After kissing and, between sobs, taking small bites of my last piece of Turkish baklava, we said see you later, Istanbul.
And hello, Kuala Lumpur! How these crazy kidz get around.
KL, Malaysia, is one of the major hubs for domestic and international flights in Southeast Asia. We're heading to Singapore tomorrow, and then making our way to Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Philippines, and then back home in December. Expect nothing but fantastic stories, like Larissa's Muay Thai match in Bangkok, or Andrew becoming a vegetarian and not eating a large helping of bbq pork over noodles and not going back four hours later for a second helping.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Another Wedding!
Lucky us! Ferial's (our fairy godmother from Pastoral Vadi) sister got married in Istanbul this weekend. The henna night - named for the last event of the evening when the bride, and then the female guests, smear henna paste into the palms of their hands, creating a circular orange stain lasting a few days (representing one's good wishes towards the newly weds) - was Thursday night. I got henna-ed too! A crowd of older women gathered round, very excited that their American guest was joining in.
Henna night was the beginning of the celebration. Family and friends gathered to dance to traditional music, tried to swap a few sentences over the extremely enthusiastic oboe player (earning tips for particularly triumphant blasts), and danced some more.
Today was the ceremony and party. We took the rapid MetroBus to the outskirts of Istanbul, desperately searched for an ATM and Nescafe to go, power-walked through parking lots parallel a highway, and arrived to a warm welcome. There was dancing, eating, smiling, gold coins and cash pinned onto the bride's veil and the groom's sash, and pinches from a Bulgarian grandmother. What a day. And what a great way to wrap up our stay in Istanbul.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
A Farmer's Feast
I love food. I may have even thought twice about this trip if chocolate crosiants, gelato, curry, and pad thai, weren't so magical when eaten in their home countries. Fruits, vegetables, baklava, gozleme, and these little cheese-stuffed breads are among the bounty Turkey has to offer. I'm also interested in how food works in different countries and cultures: who can afford what, how food is produced, people's tastes, special customs, how food knowledge is passed on, etc. I've really enjoyed strolling through markets in Provence, learning recipes in Italy, and trying grilled squid while overlooking the Mediteranean in Greece. Who wouldn't? =) Turkish cuisines is one of my favorite so far, and the price is just right.
Anyone who's ever shopped at the Union Square Farmer's Market can tell you that the setting is beautiful, the flowers are fresh, the food looks delicious, but it's expensive! Sure there are deals on seasonal items here and there. A bunch of basil in July for $1. But $9 for a pound of, albeit perfect, little tomatoes? Organic food bought at farmers markets is usually more expensive than comparable items in the supermarket.
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| Union Square farmer's market in Manhattan |
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Merhaba
Istanbul. Istanbul! Istanbul.
Let's see.
We started with my family--Brendan, Emily, Nick, Mom & Dad. From the 8 star apartment (mix fixtures such as chairs, couches, and pillows; add hot water; celebrate), we took Istanbul's streets by storm: bazaars, mosques, museums, fishing villages along the Bosphorous, Turkish cooking experiments at home, local eateries, nights spent walking around with the Ramazan crowd, quiet nights spent with baklava, wine, and good company.
The week's only drawback was its length.
Outside the Blue Mosque
Now, Larissa and I are both incredibly intelligent world travelers; we are four months into a very important trip whose very importance should be studied -- or thought about over some coffee, perhaps, or maybe, even, I mean c'mon just glance at the blog when you have nothing to do, will you?--by all.
As a result, no such instances occur in which, having just said goodbye to my parents and therefore their itineraries and guidance, a taxi driver drops Larissa and I off at the wrong destination and drives off with the change (my baklava money, dammit!). We're smarter than that.
We may or may not have then walked to our new apartment, where we still reside a week later and for at least one week more. Our apartment?! We met and friended a late 20s/early 30s couple vacationing at Pastoral Vadi -- our most recent help exchange location. We got along mighty well, and they, Nazlihan and Kemal, informed us that they have a spare apartment in Istanbul, unused and with our name on it if ever needed. Such altruism is equally humbling and inspiring.
We took them up on their offer once our Indian work visa was rejected (see a few posts below). And we've spent the time here figuring out a new plan for September and October, which we'll blog about next. We've also, as usual, been up to no good:
Exploring!
Larissa crossing a bridge! The Galata Bridge
Hanging out with friends
Nazlihan, our friend/host, at the farmer's market. We made them beef bourguignon and chocolate chip cookies (rare in Turkey), and it was awesome.
Breakfast with Hande, an Istanbul resident and law student who volunteered at Pastoral Vadi with us.
Eating baklava
With vanilla ice cream, it's seriousCaring for Dante
Kemal and Nazlihan's golden retriever challenges me each day. "Do ye not comprehend that we are worms born to bring forth the angelic butterfly that flieth unto judgment without screen?”, he asks me, and then adds, "Feed me."Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Istanbul
The throne of two great empires, Istanbul is the 5th largest city in the world where sprawling streets envelop huge monuments that attest to the power and influence concentrated here for over a thousand years until the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the 1923.
We've been exploring this beautiful city with Andrew's family who met us here on Saturday. Europe, Asia, and back in an afternoon is no problem for this group lead by our intrepid, well-informed guide, Mrs. Whyte (sorry folks, "Tours-by-Lorna" are all booked for the year).
More to come soon, but first the archeology, art, culture, food, and history await us.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Rejected
Another quıck update -- more ınfo comıng soon.
But here ıs how we felt leavıng the Indıan Embassy, where we trıed to get work vısas:
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xck45q_lebron-james-top-10-blocks_sport
But here ıs how we felt leavıng the Indıan Embassy, where we trıed to get work vısas:
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xck45q_lebron-james-top-10-blocks_sport
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Quick Update
Not too much news, just enjoying our last days at Pastoral Vadi and planning our next steps. Off to Ankara on an overnight bus Sunday so we can be first in line at the Indian Embassy on Monday morning. Tourist visas are no problem, but employment visas may be another story. Wish us luck!
Dancing at a village wedding
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Creek
I struggle to write about the mountain creek that runs along Pastoral Vadi because to do so, to describe its beauty and what the water does to me, for me, would lead the reader (I think there are 6 now) to falsely believe that I am not enjoying my time at Pastoral Vadi, or even abroad.
I'm happily immersed in Turkish culture here -- the people, the food, the chai-coffee-raki-fueled dancing that strikes me as a milder bhangra -- yet there's nothing particularly Turkish, or social, for that matter, about my favorite part of Pastoral Vadi: the creek.
After a morning shift in the field, I head through the woods and towards the water with a slight, and altogether strange feeling of earnest apprehension that falls somewhere in between arriving too late to a party and rushing to work.
At this point, power-walking in a manner that suggests overdue bowel movements, I tell myself to calm down, it's only a creek. And when I arrive, panting anyway, to finally see what I'd been listening to all morning, it's really nothing special, just trees, grass, rocks, flowing water.
But how special it is! I think to myself, throwing off my shirt and shoes. Trees, grass, rocks, and flowing water!
When my foot hits the water (always surprisingly cold) and slowly descends onto the slippery stone a foot below, magic happens: I forget about stuff.
I forget about the three hours of morning weeding. I forget how incrediby hospitable, hard-working, and patient (Turkish lessons) the villagers are here in Yaniklar. I forget that I forgot to write my Mom back, and that I should get on that soon (Hi Mom!). I forget about questioning why exactly I've been working on so many farms because, in those moments of questioning, I forget how well we've eaten, what we've learned and who we've met. I forget about wondering what I'll do after this trip. I forget about my interest in finance and my love for a city. I forget the sad, self-inflicted frustration of defending the former and latter to people like Sinan, who makes a Williamsburg hipster look like a Goldman Sachs I-Banker, and his sidekick, Levant, who, to be polite, is a negligent hypocrite with few brain cells left unlit ("We hate people who judge, man"; "Cities take your soul, man"; "There's definitely no poverty in India, man, just peace and love. Just go to Goa, man, there's just all peace and love and pyschedelic raves, man"). I forget about the dance-off breaks Larissa and I take while weeding. I forget about brainstorming for the next blog post.
And what I'm left to remember, now lying down in the middle of the creek, propped on my elbows and looking at nothing, are the memories floating past me, drifting downstream from the Vermont mountain creeks where I grew up playing. I see my sister, ever the designer, collecting rocks to stack for her statues. I see my brother, a born pitcher, collecting rocks to knock down her completed works. I see myself, the youngest, with a rock in hand and unsure who to imitate. I see my parents sitting on the bank, arms around their knees, knees to their chests, with books, newspapers, and sandwiches at their side. I feel the cold, clean, rejuvanating mountain creek water. And I'm only stirred by the lunch bell, to which I happily get up to eat with our new Turkish friends.
I'm happily immersed in Turkish culture here -- the people, the food, the chai-coffee-raki-fueled dancing that strikes me as a milder bhangra -- yet there's nothing particularly Turkish, or social, for that matter, about my favorite part of Pastoral Vadi: the creek.
After a morning shift in the field, I head through the woods and towards the water with a slight, and altogether strange feeling of earnest apprehension that falls somewhere in between arriving too late to a party and rushing to work.
At this point, power-walking in a manner that suggests overdue bowel movements, I tell myself to calm down, it's only a creek. And when I arrive, panting anyway, to finally see what I'd been listening to all morning, it's really nothing special, just trees, grass, rocks, flowing water.
But how special it is! I think to myself, throwing off my shirt and shoes. Trees, grass, rocks, and flowing water!
When my foot hits the water (always surprisingly cold) and slowly descends onto the slippery stone a foot below, magic happens: I forget about stuff.
I forget about the three hours of morning weeding. I forget how incrediby hospitable, hard-working, and patient (Turkish lessons) the villagers are here in Yaniklar. I forget that I forgot to write my Mom back, and that I should get on that soon (Hi Mom!). I forget about questioning why exactly I've been working on so many farms because, in those moments of questioning, I forget how well we've eaten, what we've learned and who we've met. I forget about wondering what I'll do after this trip. I forget about my interest in finance and my love for a city. I forget the sad, self-inflicted frustration of defending the former and latter to people like Sinan, who makes a Williamsburg hipster look like a Goldman Sachs I-Banker, and his sidekick, Levant, who, to be polite, is a negligent hypocrite with few brain cells left unlit ("We hate people who judge, man"; "Cities take your soul, man"; "There's definitely no poverty in India, man, just peace and love. Just go to Goa, man, there's just all peace and love and pyschedelic raves, man"). I forget about the dance-off breaks Larissa and I take while weeding. I forget about brainstorming for the next blog post.
And what I'm left to remember, now lying down in the middle of the creek, propped on my elbows and looking at nothing, are the memories floating past me, drifting downstream from the Vermont mountain creeks where I grew up playing. I see my sister, ever the designer, collecting rocks to stack for her statues. I see my brother, a born pitcher, collecting rocks to knock down her completed works. I see myself, the youngest, with a rock in hand and unsure who to imitate. I see my parents sitting on the bank, arms around their knees, knees to their chests, with books, newspapers, and sandwiches at their side. I feel the cold, clean, rejuvanating mountain creek water. And I'm only stirred by the lunch bell, to which I happily get up to eat with our new Turkish friends.
We Make Party? Turkish Party?
Yes, please! Pastoral Vadi has been an excellent new home. I eat delicious food prepared in wood-burning ovens, sleep in a modest yet elegant bungalow (recent upgrade from the tent we had this past week), and earn my keep by washing dishes, collecting wood, or weeding the fields. Alternative, yes. Anti-society and self-above-all-else, not at all.
The people here - staff, fellow volunteers, and guests - are what makes Pastoral Vadi a warm, welcoming place. With enthusiastic smiles and hand gestures, language barriers are broken and we enjoy our typical meal-time game of trying to guess each other's intentions. "Tonight, we make party?" was easy enough to understand. Thursday night, the staff joined guests wrapping up their permaculture course here to sing traditional Turkish songs and dance, with a little Raki to encourage the mood. We all had fun. Turkish people seem to place high value on their social relationships, greeting each other with hugs and kisses, taking time to talk over many small glasses of chai, and adding "abi" or "abla" at the end of a name to signify a more congenial relationship.
As Andrew and I returned from our first day off in awhile, we agreed how nice it felt to come home to a dinner with friends. This is why we decided to work while traveling (free room and board were big factors too!). Weeding for 6 hours isn't a satisfying way to spend a day abroad, but when the rest of that day is filled with new friends, sights, tastes, and experiences, the weeding is well worth it.
The people here - staff, fellow volunteers, and guests - are what makes Pastoral Vadi a warm, welcoming place. With enthusiastic smiles and hand gestures, language barriers are broken and we enjoy our typical meal-time game of trying to guess each other's intentions. "Tonight, we make party?" was easy enough to understand. Thursday night, the staff joined guests wrapping up their permaculture course here to sing traditional Turkish songs and dance, with a little Raki to encourage the mood. We all had fun. Turkish people seem to place high value on their social relationships, greeting each other with hugs and kisses, taking time to talk over many small glasses of chai, and adding "abi" or "abla" at the end of a name to signify a more congenial relationship.
As Andrew and I returned from our first day off in awhile, we agreed how nice it felt to come home to a dinner with friends. This is why we decided to work while traveling (free room and board were big factors too!). Weeding for 6 hours isn't a satisfying way to spend a day abroad, but when the rest of that day is filled with new friends, sights, tastes, and experiences, the weeding is well worth it.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Leaving Yakabagh
After our story-book encounter with Gulyahat, I was even more excited about our next farm-stay. The sight of our accommodations - a bare mattress in the attic - deflated my excitement. 35 hours of work a week for this?! We ended up in another room, a small step up from the original offer.
The chores weren't tough, the work in the fields was pleasant, and the people were generally friendly. But the atmosphere was beyond frustrating.
Instead of trying to describe our whole stay, here's an glimpse:
Before we arrived, the house was full of bees. There were nests in windowsills, on the ceiling, and in the shower. Sinan, our host who slept in a tree house above his portal, insisted that the bees were rightful inhabitants, a part of nature like us all. And so they stay. You leave them alone, they won't bother you. He'd been stung 4 times. Everyone else - his daughter, wife, and friends who stayed for who knows how long - had all been stung several times. Eventually, a friend took the nests down. The bees still have free range in the yard, but at least there is refuge inside.
Some parts of my stay were nice, but there was an overall feeling of neglect, and selfishness that made me ask, why am I here? The Yakabagh House on the website was a productive, vibrant community. Upon my arrival, I quickly learned the place and its people had moved in a direction I did not want to support with a month of free, full-time work.
One week was enough. To Sinan's credit, he arranged that we come here, Pastoral Vadi. He listened to our misgivings (which I didn't detail but you get the idea), and kindly offered to call the owner of our current home. Not wanting anyone to dampen the positive energy of his house, he assured us that our leaving was "good for you, and good for me." Then off he went to a rave for the weekend. Not for the partying of course (he's a yogi), but to reunite with "The Family (the Rainbow Family that is)." I'm happy that Sinan and friends have found a lifestyle they feel comfortable with, however alternative it may be, but the Yakabagh House was not for us.
Our mattresses in the attic
The chores weren't tough, the work in the fields was pleasant, and the people were generally friendly. But the atmosphere was beyond frustrating.
Instead of trying to describe our whole stay, here's an glimpse:
Before we arrived, the house was full of bees. There were nests in windowsills, on the ceiling, and in the shower. Sinan, our host who slept in a tree house above his portal, insisted that the bees were rightful inhabitants, a part of nature like us all. And so they stay. You leave them alone, they won't bother you. He'd been stung 4 times. Everyone else - his daughter, wife, and friends who stayed for who knows how long - had all been stung several times. Eventually, a friend took the nests down. The bees still have free range in the yard, but at least there is refuge inside.
Andrew hoping to be teleported to New York, or Gulyahat's house
Some parts of my stay were nice, but there was an overall feeling of neglect, and selfishness that made me ask, why am I here? The Yakabagh House on the website was a productive, vibrant community. Upon my arrival, I quickly learned the place and its people had moved in a direction I did not want to support with a month of free, full-time work.
One week was enough. To Sinan's credit, he arranged that we come here, Pastoral Vadi. He listened to our misgivings (which I didn't detail but you get the idea), and kindly offered to call the owner of our current home. Not wanting anyone to dampen the positive energy of his house, he assured us that our leaving was "good for you, and good for me." Then off he went to a rave for the weekend. Not for the partying of course (he's a yogi), but to reunite with "The Family (the Rainbow Family that is)." I'm happy that Sinan and friends have found a lifestyle they feel comfortable with, however alternative it may be, but the Yakabagh House was not for us.
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