Sixth graders call me Ms Smillie

The last time I was in middle school, if I recall correctly, I was miserable. Notes were being passed, rumors being spread, cliques formed, allegiances sworn and self-esteems being generally ruined. Today was a little different. Okay, a lot different. In cahoots with 826 Michigan, I arranged for some of us fellowship folks to help teach sixth graders about feature articles. And, I have to tell you, it was a blast.

It's part of a project the sixth graders undertake each year at Slauson Middle School - to interview an immigrant to the US and write a feature article about them. Jamie joined me for the morning session and we tag-teamed our way through an explanation of the basics of feature writing to the first group, comprising two separate classes brought together for the grand event.

In the afternoon, Chris and I did the same routine for a single class and then another double group. It's pretty amazing to catch these kids at this age - when they're figuring out what to read, where to get their information - and talk to them about journalism and news. They're still open to new ideas, still impressed by Real Live Journalists in front of them. It feels good to visit a world where you actually feel like you know something still and that maybe there is hope for the future of news and journalism. Where there's still a possibility of making a difference in some, small way.

I'll tell you this much - the sixth graders we saw today (although they grew increasingly sluggish as the day rolled on) show more enthusiasm for learning than most of the college kids I've encountered this year.

I've talked before about wanting to teach, eventually, and I've always thought I'd want to teach writing at the college level. I still think that's probably where I'd get the most enjoyment and flexibility -- but I could see the lure of teaching kids at this age, too.

I think the best part of my day came just after the first session Chris and I did together. He was looking at me afterwards, kind of wide-eyed, and I laughed and asked why he was staring. "I'm just amazed," he said. "You're really good at this."

And the thing is, I kind of am.

Not bragging. Just saying.

Meeting Mike Wallace

I've been so busy trying to update entries from our Istanbul trip (retroactively) that it occurs to me that I'm also failing to keep up with recording the present. Which means that I'm failing across the time-space continuum. What's a girl to do? Cry, for one thing. Especially when she realizes the fellowship ends six weeks from TODAY.

Six.

Weeks.

Is that even possible?

And as if to hit home the notion that we are stuck in a once-in-a-lifetime-experience-that-will-never-come-again, our first seminar back after spring break was a meeting with none other than Mike Wallace. Yes, that Mike Wallace. Legendary news veteran. University of Michigan Graduate. Kind and generous purchaser of the house in which the Knight-Wallace program lives.

I'm not often star struck - mostly because I'm not often anywhere near any actual stars. But I'll admit to feeling very much In The Presence of a Legend when the enigmatic Wallace entered the Wallace House on Tuesday. Here's a man who has been working as a journalist since the 1940s, for goodness sake. A man who has interviewed every single president since JFK, save one. (Can you guess who? I'll give you a hint: he's currently in office.) A man whose friends included Malcolm (X) and Martin (Luther King.) A man who helped shape TV news and investigative journalism as we know it. So, yeah. You could say I felt a little jittery as he entered the foyer. But, in the same token, I also felt like I was in the presence of a nice, old man - and I'm hoping that, with his 88th birthday approaching, Mr. Wallace won't consider my use of "old" prejorative, rather than the badge of honor I intend it to be.

As we do with every speaker, we went around the room introducing ourselves. But this time, we all also expressed our personal gratitude to Mr. Wallace for his role in supporting this fellowship and, by extension, changing all of our lives. To say I was moved many times is an understatement. No matter what this past six months or so has meant to each of us, there's no arguing that it has had a huge impact - and we are all too aware of how precious our remaining time is.

I wish I could tell you everything Mr. Wallace shared with us, but I can't. Partly because it's off the record, of course. And partly because I have a memory like a sieve. What I can tell you is the Mr. Wallace was funny and friendly and generous with his knowledge. And that he seemed genuinely touched by our appreciation. Also (and I don't think mind me sharing this) that he is as confused and frustrated as the rest of us about the future of journalism as we know it.

(Note...I just wrote several paragraphs on meeting with independent broadcast journalist Jay Allison today - and then lost it all when I forgot to save. There's a chance I'll remember my genius observations but probably not until I stop banging my head against the wall.

Tot ziens, Amsterdam

KLM - Amsterdam to Detroit Finally, we’re making our way back to the states. I have mixed feelings, knowing that it means the last seven weeks of the fellowship will begin, a starter pistol and then the feeling of time just slipping away until this crazy-surreal existence comes to a screeching halt. On the other hand, I’m about ready to curl up in my own bed with my cats nestled against me for warmth and take my pick from an endless supply of clean socks and underwear.

We’ve spent the past couple of days killing time in Amsterdam. Rainey and Graham had already arrived here from Florence on Tuesday, so Wednesday we planned to hook up with them at the Holiday Inn. (Another travel tip – the Holiday Inn, which claims to be in Central Amsterdam, isn’t. In fact, it’s pretty much a miss all around.) After check in, I crawled into bed for a nap while Chris kept himself busy and by the time I awoke, I was filled with a great sadness and a pressing need simply to spend some time with myself. Thus, I stayed “home” in our hotel room and hibernated while Chris joined Rainey and Graham for dinner with their friend Bill, who lives in Amsterdam, and his girlfriend.

By Thursday morning, I’d had a good ten hours of sleep and we met up with Rainey and Graham in the lobby before taking a tram to the Vincent Van Gogh Museum, where we met up with Gerard and Kim. It’s insane how nice it is to see these people again, probably made even more so by the unavoidable encroaching knowledge that our time is limited.

The museum itself is lovely, a modern box beautifully juxtapositioned next to the ornate, antique façade of the Rijksmuseum next door. Inside is a generous collection of Van Gogh’s works, many of which I’d never seen before. Of course, there were plenty of famous pieces too, such as The Potato Eaters and The Bedroom. In addition, the upper galleries offer up the works of such contemporaries as Gaugin, Monet, Pissaro, Seurat, Broussard and Toulouse-Lautrec. Rainey was particularly moved by the museum’s continuing narrative, illustrating the relationship between Vincent and his younger brother Theo who was his patron, his supporter and his best friend. They were so close, in fact, that after Vincent died slowly from a self-inflicted gunshot, Theo rushed to his bedside and lay with his head on the same pillow as his brother until Vincent’s life ran out. Theo, apparently victim to tenuous physical and emotional health himself, died six months later.

After the Van Gogh museum, I led the gang back through Leidseplein and down the Leidsestraat in search of V&D's La Place, where Chris and I ate earlier in the week. It’s a wonderful gourmet food court of sorts, although that description doesn’t fairly describe the various stations where one can pile plates high with salads, roasted vegetables, fresh-baked breads, flat bread sandwiches and a host of made-to-order specialties like Siam noodles, pizza, stir fried fresh veggies and meats. Far less crowded than on our visit on Saturday, we were able to get an even better glimpse at the generous piles of fresh veggies, the giant bowls of fruit at the smoothie stand, the luscious pastries in the bakery area and the house-made soups bubbling in large cauldrons. Suffice it to say, everyone got something they liked and we were well fed.

Back to the streets we went, where Gerard and Kim split off to check out the Rijksmuseum while the rest of us hoofed it down to Prinsengracht and along the canal to the Anne Frank House. It’s the strangest of experiences to enter a place you’ve already sketched out in your mind and stepping behind the bookcase and into the entrance I’d first read about decades ago was like stepping into a different world.

Although the rooms have been left unfurnished, apparently at Otto Frank’s request, it isn’t difficult to imagine just how much more cramped everything would have been. Wonder gave way to deep sorrow and amazement upon entering the room in which Anne Frank slept and wrote her famous “Dear Kitty” diary entries. Still on the walls are the film star photos she cut out of magazines and pasted up in an optimistic attempt to brighten her tiny new world.

I initially thought it impossible to be unmoved by the experience – until a teenage British school girl pushed past us, loudly complaining about how bored she was. For some reason, witnessing such absolute detachment and lack of compassion just compounded the lack of humanity Anne Frank’s demise has come to represent. It’s a testament to her legacy, however, to see a wall featuring copies of her diary translated into virtually every language imaginable.

I’m not doing the experience justice. I’m not even touching on the moving video testimonies playing throughout the facility, nor the sight of Anne Frank’s Red Cross card or even her handwriting – changing between print and fancy cursive – on the pages of her actual diary. Nor the letters written by Otto Frank to family members after the war, expressing his desperate but fading hope of finding his daughters still alive. I’ve been grappling a little of late with my own version of survivor’s guilt and, somehow, having it framed by the shattering experience of Mr. Frank has made everything a little easier to bear.

Despite the cold, there was a bright sunshine awaiting us as we emerged from the building Anne and her family left as possessions of the Gestapo. It’s impossible, I think, to come away from that experience and not glimpse Amsterdam in a different light – to imagine that it must have looked so similar when Anne Frank was one of the girls whizzing by on her bicycle. Not many cities make it easy to squint your eyes and stretch your imagination and wind up decades away. Amsterdam does.

Thus, Rainey, Graham, Chris and I spent the next hour or so wandering around the streets of the Jordaan district before making our way back to the Leidsestraat in search of a warm beverage to thaw us from the chilly winds. On Kim’s recommendation, we sought out the café at the top of the Metz & Co. department store. While the views were stunning, the service was curt as they were closing in ten minutes and while they agreed to serve tea and coffee, we were also rushed to pay the bill and asked to leave. In other words, if you want to enjoy the sumptuous view it offers, go earlier in the day. Still, all was forgiven by the time we fulfilled Graham’s goal of eating a freshly made waffle, which we enjoyed drizzled with warm chocolate sauce.

As we stood waiting for a tram to take us back to the hotel, the sky offered forth a strange and brief burst of the most perfectly formed tiny little balls of hail. Were we not slap-happy, it could have been a magical moment. Instead, I said, “What perfect, tiny little balls.” To which Graham responded, “That’s what Smurfette said.” And away we were, business as usual.

A brief respite back at the hotel and we were on the tram again, heading to meet their friend Bill for dinner. The temperature had continued to drop and the cobblestone streets were dangerously icy, particularly where they curved up into bridges across the canals. We were nearly wiped out by a Mercedes driver who decided to back up without looking behind him and bore witness to more than one cyclist wiping out on the black ice.

Brave souls that we were, we made it to the Indonesian restaurant of Bill’s choosing, all in one piece and Vanessa – who had arrived back in Amsterdam just a few hours before – joined us for dinner. It was my first experience with Indonesian food and I enjoyed everything we had, a family-style table full of lamb, beef, chicken and vegetables in peanut-y or coconut-y sauces of varying degrees of spiciness.

Setting back out onto the street again, stuffed after a glorious meal, Bill led us on a mini-walking tour whose highlights included Dam Square and a quick shuffle up both sides of the Red Light District’s main drag. Honestly, I could have done well without the last part. I practically got high on second hand dope smoke and haven’t been offered ecstasy or cocaine that many times in my life. But that doesn’t compare to the odd experience of being a woman walking down the streets where young women wag their tails in narrow red-lit windows, beds visible behind them, the white lace of their bikinis and lingerie glowing under black lights.

It left me in sort of a grumpy and disturbed mood for the tram ride back to the hotel, but I abandoned in soon enough to finish the last of our packing – hardly a feat, as everything’s dirty at this point – and fall into bed. Morning came too soon and we were back at Schipohl caught up in the most ridiculous and over-crowded check-in set up I’ve ever seen.

Coming back to the states involves passing a brief interview with a security inspector before boarding the plane and each of us had to answer a variety of probing questions trying to explain who we were, what a fellowship is, why we were in Istanbul, why we flew to Milan mid-week, etc. But we all passed and with the exception of Charles Clover – whose connecting flight from London must not have come in on time – we all got on our plane, albeit after a delay caused by a wonky smoke detector. (It’s okay, though. I don’t mind waiting for something I feel pretty strongly we need to have working.)

We’ll touch down on time in Detroit, which always makes me wonder why they don’t just schedule the arrival time for earlier if they’re always going to make it up in the air. But never mind. When we land, it will be just before 1 pm Detroit time, 7 pm Amsterdam. I’ve gone back and forth about a zillion times about this but I’ve decided for a number of reasons not to immediately hop on another plane to St. Louis to make it to S.’s memorial service this evening. I’m still not certain it’s the right decision and I hope I won’t have regrets later, but I’m already exhausted and in pain and, as my friend Katie said, S. would probably have liked it better if I helped someone in her honor, rather than knocking myself out to get to her service and mourn her loss with a bunch of other people.

I hope she’s right, because I feel the need to get to my home, my kitties and rest. Until tomorrow, when two of my little nieces arrive to visit and I can scoop up their beautiful faces and kiss their cheeks, all rosy and bright with life, until they’re all wet and sloppy and begging me to stop. It sounds like the best plan I’ve had in days.

Keep in touch

I was worried that I wouldn’t know Deborah but the minute our bus pulled into Milan Central Station from Malpensa Airport, I saw her. Tall and blonde, she stood out immediately from the crowd of dark-haired Italians milling around her. As I got off the bus, we caught each others’ eyes and smiled. I met Deborah when we were four years old and our back gardens abutted in our Glasgow neighborhood. When I stepped off the bus Sunday afternoon, we hadn’t seen each other for 16 years. I knew it would take us a little while to find a comfortable stride with one another and for her to get to know Chris, but we had the distraction of Milan help us along. After dropping our luggage at her flat, the three of us embarked on an inaugural and lengthy walk around the center of the city. We strolled past the Natural History Museum and down cobblestone side streets boasting the best brands in international fashion. We emerged from the busy shopping streets to see the back of the unmistakable, white Duomo – like intricate lace or complex formations of wedding cake icing – rising in between two modern buildings.

The streets around the Duomo were packed with parents toting children dressed in costumes for Carnival and the bright shapes of paper confetti covered the pavement. We paid 6 Euros to take the lift up to the top of the Duomo (declining the 2 euro savings to hoof it up)/ It's a magnificent place up there, where we crawled across the marble slab roof tiles, snaked through narrow and ornate doorways to catch glimpses of the Escher-like lines and walls of the grand structure. From the top, we stared down at the masses on the streets below, milling around in groups, wandering like tiny, colorful ants making their way hither and yon.

Afterwards, we made our way inside the church, where mass was being held. Tourists milled around the back of the dark, cavernous interior beholding the giant stained glass windows, the ancient panels depicting biblical scenes and squinting through the heavy incense smoke. A few people waited patiently on a wooden bench to take confession while still others lit candles aglow. We came back out of the Duomo into the Piazza del Duomo, which was packed with folk enjoying a relatively warm and sunny Sunday afternoon and wandered through the glorious Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, its gaping antique archways and domed glass ceiling bearing light down on shoppers at Louis Vuitton and Prada and those taking coffee at the indoor “sidewalk” cafes.

On the other side, we emerged onto Piazza della Scala, where a giant sculpture of Leonardo da Vinci paid homage to one of Italy’s proudest sons. At the edge of the square sits La Scala and after being raised in an opera family with the near-mystical idea of one of the world’s greatest opera houses, I must say its façade is underwhelming nearly to the point of disappointment.

And we wandered more, and talked, and found ourselves circling the exterior of the Castello Sforzesco before succumbing to the ache of our feet and taking a beautiful old-fashioned wooden tram back towards Deborah’s flat to rest before dinner.

Milan, as seen from our plane, the windows of our bus and tram and even on foot, is perhaps not the Italy you think of if you’ve seen all the romantic movies and picturesque postcards. It is, first and foremost, an industrial town and the view from the top of the Duomo requires you to look hard to find the architectural gems vying for attention with commercial and industrial buildings.

Even at ground level, it’s initially hard to get past the graffiti, as it seems virtually no building is left unmarred. But if you keep your eyes upward, Milan has some beautiful rewards. There’s no end of gorgeous buildings with grand archways, ornate facades, elegant architectural details, quaint balconies or walkways leading to beautiful interior court yards.

And the point of the trip, after all, was mainly to see Deborah, who took us Sunday evening to Trattoria Toscana K2, an exceptional little restaurant with fabulous food and cheap prices. We slept so soundly in her bed that night – she insisted on taking the couch – that she was long gone to work Monday morning when I finally got going. Exhausted from so many days of travel, from trying to orient ourselves to three different cities in the past week, Chris and I decided just to walk more.

We did, more slowly exploring the areas we’d been the day before and stopping into the museum at La Scala. The window-shopping alone in Milan is an experience, even if I could fit into or afford anything the stores have to offer. Our feet were aching by the time late afternoon rolled around and we enjoyed a couple of cappuccinos at a café before heading back to Deb’s flat to rest.

I checked my email upon our return and received the dismaying news that my friend S. was found dead Saturday morning in St. Louis. It’s difficult to describe the shock I felt – and still feel – at the news. I met S. nine years ago in our recovery community and our similar no-nonsense styles attracted one another almost immediately. Although we were very different in so many ways, S. and I became very good friends. Not the kind that spend a great deal of time together, but the kind who were close no matter how much time passed between sightings.

Over the past nine years, she and I crossed paths time and again, rekindling our instant connection, even as our meeting schedules and busy lives seemed to keep us apart. She was one of only a small number of people to attend our wedding in 2001. And although we’d fallen out of touch again, she took me to lunch after my mother died and was so kind and supportive of me.

Again, life intervened and the last time I saw S. was probably more than a year ago. I heard she had some medical problems and I tried to email her, but the address bounced. I tried to call but got a strange, screechy sound on her answering machine. And then I meant to get back in touch. But I didn’t. We had friends in common and I knew we were both moving in nearby circles. I knew that she was having a rough time of life lately but felt comforted that she was going to meetings and reaching out to our mutual friends.

It’s impossible to describe the sadness I feel that S. is gone. There is, of course, selfish regret, the nagging and natural feeling that I simply should have been a better friend. (After all, last time we had lunch didn’t she say – despite the infrequency of our contact – that I was her “best friend”?) It’s both naïve and egotistical to wonder if she might still be alive if I hadn’t moved to Ann Arbor, if I’d been more present in her life, if I’d only somehow known….

The circumstances of S.’s death are still a mystery to me. I’m writing this from Amsterdam and relying on what tidbits I can get in emails from home. I know that she died Thursday night and that her daughters found her on Saturday. I didn’t know – until after her death – that she was in the process of getting a divorce. I know that she had been having some physical pain and was taking pain killers. And I know that she’s dead.

It’s difficult to explain how distance compounds the confusion of grief. How do you possibly make sense of any of it if you’re not there? Of course, I know this is a false notion because geography did nothing to help me process my mother’s death, of which S.’s death is a painful reminder. Both died suddenly, unexpectedly and entirely too young.

It was thoughts of S. I carried with me all day yesterday, as Chris and I took a train to beautiful Verona for the day. Such a romantic and beautiful city, rich with the Shakespearean lore of Romeo and Juliet (complete with statues and a tour through Juliet’s house). But through it all, the sadness nagged at me. For minutes at a time, a cobblestone street or first-century monument or fresco would distract me just long enough and then it would come rushing back – S.’s death. How could it…? What….? Why…?

It caught up with me on the train ride home, as I took my seat on an old rickety train, depressingly dirty. It seemed to have a tenuous relationship with the tracks and with the mountain background fading into the dusk sky, it was hard to focus on anything but the desolate railroad tracks, barren vineyards and industrial wasteland encroaching on the countryside. Every bump of the train seemed to fill me up with more sadness.

It struck me as more important than ever to value my last night in Milan with Deb and I did that over a fair seafood dinner and some girl chat until well past midnight. Then I went to bed and slept fitfully until we arose entirely too early to take a plane back to Amsterdam. At the airport, Deb and I said our goodbyes and made jokes about not taking 16 years to get back in touch. I looked at her and wondered how on earth my childhood playmate, my first best friend, and I got to be in our mid-thirties. Where did our lives go? Who have we become and how far is that, really, from who we were when last we knew each other?

I don’t know that answer to any of that. I know only that by this evening, Deborah had made the first move, sending me an email from Milan to say how much she enjoyed our visit. I’m achingly aware that staying in touch with someone is a chance that you’re given, and it’s your choice to take it. And since I don’t know what else to do, since the rest of the world is out of my control, the only thing I know to do is this: write back.

Turkblog Part 5: Finally, women in Turkey

This morning we were treated to a late meet-up time, hooking up in the lobby at around ten before a quick march down Iztiklal Caddesi (in the opposite direction of last night) toward the Galata Tower. At its base, we headed up to the restaurant at the top floor of the Anemon Galata Hotel, fitting into its small elevator four at a time. The view that awaited us was stunning. The restaurant has huge glass windows on three sides, treating us to stunning views of the Bosphorous and the sparkling blue sky. At one end, a door lead out to a small patio area where a slightly-precarious-looking glass partition stood between us and the square below. The tower itself seemed close enough that we could reach out and touch it, although it still towered above us by many feet. Inside, the restaurant was decorated with gilt mirrors and edging, maroon velvet banquet covers and Lakme easing from the speakers.

Our first session of the day was with Mustafa Akyol, a Muslim writer challenged with talking to us about religion and identity in modern Turkey. Unfortunately for him, among the information in the exceptional package CNN Turk prepared for us, was the fact that he is a “pioneer advocate of the Intelligent Design theory in Turkey.” A theory which, as you may know, doesn’t necessarily fly with a lot of journalists. Or, you know, thinkers.

And so we listened to Akyol talk to us about varying intricacies of the Muslim religion as the sun warmed up the room. I felt like a school kid, distracted by the blue sky and sweet breeze, itching to go outside and explore the cobblestone streets that led us down to the base of the Galata Tower.

I wanted to hang out the window and watch carks eke past pedestrians and each other, horns honking. I wanted to watch the men with anachronistic hand-carts moving bags of produce up the winding road. I wanted to step in and out of the different shops and walk down to the riverfront and watch the ferries transport people back and forth between the Europe and Asia sides. Jamie, however, wanted to talk about intelligent design. Figures. What is he, a journalist? So up the subject came and I’ll admit it was challenging to check one’s personal biases and ask questions as objectively as possible. But let’s just say that I still haven’t heard anything surmounting to evidence in the argument for intelligent design.

After a twenty minute break, which we spent basking in the glorious sun on the patio, we were served lunch at the same long tables at which we’d spent the morning. Then began that afternoon’s session. Two speakers – Professor Nukhet Sirman and Ayse Bohurler – braved the increasing heat of the room as the day wore on to talk to us more about gender issues in Turkey.

Professor Sirman has the wild-haired air of the most spirited feminist professors I had at college and the first thing she confirmed for us was that the role of women in Turkey is, indeed, complicated. She urged us to consider the roles of women in regards to the way in which each society is governed, focusing on Islam’s transition from kinship-based patriarchy to a community-based society that supposedly endowed women with more equality.

As she spoke, I remembered something key that Elif Safak said yesterday – that women were afforded more rights now, but there was a pervasive attitude that they should be grateful to have those rights. I don’t think that’s entirely different from the way we behave in the US with affording equality to any number of minority groups. Once we make changes and “give” people certain rights, there’s a remaining attitude not that a wrong has been rectified but, rather, that a gift has been bestowed – so what’s any further belly-aching about?

It was fascinating to learn of how the rights and position of women in Turkey have changed throughout the years – from the time of the Ottoman Empire harems to the present. The 1926 Civil Code decreed that women would have a say in who they marry (previously unheard of) and that they would also have the right to divorce, previously held only by men. In addition, polygamy was banned. Professor Sirman maintained that the new laws created a society in which mean and women were equal – until marriage. At that point, the women became helpers and consultants to the men.

A new civil code in 2002 did away with the terms “husband” and “wife” – in the hopes of moving away from the traditional associations with those words – and referred to marriage partners as “spouse.” It declared that there was no head of household and that married women could work without the permission of their husbands.

It also decreed that, upon the death of the husband, 50% of the goods acquired during the period of marriage would go to the wife. Previously, the estate went entirely to the children, leaving mothers financially dependent on their children.

Another notion raised time and again since we’ve arrived here is the idea of “honor.” It’s not something we focus on in American society, this notion of maintaining and protecting our honor. But Sirman Eralp maintains that it’s a notion that still affects and defines women in Turkey today and has been the way in which women’s bodies have been controlled, historically, in Muslim society.

Ayse Bohurler – writer, activist, documentary filmmaker – followed Sirman Eralp and built on the notion of honor, discussing (of course) the head scarf issue. Interestingly enough, she’s a modern Turkish woman who was raised without the head scarf and made a decision as an adult Muslim to adopt it.

The women painted for us a fascinating picture of working women in Turkey today: The majority of women, apparently, are unpaid family workers – meaning that they work in agriculture or small family workshops or businesses for no wages. Twenty-five percent of urban women in Turkey work outside the home. Twenty percent of Turkish women don’t know how to read or write – versus 5% of men. Only 10% of the entire Turkish population are college graduates and only one in three of those graduates is a woman. Oddly enough, more than 40% of academics in Turkey are women.

Got that?

We were more than ready for a break when we learned that, due to some unfinished business with a film we were supposed to screen, we’d have a few hours of unexpected free time before heading to dinner with the CNN Turk crew that evening. So we lollygagged around and spent some down time at the hotel which was a really nice change of pace and a good chance to let the ol’ brain cells recuperate.

Sometimes I feel like information is being hurled at our brains here at a ridiculous pace – and in an equally ridiculous volume – and my poor, addled cranium is simply unequal to the task of keeping up.

But after some rest, we were off down the Iztiklal Caddesi (is everything in Istanbul just off this street?) and Melike led us inside a completely non-descript stone building with no lighting in the lobby, which appeared completely abandoned. We did shifts in the elevator – three or four at a time, I think – and emerged in what seemed like a floor of an apartment building. Cold, grey stone was illuminated by candles placed sparingly along the balcony, leading to a set of stairs leading up to a closed door.

It seemed a strange and unlikely place to find…well, anything. So imagine our surprise to emerge on the other side of the doorway in yet another fabulous roof-top location. Hip as hip can be, the restaurant we dined in earned its name, 360, from the view it provides of the Istanbul skyline.

Pre-dinner mingling was a bit awkward as we simply had a selection of tables at one end of a very busy restaurant and Ferhat won our cheers by refusing to allow us to introduce ourselves again. (Although it’s something we could all easily do in our sleep by now.) At dinner, Sally, Drew, Chris, Tony and I shared a table with the CNN Turk program director, Semiha’s camera man and the lovely Yesim Burul, who didn’t have to compete with nagile this time. It was a riot watching her go head to head with Tony on pop cultural discussions.

The food was fantastic and although I’d managed remarkable restraint in avoiding sugar and desserts in Istanbul, I confess that I was no match for a chocolate molten lava cake. Who is, I ask? Despite the general noise of the place making it a little tough to converse with those around us, I got some good tips on things not to be missed in Istanbul before we said our goodnights and hit the cobblestone streets back to the hotel.

Turkblog Part 4: Chicken pudding?

CNN Turk has some fancy offices. I know, because that’s where we spent the earlier part of our day today. Dressed up in spiffy professional gear, still bleary-eyed from a late night of Anatolian Fire, we were nonetheless all ready to be whisked by bus to the CNN Turk headquarters, an impressive modern grey building subtly guarded by a man with a semi-automatic weapon in hand. Hello! Upon arrival, we were escorted through the cavernous, ultra-mod entry way into a giant meeting room. One entire wall, from floor to the 25-foot-ceiling was glass window to the outside. One half of the room was dominated by a giant u-shaped formation of tables already set for lunch with white table cloths, plates and napkins. At the other end, we made ourselves comfy on leather sofas and chairs of tan leather arranged around a giant glass coffee table already laden with plates of sweet treats and pots of coffee and tea.

Our day began with a talk delivered by Yalim Eralp, diplomatic commentator and former ambassador, and Semih Idiz, CNN Turk’s current diplomatic editor. The topic of the talk was, of course, Turkey. The goal of this trip is, after all, to help us understand more about the country and its role in the world. Eralp and Idiz shared with us their views on Turkey’s current position in the world in terms of economics and politics before turning to an analysis of the now infamous cartoon controversy and its impact on Turkey. It’s compelling, enlightening – and sometimes a bit frightening – to hear passionately expressed viewpoints that are, in some ways, very different from the US-centric ones on which I cut my teeth. I wish I could list specifics, but it’s important to me to honor the KWF program’s request that sessions remain off the record.

The morning meeting ended and Semiha took us on a grand tour of the CNN Turk facilities. We got to take a peek at everything from the set of a morning talk show in-process to their massive news gathering and editing facilities. It’s an impressive set up and it always fills me with a certain amount of electricity and excitement to see a giant media operation in process. Even if you can feel like a bit of a dolt being shepherded through busy peoples’ work spaces, I love being a witness to it.

Afterwards, we met for a lunch that mixed many staff members at CNN Turk and the Fellows. We alternated seats to make sure fellowship folks and our Turkish hosts got to know one another. By some strange twist of fate, I wound up sitting between Yalim Eralp and the man (forgive me for forgetting the name) who hosts CNN Turk’s version of 60 Minutes and is considered a broadcasting legend. Suddenly feeling woefully ignorant – a sensation I was growing increasingly familiar with – I stammered to make compelling conversation with the men.

I don’t remember much about the meal we were served that day – probably some fish and salad or some sort of thing – except for dessert. It was the strangest consistency I think I’ve ever experienced – somewhere between pudding and gummy bear, a custard-yellow mound of gooey sweetness that resisted the spoon and broke off in gelatinous clumps. The taste was not unpleasant, sort of a gummy crème brulee. Of course, that all changed when I found out later that it was a very common Turkish dessert called Tavuk gö?üsü and its unique consistency is achieved by or chicken pudding. Made with chicken. By which I mean, in case you’re not getting this, chicken.

After our meaty dessert, we were herded off to a talk with Elif Safak, novelist and op-ed writer who shared with us many of her opinions about feminism within the Muslim society. At the center of much controversy is the head scarf worn by many Muslim women. Perhaps the thing Safak said that resonated most with me was the notion that westerners tend to associate women in head scarves with oppression and unhappiness – something I reluctantly plead guilty to.

What I didn’t realize is that there are more than ten words for head scarf in Turkish – necessary because there are so many different meanings of the scarf. In other words, women who wear the head scarf do so because it’s their choice. But the type of head scarf they wear, how they wear it and why they wear it may vary vastly from other women.

Still trying to get a handle on what the situation is for women in Turkey, I broached the subject during question-time. I observed that it seemed to me that it was too complex to boil down, that the things I had witnessed ranged from the young belly dancer at the Flower Passage who seemed none-too-happy with her job to a woman like Guler Sabanci, who seems stunningly successful yet unwilling to talk about it. I didn’t expect my comment to inspire a rather defensive response from some of the men in our group regarding the belly dancing incident.

What was particularly interesting to me is that I mentioned that while some in the group had been offended by the table-top belly dancing, I had very conflicting emotions about it. On the one hand, is this woman only doing this kind of work because, in a patriarchal society she has no other choices? Or is she a savvy young business woman in charge of her own fate?

During and after the session, a couple of the male fellows who had danced with the belly dancer came up to me and apologized for offending me. I think it’s interesting that because I expressed conflicting emotions, they presumed that I was offended. I’m not sure I was. I think I was torn between enjoying the costume drama/cultural difference of the experience and feeling strange at being expected to clap and applaud the objectification of this young woman getting her bra stuffed with US dollars. It’s very complicated stuff.

And, as far as I can tell, so is life in Turkey for women. There are few generalizations to be made, as the variables are few and far between. Some of the modernization you see in Istanbul would be scandalous in rural areas, I’m told. Feminism in the Muslim world is a complicated issue – which I knew going in, but knew more definitely as a result of today’s session.

In addition, there was an interesting and spirited discussion about hate speech, inspired by yet more analysis of the Cartoon Issue. While Safak expressed what seems to be a common Turkish view, that the cartoon constitutes hate speech, our own Thomas Kamilindi, from Rwanda, disagreed quite strongly. It was his contention that hate speech requires some sort of call to action, usually violence, against a certain group or person. It was interesting to see how different experiences contribute to equally passionate but opposing viewpoints.

Next on our agenda was a visit to the coffee shop that serves as the offices/cerebrum/inspiration for the staff of Le Man , a magazine of political cartoons. Suitably funky – with mish-mosh furniture and crazy-painted walls – the second floor of the coffee house was already hazy with cigarette smoke when we climbed the spiral staircase and spread out to take our seats. I mean, seriously. Turkish people smoke. A lot!

Then we were treated to a sometimes lively discussion about…the cartoon thing. It was safe to say that we’d all probably have been happy not to think about the topic again for a week or two, through no fault of the speakers. I don't think we'd expected to discuss it at our previous two sessions.

But it was intriguing to hear the viewpoints of men who consider themselves artists first and foremost. And they, too, objected to the cartoons -- but not because of the content. No, they objected to the cartoons because they thought they were poor quality, not high in artistic merit and, as one of them noted repeatedly, “not even funny.” It was obviously a far bigger sin to the cartoonists than offending their religion.

We were let out into the cobblestone streets of Iztiklal Caddesi again post-sundown to fend for ourselves for dinner. To be honest, dining with 30 every night gets to be overwhelming and so we broke off into a number of different groups. Chris and I had made plans to dine with Sally and Drew Lindsay, something we hadn’t seemed to be able to arrange stateside. Asu recommended what she called one of the best traditional Turkish restaurants in the city and we decided to find out once and for all what really good Turkish food tastes like.

After all, we’ve been eating Turkish food all week – strange root vegetables soggy in olive oil, strange purees and cubes of mystery meat – but we figured it would probably be very different prepared by the best. Turns out, it’s not. We had a mixed plate of appetizers and main course dishes which turned out to be both expensive and not that appetizing. I have to confess here to a debilitating texture issue that makes it difficult for me to consume more than two or three cold slimy veggies in a row. I will say I was impressed by the lamb shank in puff pastry because, after all, anything in puff pastry gets my vote.

But the company was delightful, of course, and we were attended by the nicest bus boy – a bit of a misnomer, since he was probably in his early thirties. He told us he’d been studying English for six months and wanted to know if we’d help him practice. His eagerness was incredibly charming and his English actualy very good, and the sheer pleasure he took in being able to practice it made the meal truly remarkable.

Turkblog Part 3: The Fire of Anatolia

Our Sunday began with some rare and much-coveted free time until our late morning meeting time – these are, after all, working trips for the fellows and they tend to involve jam-packed schedules that make it impossible to confuse the trips with vacation. Some people were adventurous with their spare time, heading out into the neighborhood and exploring the environs. Others, myself included, luxuriated in doing virtually nothing other than sleeping late and making a quick jaunt up Istiklal Caddesi. If I didn’t mention it much before, it’s a pretty magnificent (mostly) pedestrian cobblestone thoroughfare, although the occasional tiny tram snakes along the central tracks or a flashy sedan boldly intersects the street to or from any one of a number of embassies held behind wrought iron fences. The first night we got here, the street was alive and buzzing. Street musicians competed with the blaring soundtrack from music shops, shoppers and walkers popped into any number of eateries or clothing stores, illuminated by decorative lights strung between the buildings, like Christmas time in the states.

During the day, it’s less busy but still hopping and Chris and I took a moment to assimilate ourselves before picking up some snacks to carry with us for the day, since we’re at the mercy of the eating schedule which varies greatly and isn’t ideal for my hypoglycemia. There are several small shops offering up barrels filled to the brim with dried apricots, apples, dates, bananas and every kind of nut imaginable. In addition, they serve up strange and exotic sweets and treats so different than what we’re used to in the states – various kinds of powdered-sugar-rolled Turkish delight, sesame and nut pastes sweetened with honey, slabs of dense nougat and nuts. We picked up some dried apricots and raw almonds to carry with us and hustled back to the hotel. Our first event of the day was the schizophrenic pairing of a lecture on youth in Turkey and the experience of tea and waterpipes. We packed into a tea house in an area I can’t remember and began the loud and confusing business of ordering teas or coffees while those planning to hookah it up ordered from a number of different flavored tobaccos.

It was the first time I really paid attention to Turkish tea, which comes in the most elegant little hourglass shaped glasses, served on matching saucer with sugar cubes on the side. It seems like a small serving until your first sip, when you realize it makes up in strength what it offers in size. Some people opted for another Turkish specialty, apple tea, which they mixed with plenty of sugar. It smelled heavenly.

The café we were in was relatively small and while we took up a good half of it, regular folk chattered away on the other side. The shelves on the walls were lined with nargile - or Turkish waterpipes - in a variety of bright colors and one or two of these were delivered to each of our tables. Shortly thereafter, a gentleman came by with a can full of hot embers and used long tongs to place the embers inside each pipe. Afterwards, the tobacco went in – in flavors like apple or strawberry – and people started puffing.

I wasn’t among those who took to the pipe. I haven’t had a cigarette in six years and I must admit fear of liking the tobacco was enough to make me pass on this curious cultural experience. (Of course, it seems as though everyone in Turkey smokes cigarettes, so this probably isn’t odd to them at all.) In my corner of the room, both Tony and Amy were inhaling for the first time in their lives, which is pretty darn admirable.

During all this experimentation, observation and chaos, poor Yesim Burul was trying to compete. Young and energetic, she teaches at Istanbul Bilgi University, focusing on areas of cultural studies, including consumer and popular culture. It was exceedingly difficult to hear her in that environment, but what I could catch about Turkish youth was both fascinating and discouraging. It seems the Western-driven ideals of mass consumption and moneyed lifestyles have taken over Turkey and the youth are largely as politically lethargic as those in the states, worrying more about getting their paws on a new car or the right pair of jeans.

Yesim quoted a poll of 18-25 year old Turks ranking their top five goals, which were, in descending order of importance: 1) To be rich and famous. 2) To be successful. 3) To get a job. 4) To have good relationships. 5) To start a family. Istanbul has a tremendous number of unemployed college graduates right now, although among them are a number who have had everything handed to them on a plate and have developed a sense of entitlement. In an interesting note, Yesim mentioned that effective advertising to Turkish youth not only has to strike the hipness quotient Western youth seek but also plays into that strong sense of Turkish nationalism at the same time. Interesting, no?

Unfortunately, the distraction of all the noise and the effect of the smoke on my contacts and lungs really detracted from the experience. That said, it may just be the sweet smell of the apple or strawberry tobacco, but there’s a definite hypnotic effect to the whole experience. Maybe it’s the ritual itself, triggering past-life experiences of other recreational smoking, but people seem to fall sloe-eyed and the pipes are passed in a smooth, slow motion accompanied by relaxed shoulder slumps and satisfied grins. Still, I’d probably have been just as happy to peek through a window to witness the waterpipe experience – which, actually, you can experience right here in Ann Arbor. I know, I know…not the same thing.

Our leisurely pace continued as Ferhat accompanied us on a long cruise on the Bosphorous on a fishing boat that had been reclaimed as a tour boat. The Bosphorous is a lively body of water, and we could feel every sway as we climbed to the open-air deck at the top. There, we stumbled to seats on benches around the perimeter of the deck and enjoyed cups of tea and coffee as we experienced the landscape around us.

The boat dropped us off late afternoon at the bottom of a set of steep stairs that wound up through a beautiful garden toward the entrance to the Sabanci Museum . The ultra-modern museum is housed, as hard as it was to imagine, in an old waterfront residence that once housed royalty and, most recently, Turkish business royalty – Sakip Sabanci, head of the Turkish family-run conglomerate, Sabanci Holding .

We were there to take a gander at a special Picasso exhibit which is Istanbul’s first major exhibit of Western art. Ever. As a result – and as a reflection of citizens’ response – the place was absolutely wall-to-wall packed. Over-packed, if I may say so. Even though we had a docent to lead us around, the crowds made it next to impossible to hear what she was trying to teach us or to get a meaningful glance at many of the sketches – some of which were, supposedly, being shown for the first time. (Note: I only say “supposedly” because there was some question about the authenticity of some of the sketches but it seems not to have been enough to arouse too much interest from the art world.)

Afterwards, we met up in a giant ballroom/conference room where a long U-shaped table was prepared so that we might have audience with Guler Sabanci. Since taking over for her uncle Sakip following his 1999 death, Guler is the first woman to head up a major conglomerate in Turkish history. But before we got to hear her take, we got a quick but thorough intro into the vast world of Sabanci Holding, courtesy of Barbaros Ineci, the group’s chief economist.

Ineci informed us – backing up the info in a heavy packet each of us found at our seat – that Sabanci had an estimated 2005 revenue of $10.5 billion (US) and invested $550 million (US) in the United States in 2005. While there’s been much debate over the economic future of Turkey, Ineci’s talk was entitled “Turkish Economy: The worst is over.” He noted that the country boasts the 18th largest economy in the world and stressed that its unique position as a bridge between the east and the west gives it untold potential export growth. Nevertheless, he conceded that the average per capita annual income in Turkey is $7,990 (US) and that it is suffering from a high unemployment rate.

He talked a little about the pots in which Sabanci Holding currently has its fingers and the list is wide and varied – covering everything from cars and car parts, energy, food, tires and tobacco. In fact, their list of joint venture partners includes Hilton, Toyota, Bridgestone, Mitsubishi and Philip Morris. An impressive roster by any standards, let alone from li’l ol’ Turkey.

Then we heard from Guler Sabanci, who gave us a very general overview of the company and her idea that its philanthropy is as important as any business endeavor. She pointed to the very museum we sat in as an indication of Sabanci’s sense of responsibility to the community. Unassuming in appearance, Guler’s presence is nonetheless commanding, particularly her deep and emphatic voice. She is clearly used to being asked any number of questions and, frankly, not answering them if she doesn’t feel like it.

While on the one hand her savvy sense of control is admirable – she answered one question with, in toto, “Yes, I get asked that all the time” – it was also a tad frustrating. I’d been looking forward to asking her about her position as a role model to Turkish women, what it felt like to hold a place in the country’s feminist history and what responsibility she felt she had to encourage young women to follow in her footsteps. These were questions I got the opportunity to ask, but never quite received an answer to. Although Guler was not once rude to any of us, it was quite obvious that it was a topic she was uninterested in discussing.

Because that clearly wasn’t a full enough day for us, we then attended a performance of The Fire of Anatolia , an energetic dance production that explores Turkey’s history in a frenzied Lord-of-the-Dance-meets-Stomp kind of way. With very little knowledge of the history of Anatolia, I found it a little tough to follow the narrative. Especially with so many raven-haired beauties in sparkly outfits making high-pitched squealing noises. There were plenty of men, too, mind you. And smoke. And the local crowd went nuts for it – screaming and yelling and applauding until it looked like their hands might fall off!

Afterwards, we attended a brief reception at a hotel just down the street from the theater. By candlelight, we were fed small canapés before sitting for an audience with the show’s creator and director Mustafa Erdogan and a few of the show’s principles. (On the gossip tip, Erdogan is married to and was accompanied by his wife, Gulben Ergen, who is apparently one of Turkey’s most famous pop singers. And something of a former porn star, I guess. You Google it.)

It was a bit of the tired meeting the tired – we struggled to ask pertinent, coherent questions and the director and cast struggled to entertain us with their responses. But considering it was the longest day in the history of earth, ever, we were grateful when it was time to climb on board our beloved bus and head back to the hotel wondering what on earth there could possibly be left to do the next day.

Turkblog Part 2: A very busy Saturday

There was once a murder in a hotel in St. Louis where the cops proved the husband drowned the wife in the bath tub because, they claimed, women never take baths in hotels. Now, I am not advocating for a free pass should Chris tire of my whining and hold me below sea level. However, I am a hotel bath taker, provided the tub is adequate. And I’m pleased to report that the tub at the Marmara Pera, while a tad short, is plenty deep. In case you were wondering. In addition to the stellar tub action, I should note that the hotel also has the best breakfast buffet I’ve ever seen. In addition to hot dishes like tiny, fat Turkish sausages, scrambled eggs and breakfast potatoes, there was a whole spread offering everything from tomato chunks to grapefruit wedges to cereal. Large white bowls brimmed with olives, fruit salad and yogurt, while fresh honey still on the comb awaited scraping. An omelet station let you pick your own ingredients while another table offered up a wide variety of breads and sweet pastries. There were plates with a variety of Turkish cheeses, and sliced cold cuts, a variety of cereals and granola, as well as three or four different juices, all freshly squeezed. And the whole thing doesn’t end until the very civilized hour of 10:30. Nice.

Once we were all stuffed, we met up with Melike – our tour guide, translator and general savaior for the week – in the hotel lobby. In addition, we were joined by another tour guide, Lala (pronounced la-LAY), who would spend the bulk of the day herding us around various sites. As we rode in the bus to the first stop on our day of sight-seeing, the sky was already grey and threatening to drizzle, a drastic change from the day before. That said, it was still a lot warmer than we had anticipated – 50 degrees F or so, compared to our anticipated 30-40.

Lala shared with us a number of facts about Turkey as the bus driver expertly navigated some of the tight turns through Istanbul’s compact cobblestone streets. We learned that although the region dates back to Byzantium, Turkey is a relatively young republic, founded in 1923 in the area formerly known as Constantinople. The name Istanbul is a derivative of the word “stanpoli” which means, literally, “toward the city.” And there are around 6,000 mosques in the city. So now you know. I’ve never seen a city that looks quite like Istanbul – jam-packed with pastel-colored buildings in various states of disrepair and assembled seemingly without plan accented by majestic mosques. Despite the cars and the modern ways, it’s impossible to ignore its link to a past so lengthy I can barely imagine it. We passed so many notable areas, I can’t remember most of them, although I do remember Lala pointing out the end point of the original Orient Express train. It’s now a crumbling, abandoned train station.

We soon arrived at our first destination in Sultanahmet, Topkapi Palace, the first residence of Ottoman Sultans from 1453-1856. Before we got off the bus to forget our “American courtesy” – a term which strikes me as an oxymoron – and be sure to ignore the many folk who will try to stop and sell us things as we make our way from one tourist spot to another. Eye contact, a glance, the merest hint of hesitation and they will attach themselves to you, working the chance, hoping to wear you down as they match your steps block for block. She told us it would seem cruel to us, but the only way to get away from them is to ignore them and keep moving.

Only the elements of weather and time conspired to make it a less than perfect day. We had only an hour or so to wander about the vast grounds of Topkapi, barely time to make a dent, in fact. The grand palace comprises four courts, each of which offered admittance only to certain groups of people. We got to briefly explore a few of them, including the former kitchens, which now hold displays featuring everything from period clothing to ceramics to gemstones to hairs or Mohammed and the arm of John the Baptist.

It’s a shame we were so rushed because it felt like there wasn’t real time to see everything and let it sink in. And we didn’t have time to check out The Harem, which is frequently billed as the most interesting part of the trip. It’s possible I’ll come back and check it out later in the week, although the lines are said to be quite long unless you get there early in the day.

As we left to make our way to the Aya Sophia and the Blue Mosque, the rain had started pouring down and we were damp and cold, kicking off a week of sickness for some folk. A few were wet enough not to ignore the wares of street vendors hawking umbrellas – including, of course, Tony, who is friendly to everyone.

The dark, cavernous interior of Aya Sophia didn’t exactly warm us up, either. Although I’ve seen the place in photos at sunset or in full sunshine, even its pale pink exterior didn’t brighten the skyline. Often known by its Greek name, Hagia Sophia, it’s an interesting place that has been, in its time, a church, a mosque and now a museum. It was originally built as the Church of the Apostles in 360 AD, although rough times required rebuilding the structure in the year 532 when the city was known as Novo Roma.

The interior is vast, with a giant domed ceiling. In fact, it’s the fourth biggest cathedral in the world – not too shabby considering that the other three (St. Paul in London, St. Peter in Rome and the Duomo in Milan) were all built at least 1,000 years afterwards. And, perhaps most amazingly, the Aya Sophia was completed in an unthinkable five years with the involvement of tens of thousands of workers.

When we visited, the dimly lit interior was overwhelmed by a giant shaft of scaffolding that is, according to Lala, practically a permanent fixture. The domes and walls of the museum are constantly undergoing renovation and restoration, whenever funds are available to allow it. At the base of the scaffolding, behind protective barriers, lay the enormous chandelier that used to hang from the center of the dome, like an abandoned giant metal skeleton.

It’s fascinating – and extremely rare, of course – to be in a place where a mural of Mary and Jesus towers over us, right next to giant calligraphic circles containing the symbols for Allah and Muhammed. Also interesting is the altar, which appears askew on the wall because the building was built as a church and when it was converted to a mosque, the altar had to face Mecca, regardless of whether that meant it was centered on the wall. No one’s worshipped here for quite a while, although a little orange cat was curled up right against one of the footlights illuminating the altar and I’m sure his gratitude for the warmth was quite spiritual. Time was running out, so we had to leave before getting a glimpse at the Byzantine mosaics in the upper balconies, which was terribly disappointing.

We skipped the Archaeological Museum and went straight to the Basilica Cisterns. Built for the Byzantium Palace it’s an amazing, giant underground world built by the Greeks in the 6th century, using columns and stones they’d scavenged from elsewhere. (The cisterns apparently provided water to the various fountains and pipes above ground.) Now, wooden walkways let you wander through this other-worldly, dimly lit fantasy land where a foot or so of water serves as home to a number of lazy, slow-moving fish. It’s hard to explain the appeal of it, because it sounds a little odd – and photos don’t really do it justice – but it’s something to experience. (Trivia tidbit: apparently the cistern was used for a scene in the James Bond flick, To Russia with Love.)

After, it was on to the so-called Blue Mosque, which locals call the Sultanahmet Camii. It is not blue on the outside, but its interior walls are decorated by blue iznik tiles. To say it’s a pretty big deal is both understatement and accurate. For some reason, I didn’t expect it to be currently in use but as Lala led us inside, a handful of Muslims were quietly worshipping. (We took our shoes off before entering to keep the carpet on which people pray clean.)

Inside, Lala escorted us to a back area where we sat while she told us a little bit about Islam. I must admit that I don’t know a lot about the religion, including the differences between the various branches. According to Lala, there are five basic pillars of Islam , which she delivered (I believe) in no particular order. First, she said, one must pray five times a day and when you do it, you have to do it from the heart. In Islam, prayer is a silent, individual pursuit. Second, healthy adult Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset during Ramadan. The idea, apparently, is to demonstrate the ability to control oneself while simultaneously preparing for survival during hard times that could lie ahead.

Third, Muslims must make a trip to Mecca, or Hajj, in their lifetime, if they can afford to do so. Fourth, Islam asks its followers to help those less fortunate by giving, in some form, 10% of their annual income. And five, Muslims believe there is only one god, Allah, and that Mohammad was one of his prophets. Clover seemed to think, based on his vast experience in the Middle East, that jihad was also a requirement of Islam, although Lala disagreed. (We did get the distinct feeling we were getting a very specific explanation of the religion, which may not have covered all branches.)

I should also take a moment here to note that although we, as Westerners, react strongly just to hearing the word “jihad,” it actually has a wide range of meanings within the Muslim world. While it can mean the sort of violent uprising or holy war we often assume, it can also refer to a deep inner spiritual struggle for perfection in faith as well. At the least, I’m feeling humbled and slightly embarrassed about how little I really know of Islam. Fortunately, it looks like we’ll have several opportunities to rectify that in the week to come.

Our sightseeing ended for the morning, we went off for a lunch ‘n lecture at the Hotel Armada. The restaurant there is a rooftop spectacular, with a wall of windows on one side overlooking the Marmara Sea and the Blue Mosque and Aya Sophia on the other side. For lunch, we enjoyed a salad of something I couldn’t quite discern, followed by what turned out to be pureed eggplant with béchamel sauce topped with chunks of lamb in a slightly sweet, tomato-y sauce. Dessert was, depending on who you asked, either yams or pumpkin in honey. Trying to avoid sugar, I skipped the latter but enjoyed a cup of strong coffee with milk.

Lunch was followed by a talk on the Ottoman Empire by Professor Hakan Erdem, a novelist and teacher at Sabanci University in Istanbul. It was definitely a thorough talk and if I failed to absorb all the details about Turkey’s rich history, it was due far more to jet lag than to any lack of passion on Erdem’s part. Or the fact that once we were inside, the grey skies turned to impossibly blue with a rich sunshine that sparkled across the surface of the Marmara.

Not that I spent any time staring out the window or anything, but I must say, if I had, I would have been struck by the site of Aya Sophia, perfectly intact, surrounded by “modern” buildings in various states of disrepair – entire walls crumbling, tin roofs rusting, windows missing and paint peeling. I think it says something for the way they used to do things, back when durability and survival were more important than bottom line construction costs.

After lunch, we were thrilled to be given a couple of hours of free time at the infamous Grand Bazaar or Kapali Carsi, as the locals call it. While I’d heard much about this place beforehand, it was still quite overwhelming. For centuries, the indoor market has been the place to go for everything from carpets to clothing to jewelry. Now, there are more than 4,000 stores in sub-divided specialty areas (including silver, gold, copper, clothing, carpets, pottery, spices, ceramics, etc.) catering mostly to tourists. That means inflated prices – which you have to be willing to bargain down – and a constant, aggressive appeal to buy from every stand you pass.

Since we weren’t in the market for anything in particular, Chris, Gail and I just sort of wandered around some of the packed, smoky “streets.” Unfortunately, it’s hard just to browse since stopping to look at anything constitutes interest and leaves you open to sales tactics that stop just short of bullying. In fact, the pressure to buy became so overwhelming that, after about an hour or avoiding eye contact and thus being practically unable to really check anything out, we slipped into one of the cafes and had a quiet drink – joined shortly by Chuck and Lisa, also seeking refuge from the relentless commercialism – until it was time to meet up with the group. For the record, Gail and I ranked “I am your destiny” and “I need your money” as our two favorite sales pitches of the afternoon.

From the bazaar it was on to a dinner listed on our itineraries as “Eating Like A Turk,” hosted by famed Turkish “gurme” Engin Akin at a restaurant called Hunkar, which aims to preserve Ottoman Empire recipes. It was a multi-course feast with small portions of 20 or so Turkish dishes ranging from lentil and fava bean appetizers to poof bread, meatballs shaped like “ladies thighs” and dolma to mante, an exquisite meat and onion ravioli in a yogurt sauce. (We were also treated again to the Sultan’s favorite, the béchamel eggplant and lamb stew we had at lunch.)

We learned that traditional Turkish meals include white rice served to signify the end. Akin said, “In Turkey, we have a saying – the meal is not truly complete until the chef himself or, maybe, herself is cooked with the meal.” Yeah, I’m not entirely sure what that means, either, but it was followed up with the chef coming out for a bow and all of us giving him a well-deserved KWF-style “thunderous round.”

Turkblog Part 1: Merhaba, Istanbul

On the flight from Amsterdam to Istanbul, Chris turned 45. I slipped a card across his tray right at midnight, somewhere over the ocean and shortly thereafter Rainey and Graham gave him a package of small, silly, sweet, thoughtful presents. With the exception of some nasty turbulence shortly after take off, the flights have been fine. I caught my first glimpse of Istanbul as our flight descended and I was unprepared for how vast it seems. I knew the population was somewhere north of nine million – as high as 14 million, according to some – but to see the lights of the city stretch far across Istanbul’s seven hills is a truly awesome sight.

By the time we landed in Istanbul and compensated for the time difference, it was well into Friday afternoon and since we had left Detroit on Thursday afternoon, it felt as though we’d lost almost an entire. We were greeted by our good friend and fellow Fellow Semiha, such a beautiful sight after a couple months’ absence, and shuttled onto the large yellow bus that would be our home for the next week or so. We were also greeted by Ferhat Boratav, the editor in chief of CNN Turk who gave us a personal guided tour of the city as we drove from the airport to our hotel.

Istanbul, as I’ve come to understand it is a complex city that sprawls across three general parts. On the European continent to the west, the so-called “old” and “new” cities (with those terms being used extremely relatively) are divided by the Golden Horn. While to the east, the rest of the city rests in Asia, on the other side of the Bosphorous River. As we drove past, we got a sense of just how complex a city Istanbul is, with views ranging from commercial/industrial areas and crowded highways to crumbling ancient seawalls to jam-packed tin-roofed apartment buildings to the commanding opulence of ancient mosques in the distance to the sparkling blue waterfront dotted with fishing boats. The whole breakdown of towns and municipalities in Istanbul is confusing, especially since some areas overlap and can be known by both old and new names. Our hotel – the Marmara Pera – was in a great location in an area called Beyoglu (BAY-o-loo) and half a block from the busy pedestrian shopping street Istiklal Caddesi . Pera means, literally, the new city – which the area was considered in the 1800s, even if the newest version of the nearby Galata Tower was rebuilt circa 1300. Time is an entirely different concept in this part of the world, where whole civilizations rose and fell before explorers even thought to look for America.

Our hotel, which we reached by late afternoon, was far from ancient. In fact, compared to The Dazzler Hotel in Argentina, it was downright luxurious. Our eighth floor room had a grand view of the skyline, complete with at least three mosques whose minarets reached skywards. When you’ve traveled long and far, is there no better sight than a bed made with fresh, clean, crisp white linens? Upon arrival, we were given an hour or so to rest before the first item on our itinerary – the infamous “Turkish Bath Experience” awaited us.

Since I can’t sleep on planes, I was absolutely exhausted and decided even before I lay down my head that no matter how much I wanted to be soaped within an inch of my life by a Turkish stranger, the heat of the place might just cause me to pass out. Thus, Chris and I skipped out on what we were later told was, at the very least, unlike anything any of the gang had experienced before.

Upon arriving at the Cemberlitas Hamam, the men and women were separated into changing facilities and stripped down – the former given loin cloth-type wraps to wear and the latter outfitted in large cotton wraps. (Men and women are in different parts of the facilities at all times, since modesty is impossible.) Each person lay down on one of the large heated stone slabs arranged in a circle around the outskirts of the warm, steamy room. There, they awaited their turn for an attendant to soap and scrub every inch of them as they sat on the edge of their slabs. The men were also treated to a hale ‘n hearty massage and the women, conversely, were offered a bikini wax. I think the hour-long procedure costs about 20 YTL (new Turkish lire), approximately $17 US – an extra $5 if you pop for the wax.

I did not regret my decision to nap, however, as I doubt I’d have made it through dinner without doing so. As it was, Chris and I barely roused from our nap in time to meet everyone in the lobby for dinner, a short walk from the hotel down Istiklal Caddesi at Galatasaray Square. We arrived at Cicek Pasaji – or Flower Passage – a restaurant in the courtyard of the Cite de Pera building.

Our table was in a main corridor with high ceilings and walls decorated with trompe l’oiel to approximate a street scene. All around us, little doors led into smaller eating areas and I wasn’t entirely sure if we were at a single restaurant or a mish-mosh of different dining establishments. From the moment we stepped foot inside, the atmosphere was electric, introducing us to the Turks’ love of eating, laughing, music, drinking and talking. The noise level was high and the air was thick with the smoke we’d get (slightly) used to as we were led to two long tables flanked with wooden benches and already laden with colorful starter dishes.

Of course, I didn’t realize at first that these were just the starter dishes and that, as with many European countries, the meal would continue over a number of hours with course after course being set in front of us. Thus, I helped myself to a few too many bites of piquant slices of white cheese, beans in olive oil, tomato salad and other dishes. Then the rest of the dishes began – tiny shrimp fried with banana peppers, a plate of fried goodies, baskets of bread, fish served fresh and whole.

During the dinner, I got to meet Eda and Asu, two of the CNN Turk marketing employees who would make our lives infinitely easier for the rest of the trip. In addition, I made the observation that many beautiful, young Turkish women don’t seem to eat much at all, preferring instead to chain-smoke throughout the meal. The smoking is difficult to get used to, especially as a former smoker, but Turkey doesn’t appear to have any bans on it.

Also during our dinner, Eisendrath summoned a young belly dancer to step up on one of our tables and perform – which would come up again and again as a theme of conflict and controversy over the next few days as we tried to get a grasp on the role of women in Turkey. The people in the tiny room near our table were dancing and singing the whole evening and, eventually, Sweet Tony G could stand the lure no more and wound up partying with some locals who were still chanting his name as we headed out.

Lovely Gerard and Graham had spear-headed a movement to buy Chris a beautiful little ladybug cake to surprise him with after dinner – and the generous folk at CNN Turk had caught wind of it and supplemented another larger cake to accommodate the whole gang.

I should mention here that we were all chomping at the bit to see Semiha’s husband Sedat, who had been unable to join us earlier in the day. In fact, most of the guys had spent the previous week growing honorary Turkish goatees (nicknamed “Sedats”) in honor of Sedat’s facial hair. Finally, about halfway through dinner, Sedat showed up – completely clean shaven. Still, he seemed tickled pink – and genuinely touched – by the gesture.

Dinner started at 8 o’clock – actually quite early by European standards – and when we headed back to the hotel about midnight, it was clear that revelers would keep going into the wee hours of the night. Most of us, however, required even more sleep before our 9 o’clock tour the following morning.

NOW you can mention Turkey

Largely because, in a matter of hours, we'll be on our way. I suppose it's getting tiring for everyone to read about how the weeks are zipping by here, but damn if it ain't true. Another one's just completely gone and if you used my blog entries to gauge it, without any activity whatsoever. Fortunately, that's not actually the case. It's just that time disappears in a blur as you prepare (and/or refuse to acknowledge) the international travel looming ahead of you. I realized recently that I don't have the same level of excitement about going to Istanbul as I did with our Buenos Aires trip in December. And it has nothing to do with the destination itself or, say, a complete lack of gratitude about the opportunities in front of me.

I finally figured out that it's bothering me because when we get back, it sort of marks the beginning of the end of the fellowship. As soon as we touch ground, we're hurled into our last eight weeks and since, unwisely, none of the fellows is studying "How to Stop Time" we'll be utterly helpless in preventing the onset of April 20, graduation day.

I think it's fair to say that the state of journalism as we know it is, at the very least, in transition -- if not in outright jeopardy. The future looks interesting/bleak for newspapers and it's perhaps more understandable than ever that people would be reluctant to jump back into a giant pool of uncertainty, sales, staff changes, lay offs, etc. Not to mention the fact that even if everyone had a certain future as bright as a shiny penny, this is a tough gig to leave. And it's not just the break from newsroom grind or the seminars and events -- although who wouldn't want to spend Valentine's Day cuddling up with Paul Anger, editor of the Detroit Free Press -- it's the people, y'all.

It's bad enough that they're all swell, but when you're thrown together like this in a town where most of us know no one else (except, of course, John Bacon, who knows everyone else) the bonds grow faster and stronger. Did I really just say "bonds"? Perhaps it can't be avoided.

Of course, maybe I'll change my tune a little after another week of constant togetherness! Speaking of which, we leave this afternoon for Istanbul, via Amsterdam. So I guess I'd best get packing. (How's that for a rushed, untidy conclusion paragraph?)

If anyone mentions Turkey

...or, more specifically, the fact that we're leaving for there in a mere four days, I will deck them. I'm simply so behind in everything I need to do that I could easily be coaxed out of my gentle, nonviolent nature to react to the fact that I'm in for another two weeks of international travel sooner than I realize. Not that I'm complaining, for that would make me seem like an ingrate. Which I am not. I am, however, unprepared to deal with the fact that entire weeks are slipping away without my having any say in the matter and we're facing a mere two months left in Fantasy Fellowship land before we're jerked back to reality.

Not that I'm complaining. Okay. For sure, I'm complaining. Who wouldn't? It has been a fantastic experience in Ann Arbor, but I still haven't accomplished the very reasonable goals I set for myself for this fellowship year: lose 100 pounds and write a book. I'm about equally close to each of those goals, if that tells you anything. Still, I'm able to enjoy myself when I'm not immersed in homework for screenwriting class, swimming in guilt over barely being able to qualify as a volunteer for 826 Michigan this semester and trying to keep my toes warm at all costs.

In fact, this weekend ranked high on the fun list for me because my friend D'Na came in town! Yay! She was actually the first person from our "real" life to come and check out the Ann Arbor experience. It's been the long time since I had a girlfriend who knows me around and that's the greatest luxury there is, my friends. And showing someone from back home our life here lends everything some kind of cohesiveness that I can't quite explain. (Clearly, because you probably have no idea what the hell I'm talking about.)

Anyway, it was fun seeing Ann Arbor through her eyes and finding out that it is a great li'l town even if your glasses aren't tinted rose by the KWF experience. She arrived Thursday afternoon and we took her for dinner at Sabor Latino on Main Street, which is about the only decent Latin restaurant we've found around here. However, while the food is still decent, no frills, relatively authentic fare, the service seems to have taken a massive turn for the worse and that's no fun at all, my friends.

Afterwards, we walked over to Zingerman's where I unwisely broke my "no sugar" rule (a recent acquisition to control my hypoglycemia) and did my fair share to kill off a piece of hummingbird cake -- a really gorgeous concoction bursting with flavors of banana, pineapple and coconut topped with a buttery, sinful cream cheese frosting. (Listen to me! Who am I here? Kimberly Porteous?) The only down side was the raging sugar-induced headache I got after just a few bites. Damn you, blood sugar! Damn you!

Friday, we lolled around until a noon lunch 'n learn session at the Wallace House, where we were supposed to nosh on Turkish food and learn a few key phrases of the language from a teacher at the university. While we succeeded swimmingly on the first count, it seems the language part is a bit trickier. Turkish is like nothing I've spoken before, and when I say spoken, let it be understood that I mean "stumbled over awkwardly while giggling uncontrollably."

Once I realized I didn't have a hope in hell of mastering any words -- except, oddly enough, the word for pen (kalem) -- I inquired as to what we could do to avoid causing an international stir and/or certain death with our garish American manners. The teacher basically responded, "Don't do that." Not entirely helpful, but just enough to have me nervous as a cat in a room full of Turkish rocking chairs.

Side note: Should I be at all concerned that the very first activity listed on the fellows' calendar for Turkey is "The Turkish Bath Experience"? I mean, I love a good bath and am quite fond of the fellows, but....

Anyhoo, D'Na and I spent Friday afternoon at the Douglas J Aveda School being manicured and pedicured (respectively) by budding cosmeticians and then having our hair cut. We were just beautiful enough for that night's hockey game, in which Michigan lost to LSSU in a tragic, last-minute score. Last time I saw Yost arena, it was from the ice and with decidedly fewer folk on it, so this was an interesting perspective.

Saturday, we took D'Na over to Canadia, as she'd never been there before. We showed her the finer points of Windsor -- the jokes are so easy there, even I won't touch them -- and then had a really nice lunch at Spago Trattoria & Pizzeria in the Little Italy area. Meanwhile, the snow was coming down in fat chunks that dimmed visibility of the Detroit skyline and other fine sights but that also didn't amount to much inchage on the ground when all was said and done.

We also stopped at the Duty Free shop on the way back into the states and, frankly, there seem to be about 12 items that are identical and sold at all duty free shops all over the world. Not so exciting.

Saturday, we dined at Zingerman's Deli with Rainey, Graham and the former's fine father and did absolutely zero after, changing into jammies and sitting around gabbing for a while. This morning, we revived the brunch tradition at Wallace House and I must say I do miss that weekly chance to sit and chat with people in a smaller, informal setting. Plus, eat. I like to eat, too.

So a busy few days loom ahead as we prepare to leave for Istanbul on Thursday, via Amsterdam. We head back on the 24th, where many of us split off to spend our spring break somewhere in Europe. Chris and I will spend a couple of days in Amsterdam, then jet to Milan where I will see my friend Deborah for the first time in 15 years! I'm excited. She and I have known each other since we were four-year-old lassies whose back gardens abutted in Glasgow. We have one of those life-long friendships where we can go a decade without seeing each other, we are terrible about keeping in regular contact, and whenever we're together it's instant comfort as though we've never been apart. Rare, that.

Then we'll come back to Amsterdam for a couple of nights and then it's back to good ol' Ann Arbor just in time for back-to-back visits from family members and heading into the last eight weeks of the semester. Dag. Isn't writing about this stuff supposed to make you LESS stressful rather than more?

Yankee Doodle Monday

This morning, we arose and - as we do every Monday, of course - donned the most patriotic outfits we could, mish-mosh meldings of red, white and blue clothing in various states of cleanliness and headed out the door towards Wallace House. Actually, we're not subject to some sort of weekly patriotism drill. We were there to celebrate KWF's program director - and our guardian angel - Birgit Rieck's swearing in as an American citizen. Following Candy and Stephannie's guidance, we decorated the native German's office with streamers and balloons. Neil Diamond's Coming to America was cued up on the CD player downstairs. American flags were distributed for waving. Champagne was set out, accompanied by gigantic chocolate-covered strawberries decorated with red, white and blue icing. Charles Eisendrath showed up in leather leiderhosen, like an extra from The Sound of Music, although for all I know, he does that every Monday. Stephannie practiced the lyrics to Yankee Doodle, and if anyone can explain "pockily" to us, we'd be happy to hear it.

Then we waited, peering out the window of the dining room like kids expecting Santa Claus until Birgit's car finally pulled into the driveway. Then it was places, everyone! Birgit was indeed surprised and touched and amused - all the right things and it's really nice to be able to do something nice for her, given the amount of crap she does for all of us. (Yes, it's technically her job, but this woman goes above and beyond -- and is a hell of a lot of fun just to be around.)

Speeches followed, as they tend to and after Charles made some lovely remarks about Birgit's dedication to her work and impact on the KWF program, the celebrant took center stage. She gave a very lovely impromptu speech about how meaningful it was to see so many people, many of them elderly, some barely able to speak English fulfill their dreams of becoming American Citizens. It seemed to have renewed (or reinforced) her faith that, for all its faults, this country really is open to those who seek it.

Then, at Charles' urging, she read to us the oath she had taken that morning. It's not exactly light reading:

I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God. In acknowledgement whereof I have hereunto affixed my signature.

Becoming a citizen is something I think seriously about all the time. Now that I hold a British passport, I'd technically be a dual citizen - as Birgit is now, enjoying German and US citizenship. The paperwork gets half done, then languishes in a drawer. And while I desperately want to put my money where my mouth is in terms of having the right to vote, there are some lines in there that trip me up every time.

One could argue that they're just words, but they feel like so much more when I consider "absolutely and entirely" renouncing (let alone abjuring, whatever that means) allegiance to Scotland. Should I say those words if I'm not sure I could ever really do that? And when it comes to the part about taking up arms, can I cross my fingers behind my back? It's a lot to think about.

On the other hand, if gigantic chocolate-covered strawberries were on the other end of it, I might consider it quite seriously.

See more photos from Birgit's big surprise HERE.

What is this Super Bowl you speak of?

Apparently, tomorrow, some sort of sporting event takes place in downtown Detroit and hosting it is akin to the nearby metropolis being named the Most Important City of All Time, Ever. This Super Bowl, or whatever you call it, is all you hear about these days. I've lived in - and visited - a fair number of US cities in my time and I have to say that, without exception, Detroit local news is the worst I've ever seen anywhere. Channel 4 is like a trainwreck - I don't want to watch, but I can't quite look away. I've never seen a station so relentlessly and unabashedly inject itself into the news as this one does.

At Christmas, I watched the evening broadcast with my jaw dragging on the floor as it continuously one-upped the previous night's fare in terms of self-promotion. There was the story where Channel 4 not only interviewed a homeless man, but found him a job! I mean, why report the news, when you can just create it AND promote yourselves at the same time?

Not long after, I saw a broadcast where they were "covering" the Christmas shopping season from certain stores and shopping malls where there were special sale offers available FROM Channel 4. What the...? How is this not a conflict of interest? A typical Channel Four newscast goes something like this. "Look at us, we're so great." "Oh, anchor man, you're so funny! Probably because we're so great!" "I think you're great too, sassy co-anchor lady!" Sometimes in there, there's a little news.

Channel 4's not the only one. We got so sick of its Super Bowl obsession that we tried Channel 7 last night. The ENTIRE 11 o'clock news broadcast on Channel 7 was about the Super Bowl in Detroit. There was not a single story about, oh, I don't know - maybe the ferry sinking in Egypt or the stampede that killed 70-plus in Manila?

I suppose an argument could be made, as local stations usually claim, that those are not local interest stories. Fine. Then why don't you give me some news about how the Super Bowl is affecting businesses in Detroit or employing people or actually doing something? Instead, the broadcast covered all the parties, with hapless reporters employing regrettable grammar to fawn over minor celebrities.

The number of times the phrase "Diddy's in the city" was uttered should be nothing short of criminal. Pardon my own regrettable grammar but, really, who gives a shit?

Not. One. Piece. Of. Actual. News. We saw the "world famous" Hawaiian Tropic dancers get made up. We listened to Miss April (although they didn't say whose Miss April she was) talk about the hot "girl on girl" dance action at the clubs you and I couldn't get into anyway. And a Kid Rock fan foaming at the mouth about how Kid Rock totally represents Motown. In fact, she noted, "He's the epiphany of Detroit." Uh huh.

One "reporter" had his nose so far up Jim McMann's ass that it's a wonder he could still get the microphone close enough to get a sound bite. And afterwards, he ended his interview - so star struck he could barely stand still - by saying, "God bless" to the chaw-jawed former player. There's no blessing in news, people!

So while the rest of the people in a 100-mile radius around Detroit hail what a great boon it is for the city to host the Super Bowl, I, for one, will hide out in Ann Arbor and count the minutes until it's all over. And maybe then I'll get some news for a change. Although I won't exactly count on it.

Although I do

Quick note

While in St. Louis this weekend, I had several people ask me how the leather jacket debacle ended in Buenos Aires -- and I realized I never added my final entry from that trip. It's up now, so click here to read!

Permanent solution

Chris came home this morning from one of his business school classes a little disturbed. It seems that somebody killed himself on campus this morning by jumping from one of the parking garages. A business student in Chris' class had seen the body and he and some fellow students embarked on an unemotional discussion about the victim - determining he was neither a homeless person or a professional based on his clothing. The level of detachment about a human life was jarring to Chris, I think. I find it particularly jarring too, largely because I've been immersing myself in Primo Levi's If This Is A Man (published in the US as Surviving Auschwitz). It is - of course, of course - devastating to read the details of life in the concentration camps from the first-person perspective of Levi, an Italian Jew. That he is a beautiful writer and a devastatingly accurate observer of human nature makes his work even more compelling. It is, of course, a difficult - Levi himself may argue, impossible - task to even try and convey the incomparable evil of the concentration camps. But with his sparse language and resigned tone, the beauty of Levi's language betrays the horrors he describes. Consider this paragraph:

We fought with all our strength to prevent the arrival of winter. We clung to all the warm hours, at every dusk we tried to keep the sun in the sky for a little longer, but it was all in vain.

The arrival of winter means a whole new set of challenges for the interred and Levi notes, as he does earlier in the book, that language simply does not provide us the right words for describing life in Auschwitz.

Just as our hunger is not the feelin of missing a meal, so our way of being cold has need of a new word. We say 'hunger,' we say 'tiredness,' 'fear,' 'pain,' we say 'winter' and they are different things. They are free words, created and used by free men who lived in comfort and suffering in their homes. If the Lagers had lasted longer a new, harsh language could express what it means to toil the whole day in the wind, with the temperature below freezing, wearing only a shirt, underpants, cloth jacket and trousers, and in one's body nothing but weakness, hunger and knowledge of the end drawing nearer.

The idea of there being an atrocity so great we do not even have the language to describe it.... That no matter how much you or I read about the Holocaust or even its modern versions, it is so alien to what we know as our daily experience that we cannot possibly come closer than a circling comprehension, a hint, a flash - like understanding the line of a poem but being constitutionally incapable of ever grasping its true meaning.

I don't know why the news of this morning's suicide brought back so clearly Levi's words, which I read until the wee hours of the morning, staving off sleep to absorb more and more. Perhaps because what Chris described was the way we can use language to merely brush across the significance of an entire human life, forage into the details and forensics without pausing to consider the pain or torture that must drive one to take one's own life.

Perhaps because after surviving Auschwitz, after writing volumes of indispensable literature about his experiences, it all proved too much to bear and Primo Levi, at the age of 68, finally felt it all too much to bear and jumped to his death from a building. And so no matter how different the lives of this morning's victim and Levi simply must have been, I'm struck that each reached a place of such hopelessness that there seemed only one path to silence and freedom.

Back in Ann Arbor

Michigan was kind enough to us to be quite mild when we arrived home this morning from St. Louis, where it was unseasonably warm over the weekend. And what a fun long weekend it was! I spent a few days at the end of last week playing catch up with loads of friends. No matter how much time you plan, it's never enough and you never get to see everyone - but I came pretty close. I got to meet my friends Matt & Sharon's new baby boy, Carter. Despite Matt's reminder that we've known each other for 18 years, it's still hard for me believe my college friends are all growed up and procreating. On Saturday afternoon, Chris flew into town with Graham & Rainey. Graham was in town to attend a Kansas City Barbeque Society course to become a certified barbeque judge, along with their cousin Derek and his coworker Nate. So while he sat for five hours, sampling meat in a church hall miles into the far St. Louis suburbs, Chris, Rainey and I dined on "nuevo latin" tapas at Mirasol in the University City Loop.

Despite the rain that had poured all day and continued throughout the evening, we had a lovely dinner before meeting up with Graham and his cohorts for dessert at Kitchen K. (We vote for the carrot cake as favorite.)

Sunday, I slept a little later to try to stave off that stupid cold everyone's passing around while Chris took Rainey and Graham on a brief jaunt down to see the arch and the rest of the St. Louis waterfront. It was a beautiful day, but downtown was an absolute wasteland, completely dead.

After, we drove out to the Central West End to have brunch at Duff's. It still stunned me to drive past the site of the old stadium on our way out of town and see it entirely gone. Good progress is being made on the new one, for certain, but...strange.

We followed up lunch with a trip to the Missouri History Museum to help us digest. It's very different than the last time I went which, I'll admit, was eons ago. It's a decent selection of artifacts, but I don't remember it seeming so cluttered and/or difficult to navigate. But Rainey picked up a stuffed plushie George Washington Carver doll and, really, what else could you ask?

It was a really lovely day, approaching 60 degrees, but the afternoon was waning so we took a quick tour around Forest Park and drove them past our wee house then headed back down to the hotel so they could rest up while we ran a couple of errands. Then it was off to Hartford Coffee Company for a performance/installment/episode of Free Candy, the non-broadcast talk show I co-host with my good friend/partner in trouble Amanda Doyle, assistant editor for Where Magazine.

I felt a bit rusty up there as I haven't been doing this on a monthly basis, but I thought the show went really well. Da house was packed - SRO, folks! And it's amazing to look out and see so many friendly faces and even some we didn't know at all. Graham was one of the best guests we've ever had - regaling us with funny tales from the bizarre world of BBQ judging, talking shop about On Point and even acing a surprise quiz Amanda worked up to test how honest I'd been with people in my new life up in Ann Arbor.

Really good time, I believe, had by all. It's fun to show new friends your old town and see it through their eyes and, yes, St. Louis is a grand place with a lot to offer. Yet we were still glad to return to the business of milking this fellowship gig for all it's worth before it ends in just three short months. Ooops. Did I say that?

Greetings from St. Louis

I have one pressing question: why is hotel ice so wet? It melts in about four minutes. What's up with that. Also, an example of irony: the ice machine at my hotel in St. Louis is Scotsman brand. This is ironic because good luck finding a friggin' ice cube in Scotland, let alone an ice machine. I'm in the ol' Lou for a few days for a Free Candy weekend, with a couple of extra days tagged on there. Thus, I am lying in bed, propped up on about 50 fluffy pillows watching a TV with actual reception...it's too much luxury for one person.

And in between eating bon bons and having foot massages ordered up from room service it occurred to me that I haven't brought y'all up to date on all the great stuff that went down KWF-style last week. Last Wednesday, we had an extra informal seminar at the Wallace House when Fara's agent, Anna, was generous enough to come and talk to us about the crazy world of publishing. She answered our myriad questions about writing books, finding agents, and the book market in general. Very interesting stuff.

Thursday's seminar was a departure from the usual. Eisendrath brought in Bob Milne, a ragtime pianist, to entertain us. It's Eisendrath's favorite seminar of the year and it coincided with Bob's birthday, and he was feted with a lovely piano-shaped cake.

Chris and I then headed over to the Butters' house to watch the Butter Beans (Ruth, 5; Zoe, 3; and Bebe, 15 months, I think). We were only there a couple of hours and much fun was had. Also, kids are insane and take a lot of energy. I bow down to Amy Butters and the routines she must have down pat so that bed time, I suspect, is not nearly as confusing for she and Jamie as it was for us.

The weekend was a good one. I worked on my treatment for screenwriting class, which I'm enjoying. It's a completely different approach to writing for me. I also had decided not to continue taking the Women & Islam class - the teacher is fantastic but it's simply too much of a challenge for me.

Most importantly, Gail found some victims to play Apples to Apples with her and, yes, we'll admit it - it was fun. For the first few hours... Poor Rainey, on the other hand, practically passed out on the couch in a Nyquil-induced haze, suffering as she is from the cold that keeps getting passed around.

Monday, I returned to 826 like the ghost of tutoring past and wound up working with a very cool high school kid on a poetry explication. I'm no poetry expert and can barely pronounce "explication" but we had some good conversation and I swear I learned as much from him as he did from me. Love it!