) to manipulate people and to bring a backwards regime to a modernized country. The military, it says, is closely watching these developments and is ready to step in to protect the secular regime.

Everyone I know at home is making tongue-in-cheek remarks and calling this an e-coup. Today, more than 1 million people marched in Istanbul. My family and friends went, my parents' friends and my friends' parents went. The people who want a decent future for themselves and for their children marched. They demanded that reason reign over hypocracy and that their lives are not curbed by some corrupt, archaic theological order.

It's sad that we still argue in this day and age whether women and men should be segregated in public buildings and whether local groups should be able to organize made-up celebrations in Prophet Mohammed's name in elementary schools. Imagine the same energy being spent on the sciences, the economy and the arts. Yet, it's time to put a firm fist on the table to stop the nonsense brought upon us by these pseudo pious people who are trying to command the whole population with a vote based on 20%. If you want to discuss religion and pray, do it at your home, do it at the mosque, don't bring it to the schools, don't use it to govern.

I cannot go to Istanbul to march with friends and family. But I can raise my voice, write and publish. This is not about advocating a military regime. I am for a secular order, and so is the military.

Another Inconvenient Truth?

2007-04-22T21:03:00.000-04:00

So I got the famous email that has been circulating since the beginning of April. I mean the one about the Holocaust being removed from history curriculum in schools, in the UK. The supposed intent was not to offend Muslim students. Having just finished a book on urban legends, I jumped on the case and wrote back to my friend who sent me the email: "This is a hoax, no such thing, no civil authority would dare deny the Holocaust," I wrote. Plus, as a Jew who has grown up in a predominantly Islamic culture, I knew first hand that these claims could not be generalized to the larger Muslim population.

Proud to have squelched a rumor, I went on about my business for a while. When I wanted to write about the incident, I did a bit of digging around. Only then I realized that there was actually one school in Northern UK that did stop teaching about the Holocaust because it didn't want to create a riff among its students. Some teachers felt ill-equipped to handle the topic...

I'm sorry but since when did history became a matter of convenience? If more teachers explained how the Holocaust came about and taught their students how to recognize signs of social manipulation, fewer people would be typecasted or attacked. And when I say people, I mean everyone--regardless of religious background.

If you hear something, say something

2007-04-14T20:05:00.000-04:00

Imus has to go... not even worth the debate. There's probably a corporate mess at all the stations airing his show -- loss of advertising dollars, jobs, political fights, you name it. None of it surprises me.

The morning show anchor interviews one of the women on the Rutgers basketball team. Apparently she was tempted to just let the comment slide by. She was not going to raise her hand. The anchor is perplexed by this attitude. I am not. I know exactly where she is coming from: Him saying something doesn't make it so. Her saying something doesn't erase his racism. Maybe she's tired of raising her voice, withstanding comments, striving harder than everyone else so that noone can question her state of perfectionism.

But lucky for her, the man had a microphone in his hand. It was on air, but it went on tape. Everyone heard him. Now everyone needs to say something.

Dear Martian

2007-04-09T23:51:00.000-04:00

I cannot believe I went this long on a cross-cultural communication blog without touching upon cross-fires between men and women. Here's the most recent story that explains why the Mars and Venus series are best sellers:

Scene: A friend promises to introduce an eligible bachelor to a chiquelette.

Enter: The eligible bachelor sends an email almost mistaken as spam, titled "hey."

(Some sort of) communication begins: "You come highly recommended..." (Who? What? A UPS package arriving at your door? The menu at a three-star hotel restaurant?)

Communication (hardly) continues: "Your friend warned me that your Turkish." (Too bad the bar exam doesn't check for insensitive idiots who can't spell.)

"What is it that you actually do?" the Martian asks. Chiquelette patiently explains. She politely asks what he does even though she knows -- she is already ticked off, she's just waiting to strike. And he delivers: "That doesn't sound like much of a job anyhow. How much are you paying your employer for that?" Unaware of his gastly mistake, the flirt 101 drop out continues, "I went to Turkey, loved the food. Do you cook like that? If so, that should be the first thing you should tell people about yourself," he wraps up in a bad salvo.

Chiquelette smacks: "People have to do and say a lot before I cook for them, none of which include the statements you just made. This is a very poor beginning," she writes - but she means the end.

Martian writes back apologizing and encouraging chiquelette to re-read his messages and find the light tone in them.

Chiquelette deletes his emails. She makes a mental note to ask her friend what she exactly had in mind when she said "he is really funny."

The Martian, Mr. Hey and others don't realize but it's actually pretty easy to reach her. A simple hello. And if you're interested, don't dally, just say so. Oufff!

Casanova's Hope

2007-03-25T16:20:00.000-04:00

"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?

2007-03-18T18:07:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-03-05T23:39:00.000-05:00

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.

Dear Daddy

2007-02-27T23:38:00.000-05:00

February 22nd was my father's birthday. He waited for hours for his children in America to wake up and grant him a call. His son was on spring break, unaware of days passing. His daughter was between meetings where people spoke 120 miles an hour, checked their blackberries and scribbled on white boards. He picked up the phone and dialed his son. He asked him what day it was. While on the phone with him, his son pinged his sister on IM saying she was in deep trouble. Dad thought she had forgotten his birthday.

"1 sec," she typed as she normally would during a conference call. She dialed the home number. No line. The company lines had gone down. NY was playing tricks on her. She picked her cell and pressed a number from the speed dial list. And there he was! His voice clear, crisp but far.

He questioned whether she had forgotten his birthday. She averted the discussion by telling him what a busy morning she had with no breaks since the night before. It hurt him probably... this was merely an excuse. And when did he ever forget them? Never! When did he ever delay something they asked from him? Never!

Then she switched to everyday worries about being able to finish work, travels, insurance paper work among other things. He switched his focus. It became her. He forgot about himself. He was dad.

Commuting Between Two Languages

2007-02-19T22:23:00.000-05:00

I clipped an article from the New York Times last weekend about Elif Safak. Although the article is more about the troubles she has had since her last novel which trapped her in the middle of an ultra-nationalist debate, I found her comments about writing in two languages with near efficacy the most interesting. She refers to writing in English as mathematical, with a precise word to describe each situation. Meanwhile, she finds her mother tongue Turkish to be the more emotional, sentimental one. She describes "commuting between two langugages" traveling between cultures. How true!

Safak's description made me think of the harsh edits I would receive from English literature professors throughout college. They would explain, "that's not how you say it in English." I would elaborate on my anology and they would circle the paragraph, crop it to a couple of sentences and sprinkling it with a couple of adjectives. No snake story, nothing that requires imagination. Clear writing was what they wanted. The flowers of my imagination would fade under the pressure of getting high grades and delivering what I am asked to do.

At work, I write in bullet points. But that's for direction. That's my job, consulting. When writing in English for myself and for my friends, words spring in every direction I feel they should. I arrange them the way my mind would, the way my eyes would see. I don't think I commute too far from Turkish, when I write personal stories in English.

Losing A Pen - Hrant Dink

2007-01-28T23:52:00.000-05:00

My father had given me a blue ballpoint pen when I graduated from college. I kept it, guarded it, carried it for 15 years. I rarely used it. I treated it gently out of fear that something might happen to it. I only used it when signing important papers - my mortgage, a contract, an acceptance letter for a new job.

Last week I lost my pen - possibly at an airport. Just like that, it fell out of my bag. It disappeared on me. I am waiting for it to come back, but in the back of my mind I know the pen lived only 15 years for me.

The word pen is also used to describe journalists in Turkish--which carries the emotional, mystical aspects common to many Eastern languages. And last week Turkey also lost a pen. Hrant Dink, a Turkish journalist, a prominent member of the Armenian community, a thinker, a humanist, a father, a husband. He was shot in the middle of Sisli, a busy hub of Istanbul. In the middle of the traffic, in the middle of the hustle and bustle, in the middle of an unfinished discussion about what truly constitutes the Turkish national identity.

The night I learned about Hrant Dink's murder, I had just arrived from the airport. Busy with everyday thoughts, I had sat at dinner and flipped through the channels to see if I could find some music program. I was trying to think of what might have happened to my pen, whether I should tell my dad, whether I could ever replace it. Then I saw the headlines, followed by images of Dink's feet, facing up. His body faced down. I guessed it right. He was shot from the back. Cowards, I thought...for not being able to face him, for not being able to hear and respect his thoughts, for fearing his pen. Are they so insecure in their national identity that they can feel threatened by one man who said he was as Turkish as he was Armenian. Dink was Anatolian, he was from this country, whatever his religion might be. Wasn't Anatolia the crossroads of civilizations? Wasn't Dink a part of their history?

I waited more than a week to write about this atrocity. I was upset. I was scared. I thought of calling my dad and telling him not to use his first name in public. They would not know the difference. Something that doesn't sound "Turkish enough," might get him into trouble.

I saw pictures of Dink's daughter, bursting in pain. I missed my father. I called him. I told him about the pen. He said I would find it. He had a good feeling about it. I asked him about Dink and where it happened. "A few blocks from my old office," he confirmed. I told him my thoughts about using his name publicly. He laughed it off. "Nothing will happen," he said.

Maybe so. I read that neither the president, nor the prime minister attended Dink's funeral. Did they not feel safe? Did they not want to make a statement? Nothing will change if the powers to be do not respond beyond polished statements sent to the media.

Thousands of people took over the streets and walked in support though. They wished Dink's pen would write more, whether they read his column or not, whether they agreed with him or not.

The Landslide

2007-01-15T14:55:00.000-05:00

I changed my seat on the non-smoking section of Starbucks for the third time, as my friend went downstairs to get us some coffee. When in Istanbul, we preferred to meet in this joint rather than a more authentic place because every other corner was covered with a cloud of cigarette smoke. That's istanbul, that's how it smells. Poor neighborhoods, rich neighborhoods - they smell like cigarette smoke with dashes of onion, garlic, sweat and sometimes a mild string of lemon cologne. Though the Starbucks on the posh Nisbetiye Avenue was filled with hip smokers draped in grunge outfits, imported jeans and accompanied by the latest laptops.

We had first met in Philadelhia, while in school. He was getting a masters' in engineering and I was studying communicagtions. He seemed like an out of the box thinker, someone who methodically thinks through every angle and asks all sorts of questions. It was tiring to think along with him sometimes, but I found him quite entertaining. So we remained friends through jobs, cities and other life events. This time we were in an America-branded coffee shop with Near Eastern clientele choosing late over Turkish grind. We sat across from each other on large armchairs but leaned over the table to hear each others' stories. Mine was quick: potential to change jobs, love interests, death of a grandparent, aging parents, aging self..."But never mind me, how are you?" I asked.

He danced around with short stories about his projects, his home improvement troubles and his film-making adventures. when I asked if he was continuing his travels to his father's city, he revealed his real job back in Turkey. Between contractors, family members, lawyers, real estate specialists, city officials and half-way records of their properties, he was sorting through a series of land disputes. The small consultancy, the plans to import goods to Turkey were all true but duty to the family was above all else. He told me how he was worried about his father and we both agreed that there could not be a better condidate but him to help sort out the mess.

He used to laugh things off and look at them on the lighter side. This was new. This was foreign -- at least to me. Underneath his highly educated, big city, mature adult layers he was showing an unshakable fist. A logic that was far from the individualistic American self, which is concerned about relations between himself and the rest, he acted as part of a family, as a son. His duty was to his parents, his fatherlands and hence to himself. This is why he had packed his life in New York and moved to Turkey. This is why he scoffed away many jobs after the company that employed him in the States went under. This is why he spent hours downloading music, doing imprv before his return. As the only child, the only son and the only one truly capable of helping out his family, he knew he needed to go back and help claim their own. He once told me he resented the idea that his children might grow up not speaking their ancestors' language properly. Maybe so. Deep down, he knew he was needed back home. His own aspirations followed a course set by the family. He agreed and followed. (Makes me wonder whether I would feel as comfotable staying in New York, had it not been for my parents' selfless encouragement to seek a future outside the country.)

I listened to the elevator versions of his intricate land dealings for over an hour. Seeing that it was getting late, I asked if he could please walk me home. On the way back, we chit-chatted about everyday things. We hugged good-bye and he dived back into the narrow side street to hail a cab. As I made my way to our floor, I realized I was visiting but this was home to him. He was not going to let anyone shift the land under his feet.

I gently turned the key to open the apartment's door. I found my parents watching TV in the living room. "Did you feel the eathquake?" they asked. "No," I replied baffled. "4.2! It was a slight one. You may not have felt the land slide," said my dad calmly. He continued to flip through the satellite TV channels, mumbling that he was bored of hearing the same news he wanted to see what else was going on around the world.

We were far from the campus and this was no locust walk. I was visiting but this was home to him

I hope you left your personal space behind

2007-01-07T23:35:00.000-05:00

No personal space - that's essentially the rule when you come home to Istanbul. My mom wakes me up. I take a while to open my eyes (10 minutes.) She cuddles and kisses me. I give in and get up. As I make my way to the bathroom, my dad rushes ahead of me and darts in saying he forgot to get some medicine from the cabinet. I start whining but he reassures me that it will be a nanosecond. I close the door and head to the shower. My brother knocks on the door. "How many minutes will you be?" "MANY!" I scream back. He says something in return but I cannot hear thanks to running water.

It never stops. When I am reading, when I am watching TV, when I am leaving the house: "What are you doing? Where are you going? Can I pass through here to go to the balcony?" We are a family of four in a four-bedroom apartment. On average, there are three people per room. Combinations change, the number may go up or down by one for a fifteen-minute interlude yet essentially we live as a crowd.

Wasn't this what I wanted? A bit warmth? Some interaction, with much more love and stronger feelings? Perhaps my mom was right. I've become too accustomed to living on my own. "You've become Americanized," she says. Who's to say no?

On The Edge of Bosphorous

2007-01-07T23:10:00.000-05:00

I crossed the street in front of my grandfather's apartment building and hopped on the car's front street. We zoomed down the hill, rushing to the water. Unbelievable for Istanbul, there was no traffic. Soon we were in "Bebek" - the most curvacious, baby-like neighbourhood by the strait separating Europe from Asia.

While looking for a spot to park the car, I reversed my friend's interrogations about my life in the States and asked how she was doing. She said she could not find many people that suited her mindset -- forget about men, she added. I told her to sign up online and consider meeting expats or people who live abroad. She replied, saying she didn't want to leave far from her family again and she could not ask anyone to uproot themselves for her. I asked, "Why not?"

"Noone would come," she answered. "It's really bad here. The politics, the economy, social conflicts." Her words were in stark contrast to another friend with whom I had met the day before. He seemed quite content - recently promoted, eager to get his share of the growing finance sector, tracking clients even while having lunch. Depends on your point of view and social background, I guess.

"Right, I can imagine," I said. "You just became aware of this?" I could not believe that it was taking her so long to see the rise of fundamentalism, the emergence of a new middle class largely consisting of pious entrepreneurs, liquidating small businesses, folks retiring at 50 some, young adults working for peanuts...

As we hashed out current events, the water cut us off. We stopped by the curb to look at the amazing view - the boats, irregularly spread houses, the lights, green-black moss and the seagulls. We left the car keys with a valet and followed a narrow trail to a level below the street. After a small left turn, we came upon "Ashk Cafe," meaning love cafe. We passed through the smokers, hubbled around heat lamps and plunked on cushy divans by clean, white-framed windows.

Dusk settled slowly. Boats were passing by, lights coming on in fives and tens. The waiter brought our teas. We chatted and looked onto the Bosphorous from the last corner of Istanbul left to us.

Have Some Respect for My Tree!

2006-11-26T14:55:00.000-05:00

Low lights, good Moroccan food, belly dancers twirling around us at Le Souk. Reych, Kat and I are hovered over the low table sipping drinks, stuffing our faces and discussing the usual - relationships. When speaking of reconcilable differences, the word somehow came around to the fact that my family, who are Turkish Jews, put up a plastic tree every new year's and exchange gifts as the clock hits midnight. Was this a weird habit of my family's? Would it continue if I shared a house with a Jewish man? I drafted a mini lecture on the spot:

Santa Claus is no stranger to Turkey, in fact he was born in Anatolia. Yet, admittedly the tree and the gift exchange is something more common among middle to upper-middle, cosmopolitan circles - be it a Jewish, Christian or Muslim household. Foreigners visiting Istanbul for the two weeks before new year's eve may be shocked to see lotteries, TV programs, shops branded by amiable images of "Noel Baba." He is usually accompanied by stacks of gift boxes encouraging everyone to max their credit cards. Some might call it global marketing, some might point to the city's Greek residents and tradition of religious tolerance. I'd say a harmless ritual that overlaps with other "European" habits. Don't you want a gift??

Kat nodded, Reych was intrigued but unconvinced. So, she said, raising the stakes higher. "If you had to choose between a man (she said something more direct, but dear reader, I leave it to your imagination) and the tree, which would you choose?" she asked. I screamed "The TREEEE!" as I slapped my knee with the frustration of not being understood. Kat almost rolled off her chair with laughter, breaking into a dance routine representing the moment and singing, "I want my tree! I want my tree!"

"You don't understand. It's not just a stupid tree, it is something that's part of my culture. He cannot accept the tree, he limits me. I cannot continue the rituals that make me happy. I feel resticted. If he feels threatened by the presence of something that's at most symbolic of blessings for the new year, then so be it," I said raising my voice above the music. "Really?" asked Reych unable to believe what I would give up instead. "It's a matter of principle!" I screamed and looked over to Kat for assurance. She nodded, understanding and perhaps feeling relieved that she and her man were both OK with trees. Reych pulled a "Wow," saluting my uncomprimising act. "Cheers to the tree," she raised her glass.

The bellydancer approached our table and we clapped our hands in loud cheer. "Habiiiibiii, Habiiibiii," the singer crooned. None of us cared what the origin of the song was; we didn't understand the language. We gave in to the rhythm, knowing well that it was just fun.

From Bueons Aires to South Carolina via Hatay

2006-11-24T13:30:00.000-05:00

Almost everyone in my social circle emails, IMs and texts like mad keyboard artists, leaving only some time to in-person conversations. We're so connected and yet so separated. As the Bob Dylan song goes, I want "one more cup of coffee." I want the sobre-mesa chat where we linger at the table enjoying each other's company, avoiding to rush. Take a moment to talk and understand the other one. Be interested in their stories.

Gaston and I emailed each other over the years as colleagues. I published in New York, he pushed the knowledge to journalists in Buenos Aires. He wrote, I called. He called, I wrote back. I had no idea who he was, what he looked like. One day I got a note from him saying he was leaving the company and thanking me and my colleagues for being the wind beneath his wings. (Love the poetry and feverish sentimentality of Latin style talkin'.)

Then things started getting fun. Gaston kept emailing and I started getting links to YouTube videos, cartoons and coctail parties. I was in Turkey, he was in New York. I was in New York, he was in Buenos Aires. Finally, we ended up on the same square. Several years of e-friendship culminated in a meet-up at Barca 18 on Park Avenue. We quickly agreed on the list of things we liked and disliked. Tapas and bubbly drinks, yes. Men without good clothing taste and unkempt beards, no. His friends joined us. A childhood friend of Gaston, Julian, impressed me with his knowledge of Tarkan - of course, I showed him my mini collection on my ipod.

The stories extended to who knew who, who worked where and another friend who needed help looking for a job. He was also Turkish (from the southern city of Hatay) and could I talk to him? Yes, of course I said and met with Memo a week later. Memo was friendly and polite - a well-raised Turkish boy. Sipping our coffees, we discovered I shared the same alma mater with his cousin. We hugged while departing and promised we'd hang out again.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks, following a mild email and cell phone traffic, Julian, Memo and Memo's roommate Lisa -- a native of South Carolina -- found ourselves having early dinner in the Lower East. Conversation trickled. We ate and laughed. As Memo rushed to a second dinner get-together and Julian went off to his Brooklyn apartment, Lisa and I decided to watch the new Almodovar movie.

Sipping some post-dinner tea and waiting through the previews, Lisa in her captivating Southern droll told me about her time in Paris and her work in fashion. I learned about her family and her aspirations. It made me think back to my first job in New York and the youthful energy I had back then. I admired Lisa's curiousity in other cultures and languages. We hugged while parting and promised to stay in touch.

With just a few emails, but also with loads of trust, openness and genuinity I had had a journey from Latin America to Turkey's border with Syria and had flown back to the South. Only in New York, some might say. But I would say only with certain people who swing through borders.

32 and happy...

2006-11-23T00:37:00.000-05:00

Phones rang off the hook, but I was so lost in my itunes I didn't ever hear them. My brother on one, best friend on another wished me happy birthday - half teasing, half singing. What was I doing? Nothing different. But I am different. Older and bolder. Wiser and happier. Onward, forward with confidence. I like what I see in the mirror. I like who I am becoming.

Volver

2006-11-15T00:24:00.000-05:00

After slaloming through various hurdles, I am finally able to go home for the holidays. I bought my ticket and the countdown has begun. Already, everything seems easier - because America is less relevant in my eyes. I am already home. I start recalling my mom's face, my dad's organized living room and daily rituals. I am running up the two flights instead of taking the elevator to my grandpa's apartment. Body here, mind there.

Mahir It Is...

2006-11-07T22:47:00.000-05:00

Heyt! I broke the news to my humble circle of friends this weekend that Borat was a Mahir wannabe. Now the media is catching on. Check out the article in CNN and in E! Online.
What can I say? Go Mahir! Sue them (that's how they do it in America.) Don't let this be another one of those tragic national plagorism events (remember, they stole yogurt and hamburger - ekmek arasi kofte- from us.)

Borat is Turkish

2006-11-04T18:54:00.000-05:00

I am not sure why I didn't make the connection while watching all of the HBO series on Borat, but after being immersed in Sasha Cohen's raw humor world for two hours today something dawned on me: I knew him. I had seen him. That out-of-fashion cut suit, the naive perseverence, the delicate balance of manliness and awkwardness: It's not Borat, it's Mahir!! For those who have forgotten the "i kiss you" phenomenon, here is a reminder.

Happy Halloween!

2006-10-30T23:51:00.000-05:00

Halloween in the US is a cross-cultural experience in itself. For those of us born elsewhere, the idea of dressing up in experimental costumes that reflect an idea, super heros or former selves is not a very adult thing to do. But oh well, I have comfortably grown into the idea thanks to my awesome friends who vigilently throw wonderful costume parties and do not take in anyone who remotely resemble their natural ways. After spending so much time begin serious, focusing, (grinding teeth even), it's quite liberating to be silly.

This Saturday, I stayed on my couch in PJs amidst layers of winter catalogues, New York Times sections and pillows trying to gather the energy to get it going. When the church bells rung six times, I gathered it was time for some strong Turkish coffee and heavy-duty Halloween make up. I put on white tights, a simple skirt and an orange T-shirt bought from the Village that read "Hello...." I pasted my face in white, creamy paint, dipped my nose in yellow and pulled three black whiskers on each side of my face. Hair pulled back, bunny ears folded to cat-size, and a ribbon aptly decorating the left ear.

Confident that there would be other people in costumes, I grabbed my metro card and started my journey from Carroll Street to Forrest Hills - first party location. Until the subway reached Delancey, I got nothing but weird looks; as I was the only non-human looking creature in the car. One guy walked up to me and asked: "Are you a bunny?" No, I replied disappointed that my costume was not understood. "Are you a kitty cat?" Sort of I thought, but just said yes to get out of it. "Are you frisky?" he tried one last time to get my attention. "No," I said and cut him off.
I buried my face in the paper and ignored everyone else until the train got to Queens.

I got off at the 75th street stop and followed my friend's cryptic instructions. Hang a left, cross, look above, see sign but turn the other way... The streets were desolate, but well lit. I saw a mom and her two little daughters approach the intersection hand-in-hand. As they came close enough to see me, the girls started jumping up and down with joy and screamed "Hello Kitty!! Mom, look Hello Kitty!"

I knew I had it down.

Visits from Grandpa

2006-10-22T11:17:00.000-04:00

Memories of those who left come back unexpectedly. Their spirit spring from a box cracked open, covers pulled off a pile of old clothes, or even a room not visited before.

I checked into my hotel and took the elevator to the 12th floor. Slid the card in the door and pushed my luggage in. I threw everything on the second bed and made my way to the bathroom to wash up. After several trials, I found the right switches and turned on the lights. My eyes scanned the place - the tub, the sink, the shower and there seemed to be a second shower. How lavish... or is it for something else?

I stepped into the grand shower room, thinking it was bigger than my little alcove at home. Then I noticed the handicapped seat and bar to assist those who might be in a wheelchair.

The last time I had seen a set up like this was when my grandfather was in the hospital. He could not walk, he could not eat. Moving to take a bath was excrutiatingly painful for him. He was almost finished.

I turned off the lights, pulled the bathroom door behind me and went back into the suite. I called my brother to let him know that I arrived. He picked up the phone in a good mood. I asked him how he was doing and he said "I'm making pickles." I thought of my brother's tiny studio in Montreal and his mock kitchen embedded in the wall next to his living area. "How in the world do you find the space to do it?" I asked, imagining him surrounded by gallons of water, salt containers and pounds of cucumbers and tomatoes.

"I am managing," he said. "Since Grandpa can no longer make them, somebody needs to continue the tradition. " I thought back to the large jars of pickles we would carry back from my grandfather's house to ours in Istanbul. They lasted a whole winter. We always made sure to have a bite before dinner as mom set the table and protested saying that we were not going to have enough appetite for the actual meal.

When I understood that my grandfather was not going to get well, I wrote an entry into my diary titled "No More Pickles." I did not know then, but I would get unexpected visits from him. In a hotel room, over the phone from Montreal...in an ever evolving time capsule.

Love Seeps Through, At Last!

2006-09-27T23:04:00.000-04:00

Words abuzz in my head. 2007 budget plan, research, meetings, do I have a 9Am tomorrow? Expenses, investments, here's some revenue...Waiting for people to get back to me, waiting for the subway, waiting for the next big thing. Rushing, running out of breath...Aching feet, running out of breath. I have 20 minutes to get ready. I can squeeze in another slide. My neck feels tight. Must schedule massage appointment.

OK, time to get ready. Take off the PJs, find the dress. Where the hell did I hang it? My mom is right, I have too many clothes. I found the shawl and the bolero. Where is the dress? Never mind, jump into the shower, think where you last saw the brown evening gown while conditioning hair. I am dripping on the hardwood floors. Here it is! Behind the long coat, that's why I didn't see it. Let's get into it. Is it too tight? Shimmy, shimmy, shimmy... ok, it sits fine now on my waist. Tie it in the back. No, untie that ribbon, the necklace is caught in it. 10 minutes left and the car will be here. Rush, rush, rush. Don't make the girl wait downstairs. She is nice enough to give you a ride. Makeup! I need to put on some lipstick. Spray glue on the hair. Eliminate frizz. No chance, it might rain again. Forget hair glue, it will make it stickier.

Phone rings. Don't answer it, you don't have time to chat. Eeek, do I need stockings? Not with those shoes. Where is the other one? I cannot find the other pair. It fell in the back of the shoe cabinet. Reach in but do not scratch the ring. Here we go. I can do anything on my own. Don't need help. Well, maybe some...Is that her honking downstairs? OK, I'm coming down! Where are the keys? Shoot! Ah, they're in my purse. Amazing, I must have planned ahead.

Go down the stairs one by one, careful, don't catch your trail with the heels. Smile and maybe she'll forget about waiting in the car. Pull out the map and offer help to get on the BQE. Drive, drive, drive. Leave the car in the valet's care. Don't worry about the bag left in the car, you can always go back.

Enter reception hall. Sit and wait and talk and walk and say hello and sit and wait and look around. They announced the ceremony. Proceed to the gazebo area. Grab a chair in the sun, you left the bolero in the car. That's the groom walking down the aisle with his parents. Hold your breath, do not cry. They went through so much to get there. You heard all about it, watched it as they went along their journey. There is the bride! She is sobbing. OK, time to whip out the kleenex batch; otherwise makeup will run.

They meet at the altar. They ignore the rabii's caution not to touch each other before getting married. They say words of commitment, pure, raw emotion. And they kiss, with hands cusping each other's face, locking into an eternal figure eight. Ahhh, love...finally.

Bu da Gecer Yahu - This Too Shall Pass

2006-09-06T00:21:00.000-04:00

I had an odd day, beginning with a complaint from my friend cited below saying she was not so miserable - indeed, she was strong and standing tall unlike I described below. But she did cry when she read the entry. It's nerves, not weakness, I agree. (Why do people say they cry when they read my write-ups? I am aspiring to be a humorist, must change angle or something.) To set the record straight, I do believe she is one of the most resilient people I have met who has endured much more.

All that is left to say in times like this is the good old Istanbul saying "bu da gecer yahu," meaning "this too shall pass." To manage the ups and downs of the unknown, to build courage and to believe that they would see the light at the end of the tunnel, Istanbulis would buy small frames with this writing on it and hang it in their offices, living rooms, bedrooms...wherever darkness may hit until dawn cracks again.

Looking for Home in a Man

2006-09-04T23:44:00.000-04:00

My friend cried to me over the phone, "...but I valued him so much, and I still do think he is a decent person, I just cannot understand how he didn't value me back." The shock of breakup had knocked her silly. She still tried to see the good in him, to justify her dreams for wanting to be with him for the long term.

Love wounds stink! Especially if they are opened by someone whom you trade in for family, friends and in this case homecountry. They had been friends since 6th grade back in Turkey. He shared a classroom with her, wishing he could be so lucky to go out with her. When bumping into each other in New York, they shared a few weeks of intense romance--after which he chose reclusivity with complete disregard for her feelings and no intention to explain himself. Within the space of a week, she went from having a partner who spoke her language, enjoyed the same cuisine, understood her subtle jokes to facing a brick wall that would not budge. She thought she had found a new home in her newfound city, but she was left in the cold.

My advice? Enjoy the people of New York! There are many here who share the same ideals and agree to treat others the same even if they come from different backgrounds. True, there may be cultural variences between: (Without getting too deep into stereotypes and speaking solely from personal experience) Someone may seem a bit reserved but polite, because they were educated by the British. Anoter may tell tall tales of how sweet you are, because compliments are part of the male dialect in Latin America. And some may just feel compelled to share their food with you because in North Africa, that's just what they do.

Why chase those who do not have time to send back an email or pick up the phone, when there are so many who are ready to take you to the salsa floor? And if someone reminds you of home, it should be because they protect you like a father, stand by you like a brother and love you like a mother. Speaking the same language, alma mater or hometown unfortunately doesn't guarantee dedicated love.

Fusion Happens

2006-08-23T00:11:00.000-04:00

My new sitepal features a little something for meditation and inspiration...Click on the play button to hear "Pensando en Ti," a collaboration of Maria Toledo, Jose Luis Monton and Hossam Ramzy.

Us vs. Them

2006-08-20T22:40:00.000-04:00

I had thought long and hard about what it meant to be assimilated when writing my college thesis. Working on a sociological study on Turkish Jews' phases of development, I was trying to figure out what had happened to me, to my family and what might happen to those in the community who choose to stay in Turkey. One of the conclusions of the study was that there were two facets of assimilation: the individual saw himself/herself as part of the larger community; while the larger community saw the individual as part of itself. In my individual case, I saw myself as part of Turkish society while some saw me as a guest of 500 plus years, from a foreign background. The whole didn't accept the individual, while the individual held onto the red flag with crescent and star (and still does.)

I had long forgotten about the random comments I would hear about being Jewish in a largely Muslim country and already dismissed those who had called me "kafir" to my face from my memory. (Kafir is a deragotary term, meaning faithless for lack of a better translation.) Yet, I had a rude awakening this morning. Perusing through postings in my highschool's graduates discussion group, I noticed an entry titled "antisemtisim - enough!" There had been heated discussions about the war between Israel and Lebanon and the variances in Turkish public sentiment towards the conflict. The arguement had somehow twisted into a test of Turkish Jews' allegiance to the Turkish state. Anger and frustration flared from postings written by Jewish and Muslim Turkish members. One Jewish graduate currently living in Israel presented his adopted country as a civilized place trying to defend its borders and the civilization therein. He got accused of being too ethnocentric. Another one living in Istanbul literally cursed out the situation and claimed he had friends who were just ready to take off and leave Turkey behind. The cut-throat response to all this brouhaha came from a '70s graduate: "If you so want to leave, the border is this way!" he summoned in nothing less than a cocky voice.

I plunged in, identifying myself as a secular, modern-thinking Jew who is also a Turkish citizen. I condemned those who thought in terms of us vs. them. I told Mr. Border Patrol to re-read the constitution's amendments on equality of religion and ethnicity. I told all readers if they so wish, they can get a copy of my undergrad thesis. A handful of people contacted me, asking for it. Among the first were a thoughtful '68 graduate who now lives in LA (who is Muslim) and the Jewish graduate settled in Israel.

I am sure (I hope!) there were others who were also bothered by the tone and direction of the discussion. Maybe some shrugged it off as highschool bs or armchair politics. How about simply tasteless?

Living abroad for 14 years, I often get the question if I am ever to go back. How can I go back to this? Could the same discussion take place in the US? Can you imagine certain interest groups asking 15th generation Americans to take a hike to the other side of the border?

The reality is that I will never belong. I will be a naturalized US citizen someday. People will hear a tint of an accent and stuggle to pronounce my name. They will ask me its origin. I will say, "I am Turkish." Meanwhile, somewhere over in Turkey, some pompous fanatic will beat his chest and say "if they loved it so much, they would have stayed." Yup, I am part of them.

Early Flight

2006-08-15T23:01:00.000-04:00

I twisted in bed until 3:30AM last night, worried that we would not wake up by 3:45AM. Then the light in the den came on. I called out for my brother, asking if he were awake. (Who turned on the light? Magic hands?) No response. I got up to see what he was up to. Standing in the middle of the kitchen with a face begging to get back to sleep, he said "There is a big bug in the middle of your kitchen. I don't want to do anything to stain the carpet." I saw the crawling visitor from the corner of my eye as I ran back to my room and screamed "Get rid of it! Screw the carpet!!" He complained that I was making him late for the car, but still reached for his shoe and banged it on the water bug. After folding a kitchen towel four folds and leaning down to pick up his work, he stopped for a moment. "It's still wiggling. I think it's alive." I didn't dare diagnose. I pleaded that he finish it off. He complained under his breath as he finally picked up the mess and slowly moved to the trash bin, wishing he were dreaming instead.

What was I going to do without him? And more importantly, how was he going to do it all on his own? He was to fly off to Montreal in a few hours and find his way around to his temporary apartment. Would he be able to find a decent place on his own? He had never picked anything more than a gift before. (That's not true, he managed many clients at work. That's decent experience. He can identify a clean place with a doorman.) What if he gets lonely? He doesn't really know anyone in the city. (OK, this is the dude who used to have two birthday parties a year. One for summer, one for winter friends. You think he has a problem socializing?) Did he enjoy his birthday dinner? (He pulled desert on top of all-you-can-eat sushi. I think so.)

"OK, I am going to start bringing my suitcases down," he told me as I laid on the couch I had just folded back. I so wished to open it for him again tonight. But the sheets were already in the laundry bag. Too late. He needs to go. I heard him speed down the wooden stairs, plunking one bag after another on the floor. His 6'4" frame appeared again to grab his carry on. "Do you have your passport?" I asked. "Yes," he patted the front pocket of his bag. "Tickets?" Of course, he rolled his eyes. I needed to go down my list to make sure he would make it there and back: "Keys? You have keys to my apartment? The ones with the keychain I got you?" He reached into his pocket and jingled them. "Hear them?"

I kissed him on both cheeks, rubbed his back. He told me to go back to sleep and closed the door behind him. I ran to the window. The car was there. The driver was walking towards the stoop to grab the luggage. My brother got in the car, but I couldn't see him wave because of the tree in front of the window. They sped off as if JFK was a fleeting balloon.

I got back in bed, my heart pulpitating a thousand miles an hour. I waited for sleep until 5:30 AM. I sprung out of the bed, running to the ringing phone. "Hey, I just wanted to make sure you could wake up in time for work. I am at the gate, don't worry about me," he said. "Goodie," I said. I wished him a safe trip. "I'll be fine," I lied. "Gotta run," he said and took off to his new life.

Blast from The Past

2006-08-13T19:47:00.000-04:00

Practical jokes would pop up without warning, bizarre nicknames and lewd comments would fly like bullets whenever my brother and I were in the same room. I would seemingly get mad, but secretly crack up at his well-crafted insults. My parents would watch us go back and forth, in despair. "When are you two going to grow up?" they would lament. Ignoring their anguish, we'd continue commenting full speed about which one of us was more intelligent, ridiculous, or annoying. He'd test how bad his socks smelled pushing them up my nose, pour salt in my coffee while I looked elsewhere and pretend to have mono when I asked him to do the smallest thing for me.

His recent stay at my apartment proved that our relationship took a different turn. We watched a couple of movies together, went out several times to restaurants, met up with his friends and had a pretty decent time. I told him to please try to be neat, he said he would consider. He said he was getting hungry, we cooked a meal together. He fell asleep on the couch, I made his bed. I dropped off the laundry, he picked it up. After 25 years of tic-tac-toe, we were finally in sync but also very boring.

I offered him a guest spot on my "sitepal." After some mild resistence, three recordings mixed with giggles and one cell phone ring disrupting our childish fun, we loaded up what you see on the upper-right hand side this week. Of course, the phrase he's trying to teach my visitors is slang and offensive, but it's still comforting to hear that he hasn't lost his edge.

Sunday Politics

2006-08-06T22:36:00.000-04:00

I took Nadush to the Petit Cafe behind my house. We found a nook between the display oranges and lemons. We ordered the same salad and started catching up after not seeing each other for couple of months. Between her young baby, my work and travel, life had gotten ahead of us. I knew that her younger brother had made it back to France from Lebanon. Her parents and an older sibling and his family were still there though. I asked how they were doing. She rolled her eyes in a way that showed both helplessness and acceptance of the way things are. She told me about her uncle's near escape from death, the hospitals shutting down and the collapsed bridges. I listened with empathy, wondering if she realized I had family in the Israeli army.

With each interruptions from the waiter, asking how we were doing we switched topics and felt better and better. We left for the park.

While lying under the sun, conversation was about the ephemeral: beauty tips, suburban living, friends and pet dramas. I was amazed how she could distract herself with life in New York. When I was younger, I would read about beauty contests taking place in the midst of Yugoslavian civil war. Miss Sarajevo, first runner up, second runner up ... Lying on our mats, focusing solely on our tans, we were just as removed from reality. Was this the strength of survivors? Did people shift their minds to small, inconsequential events to numb their pain and shake away their worries?

I told her about the New York Times magazine story I read about the Israeli mother who draws a parallel between the number of people dying on both sides of the border and her little son's quest to learn to count. She looked down with a bitter smile, chose not to speak. She yanked some grass and tossed it to the side. She had lived through it and she was going through it again. I was, at best, producing armchair politics.

We rolled up when the clouds came over our bright sun. Walking down the main street, we pointed each other brownstones we liked and exchanged fantasies about living in multi-million homes. Before she got in her car, we goofed about how many times to kiss on the cheek. We decided to upgrade from both cheeks to three kisses. Why not? It's warmer, nicer that way.

Summertime - Not Exactly Gershwin Style

2006-08-05T13:14:00.000-04:00

I am sitting at the cross-section of my two powerful fans and Pinguino AC. The heat is more bearable today. I started waiting for my brother's arrival. Seems like I am always waiting for him. To be born, to show up, to get it going...Five more days and he'll be in the States. He'll plant himself in the middle of my apartment, cook his favorite fish dishes while I am at work and air out the place in mild panic so I do not complain.

Then he'll move onto a new country he has never been before. Mainly following his head and the family's advice. Not sure if his heart is fully in it. But he'll make Montreal his own, until he finds his next home.

Simon Says...

2006-07-30T21:38:00.000-04:00

As I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge last midnight in a cab, my grandpa's memory flashed beside me. I knew he was suffering in his sick bed in Istanbul. I knew his death was imminent. I knew he had lost his connection with us and much else. But I still wanted him to hold on -- I was not used to the idea of not passing Dominican cigars to him, not hearing my dad checking on him every night, not carrying jars of pickles from his house to ours.

I checked my watch. 7:30AM in Istanbul. I would call in the morning to see how his morning was. I did not have the courage to talk to him. I wanted to remember him like I always knew him: stong and independent with the driest sense of humor in the world. I feared the wheezing sound of his chest, his short-stopped breath and his painful cries as nurses moved him from side to side.

I woke up at 9:00Am in New York. I kept my eyes semi-shut as I made my way to the bathroom. I didn't want to wake up just yet. I could go back to that lull phase and have a few more nonsensical dreams. I slid back under covers. The air-conditioner was getting louder by each tick-tock from my watch. I was sleeping in a boat's engine room. No use in staying here, I thought. I needed to get up and start folding clothes that I had carelessly thrown around throughout the week. Did I want eggs? I had stocked on skim milk finally. Maybe coffee and cereal? I needed to be in the city by noon. OK, let's give it another shot.

10:25AM. I was passing by the phone as it rang. I hoped with all my heart that it was my friend Rachel asking me how the hell we were going to get to this midday birthday party on the beach. She was not the type unable to find her way around, but she may have wanted to double check if I were coming. It was not her.

I knew it before I heard my father's voice. My grandpa had passed away five minutes ago. I was amazingly collected at first. I had been crying on and off for the past three months anyhow. But I still had something left in me. My dad's consolations were useless. I knew grandpa had to go, but that didn't mean I was going to miss him any less.

I dialed my mom's cell. She was at the hospital, newly orphaned. She told me to be reasonable and not to come. I could not make it to the funeral. It would be crazy to fly such a long way. I was too weak and cowardly, so I said "OK."

I'll be awake tomorrow at 7:00AM. That's when my grandfather's funeral will start in Istanbul, 2PM. I will wait in my living room until the procession reaches the Jewish cemetry in Ulus. After they lay him down, I will leave my apartment. I will go down four flights of stairs, together with his caskett. I will go underground in the subway, as they cover him with soil.

Simon Sofer - lived a full 85 years of life starting in Bucharest, ending in Istanbul. He came to Turkey at 18, escaping from the horrors of WWII. Met his green-eyed bride Ida and went off to the army for four years. He worked hard all his life and provided for his family. His two daughters were the apples of his eyes. He toured Baghdad Street on the Asian side of town on his 1950s Vespa, with his grandchildren in tow. He barbequed for 10 at a time, with oregano and a tinge of onion meshed into marinated red meat. He was a master of crossword puzzles, sharp as he was. A pipe smoker who knew how to have "keyf" and a man with direct words who didn't beat around the bush. I loved him very much. He was Dede because he was my mother's father and he was my Buyukbaba because he resembled Heidi's grandpa in that 70's cartoon show.

Simon would always joke about the time he would go to Patagonia; the end of the world for him. Simon says, it's time to go.

Little Nutsa

2006-07-20T23:41:00.000-04:00

I watched passengers flock to their seats with such haste that one might have thought none of them had assigned seats. Bags resisting to squeeze into overhead compartments, screaming kids, separated couples arguing with stewardesses to sit together...Despite the brouhaha, my row was pretty quiet. Could I be so lucky as to fly solo for the next 10 hours? Not so fast. A little hand nudged my shoulder. I turned around and saw a little girl with thick, wavy red hair motioning to get to the window seat. I recognized her from the waiting lounge. She had opened her arms like wings and pretended to fly relentlessly up and down the window curbs as we waited to board. Great, now this energy ball was going to be my travel companion.

But where was her mother? Was she alone? Hi, I said to warm things up. She smiled and said hello with an accent I could not immediately recognize. Where is your Mom, I asked. In America, she carefully replied. And so our hours worth of conversation began. She was eight, wait she had just turned nine. She had not seen her mother in seven years and the lady sitting in the back was a family friend taking her to finally unite with her mother.

She asked my age. When I told her, her broken English got replaced with a long, bouncy "wooow!" learned from subtitled movies. Then we exchanged names, countries, sibling stories, make up and drawings. We finished all the puzzles in her activity book. She listened to my iPod and asked if she could buy it in America. She would tell her mother to buy it for her. Her mother would do anything for her, she was convinced.

Between the in-flight TV show and the meal she picked through, she fell asleep. She had woken up in Tiblisi that morning - very, very early. She could not show Istanbul on the map but she knew she had been there so that she could take this flight to New York. She didn't know exactly where she was going to live but she was told her new friends may not speak Georgian or Russian like she did. Only English from here on!

She got restless between the 7th and the 8th hour. Much to my cautionary remarks, she explored the light and stewardess call buttons on and off, on and off. Our seats flickered like a bar in the dark aircraft and we got Pepsi delivered five times more than anyone else around. Hey, traveling with little Nutsa was funnn!

As we started to descend, I begged her to get down from the little mountain she had created with our pillows and blankets on her seat. I suggested she looks out the window to see America. She was thrilled with the idea. She threw her pink and blue pile down and pressed her face on the window. The clouds were letting through some green brown land. No houses or cars were in sight yet.

"This is America?" she asked, holding her breath for my answer. Yes, I nodded. She let out a little cry, blushed and went back to the window for a second look. She turned back suddenly and gave me such a tight hug that my idle arms snapped to my chest. She pulled back with reddish cheeks stealing the glow from her Barbie makeup. "This is America! My mother here," she screamed pulling her T-shirt down to her knees almost to cover her excitement.

I could not say a word. I watched her transcend.

You're Beautiful, Don't Pay, Please...

2006-06-04T23:19:00.000-04:00

I slid to the backseat and told him to take me to Brooklyn. He met my gaze in the rearview mirror and continued talking on his cell. Was that Georgian? Armenian? No...maybe....not really. I checked his name on the license slid behind the plastic separator. Couldn't make it out and didn't force it -- but he noticed my suttle inspection. I sunk back in the seat, trying to make out his words in the hope to catch something familiar. Finally he hung up. Silence...rain...lights...people carrying Sunday evening take out, dragging their heels up brownstone stoops..."What language were you speaking?" I finally blurted. "Persian," he replied with a full smile. I recognize the sentiment: he is proud of where he comes from, he wants to share, he wants to offer part of himself. "That's nice," I delay exchange. "You know it?" he asks. "I'm Turkish, yes..." Before I have a chance to explain, he jumps in saying they have a lot of words from Turkish in his language. I return the complement by telling him about the Farsi poetry I memorized in high school. We find common words between the two languages: Carsamba, Persembe...Wednesday, Thursday. He says all people he meets from Turkey are nice people. I ask him if he goes back to Iran. He explains he is from Afghanistan and speaks a pure dialect of Persian. Parents, sisters all spread to different countries; whoever gave them refugee status when the Soviets broke in. He knows of Rumi, Hayyam. His language is fast-paced, plain but thoughtful. I almost think he is cute. I notice the neatly shaved neck line and salt and pepper sideburns. We arrive. He pulls to the curb. I go into my purse to find my wallet. He stops me short: "Please, this one is on me." I insist on paying, sweetly, gently. I do not want to cost him that much. "No," he says like a gentleman. "In our parts of the world you know...it's from me to you.OK?" I agree to take the kindness. I understand this makes him feel better than earning money. "Are you sure? OK," I say. I notice he extended his hand from the separator. I meet his palm. It's soft. Not too firm as if trying to impress, but gentle like a timid soul. His eyes are fully on me. "I am Walid, what's your name?" he asks. I tell him and he gets it in one take. "Good night," he says. "You're beautiful," he springs his head closer to the window between us. I can't help but giggle. I appreciate it - really, I do. He blows me a kiss and waits until I find my way through the gate.

La Turquie, je t'aime!!

2006-05-28T17:13:00.000-04:00

I idly surfed the French consulate's Web site. Click here, click there. No help. All information, no invitation. I twisted in anger when thinking how easy it was to 'compete globally' with an American passport. Turks were clearly not wanted in the EU. What's this "contact us" link. Vous etes uncontactable!! You understand? I clicked by habit, not out of faith. Scroll, scroll, see if there is anything nouveau. Press and communication office - how in-te-rest-ing...if anyone picks up the phone, it will be these guys. I called with one ear on the receiver, the other on the desk. I was tired of hearing the same automated answering machine for the past five days. Oh-la-la, someone picked up. Yes, you'll help me? Because you understand I need to do my job? That's the fax for the visa chief? Merci beaucoup. Milles mercis.

I typed up the fax in a haste, begging, crying, pleading for a visa. Two days later, my office phone rang. An amusing voice, uttering a mix of Turkish and French:
"Allow? Vous-etes Mimi? Nasilsiniz? Hah haa haa!"
Hah haa indeed, how did he speak Turkish? Was this a prank?
No joke, the chief of the visa section had served many years in Istanbul. He was not only fluent in Turkish, but also shared a passion for the country and its people.
"Wednesday, 9AM. Venez-ici and we will see."
Ah, la Turquie - je t'aime! My people, my country, saved me again. No matter what the political restrictions might be, humanity reigned above it all.

Lining up at the Consulate

2006-05-14T00:20:00.000-04:00

I am trying to get a visa to attend a meeting in Europe for the past several days. Out of respect for the country and culture, I will withold the exact location of the embassy. It has been a learning experience for those in the office. First of all, they are stunned that I need something beyond a passport to go to a foreign country (yup, I need a visa to cross the street - green card, schmreen card.) Then, they are confused as to why I cannot just show a letter from the company to the "guy at the border." Well, the embassy is not making things easier either. I need to sign up to get an appointment to apply for the visa in person. No appointments available until several weeks after my meeting. So, I will sit back in the office, as a global-minded individual, working for a global firm, unable to compete or participate at a global level. Shame on whomever!

Happy Passover Yow!

2006-04-12T09:29:00.000-04:00

I do not need to say much. Just click and enjoy.

http://shabot6000.com/sedaclub/

Fire Verdik!

2006-04-01T19:47:00.000-05:00

That's how the Turkish saying goes, when you lose a crew member. And those were the exact words of a friend talking about someone we know in common who decided to move from New York back to her homecountry on a whim. She was tired. She missed her home, her city, her mother. She was about to get pushed into yet another big project at work. And she blurted out, "Stop!"

She packed her bags, tidied up her apartment and left in a week - just like that! I wonder if she is happy now. Is she more light-hearted? Does she feel more free? Does she feel like she has more opportunities -- and most importantly more love?

Those of us left behind look over our shoulders to where she is now and ask ourselves, "Will that be me one day?" We are scared of what the future might hold for us as we go back and forth between homelands and adopted lands. Should we also make the jump? Will it be all right?

Clueless Democrats

2006-03-14T22:41:00.000-05:00

I came to this country to raise my voice. Not just by voting, but making a solid contribution to the way decisions are made. Ever since I felt this was my home, I vowed to myself that when I would become a citizen, I would immediately register as a Democrat voter and volunteer for the party as much as possible. Because it matters! If you live here, if you use the public system (education, transportation, city services) and if you pay taxes, you need to be responsible. You need to be involved.

Despite my noble intentions, I was recently embarassed in a conversation with a gentleman who was hoping to get involved in local politics. I asked him when his elections were coming up. (I thought it may be different by type of election and vary also depending on the socio-political agenda - as it does in my homecountry.) His jaw dropped open and then he collected himself enough to utter "November..." Gee, it's my birth month too! "It's always in November," he explained in a belittling voice. I deserved the condescending tone though. I lived here all this time and never realized the cyclical nature of elections. Imminent coups, fractured governments and dissolved cabinets had become such the norm for me that I didn't understand how stable the U.S. was. Heck, you can even time the elections!

Later in our conversation, I asked him if he knew that France had a two-tier election system. Or that in Italy they frequently called for elections and had a turbulent political scene. Or that Turkey was stricken with coalition cabinets until recently. He did not know. But he sure was involved in his hometown community. And that was a solid contribution indeed. I maintain my respect for his intentions.

Cherry Blossoms from DC

2006-03-14T22:31:00.000-05:00

I went to Washington DC on business. I didn't have time to breathe outside of conference halls. Dragging my tired heels, I took a cab to Union Station. A quiet Korean driver showed me the monuments on our way. He said, "Next week...cherry blossom festival...all this very beautiful," casting his hand over dry land on the road side. He then imitated how the trumpets would play, announcing the arrival of spring. He was on the mark with each note. I asked him if he played any instruments. "Yes, I play the trumpet," he answered. "How did you know?" he asked. "You had the right key," I smiled.

He carried my suitcase to the curb. He shook my hand handing him his tip. "Come next week...Call me when you come...It will be beautiful here," he assured.

Montreal, ca va :-)

2006-03-05T18:28:00.000-05:00

Those who know me would be more likely to associate me with Miami, than with any place that gets a flake of snow. But I must admit that my recent trip to Montreal taught me that it's not the climate that matters; it's the people. Connections keep us happy, hopeful, alive. Since the minute I got on the AirCanada flight, until the hour I left, Montreal's people touched me with sincere, warm gestures.

The cheerful, sweet lady sitting next to me on the plane shared her newspaper with me and then a portion of her life story. Delighted, I listened on. Her family had gone from Tiflis (Georgia) to Istanbul (!) and then to Israel and Canada. We even shared the same last name, so who knows, perhaps we had passed each other by in another lifetime or another era.

When I finished presenting at the conference, the colleagues who helped set up the event came up to kiss me on both cheeks. It felt quite refreshing to have the human touch, instead of the usual half-hearted hand shakes.

The woman who exchanged my U.S. dollars into Canadian dollars was from Alexandria. She said she wanted to see the art and history of Istanbul. I told her I wish I could have seen the infamous library of her city.

The cab driver, who politely asked me if I minded his blasting raggae music, gave me his email address when he heard my brother might be a regular of the city. OK, I do recognize his entrepreneurial spirit. But I also appreciate his initiative. A trusted contact is better than one that goes by unregistered.

Upon my return to the office, I thanked our group secretary for rushing the business cards I had left behind to my home. Funny enough, I used them only to make friends.

Loneliness

2006-03-02T23:31:00.000-05:00

How could I keep a blog about living abroad, away from your family and not mention loneliness? I am not talking about the obvious sadness that comes from being away from your homeland. I mean the loneliness you feel in your adopted home, when someone you have counted on as a friend and treated almost as your new family member fails you.

I am disappointed beyond words when friendships end for no good reason. When they just fizzle as if they had no character to begin with. (Whereas, you knew the relationship to be strong and the bond to be sincere.) There is honor in having a fight, saying "no more" outright. But when it's so dead that you do not even bother to bang the door, then the whole friendship feels fake, wasted, lofty...

"It's part of becoming an adult," another friends offers consolation. "We witness people go through life events, change, grow distant...It happens to all of us," she explains. Perhaps...

I remember the words of a wise girl I had met in college. I was so thankful for her friendship and sane advice amidst the storm of heavy-load classes, dormitory cliques and culture clashes that I told her I thought she was the best! She refused. "I do not want you to think of me that way," she said immediately. "Why?" I asked, surprised to hear someone reject the compliment of all compliments. "Because I will inevitably do something that will disappoint you. I do not want to fall short of your expectations. We all do, eventually," she said. Looking back, I know she was right. But so was I. She was pretty cool and gave sound advice.

Snow

2006-02-12T20:31:00.000-05:00

My dad checks the weather everyday and every night. Once for Istanbul, once for New York. Last week he got snowed in. And today, I'm inside--watching snow dust whirl over sunken Carroll gardens. White speckles fill the gaps between four-story brick buildings. My dad looks down on his street and sees cars covered in absolute white. I hear the shovels scratching stoops and sidewalks.

Soon, we will meet by the water. Sun will get in our eyes. We will brace the chilling Mediterranean and swim in blue, following each other.

"Va, Vis et Deviens" - "Live and Become"

2006-02-12T18:28:00.000-05:00

I watched a terrific movie at the Sephardic Film Festival in New York: Va, Vis et Deviens. The title translates as "Go, Live and Become." It is the story of an Ethiopian boy's journey from refugee camps in Sudan to Israel. Upon his arrival to the "promised land," he is adopted by a left-wing family whose origins go back to Morocco and Egypt. The film not only does a terrific job of highlighting modern day Israel's fissures (right-left, black-white, sephardic-ashkenaz and the Palestine conflict) but it also delves into the personal: mother-son, husband-wife, sibling rivalry, as well as the special connection grandchildren have with grandparents. In that regard, it is delivered like a mille-feuille--layer over layer. And it is a delight to uncover each, look deep in ourselves and ask where we stand on these issues of religion and race.

Here is a chance to read more about the movie and see what others have thought.

PS: Definitely bring a box of tissue.

Secret Passage

2006-02-05T14:22:00.000-05:00

Movies haunt me days after I watch them. I inevitably cry for the mistreated heros. I relive the scenes in my sleep. I mix poignant images from critical scenes with everyday subjects in front of my eyes. So, the fact that I am still thinking about Secret Passage comes as no surprise. This is an epoque piece, about two Spanish Jewish sisters who are forced to convert into Catholocism during the Spanish Inquisition. They leave their homeland (or borrowed land of well over 1,000 years) and move to Venice via Antwerp. They want to survive and live openly as Jews. No place in Europe will grant them that right, so they must move East to Istanbul -- where Jews live in peace with other ethnic groups and are allowed to practice their religion as long as they abide by the Ottoman governance.

The story invokes a romanticized image of Istanbul at the time, despite all that I know about the Ottoman "millet" system. My ancestors in Istanbul, like other ethnic minorities, were allowed to practice their religion but their clothing had to be certain material and color. Their houses could not be as tall as those in the majority. They could deal money but did not cultivate land or serve in the army. (For more on this topic, see Bernard Lewis's Jews of Islam.) Yet the past should be evaluated in the context of that era. It took states numerous stages of social evolutions to deliver today's idea of democracy and equality.

I fast-forward to 21st century. I visit Venice in awe. The sea brush over the city center in breathtaking waves. Tourists and pigeons galore. The canals are like lacework. We play pose-click-run with my brother on the bridges connecting old pieces of land. I pass by the gates of the Jewish ghetto and peek in. I walk halfway down the first street veering by the Holocaust memorial, but I turn back - scared to get swallowed by the roar of the past. I focus on the espresso, the sing-song of Italian and the artworks that spills on the streets.

I call my parents in Istanbul. As usual, they are complaining about the everyday oddities of living in Turkey. It's either the blackout in the middle of the day, the senseless drivers or the political situation. They are perhaps no different than other rational-minded Turks who want to live in a civilized, secular country without service outages and corruption.

I hang up to read the New York Times. I lean in to read the article about the new Israeli foreign minister. The daughter of hard-core zionists is not exactly repeating her parents' idelogical discourse. She is vying for a two-state solution to the Israel-Palestine conflict. She admits it's still about the same issue that has daunted Jews since the beginning of time. It's a matter of survival!

A Love-ly Story

2006-02-05T00:11:00.000-05:00

Isn't all romance unlikely? It takes many coincidences to align one after another for you to meet and be with someone who loves you deeply, unconditionally. My parents met when my father was on an unexpected break from his army duty, miles away from his post. I found an email in my inbox from that special singleton, who is now my boyfriend, right after I told myself that this would be the last time I would be checking messages in that account. But my friend Shiru's (I'm changing her name to protect her privacy) story beats it all.

More than 10 years ago, Shiru is touring New York in a bus full of Japanese tourists. They are out to Harlem to listen to some gospel music. As they pass in front of the Apollo Theatre, a woman passenger starts screaming, "Stop! Stop the bus! I want to see these paintings on the gates!" The bus driver indeed stops and the passengers step out to see the works of an eccentric muralist who has been painting the gates of 125th street from East to West end. Shiru gets out with the crowd and meets the artist. She doesn't talk much Enligsh back then, but somehow sparks flow between her and the localite. I am not sure if Shiru gets back on the bus or how she finds her way back to Harlem after that day. But today, she paints walls in Harlem and beyond, alongside her husband.

For Lewis

2006-01-16T17:57:00.000-05:00

Lewis was a dear soul. He worked with us and cheered us up with his stories. One would never know how sick he was. He never let on, with his upbeat outlook on life. I hear he took a turn for the worst last week and then passed away.

The term passing away suggests he was (or we are) here temporarily, just paying a visit. Not sure if I like the thought, since his voice is still ringing in my ears and I feel like he will poke his head in the door any minute now, asking me how it's going.

While his physical being may have come down to ashes, I feel that his spiritual self lives on. "I must not forget him, I must not forget him, I must not forget him," I tell myself going over his images in my mind. Otherwise, he will truely pass.

For me, he did not die. He is just a friend I have not heard from in a while.

Coming Back

2006-01-16T17:51:00.000-05:00

This past week was a whirlwind. So many phone calls, presentations, e-mails at work--I forgot that I even went on vacation. An Istanbuli friend who is tied up here asked me last night at dinner, "So how is Istanbul? Anything changed?" I told him the traffic was bad. He replied "What's new?" I said, "Some are taking advantage of their political positions," He rolled his eyes and said "Nothing has changed then..."

I am not so sure if somethings have not changed, if not lost all together. I do not recognize the same old routes any more. New, tall, tall buildings pop out of nowhere - in the most unexpected locations that used to be flat lands. Well, at least the coffee tastes the same and people are as easy going as ever. :-)

Istanbul

2005-12-20T22:41:00.000-05:00

I'm off to Istanbul tomorrow. My luggage is packed. Passport and ticket are in place. I lost my voice from chatting with my friends on the phone, wishing everyone a happy new year :-) I am already mentally there, who am I kidding? I closed the chapter of 2005 New York in my mind. I'm already in my parents' living room. I have so many people to see, not sure how it will all fit in.

Going to Istanbul is like diving into a dream. Swimming underwater, when noone else can disturb the moment. No phone calls, no access to email. Just floating from one familiar home to another, following the threads of well-worn streets.

I am sure things will have changed. My dad will have more gray hair, my mom will be taking more vitamins, my brother will be all decked up in his business suits--no longer a student. I'll walk by new storefronts, new restaurants, look for ways to go over highways that cross my shortcuts from ten, fifteen years ago. Who cares? I shall blend in within a day or so. 'Cause I am from there. I can rewrite my memories of Istanbul and reconstruct an idyllic city in my mind, the way I like, when I get back to New York.

American Dreams

2005-12-19T23:30:00.000-05:00

I want to introduce you to someone: Viktor, my dry cleaner. There are four dry cleaners within the vicinity of two blocks from my house. But I insist on going to Viktor's shop. He always remembers my complicated first and last name. I can just drop my pile on his counter and run off to catch the train. He'll put everything order and print my ticket. I can pick up my clothes the next day, just fine.

The other night, I was coming home from a dance class and saw that Viktor's lights were on. Surprised to see him working at 9PM, I knocked on the door and asked if I could pick up my weekly load. He got up from his computer, where he had been reviewing his business accounts, and opened the door for me. We got to chit chat about the holidays and gift shopping as he ran my AmEx through his machine. He said, "I got a doll for my granddaughter." My jaw dropped. "How old are you?" I asked. He said he was 47. He had his daughter young and his daughter had her daughter young. He's never seen the little one, but talks to her on the phone and she asks her almost imaginary grandpa, that voice over the phone, for toys she sees on satellite TV. Things they don't have in Ukraine, but things her grandpa can somehow find and send.

I know that Viktor has been waiting to go home for a while...His PhD didn't get him much in Moscow, so he left for the US. He says his life is better thanks to his shop, but he has not reached his dream yet. He designs cars as a hobby, but his real goal is to have his own clothing line. He points to the neon sign on his window. A signature like logo saying "Viktor."

"That's what I want to see on labels, on someone's store," he explains to me. He cannot find time to draw much because his work takes up most of his energy. But he did saw his own pants from scratch and he makes comfortable half-sleeve shirts for some customers on a request basis. Other times, he just catches their bundles of clothes--wishing one day they wear Viktor's.

Connecting to Turkey - via the blogosphere

2005-12-11T14:23:00.000-05:00

Gotta love the blogosphere. Everything seems to be connected. Earlier today, I was trying to cook "barbunya" which is a classic Turkish/Greek dish. (Red beans cooked with tomato sauce, carrots, potatoes, and onions -- with olive oil of course.) I had a hard time getting the beans to be soft, so I searched online for a recipe. I found this wonderful blog called Ev Cini, the "house genie. "

Later, when I went to the blogger homepage getting ready to jot down my thoughts of the day. I caught a blog name that I recognized as Turkish on the "recently updated" list. I clicked on it and found a blog by Ipek Kuscu - a Turkish handbag designer, based in Istanbul. Her beautiful work can be purchased at Evihan, a small shop in Cukurcuma Istanbul, displaying all sorts of glass, ceramic, silver handcraft jewelry.

And guess what, Ipek links to Ev Cini as well. Sweet :-)

Countdown...Going home for the holidays :-)

2005-12-11T13:22:00.000-05:00

I packed a few things today. First, I had piled everything I needed to take home in one corner of my bedroom. I know it's bad Feng Shui to block doorways with irratic stuff, but what can I do? I do not have that much closet space... So, today I started stuffing my suitcases. My mom's pills, my girlfriend's housewarming gift, a matching set of bib and t-shirt for my other friend's new born. Finally, my eye doctor's notes from my previous exam and my most precious bottles of shampoo and hair conditioner. Yes, there are a wide variety of haircare products available in Istanbul. But, moi, I have tons of hair that need special treatment. (In fact, I only go to DevaChan and use their products to manage my curls.)

My boyfriend is laughing at all this planning and hopping and skipping around bags of goodies lined up to fly over to my other home. Well, I am not exactly a last minute person. I gotta plan. Plus, these trips are a big deal for me. I get to see my parents and my brother twice a year since I live abroad. And grandfathers, worse, once a year. Phone, email, IM...sure, these help but it's not the same as living in the same time zone, looking onto the same streets, talking about the same local incidents. You cannot really catch up, really, unless you are face to face. You need to touch and hug and kiss. And hug a bit more, in fact hold on just a tad bit to feel the other person's warmth and closeness. You need time to etch your mommy's embrace, your dad's cologne and your grandpa's cigar smelling living room (with clean ashtrays nonetheless!) You need time to get to those punch lines when joking around with your brother. You need to eat mommy's food not just once, but for breakfast, lunch and dinner, several times over to give your palate a permanent sense of perfection.

I miss all this when I am away. It's like stepping back a few yards to gain better perspective, to see all details in their natural context. Except, I am more than a few yards away. And from where I stand, I can only see outlines, not many details. I need to get a bit closer to remember the smells, the colors, the sounds. And then return to New York, my New Home, to replicate the picture.

New York Languages

2005-12-10T22:54:00.000-05:00

I was at the dentist when my childhood friend called me on the phone. She is visiting from Istanbul and she was wondering when I could meet up with her. As I told her she needed to wait another 15 minutes or so, the Russian hygenicist and the Italian dentist looked on. I hung up and turned back to my seat. We all went back to our discussion about my Xrays, in English. Total New York experience!

Birthday Girl

2005-11-26T18:16:00.000-05:00

Today I celebrated my birthday with some close friends and my boyfriend. It was hard trying to catch up with conversation at both ends of the table. But as the person sitting in the middle, I did feel special. They made me feel so loved! I looked around and thought of each one as a member of my New York family. Without their support, life abroad would be pretty meaningless. Good job, good school will get you only so far. You also need laughter and understanding. That's what makes it all bearable and worthwhile. When I look at my life here and think of reasons why I could not relocate yet again, I think of my friends. Not only would it be too difficult to bond with people the same way again - I feel - but also, each one is unique, irreplacable... They make up part of who I am and what I represent to society... I could not leave them.

Paris in Flames

2005-11-06T17:17:00.000-05:00

In spirit with the purpose of this blog, I would like to direct your attention to what's going on in the larger Paris metropolitan area. Thousands of people are rioting against the culturally established and institutionalized anti-foreigner belief system. The events were sparked by the accidental death of two immigrants. But the revolt should send a message to those at the top who ignore the new world order, despite benefiting from the cheap labor that come to their countries.

Chirac says his first priority is to establish order and security in the area. Tres bien! Apres, he should think about ways to address this deeply rooted attitude among his people--whatever their origin might be. Didn't we see this before? In WWII, in 1968?

It's easy to dismiss those who were not born in the country, calling them uneducated, unthis, unthat... But it's duplicitous to rely on their labor to run some of the basic services in the country, to admit them to schools, to rent them apartments or sell them goods and then judge them based on 'where they came from.'

My Friend Beth...

2005-10-30T19:33:00.000-05:00

I got in touch with my college friend Beth. She is definitely a character. A culturally open-minded American, married to a French man. They've lived around the world, thanks to his job and family background. She has all sorts of interesting stories about how Americans behave abroad, how the French fear their culture is not as dominant as before or which topics you should avoid when interacting with Chinese officemates in Hong Kong.

She is currently learning her third foreign language, Italian - can already make nasty jokes and also put together sensible sentences. Through all these linguistic and cultural adventures, she remains a New Yorker, her eyes observant of national sensitivities.

When she talks about how she would love to live in Paris, and how people's aloofness there reminds her of New York, it strikes me that she is one of us. Beth travels in her mind, whishing she was elsewhere even when she is on the way to somewhere.

Kebab Connection

2005-10-02T13:40:00.000-04:00

I saw the funniest movie of the year this past Friday at the Turkish Film Festival in NY: Kebab Connection. It's the story of a second-generation Turkish-German young man whose dream is to film the first Kung-Fu German movie. He starts with an advertisement clips for his uncle's fast-food restaurant Kebab Connection--which becomes a huge hit, turns the small restaurant into a success overnight. But things get more complicated as his German girlfriend gets pregnant, his uncle's store almost puts the Greek taverna across the street out of business and his Greed buddy (the taverna owner's son) turns vegetarian and opens a falafel place with an Arab friend. This is the ultimate cross-cultural comedy. You must, much check it out. Click on the link.

Essays from The Third World

2005-09-25T23:22:00.000-04:00

I've been helping out my brother with his essays - editing his grammar, reviewing his ideas, giving him tips that would appeal to those North American or British admission officers. All so that he can have another chance in life, other than what our country offers him: a perilious army duty, incredibly hard work for extremely low wages and constant battle with a corrupt system. I hope he makes it... it's a lota money coming out of savings, but I think it's worth it.

Remembering 9-11 Victims

2005-09-11T22:26:00.000-04:00

I lost track of time between traveling and running errands. I am still adjusting back and shame on me -- I forgot what day it was! I turned on the TV to break the morning silence of my apartment and out flowed the endless list of 9-11 victims. Their families calling up their names, paying their respect and reminding us of the day the whole world changed. One girl leaned into the microphone, said a name and called him "my amazing brother." Her world changed on that fateful day in an undescribable way... You could sense the rawness of her pain in those simple words. No matter how or if this war on terror ends - what does it matter? Her amazing brother is gone.

New Orleans Discussions - From Argentina

2005-09-11T22:12:00.000-04:00

Just got back from Argentina... a wonderful country. The average folks on the streets of Buenos Aires -- regardless of professional background -- are humane, polite and friendly. And boy, are they feverish about politics! They are not just focused on themselves, they keep an eye out on the world. (This is something we're definitely missing in the US, where the emphasis is on local events.) A cab driver taking us from the airport to our hotel was asking us how the American people were reacting to the New Orleans disaster. What were they saying about the help efforts? How was the government taking action? Indeed, it was impossible to miss out on the news about Katrina. Flipping channels in a humble hotel with basic set of cable channels was enough to get a sense of how the rest of the world was just as tuned in to the events in the gulf as Americans themselves might be.

I found this web site which gives general news about New Orleans and provides links to blogs and message boards covering the hurricane aftermath: www.nola.com You may want to visit it or make donations through www.redcross.org

Everything else is secondary right now...