tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69969454135669865852024-03-18T21:09:00.539-07:00masterpiece in progressmusings of a pilgrimNoreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-72076776152760604252013-08-02T06:59:00.000-07:002013-08-02T06:59:26.781-07:00 “The Best Cutlets Ever” - Lommerzheim<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqiPPwuNo_tJ0wPqTmEeuJSgmeztAX_3CArddBqnX28wo7jB0-VRNF38zLSoUkwWRp7asY8ngqixUvy6iu53lDquUT6-6Z9qzuIiso5AXLhZMniFDrJ2xvXHJyUGrf6Qg2j22As8MWDT3/s1600/2013-07-29+18.09.24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqiPPwuNo_tJ0wPqTmEeuJSgmeztAX_3CArddBqnX28wo7jB0-VRNF38zLSoUkwWRp7asY8ngqixUvy6iu53lDquUT6-6Z9qzuIiso5AXLhZMniFDrJ2xvXHJyUGrf6Qg2j22As8MWDT3/s320/2013-07-29+18.09.24.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There it is - pork cutlets with onions and potato salad!</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-US">When you’ve been teaching for years, it can
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exercises at the end of the unit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
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wouldn’t end up like a desperately bored zombie about to pull out my hair, just
to find a little excitement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed a context to put these words into, something
fresh, or it would first get stale, and then really old and moldy, like a loaf
of bread stuffed into the back of the breadbox and forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bread when fresh, is delicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teaching, when it’s fresh, is exciting.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">While pondering this, I remembered a tool
that helps me find the best restaurants in whatever city I’m currently in – the
computer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I live in Cologne,
I hadn’t used the computer much to search out good restaurants, instead relying
on recommendations from friends or the same books all the German bookstores
have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It never occurred to me to treat
Cologne as though I were a non-German speaking tourist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time I went to the web and hit pay dirt –
I found a short, to-the-point article in English about the six best restaurants
in Cologne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made photocopies and brought them to
class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">My students peered at the page and began
talking about the restaurants listed even before anyone had started
reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Number one on the list was a
place called “Lommerzheim,” a name I didn’t recognize, but my students
certainly did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is a fantastic restaurant,” Günter enthused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You used to have to sit on telephone books on
top of empty beer kegs if you wanted to sit down.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He added, “Now you get to sit on chairs at
the tables.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Sylvia added, “And the walls are a graying
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smoke-free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Steffie piped in, “You can get the longest
bratwurst in the world there - two-meters long.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Do you know the story about Bill Clinton?”
asked Günter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When he was in Cologne a
few years ago, he wanted to eat at a Cologne brewery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His aide called the restaurant and said, ‘I’m
calling for President Clinton, who is with me.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘If that’s President Clinton, then I’m the Emperor of China,’ answered
Lommi.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Did the President get to eat there?” I
asked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“No, Lommi wouldn’t let him come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Clinton came, his normal clientele
wouldn’t have been able to eat there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
chose to be loyal to his customers, so Clinton had to eat at another brewery.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Do you know Herr Lommerzheim?” I asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Not anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since he’s gone, the restaurant just isn’t the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s gotten more gentrified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nowadays, there are chairs for the people to
sit on.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His nose curled in disapproval.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This didn’t sound bad to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Is the food still good?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ah, the food!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter smiled, his eyes glinting as he looked
toward the ceiling, his head shaking slowly as he labored to find adequate
words in English to express his feelings for this restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They have the thickest pork chops in the
world - four-centimeters thick.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
would be two inches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very thick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And the cheapest price anywhere – only a few
euros.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was doing very well with his
superlatives. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My son was leaving for Korea the following
day to study business, for who knows how long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe a night out for dinner would be a good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What about the beer?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“They serve Päffgen.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In Cologne, that statement needs no further
comment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kölner </i>consider Päffgen the best beer going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also my son’s favorite brand of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kölsch</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Other brands of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kölsch </i>are
served all over the city in various restaurants, but not Päffgen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can only buy Päffgen in the brewery itself
on the Ring in Cologne – and at Lommerzheim.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Can I reserve a table?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ah, that will be difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People start lining up outside the restaurant
at 4:30 pm, when they open for dinner, and within an hour all the tables are
taken.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I taught the same lesson to the next
class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After only one lesson, the topic
was still fresh, and I was curious to see if these students felt the same about
this restaurant.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I go there once or twice a week in the
summer,” said one of the students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the
students started debating whether “Lommi’s” or Früh, a famous brewery near the
cathedral, was better.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Lommi’s has a beer garden,” said
Torsten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Früh doesn’t.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“It does too,” protested Sebastian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can sit outside.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ah, but it’s not a beer garden.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I was beginning to feel a conviction in my
tummy that this might be a good place to spend our last evening before Jon’s departure
– if we could get a table.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I went home and phoned the restaurant, but
only got an answering machine, instructing me to leave my name and number, and
someone would call me back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left my
name and number, telling the machine that I wanted a table for three at 7:30
pm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We waited for a call-back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By 7:00 there still was no returned call, so we decided to simply go
there and try our luck.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Hey – this restaurant is on our side of
the Rhine!” I announced to Jon as I checked the address.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is very difficult to find anything
interesting on the right side, so we usually have to endure long tram rides
onto the other side of the Rhine when we go out to eat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXSRfjvmcKv2CC3pGGnqDcYrMMmaqTZKGQsStwHcbtemoTOeSQ5_Vp0TndyyDnSmfbRIyZYe0cYnJrXq7gCnPf7oc9RGZcB_JZdtkZf0lYzkM63bNlMIMrON9JsxaZJCgcOhQF1BRKOGs/s1600/2013-07-29+17.55.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXSRfjvmcKv2CC3pGGnqDcYrMMmaqTZKGQsStwHcbtemoTOeSQ5_Vp0TndyyDnSmfbRIyZYe0cYnJrXq7gCnPf7oc9RGZcB_JZdtkZf0lYzkM63bNlMIMrON9JsxaZJCgcOhQF1BRKOGs/s320/2013-07-29+17.55.40.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lommerzheim Brew Restauratn - with the tiniest sign in red, on the left</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After a short tram ride, we got off near
the Deutz train station and started walking, Jon using his cell phone as a
navigation device.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lommerzheim was on no
main thoroughfare, but we eventually found it, in the middle of a short, narrow
street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was about as old as Deutz itself
and looked ready for demolition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was certainly
hard to find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You needed to know the
house number to find it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t even have
a sign saying “Lommerzheim” anywhere on the outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a tiny little area to the side
where a few intrepid diners (it was rainy and about 60° - typical June weather
in Cologne) were eating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah-ha.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The famous beer garden, tables now sodden after
hours of constant rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want a
table <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>badly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a crowd of people standing out in
front, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This didn’t look
good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we looked closer, though, we
saw that they all had beer glasses in one hand and a cigarette in the
other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, so this was where all the
cigarette smoke was landing these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe our chances weren’t so bad after all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After one glance around the restaurant, we
could see that all the tables were occupied, but we asked a waiter anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can try your luck downstairs,” he
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Downstairs, it was cozy and even sort of
attractive, with a stained glass piece lighted up from behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We found one sole empty table, and bolted for
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A friendly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Köbes, </i>the word for waiter in a Cologne brewery, came and took our
order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him I had tried to reserve
a table on the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What time did you
call?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Around five.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Oh, that’s when we get really busy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was certainly too loud to hear any
messages.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I didn’t know how to order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could I eat a four-centimeter pork chop?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some friendly-looking people at a table
nearby were also eating pork chops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Can
we split an order?” I asked them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What do you think we did?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could
never eat one of these alone,” the woman answered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is this your first time here?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After my affirmative answer, she said,
“You’re in for a treat.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The beer was ice cold and delicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My students were right about the beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could order the pork cutlets either “juicy”
or “well done”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went for juicy chops
with onions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two plates arrived for the
three of us, thickly laden with onions that threatened to spill off the
plates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We bit into the most tender and
flavorful pork chops we had ever eaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We couldn’t decide between French fries or potato salad, so we ordered
both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The French fries were crisp on the
outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside, they were soft, like
comfortable tiny pillows, except you could eat them, and they had that earthy
potato flavor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The potato salad was
creamy, with a slight mustard tang, a perfect balance to the pork chops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With that order, we had practically exhausted
the menu.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There wasn’t much left to
choose from, but it didn’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
couldn’t have ordered any better solace for the months of separation to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s hard to imagine a restaurant that
could be plainer, but also more comforting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps that is the charm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps what draws people to this restaurant is not only the food and
beer, but its unpretentiousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
husband Peter shivers each time we pass a restaurant with cold halogen
lighting, pale, bare wooden tables, chrome and mirrors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this frenetic, insecure age, more and more
people seem to need warmth, comfort, and the solidity of honest age, devoid of
facelifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We crave friendly waiters and
fellow customers who aren’t too reserved or uppity to talk to us, just as much
as we crave the security of comfort food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I asked the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Köbes </i>about Lommi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did you
know him?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Oh, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I worked for years with him.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“How did he manage to get permission to be the
only restaurant outside of Päffgen itself to sell this beer?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“He was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Köbes<u> </u></i>there for years, and he won the trust of the
owners.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lommi was trustworthy, and he created a
restaurant with the same honest, straightforward core from which he lived an
entire life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He built a legacy which
lives on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After his death, and after his
widow retired from serving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kölsch</i> to
what must have been hundreds of thousands of visitors, she sold the restaurant
to Päffgen, who promised to maintain the restaurant in the décor in which they
received it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owners of Päffgen, also
following in the tradition of their founder, also proved trustworthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing that has changed is that Lommerzheim
has been brought up to hygienic and construction standards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For instance, the kitchen and restrooms are
clean.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“This is one place I’m going to bring my Korean
friends when they come to Cologne,” Jon said as we walked back to the tram.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can’t wait to tell my students about it,”
I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love it when my students teach
me things.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzrgNJZC2dC0pkA-rPZEs4jyspWadU2I7AQukY61VqAWtYga9I_uIkbOOw3oQGMevgCWlWKL_kCoFHZJU2WgIotU8Yb8tqPGqZ1ebQvFr3O87o1ujpV_2xYGU3LXCIl5_6Ltpjbc-IhYQ/s1600/2013-07-29+18.08.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzrgNJZC2dC0pkA-rPZEs4jyspWadU2I7AQukY61VqAWtYga9I_uIkbOOw3oQGMevgCWlWKL_kCoFHZJU2WgIotU8Yb8tqPGqZ1ebQvFr3O87o1ujpV_2xYGU3LXCIl5_6Ltpjbc-IhYQ/s320/2013-07-29+18.08.16.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me eating there again - I forgot the onions! They came later.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lommerzheim</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Siegesstrasse 18</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Köln-Deutz (tram stop on 1, 3, 4, 7 and 9 -
Bahnhof Deutz)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Telephone:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>0221/ 81 43 92</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Opening hours:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>11-2:30 pm, 4:30 pm – 1 am; closed Tuesdays</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Credit cards not accepted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-34383009665046552972013-06-14T08:03:00.001-07:002013-06-27T07:18:43.136-07:00Sundays with Evelyn<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-yvdcjjJlTJZBtG9DaqX3V-OLdkjeDcNVgwClrjMVFBW3sMQVxSzTyfg9KocxKcEZ2dWzlV4dWLG7gn9skvoa1ON3rm0Wa2ZWFqw4YGPzva5WtsF6kNR-pW_W273hOaj4Odi0ZiGl7JE-/s1600/2013-05-20+15.02.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-yvdcjjJlTJZBtG9DaqX3V-OLdkjeDcNVgwClrjMVFBW3sMQVxSzTyfg9KocxKcEZ2dWzlV4dWLG7gn9skvoa1ON3rm0Wa2ZWFqw4YGPzva5WtsF6kNR-pW_W273hOaj4Odi0ZiGl7JE-/s400/2013-05-20+15.02.16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend Evelyn, with me on the High Line in New York City</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Four years ago, I was in Aix-en-Provence, a lovely little city in France. I traveled there with my friend Elaine, who had a paper to present at an academic conference called "Women and Spirituality". The conference was fascinating and by no means of mere academic interest. The women and men there seemed to be individuals with a burning need to find a genuine form of spirituality. One of the people I met there was Evelyn, a self-proclaimed agnostic. "Well, let's just say I haven't bumped into him yet," I can imagine her saying. Evelyn says she is not spiritual, but every time I'm with her, this seems to be one of our main topics. She isn't so sure there's a God, but she goes to synagogue every week. "I go there for the <a href="http://www.bj.org/spiritual-life/music-of-bj/with-every-breath-the-music-of-shabbat-at-bj/">music</a>," she asserts. I accompanied her to her synagogue, <a href="http://www.bj.org/">B'nai Jeshurun</a>, once. I think she is one of the most inspiring, spiritual women I have ever met, but when I tell her she is spiritual, she looks either annoyed or confused. Then I say, "Spirituality is not the same thing as religion." This helps some. Evelyn hates religion because people use it to discriminate against others, and she dearly loves people - of all religions and of no religion. <br />
<br />
Just days after returning from Turkey, I traveled to the US to attend a conference in Delaware on inner healing and how working through the "twelve steps", a spiritual program, brings about healing. After the conference, I spent several days with Evelyn in her apartment in New York City. Last time I was in New York, Evelyn said, "Come see me again - soon. And stay with me next time. Who knows how often we'll have a chance again for our intense talks." I was only too ready to visit Evelyn again. <br />
<br />
One of the things I like about Evelyn is her youthful, positive, can-do way. She was eighty when I met her, now eighty-four. She is a passionate educator. Whenever she can, Evelyn delivers papers on her ideas about learning strategies at conferences. While I was there, she heard about a conference taking place at the New School for Social Research on teaching methods for teaching English as a foreign language. With no hesitation at all, she had a proposal typed within half an hour, sent out within the hour. One evening she showed me how I could use her method of "taxonomy", using the alphabet, to help my English students remember what they learn more easily. Evelyn uses <a href="http://www.evelynrothstein.com/abo-erbackground.htm">her method</a> regularly on any students she can find.<br />
<br />
The door to her apartment was open the evening I arrived. I heard a male voice coming from the kitchen. "Oh hi, Noreen," yelled Evelyn, walking over to the entrance and giving me a hug. A handome man of about fifty walked out of the kitchen towards me. "I'd like you to meet Neil, one of my friends from BJ." BJ is how the people who attend B'nai Jeshurun call their synagogue. Neil "happened" to drop by to visit Evelyn. "You just missed Spring and Linda," Evelyn said. "They're my two Chinese girls. They left ten minutes ago." Evelyn is much too busy entertaining people to be lonely. She collects people the way some people collect china demitasse cups to display in their corner hutch. Later in the evening, Judy dropped by. Judy is an actress who does Kosher catering to supplement her income.<br />
<br />
Things did quiet down some during the week, but Evelyn had almost daily phone calls from Neil and Judy. She told me about Reza, an Iranian she met at an academic conference in Spain a couple years ago. Later they arranged to meet in Istanbul, one of the few places an Iranian Muslim and an American Jew would be allowed to meet. They presented at a conference together. "If only Reza could come to this conference coming up in New York. But how could an Iranian possibly be able to enter into the United States?"<br />
<br />
I always wondered why Evelyn is so passionate about education. During this visit, when we had the luxury of nearly a week to talk, I found out why.<br />
<br />
When Evelyn was a young student in a local Bronx school, her class was administered an IQ test. This test was based entirely on spacial relation tasks. Evelyn was always highly verbal, but her abilities didn't extend to figuring out which triangles fit when one of them was upside-down. She was judged to have a below-average IQ. This went into her school records and followed her all the way through college.<br />
<br />
In addition to having a "low" IQ, she was hampered by a couple of other things. One of them was her singing voice. Evelyn has always had a powerful New Yawkish tenor voice. If the right person had discovered her, she could have been another <a href="http://Baruch atah Adonai elohaynu melech ha'olam hamotzi lechem min ha'aretz. Praised are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.">Ethel Merman in "Hello Dolly"</a>. Instead, since she couldn't reach the high tones, she was forever cast into the mold of a non-singer in school. School classes were made up of singers and non-singers. Another strike against her was that New Yawk accent that just wouldn't go away. She and most of her classmates at City College were even offered elocution lessons with trainers brought in from Michigan to train the New York out of their accents so they could major in better things than education. It didn't work with Evelyn. She just couldn't turn "ovah theyah" into a pristine soprano "over there". Three strikes and you're out. Evelyn was doomed to becoming a teacher. <br />
<br />
Thank God for that. She went on to get a Master's degree, later a Ph.D. in education. She has published several books on education and written other children's books telling stories about interesting historical events told from the perspective of one of her grandparents, parents, or even herself. She wrote a play that was performed off-Broadway, a love story about a Jewish teenage girl and the German doctor sent to live in her family's home during the German occupation of Poland in World War I.<br />
<br />
Evelyn never tires of opportunities to use her educational methods on children. She met Spring and Linda a year ago when she was getting a manicure at a salon around the corner from her apartment. She spied the Chinese owner's daughters over in the corner, amusing themselves with a computer game. She asked if they had a piece of paper. They did. She gave them a writing lesson, then and there. She invited them over for more. They've been coming every Sunday ever since. These are brilliant girls who managed to do better in their entrance tests to get into Manhattan's School for Talented and Gifted Children than did Evelyn in her day. You can only get three out of a thousand questions wrong, or you're not admitted unless one of your siblings is already there. Then you're allowed to get four wrong. Spring got four wrong. Linda had a perfect score.<br />
<br />
Evelyn's Sunday mornings are spent with other kids besides Spring and Linda. She has two boys, one of them Iranian and the other Eastern European, both of whom have had difficulty keeping up with school. Thanks to Evelyn's methods,, their grades have shot up and they're experiencing joy in learning.<br />
<br />
I got a second chance to meet Evelyn's "girls". On my second Sunday there, promptly at 10 am, they walked through the door. I first saw them sitting on Evelyn's couch, looking at a TV series on their I-pad. Later in the day, when I returned from church, I found they had another guest - their grandfather, who had just arrived from China and who doesn't speak a word of English. No matter. The girls and Evelyn were cooking hamburgers and fried potatoes - practically a German (or Jewish? meal - for him. One of the parents of the boys had brought Evelyn a bunch of bananas. Evelyn didn't know what to do with all those bananas, but the girls had an idea. They found a recipe for banana cake in the internet. Evelyn's day was spent with the girls at the Whole Foods store, finding ingredients for the cake, baking the cake, and experimenting with dark chocolate and milk chocolate to see which would melt faster. Dark chocolate won by about two seconds. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJH8fnbEW5deehMV4yWkUNHyqQiyFDJ5trqK53Z2cuY8NlrxLcq_3z_O1nsfJGEN2eKilhN98CQDskNResmS4vlRgjfdrpd9SGQDa7txzWkUgTE6XoBCoLUcFYGgNq3S6em3LYePDPhWM/s1600/2013-05-26+18.21.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJH8fnbEW5deehMV4yWkUNHyqQiyFDJ5trqK53Z2cuY8NlrxLcq_3z_O1nsfJGEN2eKilhN98CQDskNResmS4vlRgjfdrpd9SGQDa7txzWkUgTE6XoBCoLUcFYGgNq3S6em3LYePDPhWM/s400/2013-05-26+18.21.26.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linda and Spring with their banana cake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We sat down at the table together to eat - an American Jewish grandmother with Russian and German roots, an American living in Germany, two Chinese-American girls and a Chinese grandfather. "Can I say the grace?" asked Linda.<br />
<br />
"Of course," replied Evelyn. Each of us held onto the same piece of bread as Spring prayed in perfect Hebrew. <i>"Baruch atah Adonai elohaynu melech ha'olam hamotzi lechem min ha'aretz". </i>"Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth."<br />
<br />
Evelyn grinned. "I taught it to them. They wanted to learn it."<br />
<br />
That's my friend Evelyn, this wonderfully alive, spirited and spiritual agnostic who never misses a Friday at the synagogue or a chance to inspire someone with the joy of learning. I hope I can spend some more Sundays with Evelyn, being inspired as she inspires her kids. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4ISPpZ_czyxO_5RxFbtSFydGhUrLdNRjLILwti1qk5FdciBzzUVWAfrJYMgS0EZQ3K7-jNx7sxMNkxwFQbocJ0kQa-9nr-mHs7viczESMe9Z3FOYn53aPcEnhCv40d-Qo4y50g1y-CBE/s1600/2013-05-26+17.59.39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4ISPpZ_czyxO_5RxFbtSFydGhUrLdNRjLILwti1qk5FdciBzzUVWAfrJYMgS0EZQ3K7-jNx7sxMNkxwFQbocJ0kQa-9nr-mHs7viczESMe9Z3FOYn53aPcEnhCv40d-Qo4y50g1y-CBE/s400/2013-05-26+17.59.39.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evelyn and her girls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i></span>Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-18175304409110019872013-05-15T12:04:00.001-07:002013-05-15T12:50:27.891-07:00Istanbul Again - Part Seven <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Kc8fc4XI8ogFsCDNZU0cl9IeXA5CTH_QiLsbdP4Lwlya-XID8pb9uxzY5C8rxpHYxAQ4dvC10JDFMGF6zOhjUmRiKJrcFkFQsmTT0f1G4wrTS_mhOegGE2hPG-uF203FXw2f0bWEX9W4/s1600/2013-05-03+11.56.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Kc8fc4XI8ogFsCDNZU0cl9IeXA5CTH_QiLsbdP4Lwlya-XID8pb9uxzY5C8rxpHYxAQ4dvC10JDFMGF6zOhjUmRiKJrcFkFQsmTT0f1G4wrTS_mhOegGE2hPG-uF203FXw2f0bWEX9W4/s320/2013-05-03+11.56.48.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rüstem Pasha mosque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Peter and I begin this, our last day by visiting the beautiful Rüstem Pasha mosque
again. Jon and Dayeong are off, doing their own sightseeing. They want to see Topkapi Palace and take the boat ride down the Bosphorus, things we've both done before. </div>
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We arrive at the mosque just before noon. At noon we have to leave, as the mosque workers prepare for the Friday noonday prayer. We sit in the courtyard as the first call to prayer is called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love these
calls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sit silently and focus just on
the idea of God and whatever I need at that moment of God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually it is the God of love and
compassion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am in such need of
compassion, first of all for myself, and secondly for my husband, whose outlook on life, although Christian, is so different from my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pray then for
more understanding and compassion, and thank God for being infinitely
compassionate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sit there, aware of being in God’s presence,
acknowledging that this presence is one of complete love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I notice the smell around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today it is the pungent smell of <i>köfte</i> being
grilled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I let Peter guide us by taking us on the ferry from Eminönü to Üsküdar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He chooses Usküdar, thinking that I had said that Moda, my goal for the day, is in Üsküdar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dimly remembered reading that it was in Kadiköy,
but I have a hard time keeping all these names straight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ferry trip is around a half hour and only costs us a swipe of our Instanbul card. Arriving in Üsküdar, we find ourselves in a very
poor, conservative Muslim town or village, dominated by a mosque and lots of
snack bars selling <i>döner</i> or <i>köfte</i> and fried foods around the bus and ferry
stations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sit down on a bench. I
read the article on Moda that I had torn out of my flight magazine - aloud, so Peter can learn about Moda too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both quickly realize we are in the wrong
place – we need to be in Kadiköy, which Moda belongs to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to learn how to get to Kadiköy, we also find that here in Üsküdar no one
speaks English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is truly a Turkish
area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are in the middle of an
adventure!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to get to Moda with no
language skills and no map?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Peter
asks strangers, “Moda – bus?” and always gets help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One man says, “Bus – Kadiköy, tram – Moda,”
pointing in the direction we should go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another man next to us even takes us a hundred meters or so to the right bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
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We climb onto a Turkish bus, place the card under the reader - and discover
that the Istanbul card has run out of money. Here, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, there seems to be no machine to charge
it up with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A passenger on the bus lets
us use her card, but she has only enough for one ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We give her 2 lira for that, and the driver
seems satisfied that we have at least tried to pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t kick us off the bus, even though
one of us is riding for free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this mercy, or what? Compassion? This is what I prayed for!</div>
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I feel
awful, sitting comfortably in my seat as younger women get up to give
older women their seats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I do notice, however, that none of the men give up their seats</span> for a woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
justify my sitting there by telling myself that I am probably older than any
of the women being given seats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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We ride past bazaars and cheap shops for about a half hour
until we near Kadiköy, where we suddenly see mansions and lots of big,
tall trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We round a corner, and
there, right before us, is the Haydarpasha train station, right next to the Kadiköy bus
station!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter has wanted to go into the
train station so badly, but we've been thinking it is out of the way. When we find ourselves practically at the entrance, I talk him into doing this first. Surely, since it's lunch time, we'll find food for lunch in the train station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDbGwNIdXl-bPjELfjHhr6GIAgMsXv8k31cOiKC0XWikGBEkugmYvQvR-wW457Otai0r3ymJFzm8ZvemBemuij8qd-4Q0rXcdPpZS8iofLvzMc6TS7kliFT9WR5HPWkPSAEvBQqDCmbjR/s1600/2013-05-03+14.09.44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDbGwNIdXl-bPjELfjHhr6GIAgMsXv8k31cOiKC0XWikGBEkugmYvQvR-wW457Otai0r3ymJFzm8ZvemBemuij8qd-4Q0rXcdPpZS8iofLvzMc6TS7kliFT9WR5HPWkPSAEvBQqDCmbjR/s320/2013-05-03+14.09.44.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haydarpasha train station</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the Haydarpasha train station</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYCWoj_Y9zjmBbyhhBCRR1EYBgEWqP1jaJqfZHRFkEWkdSIejNO9-XJy0Nb0hg9XFNNF_xo1tWeQl-roR4hDoS6_UTctflQxhRzicZX8XwReqFQw33RjNsyWdF9WTdj8KReIthXavZPmb/s1600/2013-05-03+14.48.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYCWoj_Y9zjmBbyhhBCRR1EYBgEWqP1jaJqfZHRFkEWkdSIejNO9-XJy0Nb0hg9XFNNF_xo1tWeQl-roR4hDoS6_UTctflQxhRzicZX8XwReqFQw33RjNsyWdF9WTdj8KReIthXavZPmb/s320/2013-05-03+14.48.49.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Restaurant of the Haydarpasha train station</td></tr>
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The train station still has much of that early twentieth
century grandeur, with stained glass windows and huge spaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter tells me it was built in the German
style and paid for by the German Kaiser Wilhelm in the early twentieth century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The restaurant is delightful, lined with
blue Turkish tiles and pink trim on the ceiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We eat meze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of our dishes is grape leaves - stuffed with cherries!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I love the tangy, sour flavor, mixed with the sweetish rice</span>.<br />
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Peter's rib is doing much better, and that helps the general mood. Buoyed after our delicious lunch, we easily walk about a half mile around the harbor to the ferry station
and then look for a tram.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again in Kadiköy, although the area is beautifully landscaped and buildings look more prosperous, we have
to use one-word questions. This way works, and before long we have loaded up our cards again and have entered the tram.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tram ride is a lot of fun. It is interesting to observe how different Kadiköy is from Üsküdar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kadiköy seems to be as wealthy as Üsküdar is
poor, and the shops keep getting posher, the higher up we climb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don't know when to get off the tram, though, and we miss our stop. At this point, Peter's patience and good spirits come to an end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“I’m not climbing that hill on foot,” he says in a loud,
stubborn voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’ll have to do it
without me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I think quickly. Moda was MY destination for the day, and I wanted to see this with Peter! I find a solution in about two seconds. “We can just stay on the tram again – it’s only another
fifteen or twenty minutes more,” I say, and Peter agrees to that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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We feel at home in Moda right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is a stylish, very Western, European place with enormous homes or modern apartment buildings overlooking the Marmara Sea on one side, and Old Istanbul with the Sultanahmed mosque, the Aya Sophia and Topkapi Palace on the other. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only foreign thing
about this place is the fact that there are practically no tourists here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We seem to be the only ones, surrounded by
well-dressed, western-looking locals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pass one trendy shop or coffee bar after another. We spot a fruit and vegetable shop. "I need quince for a dish I want to make when we get back to Germany," Peter says. I've already been looking for quince in the local German markets. There's none to be found this time of year, I keep hearing. At this stand in the outskirts of Istanbul, we find not only quince, but ripe pomegranates as well. The shopkeeper is thrilled to learn that we live in Germany. "I lived in Germany too!" he exclaims in German. "Nuremberg!" He throws in an extra quince and more and more pomegranates until we yell, "Stop! We have to get this onto the plane!" He is simply thrilled to find people from Germany who are interested in Turkey and his neighborhood, Moda.<br />
<br />
With a bit of difficulty and repeatedly saying the word, "Dondurmaci", we eventually find the ice cream restaurant
that the airline magazine raves about - the "Dondurmaci", run by Ali Usta . I eat a cone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's pretty good, especially with the chocolate sauce they add.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0HrKjgPij8Q6YTdCSdZFxurThBFcClZPC3NmfINSKLzZAJdRkqTcB2X8R7QO-lA4fC4IDZgJPDb0vkzVDntq0yLTCgvRP7V8KkozTkoTGa8e1Fzb5hBB-TIfL7MF043a7N_QESHI3oaz1/s1600/2013-05-03+16.33.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0HrKjgPij8Q6YTdCSdZFxurThBFcClZPC3NmfINSKLzZAJdRkqTcB2X8R7QO-lA4fC4IDZgJPDb0vkzVDntq0yLTCgvRP7V8KkozTkoTGa8e1Fzb5hBB-TIfL7MF043a7N_QESHI3oaz1/s320/2013-05-03+16.33.56.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moda with a view of the Marmara Sea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Across the street there's a </span>Lavazza café. I drink cappuccino as I lovingly lick my ice cream cone. Peter has a waffle he bought at a waffle place across another street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His is the most incredible waffle I have ever seen, loaded down in strawberries, banana and chocolate syrup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "This is only a fraction of the toppings you can put on it," he says. </span>We sit and enjoy watching self-confident, European-looking Turks walk along the street chatting and greeting people eating in our café.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There's a lady pushing a baby in a stroller, perhaps her grandchild. She stops to chat with some women in the café.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The following day, back in Frankfort, Germany, we stand in line to go through Immigration. A friendly man whose appearance could be German, but whose accent isn't quite right, is chatting with people to help the time pass. I notice his name tag. He's Turkish! I exclaim, "We were just in Istanbul."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"I live in Istanbul as well as here," the man says. "I live in a part the tourists don't usually go to, in Kadiköy."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"Kadiköy?!" we exclaim. We were there yesterday!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Now it is his turn to be surprised. "Really?! But I come from a place outside of Kadiköy, called Moda."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"We were there yesterday!" we continue, thrilled to have been in the very village this man lives in.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"Did you try the ice cream?" he asks, and is visibly pleased to see that we have.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"That Ali Usta is quite the guy. He's a farmer, and he brings his own milk to the ice cream café." This is a first for me, to have eaten ice cream from the owner's own cows.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">What a place Istanbul is. Not everything about this trip has been easy. I have been stretched and challenged, first of all by my own personal situation, and also by this city and country. I am charmed again, despite myself. In my heart, I want to go back to <a href="http://noreen-masterpieceinprogress.blogspot.de/2011/11/shukran-means-thank-you.html">Egypt</a>, where life is much harder, but where faith is more visibly present. But, precisely on this point, there's something about Turkey that intrigues me. I believe there is more here than meets the eye. In Istanbul there is a lot of crass materialism, but there is also a less obvious, but possibly more deeply lived, more personally tailored kind of approach to spirituality than the obvious piety I saw in Egypt. I am drawn to this. I want to learn more. I hope I can go back to Istanbul, but perhaps to another part of Turkey one day. If I get there, you'll hear about it. </span></div>
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Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-35755472438616610412013-05-13T08:19:00.000-07:002013-05-13T08:43:36.997-07:00Istanbul Again - Part Six<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfTz4ntj8pyof1_5YnSc61TEk0UYIX6fXYWjMfs9S4PLWXdCzi-xmSPrU-KoSQzmmVvjO7FzLeccADbTQ7Zb6J7UKhMZUKDuttK0ONfeVQlu8md2byDCygp4Oykf7Dp-gVad-lmXdFT8C/s1600/2013-05-02+12.08.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfTz4ntj8pyof1_5YnSc61TEk0UYIX6fXYWjMfs9S4PLWXdCzi-xmSPrU-KoSQzmmVvjO7FzLeccADbTQ7Zb6J7UKhMZUKDuttK0ONfeVQlu8md2byDCygp4Oykf7Dp-gVad-lmXdFT8C/s320/2013-05-02+12.08.21.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sultanahmet, also known as the "Blue Mosque"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today we have to make up for our lost day. We have a full day ahead of us. We will "do" Old Istanbul, visiting the Blue Mosque, the Aya Sophia and the Byzantine Cisterns. We'll have meat balls at the famous <i>köfte </i>restaurant, "Sultanahmet Köftecisi". I am told that, like with Ray's Pizza in New York, everybody tries to imitate the best one, using similar names. The best, the original one is at number 12 on the Divan Yolu, a stone's throw away from the blue mosque. We ate there the last time Peter and I were in Istanbul. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6qihy2KMJiIE9ZMg4j3kEag_qC8InPiLIN6AkAZzcXTPc2e8FMncUcIaDfDsexjcXXTuqba8FcpH0Bq2MHJkJC1u9Q5Pa39NDxR9-rquzIGoU6HlCmjZisGy-3sUWFnGEyVFiO6rzdOz/s1600/2013-05-02+15.08.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6qihy2KMJiIE9ZMg4j3kEag_qC8InPiLIN6AkAZzcXTPc2e8FMncUcIaDfDsexjcXXTuqba8FcpH0Bq2MHJkJC1u9Q5Pa39NDxR9-rquzIGoU6HlCmjZisGy-3sUWFnGEyVFiO6rzdOz/s320/2013-05-02+15.08.43.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE place for <i>köfte - </i>Tarihi Sultanahmet at #12</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the afternoon I will go to a proper historic <i>hamam </i>in Old Istanbul. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcwP2uVH9Ki_3-gnapkHR3D9HKfedV4RCf2cVMlw6DpWUCGS2L3XoL0zpaAFymDg6i-FEL3W4nQfWRUWnLFSbV8IyUAl38tC5HwFEIJxvGrkVJ7N25EOwVmCkdOAgESwCUHGXM811WG7pe/s1600/2013-05-02+10.48.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcwP2uVH9Ki_3-gnapkHR3D9HKfedV4RCf2cVMlw6DpWUCGS2L3XoL0zpaAFymDg6i-FEL3W4nQfWRUWnLFSbV8IyUAl38tC5HwFEIJxvGrkVJ7N25EOwVmCkdOAgESwCUHGXM811WG7pe/s320/2013-05-02+10.48.25.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the cars in the Allgäu-Orient Rallye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On the way to the Sultanahmet mosque, we stop at the Hippodrome, where Peter explains the Egyptian obelisk and the function of the hippodrome to Jon and Dayeong. We see some dusty cars parked - right on the Hippodrome. We walk on. More cars. They're not oldtimers. The cars are loaded with stickers. What are they doing here? <br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>At first, we think it is some sort of PR gimmick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the cars have roof top
carriers filled with things like suitcases, thermarests and sleeping bags, even bobby cars for kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look tired, used up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a closer look, we
see that every single car has German license plates and almost all of the cars
are German-made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find a couple of men sitting near
some of these cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look
non-Turkish, so, figuring they might be German, I speak to them in German.</div>
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"We're on a <i>Rallye</i>!" they exclaim. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqWI6hCud_zM1D73RhSxPe29E2GRh39n9uSvUprWx_c9bOaiJTng6nP-tD_O26KFk4kR1qLWiAxT4FLpSOw-M4sa2mgpQIfDGesr8QGuGJWZaqA_OgDcikWWBmeQxJ2glWPea4jmGKMS0/s1600/2013-05-02+10.45.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqWI6hCud_zM1D73RhSxPe29E2GRh39n9uSvUprWx_c9bOaiJTng6nP-tD_O26KFk4kR1qLWiAxT4FLpSOw-M4sa2mgpQIfDGesr8QGuGJWZaqA_OgDcikWWBmeQxJ2glWPea4jmGKMS0/s320/2013-05-02+10.45.56.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Participants in the Allgäu-Orient Rallye</td></tr>
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So what's a <i>Rallye</i>? Jon explains that it's a sort of cross-country car race. You can read all about a <i>Rallye </i>and this particular one (in German) <a href="http://www.aachener-zeitung.de/blogs/serendipity/index.php?/archives/1810-Allgaeu-Orient-Rallye-Amman-Calling.html">here</a>: In short, the drivers have to drive cheap used cars, and can't drive on any freeways, toll roads or ferries.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These guys have a map right on a carpeted hood!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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There must be a couple hundred of these cars. The men tell me they're in a race that began at the Lake of Constance. They're on their way to Amman, Jordan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They left Germany a week before, driving all the way to Istanbul without ever having to be on a ferry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have three more weeks to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only part they will do on water is when
they have to take a ferry around Syria, which is too dangerous to drive through right
now, with a civil war going on.</div>
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What an adventure!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
I had time and a companion, I’d do it, even if I ended up last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<br />Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-69067657067456099722013-05-13T07:40:00.001-07:002013-05-13T07:40:59.248-07:00Istanbul Again - Part Five<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOLNzuBnAg_fHr_ITx0XlLXHFiEmFRfxwhqbQlH-gd792vFrdMcLyKX6lKf1atsliI4D8RBnjV0wKgXJOyFGcQYPzwsbN2HHEPh13yRgQo6DeI21eFvslQcbsSVKlWkmfVMgjk3y25bMO/s1600/2013-05-01+11.23.59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOLNzuBnAg_fHr_ITx0XlLXHFiEmFRfxwhqbQlH-gd792vFrdMcLyKX6lKf1atsliI4D8RBnjV0wKgXJOyFGcQYPzwsbN2HHEPh13yRgQo6DeI21eFvslQcbsSVKlWkmfVMgjk3y25bMO/s640/2013-05-01+11.23.59.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Policement blocking the entrances to the Istiklal and Tünel </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Now our group is complete. Dayeong, Jon’s girlfriend, has arrived in Istanbul from
Seoul, Korea, on April 30. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Good thing it
wasn’t on May Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody has bothered to tell us
that if we had booked her flight for one day later, she would have been unable
to get to the hotel.</div>
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<br /></div>
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On days like this, May 1, it would be good to speak some of
the language, to understand why the police are being so strict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one gave us any warning at all about what
we would encounter today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some parts
of Europe, including Germany, May 1 is a festive day, with dancing, flowers and
maypoles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Belgium men give beautiful little lily of the valley bouquets to their girlfriends and wives. The German word, in fact, for lilies of the valley is <i>Maiglöckchen</i> - "little Maybells". In Germany itself, this custom is unknown, but there is another custom young lovers practice. Young men, usually teenagers, “plant”
little birch trees outside the windows of their girlfriends, stringing crepe
paper ribbons on the branches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such sweet demonstrations of love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
seems to be another, entirely ominous kind of demonstration on this day in Turkey, one which
we are completely unprepared for .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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It is a beautiful warm, sunny morning and we eat our
breakfast outdoors in leisure, accompanied by a CD playing Tchaikovsky music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The streets are quiet. Everything seems exquisitely calm. </span>Today our plan is to go to historic Istanbul. We will first go to Tünel, the funicular that transports people down a steep hill, to join another tram across the Galata
bridge, where we can arrive, after about three stops, in historic Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We plan to see the Aya Sophia, the “Blue Mosque” and the Byzantine
cisterns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As we walk, we see that the shops are almost all closed. How nice! The workers deserve a day off. After all, this is the European version of the American "Labor Day". </span>But as we reach the street to the Tünel, we are surprised to see wire fences in front of us, blocking us from access to the Tünel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
walk up another street and manage to get to the square, but see that it is swarming
with police, police buses and trucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
policeman with very limited English informs us that the funicular is
not running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Basta.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No more information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to be daunted, we decide to descend the
entire stretch on foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A policeman
kindly lets us squeeze through his police barricade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we reach the Galata tower, one of
Istanbul’s most famous tourist attractions, Jon notices that there are almost
no tourists waiting in line to get to the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Why don’t we quickly go up there and have a look?” he says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This would be nice for Dayeong.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Peter and I wait at the foot of the tower, reading maps
and tourist guides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About a half hour
later Jon and Dayeong return. “We can tell you that there’s no point in walking down
to the tram,” Jon says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They’ve lifted the
Galata Bridge – it’s in two parts now, and there are no ferry boats or trams
running.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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I find a street vendor selling little “bird” models like
the one Hezarfen, the world’s first aviator, used to fly from the Galata tower
to the Asian side of the Bosphorus in 1638.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The vendor is eager to tell me the story of how great Hezarfus was because of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this feat. Unfortunately, he had the bad luck to be murdered by the Sultan, simply for being on the Sultan’s bad
side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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It seems as though the powers at be in Turkey are historically less
than indulgent towards people who differ politically from them<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They get arrested – or even murdered, as in
the case of this poor aviator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
vendor tells me that we are entirely sealed off from the rest of Istanbul. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be no metro service today, no
buses, no trams, even the bridges are all closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We can't even walk up the Istiklal to Taksim Square. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rndy66DhEWY-ia5umhr2xf4NEamncS67qC3-rnk9IZUf_PL39bBORdUnLqctCanoJ6dHeOMoPjZkIkzmOYnw4b9bIt6O8EAGTZPH-sNYZdpNMMC9S_6DPvjUJWQ8c1EJ103fsSJ8Yzq5/s1600/2013-05-01+11.23.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rndy66DhEWY-ia5umhr2xf4NEamncS67qC3-rnk9IZUf_PL39bBORdUnLqctCanoJ6dHeOMoPjZkIkzmOYnw4b9bIt6O8EAGTZPH-sNYZdpNMMC9S_6DPvjUJWQ8c1EJ103fsSJ8Yzq5/s320/2013-05-01+11.23.30.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Jon and Dayeong decide to walk down towards the bridge,
anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter and I wander around the
side streets leading off the Istiklal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everything is deserted, and every passageway leading onto the Istiklal is
sealed off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We rest in the lobby of
one of those grand old hotels from the time of Queen Victoria and the sultans,
hoping to be served a cup of tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As we wait, we idly play with the figures at a backgammon table in front of us. "If only we knew how to play - we'd have something to do," I say. </span>We continue to be
ignored by the waiter, but suddenly what's being shown on Turkish TV fascinates us. We see mobs of policemen, many more than those we saw at Tünel,
surrounding a few dozen demonstrators, showering them with water cascades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A policewoman is carrying a tear gas
mask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I don’t know what the people are demonstrating about, or
what the police or the government are afraid of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I thought Turkey was a democracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe people are allowed to demonstrate, providing they can get to the
Taksim Square – the place where all the demonstrations take place – if they
managed to get there the evening before and could afford the price of a hotel,
and don’t mind being doused with pellets of water or a little tear gas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Wikipedia says that this day, called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Workers%27_Day#Turkey">“Workers’ Day”</a> in Turkey, has historically been a day filled
with rioting and violence, both on the side of the police as on that of the
demonstrators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On 1 May, 1977, there was
even a massacre at Taksim Square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
of all the violence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This “holiday” was
banned in Turkey from 1981 until 2010.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As recently as 2007 there was a casualty in the demonstrations, and in
2011 there were over half a million demonstrators.<br />
<br />
I later read in an English-language Turkish newspaper that the authorities have decided to grant demonstrators the right to demonstrate on this day. We see no sign of this. We also hear that there has been violence on both sides in this paltry demonstration with only the few participants that managed to break through the barricades. <br />
<br />
I also read that the Turkish government is trying to remove artisans from the covered bazaar to some place on the outskirts of the city, far away from the public who would buy their wares, and from the city that inspires them. On this day we learn that things in this ultra-modern city are not always as they seem.</div>
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In the afternoon, still stranded in Pera, the neighborhood where we are staying, Jon and Dayeong rejoin us, exhausted after having had to climb the steep hill from the water back up to Pera. We walk together over to the nearby Pera Palace Hotel, the one I call the "Agatha Christie" hotel. This is the hotel Agatha Christie stayed in when she wrote <u>Murder on the Orient Express.</u> I'm told that if the room is empty, you can view it - for the price of a tip. This is a wonderful, grand old hotel built in the colonial era, complete with plush carpets, palms and orchids, cupolas, inlaid wood, and stained glass windows. We enjoy afternoon tea in the English style, as we watch an Italian film crew film a soap opera segment - in Istanbul. It's funny hearing them yell, "Action!" and "Cut!" in Italian-accented English. We're all exiled colonialists today.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtc4rSpwaJEOqindo0oDNR55t-_peVqnAqM8xQM_LFRTVhjVjKvQXfyFaDf8wQmJ10uQg5hyphenhypheneGnmm1efqhX_pAvWz6WObXEcTYQqKcDMjG-qXBaaEQPw4JNpBG2VCuHhWGo91_1wNgxjTY/s1600/2013-05-01+16.27.44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtc4rSpwaJEOqindo0oDNR55t-_peVqnAqM8xQM_LFRTVhjVjKvQXfyFaDf8wQmJ10uQg5hyphenhypheneGnmm1efqhX_pAvWz6WObXEcTYQqKcDMjG-qXBaaEQPw4JNpBG2VCuHhWGo91_1wNgxjTY/s400/2013-05-01+16.27.44.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A delicious lemon meringe tarte at the Pera Palace</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
</div>
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The only Turkish friend I’ve ever had disappeared one day from
my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me how she would be
arrested if she ever returned to Turkey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was once a communist and was arrested at a demonstration. For all I
know, it could have been at Taksim Square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The conditions in prison were appalling, and her sentence was for many
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did nothing but participate in a demonstration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
granted parole after several years, and used the opportunity to flee from
Turkey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She applied for and received
political asylum in Germany.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later,
years after we had lost contact with one another, I heard that Turkey had
loosened up and was now allowing former dissidents back in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only hope that this poor woman,
disillusioned by both Communism and Islam, has found a way back to her country
and to a life of peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am sure she
will never be caught in a demonstration again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She has found all sides to be cynical and hypocritical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe God is there, though, waiting to be found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God is over there, just beyond those
demonstrators, on the other side of that mob of policemen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And right here in my heart, offering us peace in the midst of violence. Oh, to discover more and more of that kind of peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-34877582671351039892013-05-12T05:52:00.000-07:002013-05-12T05:52:08.319-07:00Istanbul Again - Part Four<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwSEutAXD2OJqf4HTMselzx_SFg-pjNLUj8YGl0XHSPEIP8dpvIjxJJYORUIPpCV6JpAFLAySPlN6e4Xcilqbm6MFTi3V_cltdoJmu0-P_lwJ3Vw20iKDzQthsG5BSxrf6MGAQPxGMUT9A/s1600/2013-05-12+12.26.18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwSEutAXD2OJqf4HTMselzx_SFg-pjNLUj8YGl0XHSPEIP8dpvIjxJJYORUIPpCV6JpAFLAySPlN6e4Xcilqbm6MFTi3V_cltdoJmu0-P_lwJ3Vw20iKDzQthsG5BSxrf6MGAQPxGMUT9A/s320/2013-05-12+12.26.18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cheap ticket to over 900 square kilometers</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Unlike Peter and me, our son Jon has never been to Istanbul before this trip, yet it is he who introduces us to one of the latest phenomena in modern technology - the Istanbul card. For about $3, or €2.50 you can buy this card and then fill it up, like the tank in your car. If it approaches "empty", you can simply top it up with more money on your card. With this ticket, you can ride anywhere in metropolitan Istanbul, which can be more than 30 kilometers from where you are, for about $.90, or €.75. Until the day he announced he needed to buy this card at a kiosk, he had been watching his parents struggle with buying 3 lira tokens in machines, scrambling to get enough change to put into the slot. A 3 lira token is worth about $1.50, or €1.20, costing almost twice the cost of a ride on the Istanbul card. Germany continues to be behind the times when it comes to savvy technological innovation. We only have a plastic card you can buy on a subscription basis after mailing in an application, or a cardboard ticket you can buy in a vending machine. The vending machine has complicated instructions, and this cardboard ticket only lets you ride for one day, in a group, or for four rides, at astronomically high prices. Not being on the lookout for such things, we don't notice this fabulous opportunity to get around much more cheaply and conveniently. But Jon, who has traveled even more widely than we have, has used such cards in places like Hong Kong, Seoul, Beijing, and Singapore. He reads about the card on one of the vending machines at a tram stop, while his parents struggle to buy tokens. He intuits the advantages of the "Instanbulkart" and even knows that he can purchase this card at a newspaper kiosk. He asks us to accompany him to a kiosk. He obvioulsy has plans to use this card with his girlfriend Dayeong, who will be arriving soon from Seoul. We head to the nearest kiosk and buy him a card, still not recognizing the advantages possessing this card will bring us.<br />
<br />
But I have plans for the day that will involve the use of Jon's card, which we can also ride on. There is unlimited use for as many people and as long as the card is loaded for. You can use the card for the tram, metro, and even ferries across the Bosphorus! What I want to do is use the metro to travel to an Istanbul shopping mall. I have heard that Istanbul has fabulous shopping malls, and I want to see for myself. Everyone thinks this is a good idea, so we head for the metro station, just outside our posh hotel. <br />
<br />
I am amazed. We descend from escalator to escalator into the depths of the earth, even deeper than in London's tube. The walls and floors are lined with gleaming mosaics, and there is not even a scribble of graffiti anywhere. Why can't Germany do anything about kids scribbling everywhere on walls? Where I live, they recently built a new bridge over the freeway, and within days, it was covered with graffiti. Not only is there no graffiti in the metro station - everything sparkles with cleanliness. There are no mud spots on the floor, there is no film of sand, no grime on the walls. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0fbVlexkzyNeymInOHhtJ-4t9uFeAzNzEdmBxEadaMlsskewPAY9_56SbiVs5gPp9t5EqSU4vj-HK9wsve7kcyLBfG0-hkbRwtJJVGApAontvfIv_goT5J90yX_vpow1-T5cO_FfuS2bt/s1600/2013-04-29+19.53.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0fbVlexkzyNeymInOHhtJ-4t9uFeAzNzEdmBxEadaMlsskewPAY9_56SbiVs5gPp9t5EqSU4vj-HK9wsve7kcyLBfG0-hkbRwtJJVGApAontvfIv_goT5J90yX_vpow1-T5cO_FfuS2bt/s320/2013-04-29+19.53.58.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Istanbul metro station</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The trains are similar - new, shiny, clean - and fast. The only trouble is, it seems we have to take one line only one stop - to Taksim Square, and change there to get a metro to the stop we want for the Cevahir shopping mall. A nice young man helps us to read and understand the metro map, explaining that he will be getting off at the same stop, so he will accompany us the whole way. "We are so grateful for this metro," he says. "We can travel so much more easily now. Imagine - for only three lira, you can travel way across Istanbul to the other side - you can ride for more than thirty kilometers!"<br />
<br />
Soon the two sides of Istanbul, European and Asian, will be <a href="http://www.railjournal.com/index.php/signalling/istanbuls-bosphorus-rail-link-to-open-next-year.html">connected by metro</a>. At present they are separated by the Bosphorus. (By the way, these words in different colors are links - if you click on the words, you can read something about what the link refers to - in this case, an article about the new metro tunnel.) When the two sides of Istanbul are connected, you will be able to travel more than seventy kilometers by metro! <br />
<br />
We ride for about five kilometers, getting off at the second stop after boarding the train at Taksim. The shopping mall runs right into the metro station, so there is no getting lost.<br />
<br />
Like the metro station, the <a href="http://www.istanbulcevahir.com/en-EN/home/29.aspx">Cevahir mall </a>is also gleaming and ultra-modern. This is considered an ordinary Istanbul shopping mall. Apparently, if you want to see real luxury, you need to go to <a href="http://www.istinyepark.com/en_US">Istinye Park</a> or <a href="http://www.kanyon.com.tr/#/en/homepage/">Kanyon</a> mall. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9mpEAt0lYRNxs6a_BL0HX5DSkFs8OwyUZHlhfN5gIlem5zYFBEBIQHHPx8GotTY0CTidyhyphenhyphenCCQJQpWmUs5uKs8O7RIWIuYR4b-k9W88cAFI3meQYoVlRMSsyqMfI_ECHHtLIjcwHDcHdk/s1600/2013-04-29+17.59.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9mpEAt0lYRNxs6a_BL0HX5DSkFs8OwyUZHlhfN5gIlem5zYFBEBIQHHPx8GotTY0CTidyhyphenhyphenCCQJQpWmUs5uKs8O7RIWIuYR4b-k9W88cAFI3meQYoVlRMSsyqMfI_ECHHtLIjcwHDcHdk/s400/2013-04-29+17.59.34.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cevahir shopping mall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What is this place Turkey all about, anyway? Is this an El Dorado? Istanbul is not only modern, it is ultra-modern! How modern, or how primitive, is the rest of Turkey? Istanbul is very different from the view of Turkey I have when walking down Keupstrasse, the main thoroughfare in one of the Turkish neighborhoods of Cologne. But what I read about in the <a href="http://noreen-masterpieceinprogress.blogspot.de/2013/05/istanbul-again-part-two.html">women's gift shop</a> indicates that conditions are difficult in rural Turkey. This disparity must explain why so many people pour in each day from rural areas to Istanbul, and farther on to Germany. <br />
<br />
We buy a beautiful wooden salad bowl in an attractive kitchen shop. Outside the shop, we explore more of the mall. The ground floor is full of kitchen, furniture stores and all sorts of shops related to home, including a big supermarket. It seems the Turks love English home decor - we find several shops with English prints on towels, quilts, sheets and kitchenware. There are several levels with department stores, including the German chain C&A and British Marks and Spencer. The top two levels are both food courts and restaurants. The people shopping in the mall look as ordinary as those in Germany or the US. <br />
<br />
I read that the Turkish <a href="http://rendezvous.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/23/europe-whats-turkish-for-schadenfreude/">economy was growning </a>at about an amazing 8% annually, until 2012. Now it has slowed down to about 2%. <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2321962/Greeces-youth-unemployment-hits-60-cent-crisis-hit-country.html?ITO=1490&ns_mchannel=rss&ns_campaign=1490">Greece's youth unemployment rate </a>(for the -24 age bracket) is a whopping 60%. Still, the level of <a href="http://ycharts.com/indicators/turkey_youth_unemployment_rate_lfs">Turkish youth unemployment </a>is also unsettling - nearly 17%. I hear many Germans are <a href="http://www.academia.edu/1199868/Turkey_the_New_Destination_for_International_Retirement_Migration">choosing to retire in Turkey</a>, either in Istanbul or on the coast. I'm not surprised. But I'm reading that Turkey is also living in a bubble. Will this bubble burst? There are no signs of it at the shopping mall. <br />
<br />
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-55390933558976664852013-05-10T05:35:00.000-07:002013-05-10T09:52:17.501-07:00Istanbul Again - Part Three<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.eos.org.eg/NR/rdonlyres/CE3122F0-0ACE-484F-B774-5674B0CB8F24/2280/lightbulb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.eos.org.eg/NR/rdonlyres/CE3122F0-0ACE-484F-B774-5674B0CB8F24/2280/lightbulb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">It’s all about
energy, they say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now we’ve left Cihangir, with its strenuous slopes, settled
into another elegant Collage Hotel practically next door to the Pera Palace,
where Agatha Christie wrote <u>Murder on the Orient Express</u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt good in that other hotel in Cihangir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the couple who seem to be the real managers of the hotel, Zayna and her husband, the
drummer. They seem to half live at the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Zayna says I look just like one of her best friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could be sisters, she says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and her husband are spiritually open,
like I fancy myself to be, rising to the challenges of the moment, such as climbing the steepest hill known to humankind, as often as necessary in a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t feel lazy in that hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last evening, as we returned, exhausted, from our day, ready to drop into bed, we ran into Zayna
and her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of them was
carrying a pair of drum sticks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was off
to play a set in a club on the Istiklal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I really would have accompanied them to the club if I hadn’t been so
tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would have been nice to hear
Turkish musicians, and to chat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we have a few minutes this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were at the club until very late, they tell me, and
overslept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t get many chances
to play drums because it is so loud and his playing disturbs the
neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t have one of those
electronic drum sets you can adjust the volume with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, he has hardly played in six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last night was a treat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This couple takes things as they come.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we wait for the taxi to take us to the next
hotel, I notice some books sitting on Zayna's desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them is <u>Siddhartha</u>, by the German author, Herman
Hesse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another is a book by Osho, formerly known as Baghwan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is some spark of energy or form of spiritual flow between Zayna and me. She's the kind of person I could be friends with. Almost as soon as we arrived at our hotel, Zayna told me she
liked my energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You have positive
energy,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled, thanked
her, and told her I try to stay connected to God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm not really aware of having positive
energy currents, but I really do try and stay connected to God as much as
possible, even when life seems to be going all wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nice to think that I emit something
positive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I have heard similar comments from people from time to time. I think about what Zayna said, trying to let it sink in. This is a high compliment. I am awed to think that someone can find positive energy in me, who is so full of her problem. To me, my problem is like having a hill in the middle of my living room. This hill has the texture of a sponge - sometimes. Sometimes I can walk on the hill and it squishes down. Sometimes it even seems to deflate, like a balloon, seemingly flat again. But then it rises up again and fills with sand, and it is such an effort to walk around or over the hill in that room. When maneuvering around this room takes so much energy, how can I emit something so positive? It is a mystery to me. Is that the mystery of Christ in me? Does Zayna recognize the Spirit of Christ in me? I'm so glad that the Bible recognizes suffering to be an inescapable part of life. It's certainly my experience. I suffer from my own stubborn resistance to inner change. I suffer from the hill in my living room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I think about Zayna and the energy she sees in me, a culturally
Christian thought pops into my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, so<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she’s into that kind of stuff.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that kind
of stuff</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is the tantalizing
question, the one that has been bugging me ever since I was a little girl,
hearing sermons about Jesus being the only way to God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because, truth be told, it is people like
Zayna and her husband who I feel the most drawn to, and not the most orthodox,
letter-of-the-Bible believing Christians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is people who want to be connected to this loving God all day, no
matter what their religion is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
people who are willing to climb steep hills if they need to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ask Zayna if she is a Muslim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, I am,” she answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She amends her statement. “I believe in
God.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She's a believer. Just like me. But is it the same belief? Is her energy source the same as mine?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In Islam, can you practice these things?” I ask, glancing at her esoteric books.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, yes,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“All this is part of the one God.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her husband adds, “In the end all the religions are the
same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You try and do good, be honest, don’t
cheat anyone, you know, love one another.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He tells me about the friend who looks like me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She has positive energy, just like you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He does not tell me that she is a Christian. Where does her energy come from? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the crux of the problem, as I see it, between Bible-believing Christians and the rest of the spiritually sensitive people who do not share faith in Jesus. Followers of Jesus who use the Bible as their authority cannot get around Jesus's statement in John 14:6, "I am the Way, the Truth and the Life. No one can come to the Father except through me." What is this power of Jesus, and is it true that Jesus is the only way to God?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I talk about the sufi evening we experienced,
watching the men twirl as musicians upstairs played instruments and sang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re all turning around in circles, one
with the universe,” I say, sounding like a real New Age guru.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I betraying my Christian belief? I don't feel that I am, but what about the exclusivity of Jesus? Outside on the stoop my Christian pastor
husband is half-listening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is
open-minded and can accept my thought-statements, some of which sound pretty unorthodox to other Christians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would some of his
colleagues think about what I'm saying?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is my problem with much of Christian ideology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to translate the Apostle’s Creed when
I say it so I can include people like Zayna and her husband. How does Jesus view spiritually sensitive people who are not Christians?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zayna's husband tells me that he has a Turkish friend in Canada who became
a sufi – a woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "She's a <i><a href="http://healing.about.com/od/touchtherapy/a/htouchvsreiki.htm">reiki</a> </i>master," he says. </span>This is interesting, but also troubling to me. It looks to me as though the
Muslims are undergoing a similar revolution to the Christians, slowly letting
women into their institutions. And what about this <i>reiki </i>business? I have a friend who is a <i>reiki </i>master. Not trusting her energy source, I have never allowed her to lay hands on me. Once someone who does <i>reiki </i>gave me a neck/head massage and at one point, I felt a strange sort of energy in my head and asked <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">him to stop. I asked if he had been practicing <i>reiki </i>on me. He had. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“I used to have a problem with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reiki,</i>” I said, “until I talked to my aunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">" Actually, I still do. I have a few burning questions about this healing practice. But I said, "</span>My aunt is over 80 years old and a very
conservative Christian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She let someone
practice something they call ‘healing touch’ on my uncle, and it was helpful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that they call <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reiki </i>‘healing touch’ in America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reiki </i>it sounds
Japanese and Buddhist, and they reject it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you say
‘healing touch’ it sounds acceptable.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I later check this out on the web. <i>Reike </i>and "healing touch,<i>"</i> also known as "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Therapeutic_touch">therapeutic touch</a>" are similar, but not exactly the same.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zayna's husband laughs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
just the same energy Jesus used,” he says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
That is exactly </span>the point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was Jesus’s
energy unique, or was it the same?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is
what happened on the cross another issue altogether?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I still believe that Jesus died to give new life to all
people, including Zayna and her drummer husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I accept Jesus's statement about his being the exclusive way to God. But I have my own take on this. Here's what it is. I have never found any person or spiritual path more compelling, more challenging or more truthful than the one Jesus offers to us. I believe in and welcome Jesus's compassion, his mercy, his grace, his unconditional love and unlimited power that he offers me. I have accepted this and experienced some of the power of his way. When I give in completely to Jesus, it is amazing what happens to me. I have no problem with Jesus at all. In fact, I have come to love him and what he represents, from the bottom of my heart to the very edges of my being and beyond. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">But what about all those non-Christians who also look to a Higher Power, as they understand it, as their source? I'm using the wording used in twelve-step groups like AA and Alanon. I know Christians who dismiss any other energy that does not claim to come from Jesus Christ. Some even call it demonic energy. I cannot accept this as truth. Who are these people, to call something based on love demonic? Is this not arrogance? Even Jesus said, "By their fruits you shall know them." I agree with Zayna's husband, whose aim is to live in love, goodness, honesty and fairness. That is a good way to go. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">This Easter I had an interesting insight while reading the Bible. After rising from the dead, Jesus appeared to all his loved ones, but no one recognized him. They couldn't recognize him from his appearance! It was the words he said, his message, that convinced them. That and the scars from the crucifixion, which remained as trophies. There are many people today, wonderful people, who love the very things Jesus loves. But they don't call themselves Christians. They don't recognize Christ. But perhaps they are following him anyway, since they recognize and cherish the very things Jesus stands for. Often, it is these qualities that are missing in many Christians. The lack of Christ-likeness is what turns many people off to Christianity. But are they turned off to Jesus? Or have they simply failed to recognize him? T</span>o me, if you love all the things that
Jesus loved – honesty, loving God and your neighbor, you are
following in Jesus’s footsteps.</div>
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As to this energy source and <i>reiki</i>, I don't know. I don't know if Jesus's energy and that of <i>reiki </i>and "healing touch" are the same. The good thing for me is, I don't have to know the answer to this question. It may remain unanswered as long as I live. But I have access to the Spirit of Jesus at any time. What a beautiful thing to be told that I have positive energy. I will give Jesus and his Spirit the credit for this. I believe the secret to Jesus's energy source is his willingness to go all the way to death for humanity. He did it, and he did it for all of humanity, in fact, for all of creation, and God honored that by giving Jesus unique power. I don't think I've discovered very much of this power, but I want to stay connected to Jesus and grow in this energy. I am forever indebted to him for the energy I do have from him.</div>
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I know many Christians who don't seem to be on any particular conscious life journey. They don't shine - in fact, they look pretty dull to me. They're just ordinary guys, like any person you'd meet anywhere with no particular faith. They have obvious issues with their lives. Maybe they're overweight, or loudmouths, or sloppy, or overbearing, undisciplined, or unreliable. Whatever it is, they don't talk about what I call the deeper things. I have no idea what being a follower of Christ means to them. How does Jesus fit into their lives? I haven't a clue. They don't seem to want to explore this. Are they on my journey? I don't know. We seem to have nothing to talk about.</div>
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I know other Christians who are radiantly beautiful, who are filled with faith, but who are nevertheless blatantly intolerant of those on non-Christian paths. These people with their dogmatic hyperbole have annoyed and troubled me a great deal. I have rejected them in the past because of their intolerance. Something is happening to me, though. I am learning to live in my own reality, the one that is revealed to me. I'm not sure that my ideas about non-Christian spiritually-minded people are correct, but they fit my thinking and personality. So I can lay my annoyance with Christian intolerance aside and dive into the river of peace that Jesus offers. I think, the more I do this, the more positive my demeanor. The more I simply live in Christ, the more Christ-like I become. The less I worry and judge, the happier and more positive I will be. </div>
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In the novel I am currently reading, <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/the-forty-rules-of-love-by-elif-shafak-2021678.html"><u>The Forty Rules of Love</u>, by Elik Shafak</a>, Shams of Tabriz talks about the different levels of understanding the Koran. There is a literal, superficial way of understanding it, and there is a deeper way, as if one were swimming through the deep currents. It is as though it was in the deep currents where all religions merge. Thinking about this, I find myself pushed up to the top of choppy waters, struggling to keep afloat. Better not to worry about the others and just go as deeply into my own current as I can.</div>
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My main lesson in life seems to be, as Jesus said to Peter, "Don't worry about the others. Follow me." I always end up in choppy waters when I worry about others. And worrying seems to be one of my biggest stumbling blocks, the hill in my living room. </div>
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Right now I dearly I wish I could sit over tea for a few hours and discuss
these thoughts with Zayna and her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I've found fellow travelers. </span>But I’m over at the
other end of the Istiklal in my posh hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wish I could gather my energy one of these days and walk over there and
see if they’re on duty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn't even mind the
uphill climb back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'd like that more than any sightseeing.</span></div>
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Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-65375337467879506982013-05-09T08:30:00.000-07:002013-05-09T08:30:06.261-07:00Istanbul Again - Part Two<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXAj8wLkM2O2JQkkBphPsW1fGxL8T_ij6LVbTwttkcyxT3F5GCfvQIDq5DTgYDzmrABBrIypVOxg4NjL1Qo6CPlitfhtviniU9I2hf-2jY7tQA-dCAFemUlBElNa0JzvtCXrqCy4yY9Y9/s1600/2013-04-29+11.04.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXAj8wLkM2O2JQkkBphPsW1fGxL8T_ij6LVbTwttkcyxT3F5GCfvQIDq5DTgYDzmrABBrIypVOxg4NjL1Qo6CPlitfhtviniU9I2hf-2jY7tQA-dCAFemUlBElNa0JzvtCXrqCy4yY9Y9/s320/2013-04-29+11.04.11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nahil - a gift shop that supports women and children</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As an American woman living abroad, I need a touch of home now and then, a support system of people who understand my situation. I have found support again and again from the American International Women's Club of Cologne. There is always someone there to offer kind, concrete help to me when I've been in need. But the Club doesn't stop here. One of the amazing things about this women's club is that the Club exists, not only to be a place where Americans and others interested in the United States can gather, socialize and make contacts. It's all about serving. I have a writing friend there who's a singer/songwriter. Each year she does a benefit concert, donating all the profits to causes she carefuly chooses in Cologne and abroad. The Club uses countless events, whether it be a sponsored cancer walk, a gala ball or a class in Japanese cookery, to collect money and sometimes clothes or blood, for someone in need. The Club has sponsored everything from water projects in the third world to aid for victims of the Fukushima nuclear reactor disaster.<br />
<br />
This attitude, as a <i>raison d'etre</i>, inspires me and sensitizes me to other projects dedicated to the cause of women. The last time I was in New York City, I was browsing through shops in Williamsburg and came upon a cute vintage clothing shop, <a href="http://www.lavaimaria.com/">Lavai Maria</a>. I couldn't wear these clothes unless I were about thirty years younger <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisiA6R4ofcZcWqbGc30qPQbnG3V-emFBQ-0olNmGh86bAHq3QAADr2f7uIvaC3_VRYPGup9UpOq2hYWUIqoTxttWprbWP8zfDzgwsyZP_V-lk0lo1sGM_J4DOT_nG90A2NJifD9XPfLMme/s1600/CIMG0635.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisiA6R4ofcZcWqbGc30qPQbnG3V-emFBQ-0olNmGh86bAHq3QAADr2f7uIvaC3_VRYPGup9UpOq2hYWUIqoTxttWprbWP8zfDzgwsyZP_V-lk0lo1sGM_J4DOT_nG90A2NJifD9XPfLMme/s320/CIMG0635.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lavai Maria - a vintage clothing shop in Williamsburg, Brooklyn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
and at least thirty pounds lighter, but I found a nice shopping bag there, and asked about it. "Oh, the owner buys these bags from a women's cooperative in India to support their work. Every penny you spend on this bag will go to this group in India," said the sales clerk. I bought the bag, even though I had to pay $25 for a thin printed cotton bag. I could get a sturdier one in Germany for $2, but it wouldn't have supported women's work.<br />
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Now, six months later in Istanbul, after finishing a delicious, filling breakfast at the hotel where we have to walk up a steep hill for our meal, we stroll along one of the side streets between the hotel and the Istiklal. I spot a shop window with cute items like lacy doilies, and everything looks handmade. "I've got to go in," I tell my family. "I'll just be a few minutes." But I am entranced by practically everything I see in this shop - attractive lace-packaged soaps, hand-made dolls, clothes, Turkish food items, bags, lace Christmas ornaments. I pick two lace angel Christmas tree ornaments to bring back as gifts to Germany, and a glasses case in the shape of a cat for Peter. He will like that, I think. <br />
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I am in the shop so long, the rest of the family comes into the shop and joins me. They are also enamored. By now, I have paid for my purchases and learned about the shop. As I suspected, it is run and operated by women, and supports Turkish women in poor parts of Turkey. It is these women who make all the products. We gaze at the photos on the wall showing women in rural areas making the items being sold. <br />
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I tell the shopkeeper that I'm interested in women's work, and she hands me a brochure in English. This shop, <a href="http://www.nahil.com.tr/">Nahil</a>, at Bekar Sok. 17 (near Taksim Square), was started by the Foundation for the Support Women's Work (FSWW) in 1986. As the brochure says, it is a non-profit, non-governmental organization, whose aim is to support low-income women's groups to improve the quality of their lives, their communities and to strengthen their leadership. The FSWW helps to establish and run women's and children's centers all over rural Turkey. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbEnOZwhGzTTI6bZ67efAToPGyVsP0KceI31wqIAHnt09-3vyXLhUeIEkbRPZOKCBl91QDawlkTNcazqRGymDk4_W8YnIddK3DPfnTyWrTQMAoU6SA_DmWL19GasgFU11bz7zJCRIKo0sT/s1600/2013-04-29+11.07.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbEnOZwhGzTTI6bZ67efAToPGyVsP0KceI31wqIAHnt09-3vyXLhUeIEkbRPZOKCBl91QDawlkTNcazqRGymDk4_W8YnIddK3DPfnTyWrTQMAoU6SA_DmWL19GasgFU11bz7zJCRIKo0sT/s400/2013-04-29+11.07.32.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Women making gifts to sell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I hope many people will support these women. I have heard that women in these rural areas, where traditional, conservative values tend to dominate, have it especially hard. Some conservative ideas are, of course, helpful, but others are deeply oppressive and damaging for men as well as women. It is a good thing when these women are able to gather together to work and talk, all the while helping to support their families. As they meet and talk, they grow in self-confidence as well as add to their income. <br />
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I am reminded of something I read about women in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elif_%C5%9Eafak">Elik Shafak</a>'s novel, <u>The Forty Rules of Love.</u> Elik Shafak is a Turkish novelist I have discovered on this trip to Istanbul. This novel is partly about Rumi and his mentor Shams, and partly about a modern American woman. Shams has finally found his spiritual companion, Rumi, in Konya, a conservative rural part of Turkey. One of Rumi's disciples, a young woman, is having a discussion with Shams about the role of women in the Koran. She is greatly disturbed by this passage, which she well knows, and therefore asks Shams to explain. He quotes: <i>Men are the maintainers of women because Allah has made some of them to excel others and because they spend out of their property; the good women are therefore obedient, guarding the unseen as Allah has guarded; and (as to) those on whose part you fear desertion, admonish them, and leave them alone in the sleeping-places and beat them; then if they obey you, do not seek a way against them; surely Allah is High, Great." </i><br />
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As I read this passage, I am both shocked and also not surprised in the least. This passage verifies the worst of what I have heard about Islam. I am intrigued, and can also imagine the disappointment this disciple must feel, having the most troubling passage of all in the Koran being quoted back to her. How often I have been dismayed when Christians have quoted the verses in the Bible by St. Paul in Ephesians 5:22, <i>"</i><i><span class="st"><em>Wives</em>, <em>submit</em> yourselves to <em>your</em> own <em>husbands</em> as you do to the Lord. For the <em>husband</em> is the head of the <em>wife</em> as Christ is the head of the church,</span>." </i>And the passage in 1 Corinthians 14:33 forbidding women from having speaking functions, including pastoring a church, <span class="st"><em>"Women should remain silent in the churches</em></span>." These ring very harsh, and it has taken a lot of searching before I have been able to find people enlightened enough to explain the real meaning of these passages. In the first, I have been told that it means that women should honor their husbands. It is, in fact, about developing a culture of honoring one another. This passage, in fact, begins by telling both husbands and wives to submit to one another. How very different from the first reading.<br />
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The same applies to the second passage about women remaining silent in church. There are still many churches that refuse to let women even serve communion, let alone preach or run a church. What Paul really meant was that women, who sat in another part of the synagogue from men, shouldn't yell across the synagogue during the service to discuss things. They should wait until they were at home. I learned that later church "fathers" changed names of people in the Bible such as Junia, who was a female bishop, to Junius, a name which didn't exist, to neutralize the gender so that no one in future generations would read about a female bishop. <br />
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These memories shoot through my head like a bullet, as I read this passage from the Koran that Shams quotes. But then, he goes on, surprising both the disciple and me, the reader, by quoting a different translation of the same passage:<br />
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<i>"Men are the support of women as God gives some more means than others, and because they spend of their wealth (to provide for them). So women who are virtuous are obedient to God and guard the hidden as God has guarded it. As for women you feel are averse, talk to them suasively; then leave them alone in bed (without molesting them) and go to bed with them (when they are willing). If they open out to you, do not seek an excuse for blaming them. Surely God is sublime and great."</i><br />
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What a difference between the two versions! My heart goes out to women in Turkey, in the US, in Germany, to women everywhere who have suffered and who continue to suffer under ignorant, misguided male domination, unable to fulfill their God-given destinies.<i> </i>May they come out of that heavy, oppressive place. Both they and men will be better off for this. I hope the women in rural Turkey, creating these beautiful gifts, are discovering their own value as they share their beautiful wares with others. <i> </i> <br />
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<i> </i> <br />
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-26667085962502919882013-05-07T08:08:00.000-07:002013-05-07T08:08:48.849-07:00Istanbul Again - Part One<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikza647UzYOxLWxDa_c_pmusy_sbRqpIwtYqG5hKjIR5F3PPLTjtuV7yhVZnDdjYQYDnytLsy_J9rKhYofFB5JlOGj9_EBmpMnLCZVt_XDrpGYUdXvsAATUrQvSPi_TvcUFNxRLl1ByKiI/s1600/2013-04-28+13.05.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikza647UzYOxLWxDa_c_pmusy_sbRqpIwtYqG5hKjIR5F3PPLTjtuV7yhVZnDdjYQYDnytLsy_J9rKhYofFB5JlOGj9_EBmpMnLCZVt_XDrpGYUdXvsAATUrQvSPi_TvcUFNxRLl1ByKiI/s400/2013-04-28+13.05.11.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This balloon climbs over Istanbul with a lot more ease and speed than we could. We can only view the Galata Tower from a distance today. We, weighed down by injury and pain, are not equal to the climb.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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Things are not going as planned, and this is not helping Peter's mood. Peter is often cranky today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He has much less tolerance than in past trips. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This troubles me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it his broken rib? </div>
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<br /></div>
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Our shuttle brought us to a different hotel than the one we booked in. "There is a problem in your hotel," the manager told us, "so you are staying at this <a href="http://www.collagehotels.com/en">Collage</a> hotel tonight and possibly tomorrow night as well. Something needs to be repaired, and since tomorrow is Sunday, it is doubtful whether a repairman will be able to come. You will probably be staying at our hotel until Monday." </div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm not too unhappy about this. We have a nice, large room, and Jon has a room of his own in our suite. There are problems, however, with this hotel, located in the Cihangir part of Istanbul. I read on the plane that Cihangir is a really cool, trendy part of Istanbul. The writer called it the "East Village" of Istanbul. It sure doesn't look it, though. The buildings don't look like anything special at all, and to get to Taksim Square, you have to climb the steepest hill I have ever seen. They don't have breakfast for us in our new hotel, either. "You'll be there in three minutes," promises the manager. I doubt it. We have to climb this steep hotel to get to another Collage hotel for breakfast. Oh, well. I am determined to take this in stride. I want to learn<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6996945413566986585#editor/target=post;postID=6593453078059952368;onPublishedMenu=template;onClosedMenu=template;postNum=2;src=postname"> lesson four</a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6996945413566986585#editor/target=post;postID=6593453078059952368;onPublishedMenu=template;onClosedMenu=template;postNum=2;src=postname"></a>. I am going to accept what is, and adapt to it. I won't let a steep climb spoil my mood. But Peter sees it differently. I'm going to have to adapt to him, too. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The manager of our new hotel, who looks like he's still in college, sprints up the hill with us to the Collage hotel at Taksim Square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He chats with me about Cihangir, the neighborhood the hotel is in. "This is where the movie producers, movie stars and soccer stars live. Here it costs over a million euros to buy an apartment." Unbelievable. </div>
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<br /></div>
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By the time most of us reach the hotel, ten minutes later, I am huffing and puffing. Jon and the hotel manager are relaxed. The manager is used to the climb, and Jon works out each day. Peter is a block away and seems to be groaning with each step. His mood picks up, however, when he views the the breakfast buffet. It is a beautiful buffet visually, with cheese and meats cut into triangles and
cream cheese in balls coated in things like coconut and sesame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There are sauces like t</span>ahini, yogurt and honey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little crisp cucumbers and tomatoes with
mint leaves explode with flavor in our mouths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
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<br /></div>
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Peter is so exhausted after breakfast, especially after that climb, which must be excruciating with his broken rib, he has to have a
break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About a half hour later, we start out, intending to climb
the Galata Tower, where we can have a look from it over the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walk all along the Istiklal, discovering
different things than what we saw the last time in Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Today we stroll through o</span>ld shopping
arcades, several of them with stained glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They have seen better days, but they are still charming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZHzI93-PXOwOK34BSUHYiToxLxHZvudiceHimx_vfMqgcN0RTHVCChqVmWrasgIAZPBloGYd3UcRjc1A09Nv83F6HxvkCQShjsHO1lNu_TUQIJKtjJc1GMGKZwRn_Xmu6_Ap0dD_4hxy/s1600/2013-04-28+12.20.47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZHzI93-PXOwOK34BSUHYiToxLxHZvudiceHimx_vfMqgcN0RTHVCChqVmWrasgIAZPBloGYd3UcRjc1A09Nv83F6HxvkCQShjsHO1lNu_TUQIJKtjJc1GMGKZwRn_Xmu6_Ap0dD_4hxy/s400/2013-04-28+12.20.47.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A "passage" on the Istiklal</td></tr>
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We look for a <a href="http://www.mevlanasufi.com/">Sufi school</a> that
features sufi dancing at 3 pm, on the last Sunday a month, which happens to be today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walk there winds downhill, less strenuous for Peter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pass a café featuring chocolate and
candles and a building with very
peaceful flute music coming out from the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Funny how music can transport me, putting me
into a peaceful mood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walk is pretty, past lute and other music instrument shops and boutiques.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The streets are narrow, hilly, and winding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>We later buy <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lute - </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oud </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>music CDs at a really
nice CD shop along that street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Peter loves the sound of the <i>oud. </i>He tells me he would love to try and play one. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8nvsCwTndvNbd75Dnn0MQHOEyHhVe6dR8PPCt8Nl7wolHbT3wj-mhyErTg7zP2-tcHwcveYlG29D6jzol8Y6JT1ZU4JYGLqVIgUgInYgU-2H6OquNH374vSY8c0A06sExML0QL2KlTnl/s1600/2013-04-28+15.12.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8nvsCwTndvNbd75Dnn0MQHOEyHhVe6dR8PPCt8Nl7wolHbT3wj-mhyErTg7zP2-tcHwcveYlG29D6jzol8Y6JT1ZU4JYGLqVIgUgInYgU-2H6OquNH374vSY8c0A06sExML0QL2KlTnl/s320/2013-04-28+15.12.21.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The afternoon performance of the whirling dervishes is sold out. We have to buy tickets for this evening, which means a change in plans. Another problem - the lines for the Galata tower are so long, we decide to try that another time. Jon and I walk while Peter limps along to the Galata bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stop at a fish market, looking out over the
water and boats leaving, families out for tea and coffee in the cafes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are lots of tourists out there, but
also many Turkish families for a day out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Men fishing on the bridge are later joined by their wives, heads
covered, and children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see a little
kid of about two sleeping in the shade, near his father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He is oblivious to the crowds, to the noise, completely at peace. He has no difficulty adapting to the day. Is it because he feels secure? <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jS3rsyUGO8XIWmCoq0ZEyQF83gzrjnwBXdTJOQ2hXBelzIN1z_toAKOWEjSY-D9jApo9KsT0BYLpQHriOXvlzvrn-0ypXR3OlIGqRPe-g_t20aQMlShGyOhLRLic15zvAWrK0S_Y34xu/s1600/2013-04-28+15.35.18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jS3rsyUGO8XIWmCoq0ZEyQF83gzrjnwBXdTJOQ2hXBelzIN1z_toAKOWEjSY-D9jApo9KsT0BYLpQHriOXvlzvrn-0ypXR3OlIGqRPe-g_t20aQMlShGyOhLRLic15zvAWrK0S_Y34xu/s320/2013-04-28+15.35.18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishermen on the Galata Bridge</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stroll through the Egyptian spice market.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get ripped off, buying a “sinus” tea –
probably 20 grams for 20 lira, which is about €8, or $12.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is so
crowded and I, like Peter am tired, so I don't bother questioning his price.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Coffee and tea at the café where the Orient Express leaves
from, the train featured in the Agatha Christie book and film "Murder on the Orient Express", then back across the bridge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally a chance to sit down, during the sufi dancing. I try and get into the mood, reading about the stages of this dance. They call this ceremony "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qdi-it43j30">Sema</a>", which was partly inspired by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumi">Rumi</a>, the most famous sufi master of all. Here in Turkey they call Rumi "Mevlevi". </div>
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<br /></div>
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In the first part of this mystical journey, the dancers are dressed in black, to symbolize their original state. These clothes, our natural state, will have to be shed. Underneath the black they weare white robes. The black shows us that we have to shed/submit our natural selves to God, in order to enter into God, who is love. Before they shed their garments, though, they greet one another and their master. We need to accept - to greet and welcome ourselves, each other and our darkened state before we can shed them, receiving love. And then, now transformed by, they can again reclothe themselves in black, joining the rest of creation. Yes, I agree. Much of this sounds like the zen journey I once traveled. It sounds like our Christian journey about returning to life after being born again. This all sounds very nice, but the music lulls me into sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My soul is not touched by this symbol of a profound spiritual journey. </span>For me, it is sad to be touched only slightly, in the aestheitic, cerebral part of my brain. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWRv0YdZuI3BH5ffiivBDqPq4KZjaCFOAH8OKiVJo5c2M9PdVseuZ4ICq9FOyRGt_dKNTL1qS9Bd266K1ECDFgdZdqEonTNaUQuBZvW-r-QeFltpEZq-9ijL4Zc4NbjHlkHEKxYne-RYr/s1600/2013-04-28+18.29.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWRv0YdZuI3BH5ffiivBDqPq4KZjaCFOAH8OKiVJo5c2M9PdVseuZ4ICq9FOyRGt_dKNTL1qS9Bd266K1ECDFgdZdqEonTNaUQuBZvW-r-QeFltpEZq-9ijL4Zc4NbjHlkHEKxYne-RYr/s320/2013-04-28+18.29.21.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sufi dancers begin their "journey" in black.</td></tr>
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As I review my day, however, I see that I have been on this journey all day. What else have I been doing but attempting to submit my natural desire for comfort to the greater need to adapt and grow? With each climb, I tell myself that I will get stronger, the more I climb this hill. Discipline is definitely a virtue, and so is adapting to the situation. We adapted by coming to a later performance, and by walking all over old Istanbul, a very difficult thing for Peter in his state. We had to put off viewing Istanbul from the Galata Tower. I blessed myself, even after having been cheated while buying tea. I have submitted to the day, and Peter has endured it, painfully walking every bit of it<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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We eat a delicious, authentic Turkish dinner at the <a href="http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/Middle_East/Turkey/Istanbul_Ili/Istanbul-1837624/Restaurants-Istanbul-Haci_Abdullah-BR-1.html">Haci Abdullah</a> restaurant, where we ate last
time we were in Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so nice
to hear Jon, who is experiencing Istanbul for the first time, exclaim, “Is this ever a beautiful city!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-16493449628502996682013-05-07T05:32:00.000-07:002013-05-12T03:16:00.456-07:00Istanbul Again - Introduction<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwp_v4Q9LYsZyK-6cc_KIe4JoYiRqAstULKC8P5dYShyqy8aeES7n3BPzt69zfwEza8EETEGJv-6IO0wkomBp8-KumC2Y-SKtwIIfS840mzdDfVKQxrgE3UmQYIyopgFjMy7vpKlZ9B6Q_/s1600/2013-04-28+15.05.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwp_v4Q9LYsZyK-6cc_KIe4JoYiRqAstULKC8P5dYShyqy8aeES7n3BPzt69zfwEza8EETEGJv-6IO0wkomBp8-KumC2Y-SKtwIIfS840mzdDfVKQxrgE3UmQYIyopgFjMy7vpKlZ9B6Q_/s400/2013-04-28+15.05.35.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caught in the act of living - People, animals and a great deal of life on the Golden Horn of Istanbul</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Before I had a chance to continue with my last subject, another trip came up. Life seems to work that way. We are in the middle of a project and then something else happens. Life just does not happen in the order we have in our minds, yet I believe it has an order of its own. Part of life's lessons is learning to adapt our ideas of order into the order that life gives us.<br />
<br />
Life continues to be difficult, as I struggle with this lesson of accepting the situation I am in. Lesson one, as I listed in the previous posting was: <span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span>"Get
in touch with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do I need?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do I feel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Own it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Feel it." There is a great song I discovered one day listening to <a href="http://last.fm/">Last.fm</a> - Elin Synnøve Bråthen, who sings a song called "Feel It" on her album co-produced with Eliksir, "Earthly Things". This song helps me to do the thing I need to do - to feel what I feel. A lot of what she sings touches me to the core, including the one song I could find on YouTube - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkxXnS8KQak">You Must Fly</a>.<br />
<br />
We flew to Istanbul a week after my husband had broken a rib and was in great pain. This trip was planned months ago and we couldn't change our plans. Our son Jon was traveling with us, and we were to meet his girlfriend Dayeong, who lives in Korea, in Istanbul. So we traveled - Jon, who is in love, and whose pain of being separated from his love would soon end, me with my internal pain, and Peter, with his broken rib. Mercifully, much of his pain had subsided in the course of the week, but his pain affected Jon and me. My job was to let his pain be there, and yet try and get in touch with myself and my own needs. This is part of what I need to learn, no matter where it is.<br />
<br />
This series will attempt to incorporate the lessons I am being confronted with, in the context of being a tourist in Istanbul. Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-65934530780599523682013-04-04T08:22:00.001-07:002013-05-12T03:16:44.981-07:00Giving Up to Get Well - Introduction<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiTyRZozwJ6CfnC768yYLLMGkB95wANCx5REl3xZ2LmX6yamjhbOLNKH1zOkg2kLlgQJpxKPo1wNgiRnj9KxqqQcX9Y0woi1RifcYoNqNPpiuBKAQOgaDOxGa-L2__KABFDhYK3ta8yB8c/s1600/2012-08-13+13.07.42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiTyRZozwJ6CfnC768yYLLMGkB95wANCx5REl3xZ2LmX6yamjhbOLNKH1zOkg2kLlgQJpxKPo1wNgiRnj9KxqqQcX9Y0woi1RifcYoNqNPpiuBKAQOgaDOxGa-L2__KABFDhYK3ta8yB8c/s320/2012-08-13+13.07.42.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giving up on being bread alone - it's grown into a soup bowl!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Way back in October, I went to England for a long weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some things in my life journey
had led me to an impasse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was stuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I went to the place I knew where I could
get help, at <a href="http://www.ccd.xpha.net/">Christ Church in Deal</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> This church has an outreach program with weekend workshops, books, CDs and other helps. They call this program <a href="http://www.lifegivingtrust.org/v15/">Rapha</a>. </span>The
people there are amazing and have been a wonderful, integral part of my life
pilgrimage, giving me tools to understand the kind of journey I am on, as well
as help along the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people who live there are really generous. I have even heard them say publicly that they would welcome anyone to come there for an extended stay - ANYONE who really wanted help from them, whether they had the money to pay for it or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have met amazing people who have gone there
to live because they were stuck in their lives, sometimes from really difficult
illnesses like bipolarity or clinical depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Some of these people arrived at Christ Chuch's doorstep, broken down and broke, without a plan as to how they were going to pay for the help they hoped to get. I suspect that the community has helped more than one person out financially as well as helping them to knit their lives together again. </span>Staying there to live has never been an
option for me, but I do keep going back there for the workshops, which have carried
me a long way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In October, I was pretty desperate, but the people there
didn’t think my best option was to stay there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a job and a husband, and a son who keeps coming back home for a week or a few months. Staying there just didn’t seem like a good option for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>hey pointed me in another direction. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“Noreen, go to America. Go visit your family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Take your time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That will
do you good.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went on a long journey to the United States,
and wrote a little about this in my last posting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Part of that journey was a 5 - ½ day sojourn at <a href="http://www.caron.org/breakthrough-at-caron-personal-growth-workshop-4219.html">Breakthrough</a>, a
holistic treatment center in Pennsylvania.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There, one of the therapists told us we would be taking a journey into “inner
space”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At Breakthrough I learned more
about how I got stuck and how to get unstuck by literally rewiring parts of the brain. This is one of the concepts
they talk about at Rapha.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got
practical help so that I could do this, and am in the midst of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m one of those people (are we all like this?) who will probably
continue to need help as long as I live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps this is just part of being humans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Humans are needy people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I had always hoped that my blog would be a place where I could share
about this journey into “inner space” as well as the physical sorts of journeys
we go on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only problem with this is
that when dealing with life’s problem areas, it seems that other people are
always part of the reason or at least the occasion for these problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can you write about problems without
harming those closest to you? Blabbermouths may feel better for a while, but what happens to all the people whose reputations they've damaged in their complaints? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m going to attempt this without going into detail about the people
who cause or who have caused me pain. This subject is too important to ignore,
since it is really the essence of my life – how to consciously embark on a
thrilling life journey, consciously braving the storms as well as the sunny
days, even talking about them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Storms
are just as much a part of life as sunny days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are probably all partly sick and partly well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I, for one, would really like to live
more and more in health, if at all possible. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I once read a book about mental health where the
writer stated that the main cause of mental illness is that the person will not
accept the awful reality that has invaded this person’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better to deny it, we tend to think, better
to find some other outlet than to admit the unspeakable, horrible, awful
truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that is what makes us
ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only hope for getting well is
to let hope for the change we long for die.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">That is one of the truths I have come to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will not get well until we give up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m much better off right now than I was that weekend in England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to share some of the things with you
that have brought this about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going
to write a series about this part of my journey, called “Giving Up to Get Well”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started a list of the things that I’ve
done, and came up with almost twenty!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That would have been unmanageable, so I’ve narrowed it down to these
six:</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Get
in touch with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do I need?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do I feel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Own it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Feel it.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Grieve
over that which got lost.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Start
giving it to myself, believing that God is making this possible, allying myself
with the God who is good and kind.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Accept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Accept the things that cannot change, accept myself, those who have hurt
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Accept the love of those who can
give me some of what I need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Accept the
gifts that God and life have for me.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Get
on with life.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Give
it away to others.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ll be spending the next few postings breaking these down,
sharing with you what each point means to me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until next time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wish you travel mercies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-17364470495451778302013-01-17T13:23:00.000-08:002013-04-04T08:07:16.440-07:00The Beauty of Small Things<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9i4dYaDGAOco7GgqKXo1YArrZquEmHS-ogen5zNmDKRsRBB_sO-yggsra7cFQ5C7vMI4vuhLrn7CDNRRvXb5AUD0RFUL3lkfVwwobuvbL4VxZVc7V-yWNm_7DQNq3NsjyPRCm2lq5hJi/s1600/2013-01-13+16.36.03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9i4dYaDGAOco7GgqKXo1YArrZquEmHS-ogen5zNmDKRsRBB_sO-yggsra7cFQ5C7vMI4vuhLrn7CDNRRvXb5AUD0RFUL3lkfVwwobuvbL4VxZVc7V-yWNm_7DQNq3NsjyPRCm2lq5hJi/s320/2013-01-13+16.36.03.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby shower in Minnesota</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<br />
"My, but you do get around," several people have mentioned to me lately. It's true. During 2012 I was in Egypt, Paris, France three separate times, in England twice, Prague, Istanbul, and various places in Germany. I've written about some of these places in here, and reading over my experiences, some of them sound pretty cool. Some of these trips I've taken with Peter, while for others I was with others or completely on my own. And yes, I have had some pretty exciting moments. "Your life sounds so interesting," these people say wistfully.<br />
<br />
Right now I'm on the go again, this time in the States, the country I was born and raised in. I lived here until age 36, leaving for a trip that should have lasted about two months, but ended up living there permanently, after meeting, falling in love with and then marrying Peter.<br />
<br />
We got married in a medieval castle, and rode in a white buggy led by a white horse to our fancy reception in a hotel several hundreds of years old. "Your life is a fairy tale," said one of my friends when she saw our wedding photos. <br />
<br />
I think I did all I could to nourish such ideas. I fed and nourished myself for a few years on all the excitement of living in Europe, of being a new mother, of living in this wonderful new culture where the bathrooms and kitchens had tiled walls and we weighed all the ingredients on a metric scale as we cooked and baked. I thought life in Europe was much more interesting, more exotic and superior to my old life in crime and graffiti-ridden New York City, which I had once thought superior to what I called "boring, flat" Minnesota.<br />
<br />
Everyday life caught up with me, and unfinished business from my old unfulfilled life also caught up with me. It's still there, reminding me of all that needs to be healed.<br />
<br />
And that's one reason I'm back here in the States. Next week I'm going to a workshop in Pennsyolvania called "Breakthrough". I need to break through in some areas.<br />
<br />
One of the things I'm doing on this trip is visit my large family. Since the end of December, I've been in Portland, Oregon, one of the huge suburban areas in California between Los Angeles and San Diego, and now I'm in Minnesota. New York State and City are on my itinerary after the workshop, <br />
<br />
My great discovery on this trip is the beauty in the small things. I haven't done one glamorous thing since being "home" in the States.<br />
<br />
In Oregon, I watched TV every evening with my sister and her family. I discovered the TV series "John Adams". What an amazing man he must have been. To think that he and all our founding fathers were well acquainted with one another. I saw that French morals and approaches to love were as fascinating to Benjamin Franklin and disturbing to John Adams as they are to millions of people these days. The things you can learn, just watching a TV series! I vowed to watch more TV. I took photos of the "small" things - a stunning view of Mount Hood one can enjoy every day from my sister's dining room window, for example.<br />
<br />
In California, my sister-in-law and I went bike riding in the neighborhood with the kids. Nothing fancy, but I was fascinated by the Christmas decorations and lights on snowless lawns with palm trees in the yard. I marveled at reindeer flying off a California roof. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHC8Qc3LCr-Uel9jELqstAsWClzMnDCTaNvZNFg5xeNsiL2oyNX3epQWcvcVfgUpKZz5XA4b97056ycJhwsqyypsUPBAszbBRXTbGXyplgG93Y7WLKQHBazcME7XUr82KnqmybCHcSVbX/s1600/2013-01-09+12.36.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHC8Qc3LCr-Uel9jELqstAsWClzMnDCTaNvZNFg5xeNsiL2oyNX3epQWcvcVfgUpKZz5XA4b97056ycJhwsqyypsUPBAszbBRXTbGXyplgG93Y7WLKQHBazcME7XUr82KnqmybCHcSVbX/s320/2013-01-09+12.36.35.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
We went hiking up a hill just across the street from their house. I marvelled at all the many mountains surrounding them, at the dirt road leading to humble houses built in the 1950s, houses with stunning viewsof these mountains, unspoiled by suburbia, but just blocks away from huge housing developments constructed in a few months in the '90s., We ate delicious ice cream my brother made for us. "I make the best ice cream in the world," he boasts. I agree. It's better than Ben and Jerry's, hitherto favorite ice cream. Some day when I have access to the recipe, I'll publish it here.<br />
<br />
On to Minnesota, where my family has other excellent cooks. I'm staying at my aunt's, whom I've never spent so much time with as on this trip. My brother invited us to dinner It turned out to be a spectacular meal of four courses. They had bruschetta, fantastic pork jerk that had been marinated for two days and glazed with raspberry sauce, and a fantastic mixed salad with walnuts, blue cheese and craisins (dried cranberries).<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3GwwDzYrEjz1B5m9zIZjGUbUATLwUhWUmwzGGQ4T38kVyfoURYB6JRlJcQCXqZs1Ij8MlU9mse_kgZi0qNrgV_l9U_rh_IYGu_PYoJ3W1z_ayM8Dw1fv8EMXZ-0UKN1CNPq9o-Qt3hfK/s1600/2013-01-13+20.12.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3GwwDzYrEjz1B5m9zIZjGUbUATLwUhWUmwzGGQ4T38kVyfoURYB6JRlJcQCXqZs1Ij8MlU9mse_kgZi0qNrgV_l9U_rh_IYGu_PYoJ3W1z_ayM8Dw1fv8EMXZ-0UKN1CNPq9o-Qt3hfK/s320/2013-01-13+20.12.34.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Look into the recipe section of this blog for the recipe. My aunt had already invited my brother and sister to dinner later this week, and then lamented, ""How can I have you over to my house, when I make nothing special, after this amazing meal?" We assured her that it would be fine. We ate her food last night, and were all reminded of meals our Mom cooked during our childhood. It was wonderful! And we shared all sorts of stories, good and bad, sad and inspiring, about our family.<br />
<br />
So, here is a tribute to the healing power of families, of revisiting those stories from the past, many of which are toxic, and finding restoration as we share and cry together, to the wonder of times shared together. To the beauty of small things. .Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-62359905737673647442012-12-10T09:18:00.000-08:002012-12-10T09:18:55.481-08:00A Taste of Turkey - Day Six<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKrnKs5ntMYA7d3xyobsTDrrwc2ZHgH-_Lbu_Cc10HdgWAu-X7aMMImYP2RMze_b9kNx3pyKsGQBRc2Byom7mnVWQ46rut_ZwKsWowhFTBnhVF4qF_wdgeXLJ8HxvTsposxPGM7iJLuEy/s1600/2012-10-12+09.30.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKrnKs5ntMYA7d3xyobsTDrrwc2ZHgH-_Lbu_Cc10HdgWAu-X7aMMImYP2RMze_b9kNx3pyKsGQBRc2Byom7mnVWQ46rut_ZwKsWowhFTBnhVF4qF_wdgeXLJ8HxvTsposxPGM7iJLuEy/s320/2012-10-12+09.30.33.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rug weaver at a carpet manufacturer in Istanbul</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;"> </span>Today we pay a visit to the beautiful showroom of the
Nakkas carpet
manufacturer and dealer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We're greeted
by a representative of the firm who speaks excellent German, and who shows us
a woman weaving a silk carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
threads are dyed with dye produced by Bayer, the company I get most of my English students from!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dyes are weather and color-fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He tells us that these weavers have to be trained, but that any young
woman who weaves carpets will have received training in her home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The progress she makes is very slow – it
would take a year and a half to weave a 1x1-1/2 meter carpet with ten knots per
centimeter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carpets vary, we learn, by
the knot technique and by the number of knots per centimeter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The higher the number of knots, the finer the
carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silk threads make a more
lustrous carpet with more sheen, but wool can also make a beautiful
carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shows us angora wool
gathered in the warm months, when the sheep is outdoors and not lying in a
muddy stall, dirtying his fleece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
says that the term “angora” for the goat that provides this wool comes from
“Ankara”, the origin of this goat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhooy2c89MHnHna7_4hNkefBCOlYgm6zt6VFBK6mAAx3Bi_LNE07VPKcmTCwIKg12P-IXhmXA-boJphZroeR0eRcZKW6J_rsUn6ms_fyWGsvZIqzd1-4lSS7vVrk8rS6yW46T_IImdEa4Cz/s1600/2012-10-12+10.28.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhooy2c89MHnHna7_4hNkefBCOlYgm6zt6VFBK6mAAx3Bi_LNE07VPKcmTCwIKg12P-IXhmXA-boJphZroeR0eRcZKW6J_rsUn6ms_fyWGsvZIqzd1-4lSS7vVrk8rS6yW46T_IImdEa4Cz/s320/2012-10-12+10.28.25.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We learn about the different regions these rugs come
from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Armenia rugs are geometric, with
stripes or angled patterns. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hereke rugs
have pictures, like the “tree of life”, which he shows us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We meet the designer of one of these beautiful
carpets – he has won an award for his design, which include a river and the tree,
a typical Muslim theme which we’ve seen in paintings, wall hangings and in
mosques.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the rugs we see have been
made with natural dyes such as saffron, indigo and pomegranate. </div>
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The government of Turkey is actively promoting this
handicraft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gives many women otherwise unemployed an
occupation and it also helps an ancient craft to survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More and more carpets are being made
industrially today, in Turkey too, and fewer and fewer handmade carpets are
being made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be a shame for this
handicraft to die out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But – the price of
a nice rug is astronomical!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We see a
beautiful silk rug only about 50x 80 cm in a beautiful pattern in turquoise and
beige shades, more than twenty knots per centimeter, which would normally cost
over €2000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two couples in our group
buy carpets – one purchases this small rug for €2000 and another a rug about
1x1-1/2 meters, for over €3000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
salesmen are aggressive in their tactics, but willing to go down if one is
persistent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them attacks me in the short period of time I'm separated from my husband to go to the toilet. After Egypt, I'm much more on guard. I use the broken record tactic - keep
saying no, but tell him they’re really beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He finally asks me directly, “What is making you shy about buying a
rug?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>“It’s the money,” I
reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I simply can’t afford one of
these carpets.” Which is the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I’m not sure all the carpets they sell have been made with
double knots, but I learn that all Turkish rugs are made this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Double-knotted rugs last forever and don’t
fray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had loads of money, I would
certainly buy a large double-knotted silk rug.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63lqRrZ_wyTvpAbMtG4gfcORWEjMXFUDugH38VPSIg7InkXS9cHtf_z2kgCgPPxySwRqpapojBXq8F7DX8J-DNWIPmg3wDGqOaULP41rS-gAbC2AkX8-ek1krF3qgluXXBJkNSa_JfDUS/s1600/2012-10-12+10.57.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63lqRrZ_wyTvpAbMtG4gfcORWEjMXFUDugH38VPSIg7InkXS9cHtf_z2kgCgPPxySwRqpapojBXq8F7DX8J-DNWIPmg3wDGqOaULP41rS-gAbC2AkX8-ek1krF3qgluXXBJkNSa_JfDUS/s400/2012-10-12+10.57.21.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Mosque as seen from the roof of the Nakkas carpet manufacturer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrupVbsztQSZV5Lw6FAxP8sLM3gXnTmSPVncKUouaNou1GwAB0Hv4aDnZUAPoJg121SJRDWLP-6EW5nmP0tmGs2IehN_hIvG859RxbtLifmBKIrcsIwWgREGdRa5RJjBD3iTl7-klodRaw/s1600/2012-10-12+11.06.44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrupVbsztQSZV5Lw6FAxP8sLM3gXnTmSPVncKUouaNou1GwAB0Hv4aDnZUAPoJg121SJRDWLP-6EW5nmP0tmGs2IehN_hIvG859RxbtLifmBKIrcsIwWgREGdRa5RJjBD3iTl7-klodRaw/s320/2012-10-12+11.06.44.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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After our salesman is satisfied that I don't intend to
buy, he suggests that I go upstairs to the terrace, where I can enjoy a stunning
view of Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I follow his advice,and am
overwhelmed to see the blue mosque so close-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Don’t miss the basement,” says Harun as he sees me head upstairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“The building is built over a Byzantine cistern.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So after gazing at the brilliant Bosphorus
and admiring the best views yet of the monuments we have been admiring, I
walk down to the basement, where there are the same Corinthian columns lined
up in straight lines, exactly like what we saw before at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_Cistern">Basilica Cistern</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, you can smell the mold, though, and
there is very little water in the cistern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I read that this cistern stems from the sixth century A.D. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWBSnoCTdpGb2VkaPqcTDjpAv1nbvuJP8HvFpQIs-ZIRUv6VCLwoSWRB2iBC-hvgfqHADyTKkXFfy8kaH_RoVDORML7ynVtZuONGNiT4FoqjIBAgyXnps5wJQN3tOc5RX1-Ac06c_q298/s1600/2012-10-12+11.44.54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWBSnoCTdpGb2VkaPqcTDjpAv1nbvuJP8HvFpQIs-ZIRUv6VCLwoSWRB2iBC-hvgfqHADyTKkXFfy8kaH_RoVDORML7ynVtZuONGNiT4FoqjIBAgyXnps5wJQN3tOc5RX1-Ac06c_q298/s320/2012-10-12+11.44.54.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of the beautiful Rüstem Pasha mosque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuZslaQyTN9tnEloHFA7d4JtROBhfPWIErL4Ivbq7k4_UEEX-_xt-eVlFr7RyBAYUCaa1U931XZDb2Fr8KfT3e2hNG0mPwLhfoipQWKSzaThk35XG0RF5OiZWrt0lLw1ymdcwkeici-xC/s1600/2012-10-12+11.57.03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuZslaQyTN9tnEloHFA7d4JtROBhfPWIErL4Ivbq7k4_UEEX-_xt-eVlFr7RyBAYUCaa1U931XZDb2Fr8KfT3e2hNG0mPwLhfoipQWKSzaThk35XG0RF5OiZWrt0lLw1ymdcwkeici-xC/s320/2012-10-12+11.57.03.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tile in the Rüstem Pasha mosque</td></tr>
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We ride in the bus a short distance after our carpet exhibit to yet another, our final mosque of our sojourn in Istanbul, the Rüstem Pasha mosque. This mosque was designed by
Sinan, who built all of the other mosques we have seen except the Hagia Sophia, his model, which was originally a church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> This mosque</span> is filled from top to bottom with
gorgeous hand-made blue tiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
much more of a blue mosque than the one named so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harun says that Rüstem had unbelievably good <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kismet</i> – a word that seems synonymous
with fate or karma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rüstem managed to live a
happy, fulfilled life, not seeking to outdo his master, the sultan, but rising
on his own to enormous wealth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People tried to
discredit him, but he always foiled them, rising above their tricks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My guidebook describes him in less favorable
terms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It says that he and Roxelana,
Süleyman’s wife, plotted to turn the sultan, Süleyman, against his favorite son,
Mustafa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The book says they succeeded in getting
Süleyman to order Mustafa to be strangled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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We walk to the edge of the new mosque and listen to the
call for Friday prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is so
beautiful, and the few moments of stillness, listening, bring me closer to God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stand there, eyes shut, smelling chestnuts roasting and coffee,
feeling the hot sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thank God for
all of this, and bless the people in the group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the way Harun talks about God and the
beliefs of the Muslims. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harun has said something not quite accurate about Christianity, however, and this bothers me. He says that Christians and Jews
don't believe in work as a means of glorifying God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> So, the first moment I get a chance, </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I show him 1 Corinthians 10: 31 – “Whether
you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> I just happen to have an English translation of the Bible stored in my android phone.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Harun has told us not to be misled by the stylishly dressed, forward-thinking people of Istanbul. He says, "Don't think these people are not devout Muslims, just because they don't necessarily have their heads covered, or you see their teenagers strolling down the </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Istiklal Cadessi hand in hand at night. Just because you don't see them stopping everything to pray doesn't mean they don't pray. When you see wine and <i>raki </i>here in all the restaurants, it doesn't mean the people drink alcohol every day. These are people of deep faith and strict morals, who go to the mosque regularly." He goes on to tell us that Istanbul, with its mushrooming population of poor Turkish people streaming in from the country to find work in Istanbul, faces many cultural clashes between the classical urban Istanbulians and the newcomers. There are just as many problems trying to integrate these differing approaches to faith and life here in Istanbul as there are in Germany, which is also struggling to integrate Turkish and other immigrants into modern Germany. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I take note of what Harun says, but I am not convinced. I still think the people we've seen in Egypt appear more devout. In Istanbul, we see many Turks drinking alcohol. We hear western music as well as Turkish blasting from the discos. Orhan Pamuk says in his book <a href="http://www.amazon.de/Istanbul-Memories-City-Orhan-Pamuk/dp/0571218334/ref=sr_1_1?s=books-intl-de&ie=UTF8&qid=1355155857&sr=1-1"><u>Istanbul </u></a>that his family and many other wealthy people in Turkey were nonbelievers. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ataturk">Atatürk</a>, the man responsible for transforming this country in the early twentieth century into the modern, forward-looking nation it is, belonged to no religion at all. <a href="http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Atheism">He said</a>, </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"I have no religion, and at times I wish all religions at the bottom of
the sea. He is a weak ruler who needs religion to uphold his government;
it is as if he would catch his people in a trap. My people are going to
learn the principles of democracy, the dictates of truth and the
teachings of science. Superstition must go. Let them worship as they
will; every man can follow his own conscience, provided it does not
interfere with sane reason or bid him against the liberty of his
fellow-men." I have found this quote in the link above, and it can be found in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ataturk-Biography-founder-Modern-Turkey/dp/158567334X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1355156479&sr=8-1&keywords=Ataturk+%3A+The+Biography+of+the+Founder+of+Modern+Turkey+by+Andrew+Mango"><i>Ataturk : The Biography of the Founder of Modern Turkey</i> (2002) by Andrew Mango</a>. Atatürk created Turkey </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">into a secular democracy devoid of <i>sharia </i>law, into a nation that has written the death penalty out of its constitution. I believe that his spirit is still strong in Turkey, despite the increase of traditional Islam which you can see everywhere as well.</span> The young women are much more modestly clad than those in Germany, but they fit right into the rest of Europe and the Western world. Young men are all wearing jeans. Commerce and consumption appear to be very much a part of life here. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I don't know, of course, what is going on inside the hearts and minds of the millions of people inhabiting this city. To me, living in a place that is not radical would feel a lot better than being around religious fanatics. Harun tells us the crime rate is quite low in Istanbul. It looks as though tolerance is quite high. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I believe it is possible to be spiritual, to be connected to God from the core, through to every pore in one's body and mind. In fact, I believe those most deeply connected with their Source are the ones who are so connected, they have learned to live in love and harmony with others. I am not afraid of spiritual people who are tolerant. I hope I am one of those. I welcome others who live and think this way. It the fanatics who want to impose their way upon others who cause me concern.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wRactGaJsgmnNTUNdGnOLXYWixTPCgggxGzxKGVkpS80BqgWf5LanwDRQSCQFzWjzTaJOafx7bYRzZKfQ5CMsUJqpfrN754z30To8a0gLqynmixqetjAtHejJru0KR1fyhgGcqaBtaF4/s1600/2012-10-12+13.14.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wRactGaJsgmnNTUNdGnOLXYWixTPCgggxGzxKGVkpS80BqgWf5LanwDRQSCQFzWjzTaJOafx7bYRzZKfQ5CMsUJqpfrN754z30To8a0gLqynmixqetjAtHejJru0KR1fyhgGcqaBtaF4/s320/2012-10-12+13.14.35.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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For lunch, Peter and I eat fish sandwiches near the New Mosque and the Egyptian Market - on the shores of the Golden Horn. This is a charming location to eat lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The customers are on solid, firm land, whereas the fish sellers fry the fish from boats, rocking along with the movement of the water.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Later we shop in the Egyptian
market, where we can buy all the wonderful spices we bought in Egypt earlier this year. We're already running out! The spices here smell great, but not as intensely as those in Aswan, the best market I have ever seen for spices. We also buy some Turkish delight - <i>lokum - </i>at the <a href="http://www.turkeytravelplanner.com/details/Food/TurkishDelight.html">Haci Bekir,</a> a <a href="http://www.hacibekir.com.tr/eng/asayfa.html">shop</a> near the New Mosque, to bring back to Germany. Harun says this is the best shop in Istanbul for Turkish delight. He has shared cinnamon and rosewater flavored <i>lokum - </i>both of them delicious, so we choose the same flavors, among the many on offer.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_HNfH1z_qrz6GhJ4or5csi-H0qhyphenhyphenln7BqzFCzM4PCnMoCWwkRWSz6EvmxDbqns7SP4r4Qy2bXTpu1zsvuFuoVNEHWZHXovT0BHC5Nz4ksNXAtGtvTVhSMbEHQ-DoYOQR9Ip5ZHQ-0i3v/s1600/CIMG0309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_HNfH1z_qrz6GhJ4or5csi-H0qhyphenhyphenln7BqzFCzM4PCnMoCWwkRWSz6EvmxDbqns7SP4r4Qy2bXTpu1zsvuFuoVNEHWZHXovT0BHC5Nz4ksNXAtGtvTVhSMbEHQ-DoYOQR9Ip5ZHQ-0i3v/s320/CIMG0309.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bosphorus Bridge, seen from our boat ride</td></tr>
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For the remainder of the afternoon, we enjoy a peaceful, beautiful boat ride on the Bosphorus. Harun has hired a boat just for us. The warm sunlight comforts us as we think about returning to colder climes tomorrow.</div>
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And later, dinner in the <a href="http://www.baliknoktasi.com.tr/">“Fish Point” Restaurant </a>on the
Galata Bridge,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>looking out in the evening darkness at the
Topkapi Palace lit up in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most of us have sea bass – and a host of different <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">meze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>We have been a rather
quiet, introverted, yet harmonious group. By now, we all enjoy each
other and are sorry to part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We are all a </span>bit sad about
going home, leaving this wonderful, vibrant, sunny city for cold, rainy, wet Germany.</div>
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I intend to come back – next time with our son and his girlfriend in tow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would love the Istiklal Cadessi, the
pedestrian zone filled day and night with thousands of young people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This must be the liveliest city I have ever
seen, except possibly New York City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is a lively, peaceful, vibrant city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We must come back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-76616823642801417022012-12-04T05:23:00.000-08:002012-12-04T08:25:36.610-08:00A Taste of Turkey - Day Five<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kosmetikschule-frankfurt.de/sites/Bilder/ausbildung-hamam-meister.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://www.kosmetikschule-frankfurt.de/sites/Bilder/ausbildung-hamam-meister.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bath experience in a Hamam - photo courtesy of kosmeticschule-frankfurt.de</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Today we have another huge program. We spend the morning visiting the archaeological museums, and the afternoon at the
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S%C3%BCleymaniye_Mosque">Suleymaniye mosque</a> and the fourth most venerated Muslim site in the world, the tomb of Ayoub al-Ansari (Eyüp Ensari in Turkish).<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQXi2X2m6ckBI6KYgZ53iGkM5AVXgcNOYqQ0PnIs-NYSQIa3n7T0OZC_TB9H7ULN4H_-rYYQOWJLX4F1wH08SuFQrzvpKLBaF5HO_SxOmmL4aiBbWtXsEInu-y7LJfKPnJ57PpruArFM_/s1600/2012-10-11+09.27.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQXi2X2m6ckBI6KYgZ53iGkM5AVXgcNOYqQ0PnIs-NYSQIa3n7T0OZC_TB9H7ULN4H_-rYYQOWJLX4F1wH08SuFQrzvpKLBaF5HO_SxOmmL4aiBbWtXsEInu-y7LJfKPnJ57PpruArFM_/s320/2012-10-11+09.27.29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarcophagus of the Crying Women</td></tr>
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The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Istanbul_Archaeology_Museums">archaeological museums</a> are a huge complex of three buildings. It is overwhelming, and I can't make much sense out of what I'm seeing. We spend time in all three buildings. Only a few impressions stick. I see a beautiful tribute to women on a sarcophagus (Greek? I have no idea.) of women mourning the loss of their loved ones in battle. I manage to walk right past the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Kadesh">Kadesh peace treaty</a> without really noticing it. This is a treaty between the Egyptian Ramesses II and a Hattusili III, a Hittite king (ancient Turkish race), and is the oldest known peace treaty in the world. <br />
<br />
From the museums, we walk to the Suleymaniye mosque, the largest one in Istanbul, and also built by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mimar_Sinan">Sinan</a>. We eat lunch in a restaurant run by the mosque. Harun tells us that mosques run little businesses to serve the public and also to finance their upkeep. We have a simple but delicious lunch of beans and rice. The mosque is beautiful and surely impressive, but I'm getting tired of seeing one mosque after another, all built by the same architect in the same style.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_U0uQxthwQJpmrZ6MEDfEmqRl-fGAp3eQPi8goHd9t2wsSr8fU2NpWCSgto5poo5VGbn2Ie2a-oyhfsMGqil4PhzHYMrGrvp5UBIl2x-BQAfymiM0ya6lrKAaZuYkAjMjyAzYksnh7mCT/s1600/2012-10-11+15.51.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_U0uQxthwQJpmrZ6MEDfEmqRl-fGAp3eQPi8goHd9t2wsSr8fU2NpWCSgto5poo5VGbn2Ie2a-oyhfsMGqil4PhzHYMrGrvp5UBIl2x-BQAfymiM0ya6lrKAaZuYkAjMjyAzYksnh7mCT/s320/2012-10-11+15.51.50.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little boy on pilgrimage with his family on the day before his circumsion</td></tr>
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Finally, we board our bus and drive to the end of the Golden Horn, where we find the tomb of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abu_Ayyub_al-Ansari">Ayoub al-Ansari</a>. We learn that this man was close to Mohammed, whom he met in Medina. He was one of his most prized warriors. He was buried outside the walls of Constantinople (Istanbul), and now his tomb is considered a holy site. Many of the sultans were buried near his tomb. This is still a popular pilgrimage destination. We see a little boy and his family who are visiting the tomb on the day before his <a href="http://www.turkishculture.org/lifestyles/ceremonies/circumcision/-541.htm">circumcision</a>. Muslims circumcise their boys at around age three or four. Harun asks the boy if he is afraid of tomorrow. He smiles and shakes his head no. He has already been bribed by lots of sweets, his distinctive costume and a day out in his honor with the relatives. <br />
<br />
We are finally finished with our strenuous sightseeing program. I feel
tired, pious, in need of a more sensual sort of piety - in need of a rub-down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
I'd love to have one of those lovely scrubs, like the one I had in Egypt. I've already been introduced to the lovely feeling of having a strange woman scrub me down, and if it's weird, it's only because it's weirdly wonderful. </span><br />
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On our first day, Harum recommended that we go
to a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hamam, </i>a Turkish bath, at some time
during our stay here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He described what
happens at a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hamam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It sounds a lot like <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6996945413566986585#editor/target=post;postID=6667633925485615288">what I experienced in Egypt</a>, but I'm not sure. </span></span>I was in an Egyptian steam bath that day. The only thing I really thought I knew
about Turkish steam baths is that gays like to go to the Turkish steam bath in
New York City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could only imagine what
goes inside that kind of steam bath, so the idea of going to one here in Istanbul felt
like a possibly decadent thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I find Harum to be a very clean-living Muslim, and what he described
sounds a lot like what I had experienced in Egypt.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">By the time I return from the Suleymaniye mosque, it's too late to walk over to the <a href="http://www.cemberlitashamami.com/">Cemberlitas Hamam</a>. </span>I manage to squeak into the <a href="http://www.laresparktaksim.com/photogallery-en.html">hotel <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Larespark </span></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.laresparktaksim.com/photogallery-en.html">hamam</a>
</i>for a “Kese and foam massage”, a Turkish version of a scrub in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hamam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></i>I only get in because someone hasn't shown up for their
appointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm completely
unprepared, not even having a bathing suit along. But this spontaneous event turns out to be the highlight of my day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I show up at the receptionist’s, and she hands me a thin
cotton towel and a key.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Put this in
locker number seven,” she says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put what
in locker number seven?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Your clothes
and towel – everything there.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Shall I get naked?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Yes – I come for you.”</div>
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I enter the ladies changing room baffled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find locker number seven and open it up,
only to find a thick pink bath towel and brilliant orange Styrofoam flip-flops in
this handsome dark wooden cabinet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
take off my clothes and contemplate sitting on the bench and waiting for the
lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How will she know I'm
ready?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can I get into the steam
bath naked and avoid being seen by men?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are men wandering around the reception area!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decide that I probably misunderstood
the woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What she probably meant was,
“Take off your clothes and wrap this towel around you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have everything you need in your locker,
including another towel and slippers.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, I wrap the thin towel around me, put on the orange flip-flops and
carry the locker key and thick pink towel back to the reception area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there's a man working at
reception<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask him what to
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn't seem a bit surprised by my
question, and simply points to a room. He tells me to sit down there and wait.</div>
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Sit down where and wait?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There's a bench outside the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hamam</i>,
or there are plenty of niches inside the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hamam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I decide he wants me to wait for the
attendant inside the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hamam, </i>so I leave
my towel on the bench and open the door to a brightly lit steam bath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is very little steam, and the lights
are so bright, anyone in there could see that I am naked, except for the
towel tied precariously below my shoulder, and my flip-flops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I find that I am not alone!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here's an elderly couple - people I even know! - from my group,
walking around the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hamam</i>
barefoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman and her husband each
have a bathing suit on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at the
woman with a questioning expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“What do we do here?” I ask.</div>
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“I have no idea,” she answers, “but I imagine you keep your
flip-flops outside the steam bath.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sloshes around the room, which is filled with at least a quarter-inch of
water.</div>
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“I’m here to get washed,” I say, “but I don’t know if I’m
in the right place.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“We’ll leave,” she answers.</div>
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“Oh, no, you can stay,” I protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I heard that the steam bath is free.”</div>
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“No, we’ll go now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then
you can have your scrub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband
finds this boring, anyway.”</div>
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So I sit down in one of the niches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have made the right decision,
because presently the woman from the reception comes in, carrying a large
bucket. She's wearing a bikini with a towel wrapped around her.</div>
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“Go lie down there,” she says, pointing to a huge marble
table standing in the middle of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Head at that end, feet at the other end,” she adds, pointing. </div>
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And my slippers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Leave them on the floor.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
flooded floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I clamber onto a table which turns out
to be very hot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the towel wrapped
around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is that right?” I ask,
putting my head down at one end.</div>
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“Yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she
unwraps the towel, covering the lower half of my body with it, and pours
warm water all over my legs and derriere, towel included.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And begins to scrub with a loofa glove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One leg, then the foot, the other leg, the
other foot, then up to my thighs, my bottom, my back, my neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What will happen to my hair?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We're going out to dinner at the Culinary Institute in just a little over two hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Will I have to wash my hair?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
explanation, so I don't ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This will
work out, I think.</div>
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After the lady finishes massaging my neck, she tells me to
turn over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now the slab is very
slippery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Be careful,” she warns in
English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn over carefully,
exposing my breast and private parts to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She quickly covers my lower parts with the wet towel and proceeds to
massage the front part of my body, from the feet and toes up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time she includes my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am getting not only a scrub, but also a
very pleasant massage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“Will you use soap on me?” I asked.</div>
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“For the half-hour scrub I give you the loofa for fifteen
minutes, and then soap the last fifteen minutes,” she answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continue to lie there, waiting for the
next phase to begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time she takes
a bed-sized mesh thing that reminds me of a pillow case. She dips it in some soapy water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She shakes it out as though she were going to
hang it on a clothes line, then turns to me and squeezes it until billows of
foam form a mound over my breasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not at all like the scrub I had in Egypt! The stone wasn't there, nor was this pillow case foam bath. The attendant shakes out the pillow case-thing a couple of times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now I
must be completely hidden in foam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She rubs my body with this foam, which lubricates my body like
oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My legs feel silky as she massages
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She massages my entire front side
except for my private parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Turn
around again, please,” she says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
carefully turn over, resting my cheek against the slab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She massages this side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a smooth massage!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I'm even getting clean in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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When she finishes, she says, “You can sit up now, and
walk over to this niche.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be
careful.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not about to risk
falling and breaking one of my scrubbed legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I make it to the niche and sit down as gracefully as I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She takes a silver bowl and starts pouring
water from a tub next to the niche, all over me, rinsing off all the suds, wetting my hair thoroughly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She now pours
shampoo onto my hair, massages my scalp, and pours water over my head
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another round of shampoo, another
basin of water rinsing it all off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
does this several times and then asks me to stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I stand, she continues to pour water all
over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can do this, too,” she
says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I take the bowl and pour
water over myself a couple of times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pours a couple more bowls of water over me, then many bowls
over the slab, which she finally wipes dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She gives a little bow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can
get dressed now,” she says, handing me the key and the pink towel.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I stand in the hamam and start to dry myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lady has long since done away with the
thin towel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I have to find the
changing room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrap the terry towel
around my body and tuck it in below my shoulder and, squinting without my glasses, take a little
tour of the health center, looking for the changing room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pass the swimming pool and some people,
men too, resting on chaise longues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah,
yes, the changing room is next to reception!</div>
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<br /></div>
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It's no problem getting dressed again, but I have nothing
with me to comb my hair with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll have
to ride the elevator looking like a wild woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I find ten Turkish lira in my slacks pocket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They come in handy as a tip for the
lady.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fully dressed, with my hair wet and wild, I leave the
changing room, throw the towel and flip-flops into two baskets, and go to the
reception area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lady has left. A
man is standing there in her stead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Where’s the lady who scrubbed me?” I ask. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s bathing
someone now,” he answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He takes the money from me, promising to give it to her, and
we arrange to put the bill for the scrub - €29, onto my room bill.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only person I meet on the elevator is a guy on the
staff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose he’s seen plenty of
women with wet, snarled hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not
wild, no matter how I may look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am mellow enough to lie down and rest in a state of satisfied stupor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I cream myself, dry my hair and
get dressed once again for a night on the town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I leave for the next adventure, cleansed, creamed and calm.<br />
<br />
Our dinner at the <a href="http://www.istanbulculinary.com/eng/">Culinary Institute</a> is delicious, and the decor such that you could be anywhere from Portland, Oregon, to New York City, to London. Industrial-trendy. We order a combination of Western and Turkish food and enjoy being utterly spoiled at moderate prices. We know the institution, having eaten in the Institute in Portland, Oregon. The students at the institute are also the waiters and chefs. We have a nice chat with one of the students after the meal. This restaurant feels almost homey in its atmosphere - expats are here, celebrating the end of a conference. We hear English spoken. What a wonderful contrast Istanbul is. We've seen ancient history today, I've had a wonderful old-fashioned scrub just like one the biblical Queen Esther might have had, and we've had a very modern night on the town. Peter and I talk about coming back again - with our son. He'd like it here. </div>
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Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-79031778236713725772012-11-30T13:12:00.000-08:002012-11-30T13:23:33.879-08:00A Taste of Turkey - Day Four<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQllnTx8347O3eTm0P7jpr8tmbcaxmDi4OYzvwezm-JV3QWT3nPl9GU8l8t3VH3JMy5on3zEhJLY_BvysFU1EWbVswlRp4-HG652b5RDzNgOIedUtKV04yMYAsL7TDeQI1JBP517oXnQuy/s1600/2012-10-10+13.16.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQllnTx8347O3eTm0P7jpr8tmbcaxmDi4OYzvwezm-JV3QWT3nPl9GU8l8t3VH3JMy5on3zEhJLY_BvysFU1EWbVswlRp4-HG652b5RDzNgOIedUtKV04yMYAsL7TDeQI1JBP517oXnQuy/s400/2012-10-10+13.16.13.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The nostalgic tram at Taksim Square</td></tr>
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It's another warm, sunny day, and we're all glad to be far from rainy, cold Germany. A good day. And it's good to hear Harun talking about my favorite topic, spirituality. It seems this is also important to him.<br />
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He tells us a little bit about Sufism, the mystical part of Islam, the path that seems to fit best with Christianity and eastern spirituality as well. It teaches its followers to go beyond dogma, into the heart of things, to develop a heartfelt relationship with their Creator. Certainly that can be reconciled with any religion.<br />
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<a href="http://www.al-kalima.com/">Mazhar Mallouhi,</a> a man who calls himself a Muslim follower of Jesus, belongs to a group of Sufis. The singer <a href="http://www.yusufislam.com/">Yusuf Islam</a>, also known as Cat Stevens, is a Sufi. The poet <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumi">Rumi </a>(his name in Turkey is Mevlana) was a Sufi. In fact, his son, also one of his followers, founded the famous Mevlevi Sufi order. This is the group that we in the west call the whirling dervishes, those people dressed in white robes and funny high cones for hats, who use a whirling sort of dance as a means of abandoning their sense of self in order to unite with God. I once went to see a group of these people dance at Columbia University, so I have some idea of what Harun's talking about.<br />
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Harun says, "Sufism has a lot to do with the Turkish culture. In Sufism, you go the indirect way." He says the Turks are indirect people who would rather sacrifice clarity than say something clearly that would offend another person. "In Turkey, you'd rather hurt yourself than offend someone else." He says that since they so often hide it, you might think that Turks were thick-skinned. Just the opposite is true, he says, so try and be tactful when talking to Turkish people. I wish I knew some Turkish people to be tactful to. In Germany I feel like the narrator in Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner", <i>Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink. </i>I see Turkish people every day, but know none of them. <br />
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In Egypt, I learned that Sufis honor certain people as saints. This is actually one of the traits of the Shiites. The Sunnis, the branch most Egyptians belong to, believe that no one should be elevated above anyone else. Even Mohammed is only another follower of God, albeit a prophet. But a prophet is only someone who helps us come closer to God - not a holy person. <br />
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I get the feeling that spiritual practices are very important to Harun. He doesn't talk individually with anyone in the group. I noticed last evening that he didn't touch the wine. His eyes have the clarity of one who values purity. He's well organized and seems very disciplined. I wonder how often he fasts. For sure, I think, all of Ramadan, and that very faithfully. But he does not ignore external things. He comes to us every day dressed in quality casual. His little beard is perfectly trimmed. He seems to value high quality brand names - his jacket and backpack bear the logo from "North Face".<br />
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We're on our way to Beylerbeyi Palace. Peter tells me how he remembers this complicated name - "Boiler Bay", a place in Oregon we go to with my sister when we visit. In order to get there, our bus takes us along the European side of the Bosphorus for a while, until we reach a bridge that reminds me of the Golden Gate Bridge. This is the Bosphorus Bridge. Before we get to the bridge, we see gorgeous apartment buildings along the hillside. What views these people must have! One of them has a rooftop infinity swimming pool. Harun tells us the obvious, that these apartments are for the wealthy. He says these apartments go for at least $1500 per square meter. Are these Sufis living in these apartments?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEn7g45jn3pcXAfYCkZ1MlHgADHGQdmfXW1mt9Rbyd7TZ9AvTb8Y1hvK5bOSWkNDVSuKd5tJiZeD55FS2I_zQhJ2L6Ym8qFCiyxoPzZeohGFS8tlhRG30H92xEvW1O9S1l8epOoG_6OFTe/s1600/2012-10-10+10.25.39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEn7g45jn3pcXAfYCkZ1MlHgADHGQdmfXW1mt9Rbyd7TZ9AvTb8Y1hvK5bOSWkNDVSuKd5tJiZeD55FS2I_zQhJ2L6Ym8qFCiyxoPzZeohGFS8tlhRG30H92xEvW1O9S1l8epOoG_6OFTe/s320/2012-10-10+10.25.39.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beylerbeyi Palace</td></tr>
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Beylerbeyi Palace lies in all its pomp just underneath the bridge on the Asian side. We are not allowed to take photos, so you'll have to refer to the link I've provided on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beylerbeyi_Palace">Beylerbeyi Palace </a>to see what the inside looks like. The palace is more opulent than the Versailles, and at least as luxurious as the apartments of Napoleon III that you can see in the Louvre. There is a connection between these apartments and the sultan who lived in this palace, we learn. Harun tells us that this nineteenth palace was built as the summer residence for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abd%C3%BClaziz">Sultan Abdülaziz</a>, and in contrast to the Topkapi Palace, is very European in style. Turkey and especially their sultan, who himself was one quarter French, looked to the French as models of modern luxury. He was very musical and even composed some classical music pieces. Abdülaziz reigned from 1861-1876. He became unpopular because of his excessive lifestyle, and at the end of his life was sent to another palace in exile, where he was forced to live in the tower. I later learn in Wikipedia, not from Harun, that officially, Abdülaziz died by simultaneously slitting both wrists with scissors - something very unlikely to happen to one living as a prisoner in a tower. Another sultan apparently murdered. Abdülaziz was in power at the time the Suez canal was opened, and it was this sultan who introduced the first railroad to Turkey - the Orient Express. We learn that one of his visitors was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eug%C3%A9nie_de_Montijo">Empress Eugénie</a> of France, the wife of Napoleon III, who came to visit the sultan without her husband. Eugénie seems to have been a favorite guest of the sultan. He took her to meet his mother, arm in arm. Upon seeing the empress, the <i>valide sultan</i> - the sultan's mother slapped her across the face. No foreign dignitary should be seen in her private quarters. Perhaps she sensed something more. Harun tells us that according to rumor, the sultan spent at least one entire night in Eugénie's room during her private stay of two weeks. In her old age, she visited the sultan's son, and he told her something about his father that made her age years in just one hour. Her room is elegant, as is the entire palace. Each room of the palace has Bohemian crystal chandeliers. All the ceilings are hand-painted with decorative motives, and each room is color-coordinated. The banisters on the main stairways are made of inlaid wood. We don't get to see the harem. Sultan Abdülaziz had six official wives and ten children. I see no traces of ascetic Sufism or of any religion at all in this sultan. Is this what the Europe of the nineteenth centurey had to offer? Canals, railroads and self-indulgence? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrc99SDG8I7EDNzZqyLK7eSxAfXVhTQjNcQqdpCs7_y3uOzX4QZJ5gdCY041Dl82lpS_qZxcmO9OGil-Qv6yXZThO-iroVN84FABFUPQhbsCwG1CwiDo4kTOjBIowjC4PkJV8SN3CK4sz/s1600/2012-10-10+11.13.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrc99SDG8I7EDNzZqyLK7eSxAfXVhTQjNcQqdpCs7_y3uOzX4QZJ5gdCY041Dl82lpS_qZxcmO9OGil-Qv6yXZThO-iroVN84FABFUPQhbsCwG1CwiDo4kTOjBIowjC4PkJV8SN3CK4sz/s400/2012-10-10+11.13.26.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Istanbul feels far away in this park at the top of a hill on the Asian side</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbwZz0a2gIeIf4XZPcBf7wM9uFzTezrWPVGXscJukWWJidVbOtJjjQXmQMWEvAC5lSTabT_JB6ZEbBA4ID_s5NYxFFvYQJLpO6g6gpGL8bldEjjQEdvPyI6wJCb4jRB2hT4sMvULiEBA6/s1600/CIMG0255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbwZz0a2gIeIf4XZPcBf7wM9uFzTezrWPVGXscJukWWJidVbOtJjjQXmQMWEvAC5lSTabT_JB6ZEbBA4ID_s5NYxFFvYQJLpO6g6gpGL8bldEjjQEdvPyI6wJCb4jRB2hT4sMvULiEBA6/s400/CIMG0255.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
From here we drive to the top of a hill above the palace, to the highest place overlooking the city. The view is inspiring. We see all of Istanbul - in fact, the city stretches far beyond what the eye can see. And water is everywhere. We can see the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn and even the Marmara Sea. There are hills and forests just outside the city. And it all looks prosperous. Harun tells us that on the Asian side many Greeks have moved back and built lovely villas. Saudis and other Arabs are also living on this side. <br />
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We have tea and date-filled pastries in a tea house in the garden. Here, Istanbul feels tranquil - nothing like the Istanbul we join later in the evening at Taksim Square. Harun sits off to the side, avoiding any private conversations. <br />
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I am exhausted and feeling a little ill, after all. I'm not sure if it is from the food from the previous evening, or what it is - I'm just a bit out of sorts. I leave the group and find my way, alone, to our hotel by way of the Tünel train and the nostalgic tram. In this city it is no problem at all for a woman to travel alone. <br />
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In the afternoon I listen to a talk and discussion by Frau Ingrid Iren, one of the translators of Orhan Pamuk into German. She impresses me with her humility, simplicity and loyalty to Turkey. Her Turkish husband died only a few years after their marriage, but his family took her in. Out of love for him and gratitude to his family, she has chosen to spend her entire life in Turkey. She is encyclopedic in her knowledge of Turkish literature. I want to read more. <br />
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In the evening we join two people from our group for a traditional Turkish dinner in the restaurant Harun has recommended to us - Türes, just off the Istiklal Cadessi. We join the racing pulse of Istanbul night life. Don't these people ever stay home? The food at our restaurant is good, the prices are low, and the service is great. But it's just not the same caliber as the Develi restaurant. <br />
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I like it here in Istanbul very much, but it doesn't tug at my heart like Cairo does. There are some similarities, such as a Muslim culture, but perhaps it is this very culture that separates the two. Istanbul, despite all Harun says about Sufi spiritualism, feels much more western and materialistic than Cairo. It is certainly more comfortable. It feels more like life in Europe. If I were to choose a place I felt safe to live in, it would be Istanbul - over any European city. It has less crime than any European city I know, and is beautiful, modern except for all the old mosques and palaces, and comfortable. How many of these comfortable people are spiritually hungry? I have no idea - I don't know anyone at all, except for a very little bit of Harun. Perhaps there are many more like him.<br />
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I go to sleep reading more of Rumi: <br />
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"Humble living does not diminish.<br />
It fills. <br />
Going back to a simpler self gives wisdom."<br />
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<br />Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-6554589606158041732012-11-27T13:33:00.003-08:002012-11-28T10:12:14.464-08:00A Taste of Turkey - Day Three<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FaK6e1OI5xF0uC9w1JbItfPqOPcy_OhYkeeLSzgjA2S6dcrGDPoWLKxD546iMLkt84xzi2SkN5YL_4VwS9EKiXgF4FabNym_dBE8B-9KDNdSaHbxCTihTvfDJL2OxSucaDy5AlKx5y8A/s1600/CIMG0236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FaK6e1OI5xF0uC9w1JbItfPqOPcy_OhYkeeLSzgjA2S6dcrGDPoWLKxD546iMLkt84xzi2SkN5YL_4VwS9EKiXgF4FabNym_dBE8B-9KDNdSaHbxCTihTvfDJL2OxSucaDy5AlKx5y8A/s320/CIMG0236.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sultan Ahmed Mosque, also known as the "Blue Mosque"</td></tr>
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This is not a trip for the idle. We are busy from early morning till evening. And Harun doesn't waste a minute as he spoon-feeds information into our heads. During our bus rides, he reads literature or explains the things we are seeing, as we gaze down at the sparkling blue shores of the Golden Horn. It's a beautiful, sunny day, and I feel refreshed. But how am I to make sense of the many things on the program for today?<br />
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I guess it is spirituality that is impressing me the most today. My longing is to unite all these religions into one spirit. But it doesn't seem to work, and that makes me sad. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hagia Sophia</td></tr>
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This morning we visit the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hagia_Sophia">Hagia Sophia</a>, on the same hill as the Topkapi palace. We learn that this structure is the model for almost all the mosques built ever since - but this was built as a church. There are minarets around this building, as with all the mosques, so at first it feels like just another mosque we are entering. The first thing you notice is the huge inscriptions in Arabic writing on placards on the walls. Then, when you look a little closer, you see that this building is full of mosaics with Christian motifs. It was built in 537 A.D. by the emperor Justinian. One of the spectacular things about this building is the feeling of light and space - you can't see any of the structural supports, which are hidden in walls. This church was the headquarters of the Eastern Church for hundreds of years until one spring day in 1453, when Sultan Ahmed turned it into a mosque. It remained a mosque until 1931, when it was secularized and turned into a museum in 1935. Harun explains that the Muslims only painted over the mosaics, taking care not to deface anything, because they also respected Jesus, Mary and all the Jewish and Christian prophets. For me it is sad to think of something that was once Christian lose its Christian identity. But how does God look at this? Perhaps the most comforting thing I gaze at this morning is a cat resting on the top of a railing inside the church/mosque/museum, unaware of all these religious conflicts, simply glorifying its creator by being. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcq68sEkHw094lvyIxBChLBdYqJT6uHwrAd7IvN2Y-yAeAPNJu5FJ6NEY0xtNDxP6JnAVNda-AaIHi2gdl4C2_pe-vbUS55rWccQQ9qYN9HMrNKAASOW8WAQoSdFPRKQDpV-kspYWyoNj/s1600/2012-10-09+09.40.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcq68sEkHw094lvyIxBChLBdYqJT6uHwrAd7IvN2Y-yAeAPNJu5FJ6NEY0xtNDxP6JnAVNda-AaIHi2gdl4C2_pe-vbUS55rWccQQ9qYN9HMrNKAASOW8WAQoSdFPRKQDpV-kspYWyoNj/s400/2012-10-09+09.40.58.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cat adds to the glory of this place</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPql5XdrXUhDxJuLN5sEDQJHjx7H7texypkK2iN0pUrTEhSnU65boYgak60wOhOJlzfetX7QKEROz7lkCFfZ32wIG8zj6nkgSc4679yW_-0R47NuuxIC1mc9KtoyHSiiipG_isSyulOpdb/s1600/2012-10-09+11.37.57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPql5XdrXUhDxJuLN5sEDQJHjx7H7texypkK2iN0pUrTEhSnU65boYgak60wOhOJlzfetX7QKEROz7lkCFfZ32wIG8zj6nkgSc4679yW_-0R47NuuxIC1mc9KtoyHSiiipG_isSyulOpdb/s320/2012-10-09+11.37.57.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baptismal pool</td></tr>
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Peter is delighted to find a baptismal pool in a small building adjacent. It is obviously a pool meant for immersion, proof that people were immersing believing Christians even into the 500s. <br />
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The Hagia Sophia was a very important mosque for the sultans to worship in; there is a covered passageway between Topkapi Palace and the Hagia Sophia, and a special section for him and his entourage to sit in.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwdzYnxaKkSClZC3c3BDC0l28l4FNDVURQEuYU76BEhWapdV8QN9V5twb-KBZrta1WER6nn98rfbUdGVevqHK161RvrSx7CcrOB9HcdbuuKHi__U8KyCHM71dzfGv7KWnNZSC88bHHe3C/s1600/2012-10-09+11.59.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwdzYnxaKkSClZC3c3BDC0l28l4FNDVURQEuYU76BEhWapdV8QN9V5twb-KBZrta1WER6nn98rfbUdGVevqHK161RvrSx7CcrOB9HcdbuuKHi__U8KyCHM71dzfGv7KWnNZSC88bHHe3C/s320/2012-10-09+11.59.26.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Basilica Cistern</td></tr>
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From here we walk a few steps to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_Cistern">Basilica Cistern</a>, also built around the time of the Hagia Sophia, during the Christian era when this city was known as Constantinople. It is hushed, mysterious, deliciously eery down here, with columns stretching along as far as you can see, reminiscent of an ancient church. The old town is full of these underground cisterns, but this one is the largest. There is still water flowing down here in a huge shallow pool, illuminated by dim lighting. "I could imagine a crime taking place down here", I whisper to Peter, not knowing that this very cistern is used in the opening scene of the James Bond film "From Russia with Love", one of Sean Connery's time as 007, in 1963.<br />
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After lunch, we walk over to the the <a href="http://muze.gov.tr/turkishislamic">Museum for Islamic Art</a>. I'm too tired to take much in, so I leave the museum and browse in the bookstore. I find a book of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumi">Rumi</a> poems which I buy and read for a while. Rumi was a mystic poet from Iran, but he lived much of his life in Turkey and was buried in <a href="http://sacredsites.com/middle_east/turkey/shrine_of_rumi_konya.html">Konya</a>.<a href="http://sacredsites.com/middle_east/turkey/shrine_of_rumi_konya.html"></a> This is a man who digs beneath the surface, getting to the bottom of things. Rumi is interested in sources, the ground of being. He's interested in heartfelt worship and a life dedicated to seeking God. If you want to read a Rumi poem, go to the top of this blog under "Thoughts from Traveling Companions". <br />
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By now I'm exhausted, but our day is far from finished. Harun pushes us on. We walk on to the "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sultan_Ahmed_Mosque">Blue Mosque</a>", as the tourists call it because of the many blue tiles lining the walls. The Turks call it the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, honoring the Sultan who conquered Istanbul from the Byzantines. This mosque was built by Sinan, Harun tells us. We will encounter many mosques built by Sinan during this trip. This is a gigantic, very impressive building, but after being in the Hagia Sophia, the huge pillars supporting the building get in the way. Sinan later learned to hide them, making the mosque similarly spacious, like the Hagia Sophia. Harun tells us about the Muslim call to prayer. Each time it is recited, there are some different elements, he says. The longest call is on Friday midday. The gist of it is, "Allah (Arab for God) is great, there is no one greater than God, and Mohammed is his prophet. Come to pray. There is no one more worthy than God." I wish I could reconcile all this with my Christian belief, but am not sure I can. Was Mohammed a prophet of God? That for me is the question. I hear Harun on this trip, Muhammed during my last trip to Egypt, praising their religion. The way they talk about it, it doesn't sound that much different in its goals from Christianity, as far as worship of God and morals go. But we Christians see Jesus as much more than a prophet. Through his word, the entire universe was created. Through Jesus' death, the entire universe was reconciled - all the sickness, darkness, sin and death of the universe has been overturned by the death and resurrection of Jesus. That is a different message than the Muslim one. And yet, I worship my Creator, my Sustainer - and my Saviour - with all my heart when I hear the call to prayer. I figure this prayer is meant for all to heed, Muslim, Christian, Jew, Buddhist, pagan, pantheist, anyone who has a sense of the supernatural. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKe0cAjcK53bQdBPZo9zbAF9nWkZjNh6ItfwkmkdJceg67Qy97oLMnaIUf2x2Z0hkVAEsfQGk4kq6J9_oJOMRYjmDSAfZ_xAuvy6t9uGlLSls-XudQxvMV8XzHx3SyN72PnXXL7V5uAoyt/s1600/2012-10-09+16.22.24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKe0cAjcK53bQdBPZo9zbAF9nWkZjNh6ItfwkmkdJceg67Qy97oLMnaIUf2x2Z0hkVAEsfQGk4kq6J9_oJOMRYjmDSAfZ_xAuvy6t9uGlLSls-XudQxvMV8XzHx3SyN72PnXXL7V5uAoyt/s320/2012-10-09+16.22.24.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand Bazaar</td></tr>
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All the major sites seem to be within walking distance of each other. From the Blue Mosque, we walk on to the grand bazaar. I really look forward to this, remembering the fantastic maze of stalls in the Khan El Khalili bazaar in Cairo. But - I've been forwarned - through the guidebook, which tells me most of the private vendors have had to give way to big commercial undertakings. I'm not quite sure what this means, but I soon find out. The bazaar is all under one roof, and Harun says it is so huge, you can get lost in it. Peter, a guy from our tour group and I enter the bazaar. It is attractive, with tiled walls and little signs to help orient the shoppers. But the shops are upscale, and many are the same ones you would see in a shopping mall - Benetton, Oilily, and Esprit. As we venture further into this mini-city, we see other stalls like those we were expecting to see - leather goods, scarves and clothes, jewelry and beautiful ceramics shops. I buy a small leather handbag and a coin purse. We sit down for a cup of Turkish coffee. Three days into this trip and still not a sign of abdominal problems. What a marvelous place Istanbul is! <br />
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Harun grants us an hour to visit the bazaar, and then we meet to walk to the bus, which will take us to our hotel. On the way, we pass an inviting large, old building. Harun explains that it is the <a href="http://www.cemberlitashamami.com/">Cemberlitas Hamam</a>, one of Istanbul's oldest, most prestigious old bath houses. I make a mental note to go there another day. Today we have no more time, although we could probably all use a massage. After walking all day, we are all so tired we can hardly take in another fact. But, tireless Harun (do I see sagging shoulders and wrinkles of exhaustion even on his face?), explains the city's plans for renovation as our bus lumbers up the hill to Taksim Square. We stumble out of the bus as soon as we reach the hotel. Peter wastes no time in climbing into bed for a nap. I type notes about the day in my laptop.<br />
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At 7 pm, we all pile back on to the bus. We're all going out for dinner. Back down the hill, this time through a traffic jam that is tame, compared to those we encountered in Cairo. Tireless Harun reads to us from a book by Orhan Pamuk. He reads a passage about Beyoglu, the part of the city we're staying in. The story is interesting. Old Istanbul used to have so many cultures living together, something else this city has in common with Cairo and Alexandria. But many of the foreigners have left. <br />
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Our bus ride takes us past the road leading to the Topkapi Palace and along the Bosphorus for several minutes. Finally, we stop at a location that looks almost creepy, it is so empty and dark. But as soon as we pass through an underpass, we enter a crowded, lively little village called Fenerbahce, where we are surrounded by people on their way to, or already seated in fish restaurants or taverns, enjoying the night life. But we're going to a kebab restaurant, the <a href="http://www.develikebap.com/eng/Default.aspx">Develi</a>, where we're supposed to get excellent Anatolian grilled food. We get the rooftop all to ourselves, and we have a marvelous view of the village and the twinkling lights along the Bosphorus. I invite Harun to sit with us at our table. He declines. He's going to eat with the bus driver. We sit with a nice couple who live in Belgium. The people on this tour are all friendly and uncomplicated, which is nice for us, but perhaps a little boring for the blog! I have no one to complain about. Not the food either. The food is much better than any of the Turkish food I have eaten in Germany - and plenty of it! Fried meatballs, an eggplant appetizer, feta cheese, beans, hummus, a salad with pomegranate balsam, delicious homemade pita, three kinds of grilled lamb dishes, and flaky, tender, buttery baklava for dessert. If only we could sleep off all this food and laze around tomorrow. Harun leaves us to our own thoughts and full tummies. We wouldn't pay any attention to him anyway. The dark road and gentle rumble of the bus lull many of us into dozing as we return to our hotel for the night. I have enjoyed my meal so much, I feel almost drunk on it. One day back in Germany, when I've had enough of feasting, I will fast. I think of the words I discovered in Rumi, earlier in the day: "There's a hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness. We are lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox is stuffed full of anything, no music. If the brain and the belly are burning clean with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire." This evening my entire being has been sung to by delicious food, nice company, and a view of the waters of the Bosphorus. And now I am ready for sleep. There is plenty of time another day for fasting.<br />
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<br />Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-45697943083934937972012-11-24T11:08:00.002-08:002012-11-24T11:13:15.195-08:00A Taste for Turkey - Day Two<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to Topkapi Palace</td></tr>
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I'm calling this "Day Two", but I'm actually writing this over a month after our return from Turkey. As I write, Tahrir Square, back in Cairo, is again filled with protestors. Their new president, Muhammed Mursi, has claimed absolute power for himself, bringing his country into another uproar. My heart goes out to the Egyptians, whose situation is so dramatic and so desperate. I have begun to connect to them. <br />
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But now I need to write about Turkey. In a way it's a shame that I keep comparing Turkey to Egypt, but the fact is, I do. Both are ancient civilizations that over time have become Muslim. Both Cairo and Istanbul have mushroomed into megacities of over 17 million inhabitants.<br />
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I told Peter on one of our last trips, I need to feel a connection to a place in order to relate to it. I think we always need to find and build more connections in all aspects of life. What were my connections to Turkey before traveling there? Not many, unfortunately. Only that I read about Constantinople in history class in school and college, and that I see Turks daily in Cologne. Sometimes I go shopping in a Turkish super market. Once in a while I even exchange a few words in a shop, or now and then a Turkish person wanders into one of my English courses. But I have very little connection to Turkey, certainly nothing emotional. <br />
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I did have more of a connection, once - Keklik. I met her through my church. She was an atheist, originally a Muslim, who wanted to know what we Christians believed in. I really liked Keklik. She had been a Communist once, way back, while living in Turkey, but it was illegal to be a Communist. She got arrested, sent to prison, and somehow escaped one day when allowed out on a day pass. By the time she settled down in Cologne she was thoroughly disillusioned with the Communists, as she was with the Muslims, whom she called a purely political movement. By now, she didn't fit in anywhere, but she could never go back to Turkey, she said, or she'd be arrested again. We lost touch with one another somehow. She just disappeared out of her apartment, out of the phone book, out of my life. Did she get back to Turkey after all? I wish I knew. I've heard Turkey has made enormous strides in becoming a modern, western country. Germans are starting to acknowledge their Turkish immigrants as part of their culture. There's a popular German crime show that takes place in Istanbul. As I write, I want to explore and to deepen the tentative connections that I do have, and then somehow convey this to you. So here we are, as I segue into "Day Two".<br />
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* </div>
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Our first morning in Istanbul. The sky is a pale, washed, gauzy baby blue. We board a bus and leave Taksim Square, heading for the sparkling waters of the Golden Horn. We cross one of the bridges, the Ataturk Bridge. Off to our left is the Galata Bridge. I can already recognize this bridge by looking behind me to see the Galata Tower. Before today, I only knew about the Golden Horn from a novel I used in one of the English classes I teach. It's so nice to be able to see it now. We travel along the Horn a while, heading for the Bosphorus, then turn right, once the two bodies of water meet. We're going to the Topkapi Palace, something we also read about in my little novel for English class. Harun tells us that we will be spending a lot of time in the area around the Topkapi Palace in the next few days.<br />
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I'm surprised to learn that the famous church/mosque I've heard about, the Hagia Sophia, is on the same grounds as the palace. There's another church that seems to be closed most of the time except for occasional concerts - the Hagia Irene Church. I wish we could go inside that. It's supposed to be beautiful, and to have amazing acoustics. It's supposed to be the oldest church in Istanbul. But we can't go there this time - there are no concerts happening there this week.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKX3_M2FQUtVKWyf60j_UVgvr_VWnU_QD2YryTTFakZ83QsqauPgX0reGEGYRskRSwuJ6yQLDuB9kXjX2Zng5llcnRjNcgLqIqqYWtMsCdD9Z4PiblYrwpulCd6ediDT4PqixYSU0FSx53/s1600/2012-10-08+09.06.23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKX3_M2FQUtVKWyf60j_UVgvr_VWnU_QD2YryTTFakZ83QsqauPgX0reGEGYRskRSwuJ6yQLDuB9kXjX2Zng5llcnRjNcgLqIqqYWtMsCdD9Z4PiblYrwpulCd6ediDT4PqixYSU0FSx53/s320/2012-10-08+09.06.23.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The domed roofs are the former kitchens of Topkapi palace</td></tr>
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We walk through a long, tree-lined path, passing the Hagia Sophia, the Hagia Irene, and an archeological museum before we finally get to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Topkapi_palace">Topkapi Palace</a>. Topkapi Palace, Harun tells us, was built shortly after the Ottomans conquered the city on May 29, 1453, transforming what was once a predominantly Greek Orthodox city called "Constantinople" into a Muslim city whose name gradually changed to "Istanbul". Mehmed II (Mehmed the Conqueror) first conquered the city in a dramatic battle by tricking the Byzantines. The Byzantines had a high city wall that had protected them for centuries. The water inlets to Constantinople were also all protected - there was a chain stretching across the Golden Horn, and boats protecting the shores. But Mehmed thought of something ingenious - he and his soldiers travelled up and down all the seven hills on one side of the Golden Horn, seeking entrance through the back side of the city. They found one gate to the city wall unlocked. Two by two, the soldiers passed through, and conquered the city from within. Once Mehmed had the city in his control, he wanted a palace he could call his own. The palace of the Byzantine rulers was not for him - so he began construction of the Topkapi Palace in 1459, six years after his conquest, and finished building it in 1465. The Topkapi Palace is actually composed of several parts, each part surrounded by a courtyard. It does seem to bear some resemblance in feeling to the Egyptian temples, in that each courtyard one enters is more private and exclusive than the last. By the time you reach the last, the fourth courtyard, you are in the harem, the private living quarters of the sultan and his enormous family, sometimes up to 4,000 people, including all the civil servants. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPSdSIJd0EuP2shLQGj8TpdlDVo5JKNUKtp3gUdvdduO5cVZY1axzHf2EK7wjl6n8ts0sPdnwSEUV8k4GjJnwD9BhB64N7kMj3L-7127d-w9aDokECnZuiqrUw31sQkpbTg4qqxz7MvtGk/s1600/CIMG0210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPSdSIJd0EuP2shLQGj8TpdlDVo5JKNUKtp3gUdvdduO5cVZY1axzHf2EK7wjl6n8ts0sPdnwSEUV8k4GjJnwD9BhB64N7kMj3L-7127d-w9aDokECnZuiqrUw31sQkpbTg4qqxz7MvtGk/s320/CIMG0210.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pavilion where the Sultan could meet with visitors</td></tr>
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It turns out that Mehmed was only able to live there for one year, and reigned only twelve years before he was poisoned, probably on orders of his son. He and another brother were in turn later murdered. There was so much murder in the harem, fratricide was even a legal means for a while of establishing succession to the throne. We learn that Mehmed's last wife was also strangled in the harem in order to make way for another relative. The harem was not a safe place, despite all the pools, inlaid wood, stained glass, gorgeous tiles and tranquil carpeted pavilions. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/63/The_Topkapi_Diamond.JPG/300px-The_Topkapi_Diamond.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/63/The_Topkapi_Diamond.JPG/300px-The_Topkapi_Diamond.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Spoonmaker's" Diamond</td></tr>
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We see splendid jeweled sabers, daggers and swords. We hear the story of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spoonmaker%27s_Diamond">"spoonmaker's diamond"</a>. A homeless person found a huge rock and sold it to a spoon maker. He got three spoons for it. The spoon maker sold the stone to a Jewish jeweler, who took to polishing it. It turned out to be an 86 carat diamond. It is the fourth largest known diamond in the world. <br />
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I learn about a film that takes place in the palace - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Topkapi_%28film%29">"Topkapi",</a> with Peter Ustinov, and it's all about that diamond. I can't wait to download it and watch it when I get home. I have a website I use to watch all the more current as well as classic movies - <a href="http://movieberry.com/">Movieberry</a>.<br />
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We learn about the Nubian eunuchs who served in the harem. Now that I've been to Egypt, I know that the Nubians were the blacks who lived in southern Egypt and Sudan. Some were sold as slaves to the sultans. The sultans had many of them castrated and gave them important jobs in the harem. They were in no danger of impregnating the women in the harem. I learn that most of the women in the harem had no contact with the sultan, sexual or otherwise, and that many of them married other civil servants working in the palace. <br />
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The palace is beautiful, huge and overwhelming for someone like me, who has no background in Byzantine or Ottoman history.<br />
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Finally, after a rich but bewilderingly complex four-hour palace visit, our feet are longing for a rest. We walk over to the <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.de/Restaurant_Review-g293974-d1228891-Reviews-Sultanahmet_Koftecisi-Istanbul.html">Sultanahmet Koftecisi</a>, an old, famous kofta restaurant right in the middle of the old city. After hours at the palace, it is a relief to sit down and eat a couple of meatballs, even if we have to climb up three flights of stairs to get a seat. The restaurant is overrun with tourists and Turks, and we taste why. The food is tasty and economically priced. Harun says I can eat the salad. A welcome change from Egypt, where the salads made me sick.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtDPyMDwbrIiKZNQywaQiNwnp-Z_VyFmI3skieta5ly14KTC7HP-2E7yMZCzCrQ693ENcZKOmAgeZWIE-vQiGjcwZXtM9-GItxDp3bytDjP7ZDg74lALUGUCogIjYz1NmZpPxFEXqKHVq/s1600/2012-10-08+16.52.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtDPyMDwbrIiKZNQywaQiNwnp-Z_VyFmI3skieta5ly14KTC7HP-2E7yMZCzCrQ693ENcZKOmAgeZWIE-vQiGjcwZXtM9-GItxDp3bytDjP7ZDg74lALUGUCogIjYz1NmZpPxFEXqKHVq/s320/2012-10-08+16.52.29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wooden houses in Istanbul</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/91/Meister_der_Kahriye-Cami-Kirche_in_Istanbul_004.jpg/220px-Meister_der_Kahriye-Cami-Kirche_in_Istanbul_004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/91/Meister_der_Kahriye-Cami-Kirche_in_Istanbul_004.jpg/220px-Meister_der_Kahriye-Cami-Kirche_in_Istanbul_004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mosaic in the Chora Church - courtesy of Wikipedia</td></tr>
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By now the weather has changed, and our bus sloshes through rain as we are driven to a museum that was once a church - the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chora_Church">Chora Church</a>. This is in an old, somewhat run-down part of the city, where we see more traditional architecture. The houses are made of wood! The wooden structures remind me old-fashioned American homes. I could almost see a house like these in an old part of Minneapolis or Queens, New York. many of these houses have since burnt down in some of the many fires that have ravaged Istanbul. This church is supposed to have excellent examples of early Byzantine mosaics. I can't take it in, and I'm not even allowed to take any pictures. I am cold from the rain, and exhausted from our long tour of the palace.<br />
<br />
Finally, we are finished touring for the day. Our bus drives back to Beyoglu, the section of Istanbul we're staying in. Even though it's rush hour, there are no huge traffic jams like in Cairo. We drive along streets the Nobel literature prize winner <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Istanbul-Memories-City-Orhan-Pamuk/dp/1400033888/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1353779116&sr=8-1&keywords=istanbul+orhan+pamuk">Orhan Pamuk</a> wrote about in his book<span style="background-color: white;">,</span><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: white;"> <u>Istanbul</u>. H</span></span>e comes from this section of Istanbul - and logically for us, it's the most European part of the city. It feels really comfortable, almost like any other European city. <br />
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In the evening, Peter and I ride for the first time in the historic tram that takes us along a huge pedestrian shopping street over two miles long, called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%B0stiklal_Caddesi">Istiklal Caddesi</a>. It starts out at Taksim Square and goes all the way to the Galata Tower. We get ripped off by the ticket seller at a kiosk. We wanted a round-trip ticket, but he sells us one-way tickets for the price of a round trip. No matter, we will walk back from our restaurant anyway. This is a wonderful area of the city to explore. I want to come back and see more. It has all the usual European and American chain stores and restaurants like Burger King and MAC cosmetics, cafes, pubs and discos. There are even English book stores here. And it's loaded with Turkish young people out for the evening - thousands of them! They seem to have plenty of time and money. They are dressed just like young people in Germany or New York. Istanbul seems to be a really hip place, with disco music blaring from the clubs along the avenue. If I were young, I'd fly out here for a long weekend in October and enjoy warm days at the beach and balmy weather in the evening, strolling along the Istiklal Cadessi with my boyfriend - or girlfriend, hoping to meet someone at one of the clubs, or shopping. The shops seem to be open until late into the evening. <br />
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But Peter and I are too old for clubbing and too tired to shop. We enjoy each other, holding hands as we meander back to the hotel. Old Istanbul is exotic. Modern Istanbul is - well, western and well-to-do. We still hear the muezzin calling for prayer in the mosques, but the people look so secular, I wonder how important their religion is to them. I'm torn between relief at finding a comfortable, western city with mosqes and disappointment that this city is not more exotic. <br />
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<br />Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-73166205963442002792012-10-20T11:02:00.001-07:002012-10-21T06:30:11.699-07:00A Taste for Turkey - Day One<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taksim Square, Istanbul</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Could anything top Egypt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After our last trip there, still overwhelmed
by this strange, yet magnetic country, my husband Peter and I talked about
other possible travel destinations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
city that kept coming up in our talks was Istanbul, the largest city in Turkey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Istanbul, like Cairo, is an ever-expanding
city, sucking people from the surrounding countryside like a vacuum
cleaner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Cairo, no one is sure
exactly how many people live there, but the estimates are, also like Cairo,
somewhere between 15 and 17 million inhabitants.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Before this city was named Istanbul
it was called Constantinople, the capital of Byzantium, a city we read about in
history class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Constantinople is the
name of the city I was most familiar with, because of history classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now that I live in Germany, I keep
hearing about Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Istanbul
seemed a logical place to travel to – it is another Muslim culture to explore, now
that we’ve seen much of Egypt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s also
a city with a lot more sunshine and warmth in October, when we decided to
travel, than Cologne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Turkey
as a travel goal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name is
reminiscent of big, fat, clumsy Thanksgiving birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe it or not, the two names are
connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Way back in the 1500s or so,
traders brought a bird species from Madagascar to Europe through Turkey, the
guinea fowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was thus nicknamed the “turkey
fowl”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Spanish explorers to the new
world returned to Europe with a similar-looking bird, they simply called this
species “turkey”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://hotword.dictionary.com/turkey/">http://hotword.dictionary.com/turkey/</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turkey – something to eat for Thanksgiving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Turkey gets
a pretty bad rap in Germany.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turkish
immigrants form the largest group of foreigners living in Germany – estimates
range from one and a half to two and a half million people, depending on
whether children are counted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turkish
children born in Germany are considered German until the age of eighteen, when
they must decide which nationality to take, so they don’t count in the
statistics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hear stories about
parents who keep their children home from school, or children who do go to
school, but who aren’t allowed to take part in sports.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hear about strapping macho teenage boys
who terrorize other students, who then have to keep their mouths shut about it,
because Germans dare not say anything negative about non-Germans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Germans are always afraid of being called Nazis
if they open their mouths to protest about anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hear about Turks who have lived in Germany
for over thirty years and who don’t speak a word of German.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard my mother-in-law talk when she was
still alive, of unhygienic Turks who polluted the air with their garlic
breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, these people are
different from those in Istanbul, many Germans are quick to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Germany gets the uneducated, religiously
conservative peasants from villages in Anatolia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have even heard it said that the Turks
living in Istanbul are a different race from those living in east Anatolia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the
other hand, Turkey is one of the USA’s most important allies, and it is a very
important, strategic NATO power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turkey
has been trying to get into the European Union for several years, but
roadblocks keep getting put up in their way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are not modern enough, not democratic enough, not western enough, Turkey
is not in a literal sense even European, write the pundits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, we also hear of tremendous leaps
forward in their economy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hear that
this is a nation that is working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was time
to go and see for ourselves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We travel
with a group of Germans through the same tourist agency as our first trip to Egypt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a soggy, cold, gray October morning, we leave
Cologne, arriving in Istanbul’s glistening, modern Ataturk airport in warm
sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, as an American, have to buy
a visa at immigration, but Peter, as a German citizen, doesn’t have to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After picking up our baggage, we are met
immediately by our agent, who leads us into a van with a bunch of other Germans
traveling with the same company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before
long, we view the sea, which is really a narrow stretch of water separating
Europe from Asia, on our right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s
broad enough to remind me of the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
drive on along an endless grass-lined beach, filled with families barbecuing,
enjoying Sunday off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can almost
smell the mixture of meat and charcoal burning from our car, but the windows are
sealed shut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From this drive into the city,
we can already see that Istanbul is doing a lot better financially than Cairo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everywhere we look, we see green trees and
lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK – no desert here, so no
dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But everything looks clean and
tidy too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The roads are in great shape,
the buildings we pass look like something we could live in, and the Bosphorus
looks awfully inviting for a swim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
October!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in Cologne, it’s in the 50’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, we’re enjoying a balmy 80° Fahrenheit
on this sunny afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a way, it
reminds me of a California beach city filled with apartment buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people we see picnicking look more like
the Turks we see in Germany – most of the women have headscarves on, but the
teenagers, kids and men are dressed like any European.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhREl0e3oqIECCdwhn42BBYC9fdwxtrSySG9o3Ee1D9yIxw8sYVv_Uv1W3BE-LOuQuLoXjOUXq7x887094ylgKBPILwdL-IJ2SC4PkRgvtXpq4CtWOXLpDRJNReTB3nEYYTlgMvxGCtcbQg/s1600/2012-10-12+14.46.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhREl0e3oqIECCdwhn42BBYC9fdwxtrSySG9o3Ee1D9yIxw8sYVv_Uv1W3BE-LOuQuLoXjOUXq7x887094ylgKBPILwdL-IJ2SC4PkRgvtXpq4CtWOXLpDRJNReTB3nEYYTlgMvxGCtcbQg/s400/2012-10-12+14.46.32.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Golden Horn, with the Galata Tower inthe center</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It takes us
over an hour and a half to get to the hotel – Prime Minister Erdogan happens to
be officiating at the opening of a water purification plant which also just
happens to be on the road we’re driving on, so we pass car after car, red
Turkish flag after flag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, we get
to the famous Golden Horn, a stretch of water turning inland from the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our hotel is on the other side of the bridge,
in the modern, western part of Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The city’s many mosques are laid out in front of us, their slim minarets
gracing the blue sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The city looks a
bit exotic, maybe like a movie set, with all those minarets, and yet fully
European.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There’s the Galata Bridge,”
says our escort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And the tower over there.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve heard of the Golden Horn, the Galata
Bridge and tower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve seen them in
movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now, I can finally see the
whole thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I know how they fit
into the rest of the city.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One of the
things I have discovered about living and traveling abroad is that a place
becomes one’s own as you actually physically begin to inhabit the squares and
buildings you may have heard about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
may have seen Central Park a hundred times in movies, but until you’ve set foot
in it yourself, it can’t become a part of you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now, Istanbul is already becoming a part of me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We check
into a lovely hotel, the <a href="http://www.laresparktaksim.com/default-en.html">Larespark,</a> located in the middle of a section of
Istanbul called Taksim Square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four and
a half stars!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our room is roomy and
comfortable – western!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything looks
so European.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, why not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are in Europe!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later in
the evening, we meet our guide, Harun, a pleasant-looking man with laugh
wrinkles around his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s got a
three-day beard, and looks like he’s under forty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harun tells us we shouldn’t drink the water
in the hotel, but there’s no problem using it to brush our teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I can eat the salads in the hotel with no
reservations – they use filtered water in their cooking!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Harun tells
us that our hotel is located in the most European, most progressive-thinking
part of Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the area where
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orhan_Pamuk">Orhan Pamuk</a> lives when he’s in Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pamuk won the Nobel Prize for literature in 2006.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A waiter walks into our conference room, and Harun
tells us to order drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He first lists
all the non-alcoholic drinks we can choose from before he gets to the
alcohol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He announces that he will be
drinking juice, but we’re welcome to order alcohol if we want to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I order a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">raki,
</i>expecting it to taste like the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ouzo </i>I
drank in Greece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It does taste of anise,
but I don’t like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later in
the evening, Peter and I walk out onto <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taksim_Square">Taksim Square</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is THE hot spot of Istanbul,” he tells
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It certainly appears so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are people out all over, strolling
along the pedestrian zone outside our hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We pass fast-food restaurants and general stores selling everything from
toothpaste to animated stuffed animals that dance for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young men speak to us in English, trying to
get us to eat at their restaurants, but leave us alone when we say we’ve
already eaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t seem to have
that Egyptian pushiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re more
like the hustlers in New York City.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It may not
be as exotic as Cairo, but I know I’m going to feel very comfortable here in
Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-28552211881934923512012-10-02T14:20:00.000-07:002012-10-03T01:26:45.217-07:00If God be for us...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ts1.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4855882146514780&id=34052ede60afe57b13eadc42cb8ff32c" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ts1.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4855882146514780&id=34052ede60afe57b13eadc42cb8ff32c" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The other day I was helping a friend who is moving. One of the people helping her was a young man who is intellectually challenged, but who sometimes comes up with priceless comments. I was complaining to my friends about something I considered unfair, when he suddenly put the nail on the head. <i>"Das Leben ist kein Wunschkonzert," </i>he said. Life is not a "listener's choice" radio program. <br />
<br />
It is a platitude to say that life is hard. Yet we all expect to somehow get through life unscathed, or at least healed from the worst of it. When we suffer, pray, and continue to suffer, we wonder what ever happened to God and all the promises of blessing we are told that God has in store for us. Where is the God of love? Is God on the side of God's children? Can we count on God to protect and help us when times get tough? I've been seeing and hearing about an awful lot of suffering lately.<br />
<br />
Last July, our church community lost little Henrik, a sweet, lively, affectionate little four-year-old, to leukemia. Ever since he was diagnosed in May, we started praying diligently for him to be healed. There were some promising signs, but in the end, he died from a bowel infection he got from being so weakened from the chemotherapy. His mother shows the signs of this ravaging battle on her face, in her eyes. Did she lose the fight? Were all our prayers in vain? <br />
<br />
Ever since my two trips to Egypt, I've been subscribing to a publication committed to helping and praying for Christians who are persecuted because of their faith - "<a href="http://www.opendoors.org/">Open Doors</a>". Many of the prayer requests for this month come from Iraq. A team of workers from Open Doors traveled to the Kurdish area of northern Iraq in June. They say that the situation for Kurdish Christians has become less and less safe. I mentioned this fact to my husband. "They're doubly persecuted there," he said. "They're hated by the ethnic Iraqis because they're Kurdish, and hated by the Muslims because they're Christians."<br />
<br />
I started thinking about martyrs. Christian martyrs. Everyone knows that six million Jews were killed by the Nazis in World War II. That's a lot of people. But I found out that 45 million Christians were murdered in the twentieth century because of their faith. In all of history, the estimates are that 70 million people have lost their lives because of their faith in Christ. But that means, over half of them were murdered in our "civilized" twentieth century! Since 2000, they estimate that around 105,000 Christians have been murdered every year because of their faith. That averages out at about <a href="http://www.cesnur.org/2011/mi-cri-en.html">one person every five minutes</a>. What has happened to all their prayers for protection? <br />
<br />
These people are asked by their church communities to not retaliate, but rather to live peacefully with their neighbors and to bless when they are being persecuted. Since the news about the anti-Muslim film has thrown huge tremors around the globe, <a href="http://www.persecution.org/?p=37116">Christians in Pakistan</a> are feeling more oppression than ever. Does God care?<br />
<br />
We in Germany hear a lot about the Euro crisis. Germans are being asked to foot much of the bill for a huge amount of Greek debt. Germans are worried because the crisis has spread to Spain and threatens to deepen in Italy, Ireland and Portugal. While we in Germany are living very well indeed, normal people in Greece are wondering where they're going to get enough money to buy a liter of milk. Hundreds of thousands of Greeks will have to go without heat this winter. In Greece, the <a href="http://www.smh.com.au/world/steep-rise-in-suicide-rate-a-barometer-of-greek-misery-20120614-20cyt.html">suicide rate </a>has jumped 30-40 per cent since the Euro crisis began. Does God hear the prayers of the Greeks crying out?<br />
<br />
When I read the words of Jesus, I hear a different message from that of the prosperity preachers on TV. Jesus talked about "when you are persecuted". He talked about injustice all the time - about turning the other cheek, about going the extra mile, about blessing those who persecute us, about rejoicing and being glad when we are persecuted. He talked about bearing our yoke with us.<br />
<br />
We protest about injustice. I am especially vociferous on this point. I expect to see fairness and justice, and am appalled when forced to see so much cruelty. But I think I've been missing the point along with most of the rest of us. I think Jesus wants us to hold fast to him, to let him suffer with us, to let him carry our crosses with us. He didn't ever promise that suffering would stop when we start following God seriously. In fact, it seems that, at least with Christians, that is a sure-fire way for the suffering to begin, especially if you live in certain countries.<br />
<br />
If there were no domain called the "Kingdom of God," those of us who care about justice might just as well stop fighting for it. We'd be better off if we went home, ate popcorn, drank beer and watched TV. If this life with all its cruelty and injustice is all there is, what's the point of it all? I think we need to start looking somewhere else.<br />
<br />
What would our lives look like if we could manage to bring our problems to God and leave them there? What if we could express our outrage at injustice to God, and then go on patiently with our lives, being peacemakers where we can, but where we can't make peace, allow the injustice to go on for as long as God allows it to? What if we could forgive those who offend us instead of mulling over all the details of the offense for a thousand times? What if we could enjoy the brilliant autumn leaves instead, accepting that in a month or so, they'll all be decaying on the ground? What if we could love God and trust in goodness, even while experiencing some of life's injustices? This kind of lifestyle makes no sense in a life lived solely on our terms, energized by our own power and inclinations. But today, the thought came to me that perhaps this is the way we ought to pray. It's the way I told God today I want to start living again. I forgot about this way of living when I got so caught up in fighting for my version of justice. My prayers are my faltering attempts to live the lifestyle that Jesus talked about in his Sermon on the Mount. I will have good days, and I will have bad. But living for these invisible, intangible ends is what a life of faith is really all about. Jesus promised another life after this one. Perhaps it won't be until then that we can enjoy justice, health, well-being and the fruit of all our good works. It is this eternity, which is an aspect of both now, when we live in the dimension that is called faith, and of a future life after this one, that my hero St. Francis believed in as he prayed: <br />
<dl><dd><i>Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.</i></dd><dd><i>Where there is hatred, let me sow love.</i></dd><dd><i>Where there is injury, pardon.</i></dd><dd><i>Where there is doubt, faith.</i></dd><dd><i>Where there is despair, hope.</i></dd><dd><i>Where there is darkness, light.</i></dd><dd><i>Where there is sadness, joy.</i></dd></dl>
<dl><dd><i>O Divine Master,</i></dd><dd><i>grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;</i></dd><dd><i>to be understood, as to understand;</i></dd><dd><i>to be loved, as to love.</i></dd><dd><i>For it is in giving that we receive.</i></dd><dd><i>It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,</i></dd><dd><i>and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.</i></dd><dd></dd><dd>Amen.<i> </i></dd></dl>
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Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-80869861825756885792012-08-29T09:17:00.000-07:002012-08-29T09:17:45.894-07:00Finding Buried Treasure <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsljC9WOKi7iBrzW8CjwuCDNe5gZZJmavuPBInj-1euBZgDvgYWUyY6t0msQ_x1tyvfzSTk2diNlSqTEY9XRvxTh_61fhIEfufl4SASS38kWWue8kcQyKB-otPbWdWLY5LQgs1fLrGmAf/s1600/CIMG0184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsljC9WOKi7iBrzW8CjwuCDNe5gZZJmavuPBInj-1euBZgDvgYWUyY6t0msQ_x1tyvfzSTk2diNlSqTEY9XRvxTh_61fhIEfufl4SASS38kWWue8kcQyKB-otPbWdWLY5LQgs1fLrGmAf/s320/CIMG0184.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Sometimes irony is one of life's highest delights. Other times it is a dagger, stabbing deadly barbs. Here's a story with irony. It's about finding gifts I didn't expect to find, and finding out that something else I thought was a gift turns out to be something else. <br />
<br />
It was morning and I was reading in my Bible. I'm slowly reading through the book of St. Matthew and am just about to the place where Jesus gets killed. In chapter 26, he's at someone's house for dinner and an unexpected guest crashes the party - a woman. She walks in to Jesus, bends down over him, kneels, breaks a bottle of expensive perfumed oil and pours it over his head. You may have heard or read the story. This woman's deed struck me when I started to think about it. I realized that if I had been sitting there, it would never have occurred to me to pour a flask of oil over his head. In fact, nothing at all would have occurred to me. I'd just be sitting there, maybe involved in a conversation with someone, enjoying the food for sure, and shocked when this woman walks in and does this crazy thing. I would agree with the disciples, who said it was crazy. Yes, she was crazy. She just wasted a fortune on this man when she could have sold the bottle and given the money to the poor. And why is she so hung up on him anyway? What's going on between them?<br />
<br />
So I asked myself why she did such an outlandish thing. The answer that came to me was, "Because she experienced something huge from Jesus, she was enormously touched and changed by him, and she wanted to express her love and appreciation in this way. It had to be something extravagant, because he did something extravagant for her." It never occurred to me to do anything big for Jesus. Why not? Why am I not inclined to give something precious of mine to God? That answer came right away. Because I haven't received anything big from Jesus, a.k.a God - at least, not in a very long time. I asked myself and God why that was so. Because I'm not open to the gifts Jesus is offering me, was the answer I heard in my mind's ear. <br />
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That stung, but rang true. I am an idealistic person with definite ideas about how life should be. I've always seen that as one of my very best traits. If you're ever in doubt about a moral question, ask me. I'll probably have thought about it and have an answer. And I'll try and live accordingly. In school, idealism was held in high esteem. It was even an American virtue. I can hear the principal giving a speech right now, saluting "our wonderful, idealistic group of kids graduating this year, who will go out into the world and do great things." I fell for that hook, line and sinker. I wanted to go out there and do great things. I heard it at least as much in church. "My Utmost for His Highest" was one of the books lying around our house. It took me decades to find out that idealism isn't always good. It can also be a cause of suffering and a hindrance to being open for something else.<br />
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I sat there in my bed, where I usually sit when I read and meditate. I let these thoughts sink into me. When life doesn't turn out the way I expect it to, I'm disappointed. I'm not really all that good at accepting life as it comes. Not that anyone is, really. It's hard to be disappointed about something and not let it throw you into a funk. <br />
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Recently someone close to me let me down. This person doesn't walk the talk - one of the things in life that make my blood boil. I'm a firm believer in consistency. Why can't people see when they aren't living what they say they believe in? I was letting thoughts about that drift through my head that morning as I sat, meditating. Several examples came to mind of where I don't see the blessing around me because I'm upset about something else. I didn't mind if my thoughts made me look less than nice. I already know that I'm not really all that nice. I'm so glad to have discovered God's grace, mercy and forgiveness for myself.<br />
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So I sat there, letting the thoughts drift. Our upcoming wedding anniversary floated past. A telephone conversation I'd had with my brother idled by. He was talking about a barbecued pork dish he'd heard about in a TV show with <a href="http://www.primalgrill.org/">Steven Raichlen</a>, the barbecue pope. Turns out the recipe comes from Germany. We had speculated just where this town might be. My husband Peter had identified the place, and I had checked it online. Thoughts continued to drift. Suddenly they consolidated, and everything joined into one gigantic realization.<br />
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The conversation with my brother was a gift, and his interest in food one of his treasures! I've also expected other things from my brother that he hasn't been able to deliver on. But I hadn't truly recognized or truly received this special gift. He has blessed my tummy many, many times. Now he's off in America and I'm here in Germany, but he has blessed me again with the name of a town where we can get fantastic barbecued meat. Steven Raichlen even goes so far as to say that the German barbecue cuisine is one of Europe's best-kept secrets. I certainly never knew that. In fact, I have been avoiding all the bratwurst and marinated pork chops I see in the supermarket, grilling hamburgers, steaks and teriyaki chicken instead. Now I hear that one of the best places in the world for barbecued food is Germany!<br />
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So, in that instant I KNEW that Peter and I would be driving to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idar-Oberstein">Idar-Oberstein</a>, the home of this great recipe, and trying out this famous dish, called <i>Spiessbraten. </i>And sure enough, he agreed to my idea, even though it involved a two and a half hour drive. Each way.<br />
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Idar-Oberstein, you see, is in the middle of nowhere. You have to drive an entire hour once you get off the autobahn, just to get there. It's a sleepy little town, hidden in a river valley. I'd been to the Idar part of the town, but never to Oberstein. We went there once with our son when he was little, collecting rocks, and into geodes. All I saw there in Idar was a bunch of dusty semi-precious stones sitting on shelves in a museum. Idar-Oberstein is known for its semi-precious stones that used to be mined in the hills above. Years ago they stopped mining there, but stones are still polished and made into jewelry there.<br />
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As we drove, we contempated the fact that this remote town contains so much of value. This town is not very well-known in Germany. Not valued. The country I live in is also not particularly beloved in the English-speaking world. It's still known as the country that welcomed Hitler into power, the country where some citizens committed unthinkable atrocities less than a hundred years ago. But a Jewish chef from Florida is praising their barbecue cuisine. He's even praising their pork. And I've been missing out on treasures.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP_fI81m-wmCdubcGQ_XF8Q6T1rQbeCdUsn-jH8el-NzBLjF6K3n0u3brYD33W12W9stUBfPrJn9Cx5SGY7u48_waC8wgDZ4ztJH_u9Lm86LntUn-QurEk2La6d-yRK-iY3LnGFGYYwPM/s1600/CIMG0204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP_fI81m-wmCdubcGQ_XF8Q6T1rQbeCdUsn-jH8el-NzBLjF6K3n0u3brYD33W12W9stUBfPrJn9Cx5SGY7u48_waC8wgDZ4ztJH_u9Lm86LntUn-QurEk2La6d-yRK-iY3LnGFGYYwPM/s400/CIMG0204.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Felsenkirche" - the church on the cliff, and Oberstein Castle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnGSPCJdLveK7MUXkQuIfjfvV2qSI52YaeXScIx-Iyogcn9_TmPUR0Hbg8hNzzfqrCGFyFWmmDh6UYvPy9KFM7pAeCxHhYSyl3qtTLDoCQqXLfSB1bg8f_uCXKIxej09nltiH0MZ9L2es/s1600/CIMG0189.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnGSPCJdLveK7MUXkQuIfjfvV2qSI52YaeXScIx-Iyogcn9_TmPUR0Hbg8hNzzfqrCGFyFWmmDh6UYvPy9KFM7pAeCxHhYSyl3qtTLDoCQqXLfSB1bg8f_uCXKIxej09nltiH0MZ9L2es/s320/CIMG0189.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schlossschenke - our restaurant</td></tr>
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When we arrived in Oberstein, we found a really pretty town filled with cute half-timbered houses. There was a high hill above us with a church built right into the rock. And high above that, off to the left, a castle, partly in ruins. We had no difficulty finding a restaurant serving <i>spiessbraten</i> - there were restaurants all over advertising this dish. We sat down at a table at the nearest one, <a href="http://www.schlossschenke-oberstein.de/uk1-index.htm">Schlossschenke</a>, a hotel with a restaurant and outdoor café. It looked so inviting, with its wood beams, stones, and flowers in the windows. Flags were gently waving in the street opposite the restaurant, among them an American one. The menu was in English and German. <br />
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Turns out this place isn't such a secret after all, at least among the American soldiers stationed in nearby Baumholder. Our waitress told us that many soldiers find their way to their restaurant, asking for <i>spiessbraten.</i><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAkbD3OVnY_oY0qhT7ztKx3Sze30CLv0GnfJJs90l4tQBAmSTnxjA5jb88tiaLNxgAaaXFxxRuwpa7wK-5Hgs7rCvtEy_8G66xfTZelQb0CXNSZGI7iOsUV7X-6LltRcRSP5zjvt0a1Ai/s1600/CIMG0187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAkbD3OVnY_oY0qhT7ztKx3Sze30CLv0GnfJJs90l4tQBAmSTnxjA5jb88tiaLNxgAaaXFxxRuwpa7wK-5Hgs7rCvtEy_8G66xfTZelQb0CXNSZGI7iOsUV7X-6LltRcRSP5zjvt0a1Ai/s320/CIMG0187.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grill outside our restaurant </td></tr>
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<i><a href="http://www.food.com/recipe/spiessbraten-idar-oberstein-style-156305">Spiessbraten</a> </i>as it is prepared in Idar-Oberstein can be either pork or beef. I ordered beef rumpsteak, and Peter pork. The important thing about it is that the meat is coated in a mixture of sliced onions, salt and pepper which you kind of knead around the meat every once in a while for about twelve hours, then grill on this special kind of grill you can turn around like a wheel as the meat cooks over beech wood. And you eat it with a white radish salad and some form of potatoes. We had potato salad, made in this region with oil and vinegar. It was indeed delicious and perhaps one of the best grilled meals we have ever eaten. We sat there, like a king and queen in a castle garden, enjoying a gem of a food we learned about from my brother in America. How I would love to be able to take him there to the place where the food he told me about originates. But I can't. He's not here, even though he gave us this gift. Ironically, he was once in Idar-Oberstein with his ex-wife when they came to Germany for Peter's and my wedding. But they didn't know about <i>spiessbraten</i> then. <br />
<br />
The waitress patiently explained how we could recreate the experience at home. We would need wood chips from a beech tree, but we could buy the wood at a nearby store. <br />
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After finishing our meal, we walked through the town a little. I bought a turquoise necklace and some presents. We admired the church in the rock and castle in the distance. We stopped at a store on our way home to buy beech wood, but they were out of it.<br />
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As soon as we got home, I phoned my brother to tell him about the experience. He was pleased to be such an important part of our wedding anniversary.<br />
<br />
Later in the week, I found wood chips at a local lumber store. We bought pork shoulder steak at our butcher's, and on Sunday we ate <i>spiessbraten</i> we made ourselves. If possible, it was even better than what we'd had in the restaurant.<br />
<br />
I am learning to recognize some of the treasures around me, opening myself up to the realization that I am being blessed all the time by my God. How good to be able to realize that, discovering that treasures are flowing through the floodgates!<br />
<br />
On that same weekend I was able to give a bit back to God. I played Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" on the organ at a wedding last weekend. I played it as a gift to God. This is what they call worship.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i> </i> Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-22024424146871780312012-08-14T13:37:00.000-07:002012-08-28T13:58:06.603-07:00Jewish Prague<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4842056607532614&id=fb7341d808f4b09b86335e740db55422" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4842056607532614&id=fb7341d808f4b09b86335e740db55422" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meisel Synagogue, Prague</td></tr>
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This summer I've been away a lot - with people other than my husband. I was in Paris twice - once with my friend Elaine and once with my niece, <a href="http://noreen-masterpieceinprogress.blogspot.cz/2012/07/paris-with-sarah-and-phantom.html">Sarah</a> - you can read about that trip in the link provided. I was even in England once. All this traveling is one of the perks of living in Europe. But I was missing my husband, and he me! Peter and I decided it's about time we did something together. I saw our son Jon and niece Sarah off at the Frankfurt airport and the next day Peter and I took off with Toffee, our little Havanese dog, for a week in the Czech Republic. Since we have the dog along, we have to do a lot of our sightseeing separately. Dogs are not a welcome sight in manicured parks or museums, although it's no problem taking them into department stores or restaurants! </div>
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While in Prague, in one of my periods of sightseeing alone, I went on a guided tour of the historic Jewish area. They call this the "Jewish Museum of Prague". It is the largest museum of this sort in Europe. I was the only
one on the tour who wasn’t Jewish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
alone made for an interesting afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
me, it was as interesting seeing the tour through the eyes of Jewish tourists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the beginning, people were introducing
themselves to each other – a French couple, two American couples and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them mentioned that she had been on a
cruise, and I asked her about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We
went down the Rhine,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“How was it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“A bit too German for my taste,” she answered.</div>
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I was then interrupted by our tour guide, who asked where I
lived.</div>
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“Germany,” I answered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Immediately the woman who had been on the cruise walked away from me, as
far away as she could be and still hear the guide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered if this was because of my admission as to where I live. I thought it would be wise to add a bit about where I live,
since everyone in the group had heard our embarrassing encounter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why is Germany still such a painful
subject?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why can’t it be neutral to live in this country that has also contributed so much to the world? For goodness' sake, the war has been over for almost seventy years. </div>
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“I live in Germany, but I’m not German. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband is German, and he is not
anti-Semitic.”</div>
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The cruise husband nodded and said, “Yes, there are lots of
really nice, good Germans.”</div>
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Susanna, the guide, asked where I live in Germany. </div>
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“Cologne.” </div>
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“That’s a nice city.”</div>
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As soon as we moved on a little, the cruise lady way ahead
of me, I hurried up to her and said, </div>
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“I’m not offended if you had a problem with the Germans on
the cruise.”</div>
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She seemed surprised that I had come to her, and at first
was at a loss for words.</div>
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“Well, that wasn’t really what I meant to say,” she
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“What was the problem then?”</div>
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“We experienced some anti-Semitism.”</div>
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"I'm so sorry to hear that," I said. </div>
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Her husband told me that he had worked for the past thirty
years with a German colleague who was a wonderful person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, they talked about every subject in
the world except for one – the war.</div>
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“That’s a pity,” I said.</div>
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Later it occurred to me that there are two partners in a
conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there is an elephant in
the room, one of them could mention it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps the German felt too much shame to bring it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that case, the Jewish man would have been
stronger, and the two of them could have had healing conversations.</div>
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I wonder how many non-Jews take part in these tours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt a bit exposed, being the only
gentile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cruise couple treated me
naturally for the most part after our awkward beginning, and the others even
told me tidbits about Jewish culture I didn’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found it very interesting, and it
illuminated for me some of the things that went on in Nazi Germany.</div>
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One of the things I learned was that for hundreds of years,
the Jews were forced to live in the area now called “Josefstadt.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a fence around the ghetto and a
gate with a lock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The citizens were
locked in during the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
daytime, they were free to move throughout the city, but had to wear something
yellow as a badge that they were Jewish – a yellow circle patch on their
clothes, a bracelet, collar, or hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yellow was the symbol for something seen as despicable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These yellow stars of David worn by Jews in Nazi Germany were only an
adaptation Hitler and the Nazis made on an already established practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I found out that in the outside world, Jews could only be
involved in finance, particularly lending for a profit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had to pay huge taxes on their gains,
but some still became wealthy in their practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mordecai_Meisel">Mordecai Meisel</a>, who used his money to build a
synagogue named after him, was one of those who used his wealth to give back to
the many impoverished Jews in Prague.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jews did have other professions inside their ghetto, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were even Jewish beer brewers.</div>
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The hero for the Jewish community was the emperor <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emperor_Joseph_II">Joseph</a>,
the eldest son of the Hapsburg Maria Theresa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I learned that she was rabidly anti-Semitic, that she learned this
attitude from her father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her daughter,
Marie Antoinette, wife of King Louis XV of France, whose ghost I encountered in
Paris many times, was anti-Semitic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
her brother Joseph was not, and did everything he could to make Jews
equal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except for one thing – they were
required to register, and somehow this affected their marriage rights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guide said only one child in a family had
the right to marry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any case, the
Jews loved him so much, they named their ghetto after him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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In the Pinkas synagogue, I saw the names of Franz Kafka’s
sisters listed - killed by the Nazis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=5032753140597362&id=c10c0d17ef342739dd7c88fb1e221d83" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=5032753140597362&id=c10c0d17ef342739dd7c88fb1e221d83" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Franz Kafka</td></tr>
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Our guide showed us caricatures to show the popular Czech attitude
towards Jews.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the ways they
derided Jews was to portray them as insects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This reminded me of Kafka, whose protagonist in the story
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Metamorphosis">“Metamorphosis”</a> becomes a bug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked
the guide whether she thought there was any connection here.</div>
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“I don’t think so,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He was a secular Jew who came from a
privileged family.”</div>
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An Israeli woman who later joined the tour disagreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I have nothing to do with the history of
Prague, but as I walk through this city, I have a very heavy heart,” she
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think Kafka could have felt
what his ancestors felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why should he
not have identified with them?”</div>
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I agree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a
heavy heart for the Germans and the Jews.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am sad to think of a city that was so great as this, now living mostly from its past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is magnificent, laden with one stunning
palace after another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are so many
palaces, people can’t afford to live in them and they have become embassies, government ministries and
corporate headquarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are
wonderful examples of architecture from every period from the middle ages
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are still street signs in
German, hinting to a past that had nothing to do with Nazis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These were Germans who worked alongside Jews,
who formed the intelligentsia of this city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For hundreds of years, German was the official language here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there is nothing left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Germans didn’t enjoy sharing power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually the Czech nationals took it away
from the German-speaking Hapsburgs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then
World War II ended all traces of German culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now it’s all gone, all but beautiful
buildings and a few streets hinting to the curious about a past that is no
more.</div>
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If only people would accept each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our cities and our lives would be all the
richer for it. </div>
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Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-45691341249938289342012-07-19T06:52:00.000-07:002012-07-19T23:27:06.560-07:00Paris with Sarah and the Phantom<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4510163011437938&id=26ec18dd085675d1fab78639ddb025f7" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4510163011437938&id=26ec18dd085675d1fab78639ddb025f7" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scene from "Phantom of the Opera"</td></tr>
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If you are one of my readers who is trying to follow my life in any consecutive way, I just want you to know that you are about two months behind with my life. I wanted to write to you about Paris, and this post is about Paris, but I will write about the trip I took last week and not the one I took there two months ago. I had big plans to write about that trip. I traveled to Paris in May with two dear friends of mine who didn't know each other before then, and we had a trip worthy of a novel, or a memoir. Who knows - maybe that piece will appear one day, too. So much of life seems to get expressed, and worked on, out of order.<br />
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And so here I am, two months later, another Paris trip behind me. This time I went with my niece Sarah, who is visiting from America. She's still here, and we're really busy a lot of the time, but I think I have time to capture my thoughts about her and her visit now and then. <br />
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Sarah had never been outside of the United States until this point, and she was really excited to come.<br />
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One of the things I love about Sarah is her complete naturalness, openness and honesty. She is as beautiful and fresh as a spring day, and she is in the spring of her life. But she's also like a spring thunderstorm.<br />
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I went to a <a href="http://www.lifegivingtrust.org/v15/">Rapha</a> (see link) personal development workshop in England recently and learned that, at least from the perspective of the trainer, each generation has more personal baggage than the previous generation. Our modern life is so difficult, so viciously competitve and merciless, and the values so blurred, each generation finds coping with life more difficult than the previous one, and has more to overcome. Sarah would be the first to admit that she has a lot to overcome. She sees her past as dark. She is a lively person with a volatile personality. She has already experienced trauma in her life. She is drawn, I think, to dark things at least as much as to lightness. But then, so was I when I was nineteen. I remember that my favorite piece of literature was <u>Notes from Underground</u>, a dark piece about an outsider, written by Dostoyevsky. After reading this, I made a conscious decision to be the outsider I already found myself to be. Sarah's hero is Erik, the anti-hero in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phantom_of_the_Opera">"Phantom of the Opera"</a>. He is an outsider, choosing to live in the cavern underneath the Paris Opera. Erik is in love with Christine, whom he has trained to be the beautiful singer she is. He remains invisible, and is thought to be the ghost who haunts the theater. But he appears before Christine and is very much alive. Sarah, I think, sees herself as a sort of Christine, drawn to the beauty of Erik's darkness and suffering. Christine is also in love with Raoul, a wealthy, handsome, successful Viscount, a symbol of light and unpoiled innocence. Who but an unspoiled, innocent person who had never seen the dark side of life would not be more attracted to the mysterious Erik? It makes perfect sense. And yet, my heart cringes at the thought of choosing life partners who would lead us down to live in the caverns of life. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the grand stairway</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand Foyer of the Garnier Opera</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Box five is second from the right. The box on the right is the imperial box.</td></tr>
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One of the first things we visited in Paris was the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garnier_Opera">Garnier Opera House</a>, the one where the phantom supposedly lived. It is truly a spectacular place, full of more gold, glitter, marble and velvet than any other place I have ever been to. We saw the imperial box, where Napoleon III watched performances with his wife and companions - and also box five, the box seat Erik sat in. The main foyer, where the opera-goers drink champagne between acts is more sumptuous to me than the hall of mirrors at the Versailles Palace that Louis XIV had built. The inside of the theater is unbelievably light, due to all the mirrors, gold-plated sculpture, and candleabras all over the place. It evoked longings in both of us to be princesses for at least an evening, showing up for the ballet in a horse-drawn carriage, escorted into the ball by a handsome young man dressed in a long dress coat, while we wear beautiful gowns showing off our perfect bodies, glittering from diamond tiaras. Actually, I think Sarah would rather be one of the singers in the operas that are also performed there. The costumes are also pretty magnificent. It's interesting to me that much of the story in this opera takes place, not in the spectacular theater, but in the dark, mysterious, murky underground cavern and lake underneath the opera house. I learned that the lake really does exist. It was the lake that inspired Gaston Leroux to write this piece that Andrew Lloyd Weber turned into a musical. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Café de la Paix</td></tr>
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After visiting the opera house, we went into <a href="http://www.cafedelapaix.fr/uk/">Café de la Paix</a>, which was designed by Charles Garnier, who also designed the opera house. It is similarly grandiose. I don't know why we weren't too intimidated to enter. Possibly because we both know that we descend from King Edward III. We let that sink into our psyches. Anyway, neither of us had ever been in such an ornate, perfect café. There was no table ready for us, so we had to sit at the bar for a while. I was already in the reckless spirit Gil must feel in the Woody Allen film "Midnight in Paris", when he finds himself transported into 1920s Paris, conversing with famous literary figures from the past. We were there with the characters from the "Phantom".<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah drinking absinthe at the Café de la Paix</td></tr>
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Sarah had already been asking about drinking an absinthe. She is under age to drink in the United States, but it's perfectly legit here in Europe for a nineteen-year-old to be drinking absinthe. The fascination was surely the supposedly addictive qualities and the fact that this drink was banned for so long. When we started sipping our drinks, sitting in possibly the most high-class café in Paris, certainly one that served absinthe to people llike Christine in "Phantom", the thing we most noted was that it tasted quite normal, a lot like Pernod, and that we would be have to be lying or hallucinating to say that we had seen any green fairy. But the café did not disappoint us. Sarah liked her <i>crème brulée</i> so much, she ordered another one that same day in the evening. Now she is known as the one in her family who ate two <i>crème brulées </i>on the same day. One of them cost $15, but was the best I had ever tasted. <br />
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That evening we watched "Phantom of the Opera" in our tiny but chic hotel room, on my laptop. I downloaded it before we left for Paris. It must have been at least the twentieth time Sarah had watched it, but only my second.<br />
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Since returning to Cologne, I've been helping Sarah with her music. I've taught her to read music so that she can play the notes on the piano and sing them. This should help her to sing the notes more accurately. I've been helping her with breath support and projection. I, who have sung solos only a few times in my life. I, who also had the dream of being a musical performer. I am, but only in a gospel choir. I don't dream about singing solo anymore. I am content to help Sarah achieve her dreams. The music she is practicing so diligently is really complicated, with incredibly difficult intervals. She brought the music with her - Christine's songs from "Phantom of the Opera".<br />
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My dream for Sarah - and still for myself - is that she - and I, who also am not finished with my life, can use the darkness in our souls to explore and understand the depths. That is so that she and I can climb out ouf them. I hope that she will continue to join forces with God, working with God's help, finding herself, as I do for myself, less an less a captive of the darkness. I hope that she can accept the darkness when it comes, but that she will dwell in the light, one day helping others to find a way through their own darkness, as she lives in the light that's there for all of us. I hope to see us both laughing, joyful because we are overcomers. <br />
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<br />Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-71910835586578027492012-07-03T14:18:00.001-07:002012-07-05T15:38:34.675-07:00Cinnabuns and GodWere you one of those people who used to write letters and send them in the mail? Can you remember when there was no Facebook, or even email? I remember those days very well. And I think I wrote less in those days than now. Still, I was always apologizing for not having written sooner. So often a letter either I wrote or received began with, "Sorry I haven't written for so long. I've been busy." Well, I've still been busy, now in the days of blogging and Facebook. I need to learn how to put the busyness into the blog. Blogging helps make so much more sense of those busy times, so you know what you've been up to.<br />
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Where I left you in the last post was that I had been having interesting thoughts a few months after I had to start eating healthily. I lost a few pounds and people had and still have been noticing it! How often in the years before had I thought about losing weight, but never more than a couple pounds went off, and every new year, after all the Christmas splurging, I had a few extra put on. Year by year, the pounds seemed to invade my body, like germs. But now that I was forced to eat differently, just as invisibly, the pounds were disappearing. And my sinuses are - dare I say it? - healed!<br />
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This diet really works! Not that I was rigid with it. But I have been following it a lot more than I would have if the choice had been up to me. So I was forced to admit that, given a choice, I would choose things to eat that were delicious and non-nutritious, even toxic to my body. I guess, left on my own, I don't make such wise choices. Yet, I claim to follow God. I claim to be a disciple of Jesus. I pray, "Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done" with absolute sincerity. So what's wrong here?<br />
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<a href="http://ts1.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4966881161118276&id=2055dd7bb575d189761de3f174e3395e" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ts1.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4966881161118276&id=2055dd7bb575d189761de3f174e3395e" /></a>I came to the conclusion that I'd really been following my own will. Doing what felt good felt good! What else can I say? If I still lived in the States I'd probably be eating Cinnabuns and watching TV every night, numbing my mind with uninspiring and uninspired entertainment, justifying it because I'd spent my day working so hard. I know plenty of people who live like that. That was pretty much my goal each time I went back home. I'd fill up on all the junk food you can't get in Germany, things like Cinnabuns. I remember going once to a mall, just to get a Cinnabun. It was soft and mushy as a soft pillow, reminding me of floating in the heavens on a Charmin cloud. The icing pierced my tongue with sweetness, and you could even get extra icing if the sugar shock hadn't sent you to the moon yet! And that deep, dark, spicy cinnamon - it practically exploded the mush inside your mouth. It felt and tasted wonderful in my mouth, but there were always those pounds on my hips to contend with. And later sinus infections. <br />
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Now, I have heard some mean things in my life about God and what happens to you if you seek to do God's will. You might get sent to Africa as a missionary or something and then get eaten up by lions, like David Livingston. Or go to South America and get your head whacked off by head hunters. I didn't want this sort of life. That sort of life didn't sound like much fun. So, at one point when I got brave enough to talk to God about what I really wanted, I told God I wanted to follow my own will for a while. I needed to do this, since I had been clobbered over the head with sermons about sacrificing and doing God's will. So now I was committed to my will, and then if I found that my will coincided with God's will, I would be more inclined to follow God.<br />
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Actually, it's been very interesting to find out where that has led me. Into dis-ease. Following the doctor's advice has led me into health. Living a healthy lifestyle feels good. I feel better this way. I look better this way. Could it be that the doctor's way is also God's way, and that this is the best way, after all?<br />
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There's a thought to leave you with until next time.Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-58809112780281890502012-05-22T10:00:00.001-07:002012-05-22T10:00:36.268-07:00"Do I Do Enough" Self-Torture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been a while. When I get out of practice writing, I become increasingly at a loss for words. Not that there haven't been subjects. Oh, yes. I've been thinking hard about life - I just turned 65.<br />
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For several weeks before my birthday, I noticed a gnawing anxiety after waking up, sometimes throughout the day, and also before falling asleep. The thoughts sort of meandered around the realization that time is running out. I asked myself if I had accomplished enough. Was I doing enough? <br />
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People in my church would tell me I shouldn't have such thoughts. I am a Christian. My future is guaranteed, and I live in a state of grace. Still, these thoughts continued to nag at me. Of course, anyone who knows me knows that I am always prone to agonize about my life. I'm good at torturing myself with questions about my purpose here on this earth and whether I'm doing the things I should, or enough of them.<br />
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I think I inherited this from my mother, who, even in the midst of suffering from Alzheimer's, tortured herself with the agonizing question, "What should I be doing?" It must be horrible to have the question and have no idea what it was you did yesterday, let alone two years ago.<br />
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Something else was going on - my fingers started to swell at the joints and bend. I went to the doctor, wondering if I had gout. She took one look and said, "You have arthritis." It seems there is no real cure, but I can slow the process down by diet, drinking a lot of water, getting exercise, and getting plenty of sleep.<br />
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I'm already on a special diet, thanks to my still-present sinusitis. For the past five months, I have gone almost completely without white sugar and white flour. Now she tells me there's more I must do - cut out all pork and eat alkaline foods, which means less meat. Bread isn't such a good thing, either.<br />
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So I cut out pork and started drinking more water and sleeping more. And as I worked more and more at living a healthy lifestyle, interesting insights started trickling into my head.<br />
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I'll let you know about these thoughts in posts to come. <br />
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Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6996945413566986585.post-60699191160162117592012-04-30T09:24:00.000-07:002012-04-30T09:24:11.446-07:00It All Started with a Dog<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all started with a dog. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dog, Toffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few of his ancestors many dog generations
ago, but within my own lifetime, got smuggled out of Cuba for committing the
Communist “sin” of being decadent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
rest got killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Toffee is not
decadent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is a blessing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlMvdhLaG9do4tZlx0qRhKdJ_4iActIzWXLfP4bFLQJlbaViAry6_X2Hos8Wposrdme6r7cvX1yIud7KnC_uP9DsbxPLrf1ofhypAG830E1GR_v4rje9QZL_Upr8_6TILmi1GtGeG8YLv/s1600/2012-04-06+14.41.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlMvdhLaG9do4tZlx0qRhKdJ_4iActIzWXLfP4bFLQJlbaViAry6_X2Hos8Wposrdme6r7cvX1yIud7KnC_uP9DsbxPLrf1ofhypAG830E1GR_v4rje9QZL_Upr8_6TILmi1GtGeG8YLv/s320/2012-04-06+14.41.29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toffee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How good that we have a new breed of dog now, the
Havanese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own particular specimen has
done a world of good, and he doesn’t even know about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This reminds me of something Jesus said about
your left hand not being supposed to know the good that your right hand
does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But before I get too far into this story, let me begin
again, this time starting with a popular German vegetable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ts1.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4760911667790388&id=a3c8f8e16ab236ad22b31ab2218d8445" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://ts1.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=4760911667790388&id=a3c8f8e16ab236ad22b31ab2218d8445" width="156" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The king of German vegetables - white asparagus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week I discovered the ideal discussion topic for my
English class – asparagus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s asparagus
season right now in Germany, the season you find white asparagus in all the
restaurants, and white and green asparagus in all the supermarkets, along with
Hollandaise sauce , the traditional accompaniment to white asparagus, already prepared
and sold in cartons on a shelf next to the asparagus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-17753372">BBC ran a story</a> on German white asparagus, complete with
a podcast, perfect for me to share with my class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The narrator mentioned in his story that
Germany has a less sophisticated cuisine than Britain because Britain’s culture
is more eclectic. He was referring to all the people from all over the world who
have been pouring into Britain from Britain’s former colonies over the past few
decades – Indians, Pakistanis, Jamaicans, Irish, Italians, Nigerians, to name a
few.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must have escaped him that the
same is true for Germany, only the immigrants are not from former
colonies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are economic refugees.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks to Toffee, I have made friends with Katie and Sophia,
some immigrant children in my neighborhood, which is full of immigrants,
including me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've written about these girls before, so <a href="http://noreen-masterpieceinprogress.blogspot.de/2011/10/black-bottom-cupcakes.html">click here</a> if you want to read more about them. Katie and Sophia ring my
doorbell regularly, asking to take Toffee out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For them it is an honor, and for me a break from our normal routine of
taking the dog out, three times a day, day in, day out, whatever the weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple weeks ago when they came to the
door, I announced to them that Toffee was an uncle – his sister had given birth
to four little puppies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can we see them?” they begged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll ask,” I promised, and then phoned my friend Denise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of her dogs is Toffee’s mother, and the
other Toffee’s sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had to wait a
couple of weeks until the puppies’ eyes and ears were opened, but this week they
were ready for company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girls
arrived punctually at the appointed time and I phoned Denise to see if it was
still OK to come.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, it’s been so busy,” Denise said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I haven’t even had lunch yet, and we have
more visitors coming later today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could
you come a bit later?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’ll drive slowly,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And we’ll only stay a few minutes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To kill time, we all sat on the floor and
played with Toffee for a while. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Toffee is the only dog my mother likes,” said Katie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If I could have a dog, it would have to be
someone like Toffee.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told the girls about our mating Toffee with another
Havanese dog last week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These girls, age
9 and 10, know about the facts of life, and wanted to know if the dog has
gotten pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s too soon to
tell,” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We piled into the car and drove off to Denise’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While waiting at a stop light, Katie said,
“My uncle lives over there in that building,” pointing to a brick apartment
building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had thought she and her
mother were the only people from Cameroon in Cologne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I didn’t know you had an uncle here,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have lots of aunts and uncles here, all in Cologne” she
answered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I only have an aunt in Germany, far away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every one else is in the Czech Republic,”
said Sophia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have no relatives here, nor does Peter, my German husband.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite my driving slowly, we arrived way too early, so I
decided to take them with me into the supermarket at the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to buy green asparagus for the
weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter prefers green
asparagus, even though he’s German and most Germans, especially older ones, eat only the white
variety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve never eaten asparagus,” said Katie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Me neither,” said Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they spotted the asparagus before I did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, we had killed enough time, and we walked over to
Denise’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you think I could take
photos with my cell phone?” asked Sophia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t see why not,” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But all thoughts of photos were gone as soon as we saw the
puppies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the same feeling as when
we first saw Toffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four tiny little
creatures, so perfect, so helpless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
fit into the palm of your hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All was
hushed and reverent as two girls and two women sat on the floor, holding the
little puppies in turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few
minutes, Bijou, their mother came and nursed them as we sat in awe,
watching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was her first litter, and
it was as though she always nursed babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Less than a week ago I had witnessed her brother Toffee mating for the
first time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“It feels so holy in here,” I commented.</div>
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“One evening this week I came in here and did nothing for an
entire hour except and sit and watch these puppies,” said Denise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She seemed to be in no hurry.</div>
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“We have guinea pigs too,” she told the girls.</div>
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“I have a guinea pig at home,” said Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We used to have two, but one died.”</div>
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“Would you like to see our guinea pigs?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have hens too.”</div>
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“Oh, yes!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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So we all went out into the back yard, the girls clutching
their handbags in case anyone should break into the house and steal them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had told them not to leave their bags in
the car, lest anyone break in and steal them, so they were not letting go of
their bags anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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We visited the guinea pigs and the girls held all four of
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“This one looks almost like Toby – the one who died,” Sophia
said, holding one of the guinea pigs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Denise’s daughter, nine, was outside playing with one of her
friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Would you like to hold a hen?”
she asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girls took turns trying
to hold the hen, but it kept flying out of their arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admired Leah, who carries the animals
around with such grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a real
natural.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We have eight hens,” she
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We get eggs from them every day.”</div>
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“I annoyed a chicken in Cameroon,” Katie said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“Did you hold it?” I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Katie nodded.</div>
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I’m allergic to most animals and the straw that is around
them, so I instinctively turn away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s why it’s such a miracle for me to be able to have a
hypoallergenic dog!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Sophia and Katie couldn’t get enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held their handbags so they could climb
into the tree house, unencumbered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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All four girls clambered up and were in a world to
themselves as they called, “Tigger!” and a stray local cat came to them, and I
stood there with the handbags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard
them talking about their ages, about school, about hens and guinea pigs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got tired of
standing there, waiting, and I had told Denise we’d only be staying a few
minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now it was over an hour, and
Denise had long since gone inside the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Come down, girls!” I called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“It’s time to go home.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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They climbed down, and then Leah said, “Would you like to
see one of the hens do gymnastics?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had never heard of a hen doing gymnastics, and was intrigued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stayed and watched as she went into the
hen house, pulled out one of the hens and carried her around the yard as her
friend played assistant, holding a handful of grains as a reward for the hen’s tricks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They carefully placed the hen’s claws onto
the handles of the seesaw and moved it up and down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hen stayed put!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They put the hen onto the swing, and the hen
didn’t budge as they gently pushed the swing back and forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leah carried the hen onto the top of the
slide and we watched it – whoosh! - slide down and flutter her wings a few
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They put her onto the monkey bars
and she balanced there a few seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was quite an amazing hen, and an amazing girl, who could get a hen
to do such marvelous things.</div>
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By now we had been there nearly two hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We must go home,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Your mothers will wonder where you are.”</div>
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“Can we look at the puppies one more time?” Sophia asked. </div>
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“OK – just a peek.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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As we walked back into the house, Katie said, “I wish I
could live in a house like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
when I’m grown up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess you have to
be rich to have all those animals.”</div>
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I know that Denise isn’t rich in money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she and her family are rich in love for
animals and other people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have only
one child of their own, but four foster children, a single mother and her
daughter living with them, and all these animals in a house and large garden,
right in the middle of Cologne.</div>
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We walked back into the puppy temple, which was now filled
with another family admiring the puppies, and three adult dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Denise had finally had enough of us, and we
left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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As I walked out of the house, carrying my asparagus, Katie
said, “In Cameroon they chew on something that looks a bit like asparagus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s called ‘sugar cane’ and it’s very
refreshing and delicious.”</div>
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“I’ve always wanted to try it,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They eat it in Egypt, and I wanted to try it
when I was there, but I never had a chance.”</div>
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“Next time I go to Cameroon, I’ll bring you some,” she
promised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“Noreen, if Toffee gets pregnant, do you think I could have
one of the puppies?” Katie asked.</div>
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“Toffee can’t get pregnant,” Sophia answered wisely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He’s a male.”</div>
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These girls don’t know how rich they have made my life, and
without much forethought, I gave them a memory that will last them a lifetime.</div>
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Such a wonderful afternoon, and it all started with a dog.</div>
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<br /></div>Noreenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11481084593017866062noreply@blogger.com1