End of Turkey, return to Moldova, Moldovan Christmas, New Years, Present day…
Okay, in my last post I ended by describing this crazy sense of nirvana I found after being brutally massaged at a Turkish bathhouse. I should, at this point, remind you to take my romanticization of all of this with a grain or two of coarse rock-salt. I mean, honestly, some strange person was paid handsomely to elbow, drop kick, and monkey punch my vertebrae for an hour. So, we should remember never (or, almost never) to allow my personal wonderment, amazement, or thirst for something transcendental to fool us all into taking me too seriously. In fact, let's keep in mind - this is a blog entry. I'm no new-age philosopher. I'm just a regular guy in Moldova. This next anecdote, I hope, will bring us back down to earth…
Before we left Turkey, Chris and I bought some souvenirs and gifts for ourselves and our Moldovan host families. Chris decided he wanted a bottle of alcohol called Raki (pronounced Rukka). Raki is an aniseed flavored-spirit that happens to be, as wikipedia says, Turkey's "official national drink." It is a clear liquid served alongside water and ice. When mixing this spirit with water, the color changes to a milky-white. Anyway, in our effort to board the plane back to Romania, the Turkish (but, English-speaking) airport guards informed Chris that he was not permitted to take his Raki in his carry-on luggage. These Turkish guards, obviously understanding the quality of this beverage, dutifully, but unenthusiastically, gave us the bad news. At that moment, Chris and I were inside the Tarom Airlines gate in front of a room filled mostly with Romanians on their way home to Bucharest. Meanwhile, standing next to the X-ray scanner at the entrance, the guard gave clear instructions to Chris: "You must dispose of that before you board the plane." Let me reiterate, the room where this was happening was the gate. It was surrounded with glass walls, looking out at the runway where our plane was taxiing toward us. There were about forty passengers waiting, seated in rows of chairs perpendicular to the outside windows.
Now, upon hearing the guard's heavy words, Chris looked down at the ground dejectedly. A second later though, a thought ran through both of our minds. We exchanged wry glances and immediately understood our next play. Then, Chris turned to the nearest security guard and said in his patented, stutteringly blunt style, "Well, can I dispose of it right here…I mean right now… I mean: can I drink it?" The two guards - one standing to our right, the other at the computer monitor of the X-ray machine - looked at each other. Maybe it was their Turkish pride in that fine beverage, maybe it was our innocent-looking, freshly-exfoliated skin….but for whatever reason, those guards looked back at Chris and just said, in a quick, high pitched, matter-of-fact way: "Okay." So, in front of the gate, and all of the Romanians at the airport, Chris and I passed a bottle of Turkish Raki back and forth a few times - all the while, exchanging "Norocs" and other Romanian language toasts. After some merriment, I must admit however, that I allowed my discomfort get the better of me. I observed a few of the other security personnel beginning to appear nervous about our curious display. Chris, maybe because he did not want to part with his Raki, or maybe because he is a little gutsier than I, may have continued had I not suggested we stop. We threw the unfinished bottle in a nearby receptacle and took a seat. We did not imbibe much more than the equivalent of one or two mixed drinks. Nevertheless, we proved our point - that much, at least, was clear by the smiles and delighted laughter of the nearby Romanians. So, we were headed back to our Peace Corps Assignments after a beautiful cultural exchange - two Americans, drinking a Turkish beverage in Istanbul, traveling to Moldova, bestowing words of good luck, health, wealth, and friendship to a room of Romanians.
What happened next? We went back to Moldova. A few other things might have occurred - I can't really remember. But...now, let us skip to Christmas.
On December 25th I celebrated Christmas in the capitol city, Chisinau. Most Moldovans do not celebrate Christmas on the 25th, but on the 7th of January - Orthodox Christmas. Though not all, most Orthodox Christian Religions celebrate Christmas on January 7th. So, given the fact that my holiday schedule is different from my host family's, I decided to spend that time with other Peace Corps friends.
New Year's and Orthodox Christmas, however, I spent with my host family - both because I wanted to get a sense of the way they celebrate, and because they are pretty cool people. The way Moldovans celebrate Christmas and New Year's is relatively similar to Americans. It is normal (if slightly less common) for people here to decorate with lights and erect Christmas trees with ornaments. The capitol city was decorated beautifully, though regrettably, I have no photos of this. For both holidays in Moldova it is normal to have family and friends for dinner, drinks, holiday music, and general festive joy. I am not sure if I am required to say much more here in my role as some sort of cultural ambassador…except maybe I can add that the holidays here are a bit less commercial. And so, despite the fact that I enjoy celebrating the winter holidays in America more than in Moldova, in an ideal world we Americans would be able to celebrate with a little less emphasis on the shopping and gifts, and a little more on the family and friends.
I just said that I enjoy celebrating winter holidays in America more than in Moldova….but that is with one exception. Moldovans also celebrate on another day after Orthodox Christmas. They call it "Old New Years." It is actually the holiday that wraps up the season. Old New Year's is the Religious feast of Saint Vascily, on January 14th. The most interesting part of this day, in my opinion, is the way it is similar to our Halloween. Essentially, children walk to their neighbors' houses in order to either sing a song or recite a poem. The lyrics offered are a sort of blessing for the new year. While performing their blessing, the children throw handfuls of grain at their audiences. This year an eight year-old girl hit me in the eye with a piece of brown long-grain rice. It wasn't comfortable. But the tradition is quite endearing. After the children finish giving their best performances, adults give them candy, money, and/or - for lack of better words - other things. My host mother, for example, gave a boy who came to our door one of those 'other things.' She used the opportunity to advise (i.e. berate and threaten) him to stop smoking cigarettes. So, not only did this little hellion leave our house with a few chocolates and some cash, he also got health lesson courtesy of Doamna Tatiana.
That, finally, should bring you up to speed with what is going on now. But, there is one more thing I can add to sum up these entries: My travels, both in Moldova and Turkey over the past few months, have really driven home a lesson, that previously, I was not sure how to verbalize. Essentially, it is this: One of traveling's greatest values is allowing us to see and experience new things and to question those which we had before taken for granted. We are, right now, the living product of generations of socialization, generations of choices, generations of pursuing one path over another. We live with a sort of blind faith in those who came before us. We presume, sometimes subconsciously, that our predecessors always made the right choices. In my case, and the case of my fellow Americans, our ascendants decided to construct society in the way they saw best. I do not know how they defined this, but I am sure they believed they were trying to move toward the "best." All that leads to the real question: Is the society they decided to create the best for me? For you? For anyone? The answer, I believe, is: maybe…and maybe not. I think a great way to even come close to understanding what type of society might be best for each of us is by exploring other societies. Other groups built their nations and cultures based on a different set of choices. Maybe at some point long, long ago our forefathers and someone else's forefathers disagreed on something. Maybe it was bathhouses, maybe it celebrating Christmas on January 7th. Whatever it was, our societies diverged. The more opportunities we have to explore other groups and other cultures allow us to reflect critically on ourselves and our beliefs. By the time I finish my Peace Corps service and finally find my way back to America, I don't know whether or not I will have actually dramatically changed how I live. But, I do know that I will have an enhanced ability to decide for myself. This notion is thrilling. And, even if I don't change, I will at the very least, know the feeling of these other societies - oh, and also, the feeling of drinking Raki out of the bottle at a Turkish airport gate.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
A trip to Turkey and winter in Moldova (Part I)
Hey everyone, I haven't written anything here in a while...and I actually have a relatively long description of what I have been up to over the past few months. So, I think I will post this in two (or more) parts. The following is, as the title would suggest, the first part...
I want to say: Greetings to all, as I emerge from my winter blogging hibernation (note: there may be a similar hibernation in the spring and the summer). Anyway, I think this is a good time to write a little something about what I have been up to here in Moldova for the winter. First, I'll give you the less interesting things:
My work has been slow for many reasons that are somewhat complicated to explore fully now. Suffice it to say that I am hoping (perhaps illogically) that the change in the calendar will also help spur some changes in the organization with which I work in my village. We will see. Job difficulties notwithstanding, life here is great. My host family in Lozova is awesome, I am healthy, happy, and looking forward to the spring.
Now, let's move on to more substantive material. Maybe I should start with the beginning of December…
On December 4th Chris, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, and I went on vacation. We left Chisinau, Moldova by bus for Bucharest, Romania at 10 pm. From Bucharest we were to fly to Istanbul, Turkey on December 5th - where we had planned to spend six days. At this point, one may look at our travel itinerary and ask: Why did you decide to take an uncomfortable, eight-hour, bus ride overnight rather than flying out of Moldova? Well, airfare out of Chisinau is considerably more expensive than most other airports in the region. And, if you add that fact to the reality that Chris and I are not what you would consider "advance planners," the potential prices were compounded by the late date at which we attempted to purchase our tickets. So, in our opinion, the opportunity cost of spending a sweaty, intimate bus ride, overnight with each other, seemed worth (just barely) the $200 we were to save. Moreover, we anticipated a nice morning and afternoon in Bucharest - a city neither of us had ever visited before.
What happened? On a scale of one to ten, I would rate the bus ride as hellish. But, we did arrive (sleepless and disoriented) at about 5:30 AM. We killed some time walking around the city, which, indeed is beautiful. I would like to talk more about our experiences in Bucharest but…well…not now. If you would like to know if our Bucharest trip was actually worth it, you will have to ask me and Chris someday in person. After a few beers, or a small bribe, we just may tell you a particular story from our time in Romania that explains why such travel plans might not be for everyone. But, I'm not going delve into that any further at this time.
OKAY….now on to Istanbul:
I have a friend from school who is interning in Istanbul, Turkey right now and generously offered us a place to stay for our visit. My friend, Bilal, was born in Turkey but, when he was around eight-years old, moved to the exotic land known as New Jersey. He speaks fluent Turkish and English (though he still has not perfected the somewhat more complex language known as New Jerseyan). The great thing about Bilal, besides the fact that he's a good friend, is that he was a knowledgeable and adroit tour guide through a city of over ten million people and five thousand years of history. Without Bilal's ability to show us around (and, occasionally, get us out of trouble) Chris and I would have been lost in Istanbul - that is: figuratively lost, definitely, and literally lost, probably.
Bilal, lives with his grandmother in Istanbul; and for that week, Bilal's grandmother was our grandmother as well. We stayed in her apartment, which was within reach of many of the interesting destinations in the city. Unexpectedly, though, one of the best destinations was right where we stayed - with the elderly Turkish woman who spoke no English. Now, this may come as a shock to you, but I do not speak Turkish. Neither does Chris. And there were occasions during our week in Turkey when Bilal needed to go to work. This afforded Chris and me the opportunity to spend some quality time with our Turkish grandmother. Did I mention she speaks no English? (or Romanian, for that matter) Immediately Chris and I were jolted back to our first days in Moldova trying to communicate with our host families. We used gestures, expressions, mixed english words with invented sounds, and, naturally, acted as foolishly as possible. Somehow, I believe through no doing of our own, this worked great….Here's an example:
When we awoke on our first morning in Istanbul we realized that Bilal had left the apartment for work much earlier. Chris and I, still weary from our travels, and our first evening in Istanbul (which included sampling the local beverages) were somewhat confused. We sat in the living room of Bilal's apartment, where his grandmother began conversing with us. I'm not really sure what we talked about, but the discussion concluded with her serving us a wonderful Turkish breakfast (bread, cheese, olives, baklava, Turkish Tea) and helping us get in touch with Bilal so he could explain how we needed to use the public transportation. I describe this rather mundane event because it was the source of a major realization for me: Just then it became clear that there are some qualities, regardless of culture, language, ethnicity, etc., which grandmothers all have in common. As I doubt that I will ever be a grandmother, I really can not understand the source of these innate skills. It's like tightrope walking, sword swallowing, alligator wrestling, or hitting a five-hundred foot homerun: I can't understand how people do these awesome things, but, I know them when I see them and seeing them never ceases to amaze me. So, in that way, I guess you could say that grandmothers are like alligator wrestlers….at least, when it comes to hospitality and making anyone who is nearby feeling comfortable and cared for.
Our jaunt through Istanbul included eating at local restaurants, visiting famous landmarks (Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, New Mosque), and spending time with Bilal's Turkish friends and colleagues. I was especially struck by the city's age. Over the course of its existence Istanbul has been like some sort of massive glacier of history - slowly traveling along, subtly changing through time, in its travels picking up pieces from every era, but always, always persisting with some sort of incomprehensible, implausible, and intractable influence - an influence so great, that one can hardly imagine a reality without it. As Americans (though, not, Native Americans), our geographic history exists for only about 500 years. We have no buildings or defining, domestic events that are older than this. The oft-recited, comical observation about Istanbul resonates with many Americans. The joke is that Istanbul is a city so old, it has a building called "New Mosque," which was completed nearly 350 years ago. What resonates just as much, if not more, with me, is that the cultures, religions, and traditions that have swept across this land throughout the centuries have been adopted, absorbed, but not discarded. New ideas were ineluctably grabbed by fervent collectors - the Turks, Ottomans, Romans, or any other national peoples who have populated the hills of this ancient metropole.
Moving on…
Have you ever been bathed by a hairy, middle-aged, shirtless Turkish gentleman? Every time someone asked me that question before my trip to Istanbul my answer was always "NO." But, now…well, when people ask…umm…yes… there was this one time when a Turkish fellow bathed me. And… I think … I liked it. You see, bathhouses, however different they may seem to us Americans, are not strange to the Turks. So, Chris and I decided it was worth a try. How does the saying go? Is it: "When in Rome, do as the…"? Wait, no - that's not it. I'm pretty sure the saying is: "When in Istanbul, go to a sauna and pay an ungainly, hairy, oaf to throw buckets of hot water on you and punch your spine with a fist full of acid-soap." Okay, I am kind of exaggerating…kind of. But, I was bathed by a gentleman who gave me a pretty strong, and soapy massage (which exfoliated very well). I could talk for a while on this event, but I really would like to keep moving with this entry...
Traveling through the streets of Istanbul freshly clean from my bath gave me a feeling of newness and purity. Tabula Rasa. For some reason, I began to process what I was seeing and experiencing in Turkey with fewer filters, with a new awe-inspiring, infantile interest. I brought this attitude with me on our way back to Moldova - which is where we will begin part two of my entry.
I want to say: Greetings to all, as I emerge from my winter blogging hibernation (note: there may be a similar hibernation in the spring and the summer). Anyway, I think this is a good time to write a little something about what I have been up to here in Moldova for the winter. First, I'll give you the less interesting things:
My work has been slow for many reasons that are somewhat complicated to explore fully now. Suffice it to say that I am hoping (perhaps illogically) that the change in the calendar will also help spur some changes in the organization with which I work in my village. We will see. Job difficulties notwithstanding, life here is great. My host family in Lozova is awesome, I am healthy, happy, and looking forward to the spring.
Now, let's move on to more substantive material. Maybe I should start with the beginning of December…
On December 4th Chris, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, and I went on vacation. We left Chisinau, Moldova by bus for Bucharest, Romania at 10 pm. From Bucharest we were to fly to Istanbul, Turkey on December 5th - where we had planned to spend six days. At this point, one may look at our travel itinerary and ask: Why did you decide to take an uncomfortable, eight-hour, bus ride overnight rather than flying out of Moldova? Well, airfare out of Chisinau is considerably more expensive than most other airports in the region. And, if you add that fact to the reality that Chris and I are not what you would consider "advance planners," the potential prices were compounded by the late date at which we attempted to purchase our tickets. So, in our opinion, the opportunity cost of spending a sweaty, intimate bus ride, overnight with each other, seemed worth (just barely) the $200 we were to save. Moreover, we anticipated a nice morning and afternoon in Bucharest - a city neither of us had ever visited before.
What happened? On a scale of one to ten, I would rate the bus ride as hellish. But, we did arrive (sleepless and disoriented) at about 5:30 AM. We killed some time walking around the city, which, indeed is beautiful. I would like to talk more about our experiences in Bucharest but…well…not now. If you would like to know if our Bucharest trip was actually worth it, you will have to ask me and Chris someday in person. After a few beers, or a small bribe, we just may tell you a particular story from our time in Romania that explains why such travel plans might not be for everyone. But, I'm not going delve into that any further at this time.
OKAY….now on to Istanbul:
I have a friend from school who is interning in Istanbul, Turkey right now and generously offered us a place to stay for our visit. My friend, Bilal, was born in Turkey but, when he was around eight-years old, moved to the exotic land known as New Jersey. He speaks fluent Turkish and English (though he still has not perfected the somewhat more complex language known as New Jerseyan). The great thing about Bilal, besides the fact that he's a good friend, is that he was a knowledgeable and adroit tour guide through a city of over ten million people and five thousand years of history. Without Bilal's ability to show us around (and, occasionally, get us out of trouble) Chris and I would have been lost in Istanbul - that is: figuratively lost, definitely, and literally lost, probably.
Bilal, lives with his grandmother in Istanbul; and for that week, Bilal's grandmother was our grandmother as well. We stayed in her apartment, which was within reach of many of the interesting destinations in the city. Unexpectedly, though, one of the best destinations was right where we stayed - with the elderly Turkish woman who spoke no English. Now, this may come as a shock to you, but I do not speak Turkish. Neither does Chris. And there were occasions during our week in Turkey when Bilal needed to go to work. This afforded Chris and me the opportunity to spend some quality time with our Turkish grandmother. Did I mention she speaks no English? (or Romanian, for that matter) Immediately Chris and I were jolted back to our first days in Moldova trying to communicate with our host families. We used gestures, expressions, mixed english words with invented sounds, and, naturally, acted as foolishly as possible. Somehow, I believe through no doing of our own, this worked great….Here's an example:
When we awoke on our first morning in Istanbul we realized that Bilal had left the apartment for work much earlier. Chris and I, still weary from our travels, and our first evening in Istanbul (which included sampling the local beverages) were somewhat confused. We sat in the living room of Bilal's apartment, where his grandmother began conversing with us. I'm not really sure what we talked about, but the discussion concluded with her serving us a wonderful Turkish breakfast (bread, cheese, olives, baklava, Turkish Tea) and helping us get in touch with Bilal so he could explain how we needed to use the public transportation. I describe this rather mundane event because it was the source of a major realization for me: Just then it became clear that there are some qualities, regardless of culture, language, ethnicity, etc., which grandmothers all have in common. As I doubt that I will ever be a grandmother, I really can not understand the source of these innate skills. It's like tightrope walking, sword swallowing, alligator wrestling, or hitting a five-hundred foot homerun: I can't understand how people do these awesome things, but, I know them when I see them and seeing them never ceases to amaze me. So, in that way, I guess you could say that grandmothers are like alligator wrestlers….at least, when it comes to hospitality and making anyone who is nearby feeling comfortable and cared for.
Our jaunt through Istanbul included eating at local restaurants, visiting famous landmarks (Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, New Mosque), and spending time with Bilal's Turkish friends and colleagues. I was especially struck by the city's age. Over the course of its existence Istanbul has been like some sort of massive glacier of history - slowly traveling along, subtly changing through time, in its travels picking up pieces from every era, but always, always persisting with some sort of incomprehensible, implausible, and intractable influence - an influence so great, that one can hardly imagine a reality without it. As Americans (though, not, Native Americans), our geographic history exists for only about 500 years. We have no buildings or defining, domestic events that are older than this. The oft-recited, comical observation about Istanbul resonates with many Americans. The joke is that Istanbul is a city so old, it has a building called "New Mosque," which was completed nearly 350 years ago. What resonates just as much, if not more, with me, is that the cultures, religions, and traditions that have swept across this land throughout the centuries have been adopted, absorbed, but not discarded. New ideas were ineluctably grabbed by fervent collectors - the Turks, Ottomans, Romans, or any other national peoples who have populated the hills of this ancient metropole.
Moving on…
Have you ever been bathed by a hairy, middle-aged, shirtless Turkish gentleman? Every time someone asked me that question before my trip to Istanbul my answer was always "NO." But, now…well, when people ask…umm…yes… there was this one time when a Turkish fellow bathed me. And… I think … I liked it. You see, bathhouses, however different they may seem to us Americans, are not strange to the Turks. So, Chris and I decided it was worth a try. How does the saying go? Is it: "When in Rome, do as the…"? Wait, no - that's not it. I'm pretty sure the saying is: "When in Istanbul, go to a sauna and pay an ungainly, hairy, oaf to throw buckets of hot water on you and punch your spine with a fist full of acid-soap." Okay, I am kind of exaggerating…kind of. But, I was bathed by a gentleman who gave me a pretty strong, and soapy massage (which exfoliated very well). I could talk for a while on this event, but I really would like to keep moving with this entry...
Traveling through the streets of Istanbul freshly clean from my bath gave me a feeling of newness and purity. Tabula Rasa. For some reason, I began to process what I was seeing and experiencing in Turkey with fewer filters, with a new awe-inspiring, infantile interest. I brought this attitude with me on our way back to Moldova - which is where we will begin part two of my entry.
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