History is written by winners

Emperor Qin Shi Huang united all of China almost 2000 years ago. In doing so, he fought from sky to sky, murdering many Hans and other minority Chinese. He built the first version of the Great Wall literally on the backs of slaves and laborers and conducted massive tragic book burnings to ensure stability of his rule. The Kingdom of China prospered economically under his ruthless and brutal reign, but millions fell victim to his slaughter for his ambition to rewrite history and unite an empire.

Today the Great Wall of China is the pride of the Chinese people, not to mention a great tourist attraction along with the Terracotta army that guards his tomb. Today, unified China speaks of this emperor with praise and reverence. We are taught that China would not be so without his military determination.

After WWII, the Nazi regime in Germany’s past is now a shameful part of the country’s history. The symbol of Nazi Germany, the swastika, is a forbidden symbol and represents the worst acts of humanity almost worldwide. Hitler’s image is the epitome of evil. To say anything to defend his ideals is to offend the world.

I am not comparing the actions of one dictator to the other, almost 2000 years apart and in very different circumstances. But I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if Hitler won, if he succeeded in conquering all of Europe and spreading the Aryan race. A decade or two later, a century or two later, what would our history books say? Would he be praised, despite his cruelties and murders for his vision and determination?

Even as a monster to society, he has contributed greatly to Berlin's tourist industry. Hitler’s bunker, site of Gestapo Headquarters, Olympic Stadium, Sachsenhausen. After all, we have come to Berlin to see these places and to study this past.

Assignment #2 & #4: Ubiquitious Postcard and Space between Postcards

Writing from the moment and writing from memory

For this assignment, postcards were collected on almost a daily basis and "writing of the moment" was conducted standing in the position of where the photograhper of the postcard stood. I chose to take pictures of the postcards instead of purchasing them and wrote in my journal on a space similar in size to that of the back of the postcard. This saved me about 20 Euros and some time I would have spent on technical difficulties trying to scan everything. I typed up my writing excactly as it appeared in my notebook under each picture of th postcard I didn't buy. It might have been slightly more interestng to see the writing in my own handwriting scanned from real post cards, but I hope this will also suffice.

Between each postcard and writing of the moment, I have included "writing from memory." I recalled something that took place between each postcard writing.

1.
8/3/09

Tourists everywhere, climbing all over the green/bronze statues. A man standing in the lady statue’s lap, holding her head into his chest, afraid of slipping. Posing with the statues, cameras clicking. Little boy leaning over the edge of the fountain, a mother nearby watching with another baby in the carriage. Hear more English than German here. Evening light breeze, sun hidden behind trees. Gray sky not blue like the postcard, no clouds at all. Drum beats from buskers behind me, echoing through the square

Two little girls and a little boy no older than four years of age ran passed me screaming and butt naked. I turned just in time to see them splash straight into the fountains beneath the TV tower. Frying under the Berlin sun and melting under the Berlin heat, I was envious. For a moment there, the moist cotton tank top was no longer stuck to my back and I could feel the soft breeze caressing my buttocks. I could feel the droplets of sweat on my face turn cold into the droplets of fountain, chilling my body down to my toes. I could feel the steam evaporating away into the air as enthalpy flows out of my overheated body system to the cooler sink of the fountain…driven by Le Chatelier's Principle. And with that thought, reality struck back quick and hard with heat and exhaustion. I felt dizzy and collapsed into the shade of the old brick church.

2.
8/4/09
TV tower can be seen peaking through between the main dome and the right one, edited out from the postcard. There is a gold cross in the grass, on the left side of the structure in the postcard that cannot be found. Similar to the postcard, tourists are scattered along the fountain, in the grass, posing, cooling down, lounging, picture taking. An Italian group of friends speak loudly to my right, laughing. The gold of the cross on top of the dome is much brighter and stands out much more in front of the gray-blue sky. I cannot come up with a word to describe the color of the dome, will need to look at color grid later. Dark streaks, weathered stone, more black at the base of the domes… acid rain or just normal weathering? So grand compared to everything else around it, colors so bright seems unreal against the backdrop. Looks like a large painting.

A women with dark long hair dressed in a long skirt approached me with a baby carriage and asked me if I spoke English. I said yes and she quickly handed me a notecard. I read the sloppy hand written message and realized she was the Roma that the tour books warned me about. I handed the card back t her and shook my head. "Please! Please!" she said over and over again as I tried to walk away. "For the baby!" she cried. I walked away.

3.
8/5/09
There is a stark difference between the gray sea of cubes and the pastel colored apartment complex in the backdrop, surrounding one side of the memorial – especially bright yellow and salmon colored walls with green roofs. Depending on its height and level of the path can be anywhere from my elbow to over my head, easily drowning me from the streets and from the conversations. Walking into the memorial, a few blocks in, I felt as if I was in my own world. Can hear the outside world, but in private to mourn, to think, or anything else. Packs of students, mostly American students, stepping on blocks, taking pictures on blocks. Security. Little girl giggling, can hear her but cannot see her. Oh there she is, a glimpse through the rows and quickly gone again. I am in an ocean of blocks, waves, engulfing, overwhelming.

I had forty five minute to run back to the apartments to get the passport because I forgot in the morning despite the many reminders. Running down Unter dun Linden, squeezing onto the bus, I noticed how much easier it was to move through the city without a large group. It felt like putting down a giant hiking backpack, I fit better between crowds of bodies, I blended in, and I can people watch instead of always being watched.

4.
8/5/09
There is no doubt that the rubble on the post card is the Reichstag, though bombed and on the verge of collapse, the structure is firmly standing in the form of what it is today. Today, the grass is neatly laid and green. The line of people stretch down the stairs and onto the side walk, I hear the have been waiting for hours to climb to the newly erected glass dome. The German flag flies in front, and on the four towers of the four corners.

I devoured the döner too quickly while speed walking towards Heinrich Hein station. I wished I could have prolonged the taste, the texture, the unyielding craving and instant satisfaction with each bite, chew and swallow. The garlic and yogurt sauce filled my mouth and managed to squeeze through my lips. Pieces of red cabbage fell out of my mouth and onto my white top. I hoped they wouldn’t leave a hint of purple. The cucumber was crisp and refreshing, complimenting perfectly tender bites of chicken. I love you döner.

5.
8/7/09
20+ years later, only the gate is recognizable. The wall is down, along with the signs. The square is cobblestone now. Buildings have risen up where the trees once were on both sides of the gate, the American embassy on the left and something else on the right. Lamps are more decorated and stylish. Iranian flags – groups of protestors forming/ People scattered everywhere, bikers and bikes everywhere. Metal fencing stacked up under the Brandenburg. Orange construction boxes, cars, vans, trucks, parked near the square, right on the square. Construction noises, blue tents, metal construction beams in the foreground. Uniformed guards under the gate, stepping on boxes for tourist pictures, U.S. and Russian flags. Talking, honking, yelling, cars, engines, construction, cameras clicking. Smells of coffee sweets, smoke, and sulfur pockets. Storm trooper under the Brandenburg Gate.

Two kids on the train sat across from each other, slouched and rocking their heads to the loud rap music roaring from their headphones. They looked to be maybe 8 or 9 years old. Everyone once in a while, they would rap along, “F*** this F*** that…” I turned, surprised by the profanity spewing from the two little boy’s mouths. They giggled and exchanged conversation in German. Did they understand the lyrics they were screaming on this quiet train? One pulled out a package of chocolate, ripped it open with his teeth, dumped the candy in his mouth, and tossed the wrapper aside on the floor besides him. The other swung his hands around in the shape of a gun, motioning with the music beat. Loud, inappropriate. Where were their parents? Finally, and annoyed woman turned to them and lectured in German. Probably something about shutting up, acting more appropriately and pick up the candy wrapper. They did and got off at the next station.

8.
8/8/09
It is rainy today, not bright and shiny like the postcard shows. The umbrellas over coffee tables on the sidewalks above the museum are down. Signs on the bridge and building have changed since the postcard picture was taken, there is now a taxi commercial near the clock on the dock where boats depart. The room above the museum has large windows; these are gray and not bright blue as in the postcard, probably reflecting the gray skies. The NOODLE restaurant originally next to the museum as shown in the postcard is no longer present here today. Water is brow. Rain drops. Smell of smoke.

It was hot, too many bodies crammed into such a small space. I squeezed pass with my beer, one hand on my purse and sat down at the nearest booth, crammed with people. If I closed my eyes, I would spin out of control. More people threw their purses at me. I sat guarding them, sipping Becks and trying to stay awake. My clothes were soaking up the smoke. Someone grabbed me with the beginning of American Boy, and pulled me through the bodies. I began to bounce with the beat, swing my arms, bob my head, move my feet, rock my hips, sing to the American lyrics and dance with German bar hoppers.

9.
8/9/09
I cannot tell which statues are which. The white statues on the marble tends are surrounded by metal frames and covered in plastic wrap except for one. Something on Unter de Linden is always masked under cleaning or construction sheets. From where the picture on the postcard was taken, there is a fence surrounding the river, and I cannot get close enough for the same view. The Berliner dome is still apparent in the back, the domes are much greener than the postcard. The golden cross on top stands out the most. Tractor, machines, constructions, gravel and rocks piling, shovels, footsteps. There is a distant accordion playing from across the bridge.

If I die in Berlin, I will die by bike. Over and over again I am pulled or pushed away by dear friends or passer-bys from approaching bicyclists, oncoming bicyclists or bicyclists that seem to come out of nowhere. There is something inviting about the smooth lanes painted brightly with white paint over the gray sidewalk. After a long day of walking on cobblestone and carefully stepping over dog droppings, I am drawn to this evenly laid path. So, repeatedly and daily, I find myself unknowingly walking on the bike path. And each time, I am startled by bell, a shout, or a small hectic dance of feet and wheels as I scramble to remove myself from the path of a bicyclist to save my life.

10.
8/10/09
Museum flags are flying today, but not in the postcard picture. The red tinge of the sky and water in the postcard looks as though it was taken in the early morning or sun down, with a light fog that obscures the details of the buildings in the background. Today, it is afternoon, the sun is bright and everything is clear and the colors more apparent. Above the museums on the island, yellow and red cranes fill the skyline. The river is busy with tour boat traffic there is a smell of burnt rubber. The bridge I am standing on rattles with each vehicle that passes over. The seagulls are loud over my head.

I finally succumbed to my ice cream craving. For one Euro, I treated myself to a single scoop of pistachio ice cream on a small waffle cone. At home I would have probably ordered at least three scoops and end up having only about a third before feeling sick from the sugar and cream. But here, Euros are valuable when realizing that I may not have enough at the end of the trip to take me home, and a single scoop of ice cream can do wonders. So I sat at the fountain in Alexanderplatz, people watched, and slowly licked the small green mound.

11.
8/11/09
The gold edges and the star on the tips of the synagogue stands out more so than in the postcard. The trees in front are larger, taller and more green and full. Doors are closed and fenced off from the sidewalk, cool blue light coming through the windows. Looks uninviting. Two police officers stand to the right of the building. Crowds of voices at the restaurant to the left. Tour buses pass on the street behind me, their loud speakers echo.

He walked up the steps and sat down right in front of the door outside Kaisers. His wagging tail dropped down heavy with gravity the moment his bottom hit the ground. He had a collar, but no leash, like the rest of his kind that resides in Berlin. Chest out and nose up, he eagerly awaited, undistracted by passersby walking past with bags full of delicious eatables. He did not notice the little toddler run up to touch his nose slightly before being pulled away by a large pair of hands. He did not turn his head to the fresh bread that bobbed beside him as the shopper stopped to dig her phone out of her purse. He did not acknowledge my remark about what a pretty dog he was. Minutes later, his tail went up and active, his mouth dropped open into a smile and his long tongue slipped out with the approach of a long legged man. The moment the pair of long legs stepped over the frame of the glass door, he jumped up, turned around and followed the long legs down the stairs, around the corner and disappeared with the legs into the evening.

12.
8/12/09
Gravestones with beds of bushes and flowers: roses, lilies, irises, small pine trees and plants that stick low to the ground. The cemetery can’t be seen in the picture of the postcard. Seems like a pleasant place to sleep through eternity, surrounded by such luscious growth and facing a magnificent white mosque. The colors are easy on my eyes, white, grey, blue stones; gold rims scriptures on the doors. The white clouds pass behind the minarets, life seems to stand still under it. There is no Turkish flag as shown in the postcard. This postcard does not do any justice to this building. I think I can fall asleep here and my worries would somehow melt away in this serenity.

Behind me the music rumbeled. The lights from the beach bars across the water glistened in the reflection of the Spree. Far away a lit passenger train glowing with ambient white light tunneled through the city. I sat with a beer in my hand and my toes burried in the sand of the river bank and thought about what I would remember from this night.

13.
8/16/09
Colors are much more vibrant here than the postcard. The burnt red walls of the Hagia Sofia, the gray of the towers and especially the orient blue windows painted on the towers sticks out. The trees are trimmed down more. Tourists, loudspeakers, car horns, train bells so much noise it just becomes a hum. Pretzel shops, corn shops and other vendors fill the sidewalks and courtyards. Little boy and old men run around with blue buckets of bottled water “colwatta colwatta colwatta.”

On the way from Hagia Sofia to the Blue Mosque, I was tempted by the smell of corn from the street vendors. I traded the young corn vendor the change in my pockets for a lightly salted yellow corn on the cob. The entire interaction took place with a series of pointing. I pointed to the corn, he pointed to the price on the side of his stand. He pointed to the salt, I gestered a little with my fingers. At the end of the transaction I said thank you in English and he nodded but did not smile. The corn was rubbery, but I grew to like it more and more with each bite, the corn taste was rich and pure. It nothing like the sweet American corn I had become accustomed to eating, but more like the corn I grew up with in China.

14.
8/16/09
The green serene scene of the postcard is littered with people, locals, vendors, tourists all over the lawn, the flower beds and fountain. The trees are just as green as the postcard and the flowers just as vibrant. The bushes are cut slightly differently, I see many more palm trees her than on the postcard. The blue mosque is more gray and white. It’s hot and the spray of the fountain carried to me by the wind feels good. People posing, cameras flashing, above the noise the vendors sing. Tour buses and trains roll by. Bodies everywhere. The carpet is lush inside, I am sinking, but it smells like body odor and feet. It is dark inside, nothing like the Turkish mosque in Berlin that was right and pure. It feels dirty, hot and smelly. I want to leave now.

I left the girls undressing in the bathhouse and walked up the slightly creepy alleyway back to the main street of Taksim square. It was evening, the sun was down, the lights were fluorescing and the clubs were bouncing. In the predominantly male filled streets, I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. Some stood outside restaurants and bars and their eyes followed me as I walked passed. Some walked towards me and literally stared me down as we passed each other. Some I felt were even following me. Some approached me and asked why I was alone, and whether I needed company. I was nervous, annoyed and didn’t know how to walk or hold my arms, or carry myself.

15.
8/17/09
The tallest building today is no SHARP AQUOS. There are people everywhere, sitting on luggage, standing, pointing, talking on cell phones. Groups of bikers pass – bike tours. Young German punks linger by the fountain. Yellow man with umbrella and hotdog stand marked “Grill” “1.20 E.” The top of this monument is spinning. Loudspeakers sound of somewhere to my right – PUMA races. Breaks of train on the tracks behind me squeal. Distant drum beats from street artists with distant guitar music. Babies crying. Shoppers with bags, travelers with backpacks. NEW YORK, ESPRIT. Punk girl with necklace and long leash, pulled by another punk boy. Yellow PUMA bike taxi. Smell of fried foods. All these are absent in the postcard.

Sitting outside at a Café under the TV tower, a little girl came behind me and frightened me with a large “Speak English!?!” She had big eyes and a brown little face with spots of dirt around her cheeks and crumbs around her lips. Her white shirt was stained and her shoes were ripped. She shoved her open hands in my face and I had to move quickly to avoid being punctured in the eyes. I shook my head and gave an apologetic smile. “Please!” She screamed and collapsed to the floor hanging from the edge of my table, rocking my coffee. From the corner of my eyes, I see a Roma woman pushing her carriage of a sleeping child through the crowd, reciting her lines. I wonder how is it that the babies these women carry with them are always asleep. I shook my head again and gave her a glare. She rolled her eyes and stumped off to the next table.

16.
8/18/09
My view of the statue is obscured by the crowd of Asians taking pictures, talking, pointing. I think everyone in the crowd is going to take a picture with the statue. I am standing here in a park, surrounded by trees and green grass. The postcard does not look like a park. The shinning glass building in the background is replaced by empty space. The palace is no longer there, just open green grass now. Marx’s knees are more coppered colored, worn down by people’s hands. I can hear children and dogs splashing in the fountain behind me.

I opened my eyes only to shut them quickly again to the sharp piercing rays of the afternoon sun, slowly disappearing behind the Berliner Dome. My stomach was damp from the grass and my arms were numb and asleep beneath my face. I had been asleep on the grass where the Palace no longer stood for nearly 25 minutes now. The butterfly kite was still floating over my head, the little girls were still chasing each other on the boardwalk, and the lovers were still cuddling near the Spree.

17.
8/22/09
I think this is my favorite train station. The entire structure is made of glass windows, reflecting the sun, the sky and the river that runs beside it. The red trains pull in and out from the same way. The windows on the terminal are all open and slanted. Backpackers appear to be the most abundant travelers today. Bikers seem to be everywhere. Sand bars beneath the station let off distant beats. People sit along the river bank. The windows look black on the other side, where the sun shines on directly. I am on that boat, seen in the postcard. Shielding my eyes from the sun and taking in Berlin from the perspective of the Spree.

Accordian player

I heard a little dark haired boy sitting on the bridge over the Spree, playing 3 notes and two chords scattered in rhythm and melody. I could not bear to watch him. Every time he sped up, skipped a beat, crashed his chord - my thoughts sped up, my heart skipped a beat and I felt as though I would crash into a tree. But when I turned around, and walked away along the river towards the dreamy antiquity of Museum Island, the basic rules of music making no longer applied. The voice of the accordion echoed through the columns of Bose Museum, bounced through the green crisp willow branches, rang through my ears and I was enchanted.

I few steps away, I quickly ran back to toss him a coin.

communism was more elegently done in Germany

The survallence equiptmen at the Stasi Museum seemed slightly ridiculous to me. Large bulky cameras were hidden in tree-stumps, garbage cans and other very day things, as if trying too hard to be sneaky. Never the less, they were survallence where massive amounts of data were collected for each citizen of the GDR. I decided to start my research here by asking the guide some questions regarding German perception of Soviet communism and the GDR era.

Q: It appears to me that communism here in Germany is regarded almost less negatively, with GDR memorabilia everywhere and nostalgia for Eat Germany. Why do you think that is?

A: Hmmm… I’m not sure… I think that perhaps communism was done more elegantly here in Germany. I think theSoviet communists did a good job infiltrating the society, Germans felt that their government was their own, German, instead of feelling like an outside regime like the Soveit Union was ruling the system.

Could it be that the oppression and cruelty of the communist regime was hidden under the elegance so well that when former GDR citizens reminisce, they can easily overlook the bad parts of life?

Döner oh Döner

Before I left for Berlin,

I thought I’d give my mind a little spin,

And I quizzed myself on what I knew of Germany.

When I tried to think of German food,

Nothing came up, so I must conclude,

That there must not be anything all that special.

When I arrived and went out to dinner,

It was sausage, and sausage, am I just a beginner?

Surely there must be more than that.

Then I was introduced to schnitzel,

But not even when being held up by pistol,

Could I say that it was anything but breaded meat.

How about curry-wurst? Someone offered,

What? That’s barely even altered!

It’s just curry and sausage!

Finally, I came upon the Döner.

While perhaps it is the loner,

It’s some of the best food I’ve ever had.

Chicken, beef, or lamb,

I ate all that I could cram,

I had it for atleast half my meals.

Then I learned it’s actually Turkish.

Assignment #3: Wrting Istanbul

Rugs and Kilims


Outside a rug and kilim shop, a young Turkish man caught my hand and would not let go. Like all conversations in Istanbul that start with “where are you from?” he lured me in with his enamoring smile and beguiling curiosity. Inside the carpet shop, he wanted to show me his world of carpets. I told him I was a student without money in my pockets, but he insisted I stay and offered me çay.

Outside, the street roared on with yellow taxis, bargaining tourists and distant callings of “colwata colwata colwata!” The clouds raced through the mid-afternoon sky behind half crescent moons and minarets while bodies, glistening with sweat, slid sluggishly passed each other shoulder to shoulder. The humidity left a mask of condensation on my face and a damp band on my right shoulder where my messenger bag hung, filled with cashmere scarves, evil eyes and blue jeweled earrings - all the little pieces of Istanbul I could afford to take home with me.

Inside, the room was hot and stuffy, a musty smell of wool and old incense drifted towards me slowly and disappeared quickly. Bright colors and bold geometric patterns insulated the floors and walls, turquoise and purple to the more traditional red, pink, ivory, green, and blue. Heavy textures, some wrapped in thin plastic, draped from the ceilings.

But this was not what he wanted to show me. Taking my hand and without a word, he led me to the back of the room and down a long spiral staircase dimly lit by a single orange bulb at the bottom. I wanted to walk quickly, longing for the thin cool air rising from beneath. But I walked slowly, uneasy to part with the refuge of the busy streets and clammy crowds outside.

The so called “friendliness” of strangers in the street, especially that of men, is all too familiar to me. They come in forms of flattering words to sell jewelry and cat calls to intimidate, or even to degrade, if you cross to the wrong side of town. And even though the hospitality of Istanbul is renowned, my guards are kept up high, always in fear of tourist traps and trickeries, afraid to be taken advantage of as a single female wandering through an unfamiliar space and culture. In the states, there is always thin line between nice men and creepy ones.

We stepped into a room furnished in one corner with a couch, loveseat and coffee table, and the others with rolls of rugs. The walls, like upstairs, were dressed with carpets and kilims, but this time arranged with a more tactful touch. I was invited to sit on the couch draped with furs, silks and textiles, and our çay arrived in the familiar “ince belli” glass with two cubes of sugar.

He flipped through a book of business cards and spoke of his high society costumers from all around the world. I learned that he shared this family business with an uncle and cousin, that he was excited to visit the states for the first time this December, and that Turkish oriental rugs is more than a job, but a passion.

He asked to show me his favorite rugs, and slowly unrolled one after another onto the wooden floor. One by one, he translated to me the patterns of the borders – tree of life, birds of prey, horns of ram. He pointed out the central themes and motifs – strength, fertility, fortune. He revealed to me the material and animal of which the rugs were weaved from – cotton, camel, sheep. Many other insights though, became lost to me through the Turkish language of rugs.

His eyebrow crinkled inward as he delved deeper into the history, and when he noticed my confused stare and blank nods, he would look up, smile and ask “do you think it’s beautiful?”

All the while, I let the black tea drain through my system and relax my senses, filling in English words that he stumbled on, smiling at his shy but obvious attempts to boast and noticing that outside, the afternoon was progressing to evening, the crowds were dispersing into restaurants, and the rendezvous time with my friends was quickly approaching. But I was not concerned, because inside, I was immersed in the most exotic world of ancient nomadic travels, camel woven rugs and Turkish hospitality.

When he thought I had enough, he sat down next to me, scanning over his kingdom of rugs, silently admiring and expecting me to do the same.

I admired with him, and I admired him.

When the silence became uncomfortable, but before I could try to make an escape back to the outside world, he stood up and again took my hand. “I have another room” was all he said as he led me again towards the back of the room, and down another long spiral stairway, deeper inside.

This time I could see nothing at the bottom of the stairs.

He let go of my hand and I heard him walk away. I stirred quickly out of my Istanbul dream: I was alone with a stranger, three floors down in a dark room...

Before my nerves and frightening thoughts could translate into a fleeing response, the lights flickered on from one corner to the other, illuminating an even more ancient world.

“Antiques” he said through his wide grin.

There was also a couch and table in the corner of this room, but we did not sit down. He led me gently by the shoulders, walking from rug to kilim. I saw reverence in his eyes, but only dull worn textiles on the wall. He touched the delicate embroideries as if he felt magic; I felt stiff and crusty wool and quickly pulled away. He traveled to Egypt to bid for that one, this one is in a rug book. Each is original and unique, the only one in the world. I nodded, smiled, told him they were beautiful, but I knew nothing of their beauty.

He forgave my ignorance.

Who knew that every moment I spend in Istanbul, I would become more in awe of this city. I fell in love the first night as we drove in from the airport. Through the dusty windows of our tour bus, I saw antiquity; I saw deteriorating brick walls; I saw mosques illuminated by an orange glow of the street lamps at every turn; I saw a city that did not sleep. I drifted in and out of slumber each morning to prayer calls, breathed in the scent of the Bosphorus, and stuffed myself with Turkish meats and delights. The merchants of the streets, with their trinkets and treats, made comedic remarks and indulged their visitors. The hills grew from both sides of the deep blue, sometimes turquoise colored Bosphorus, and all around, domes of the mosques and their minarets, remains of the Byzantine and Ottoman treasures, pierced through the hills and valleys of red tinted roofs.

And here, two long spiral stairways below ground, far removed from the exhausting city outside, calm and cool inside, I am drawn to a Turkish carpet man and his rugs.

He asked me to accompany him to Taksim Square that night. I took his business card as if I had a phone. He would be waiting there, in his rug and kilim shop, but I made no promises.

He drew me close and showed me a Turkish goodbye, his hands firmly on my shoulders and his lips lingering on my cheeks. I thanked him for the çay, walked up two spiral staircases and reentered the noise and commotion of the streets outside.



Inside the Egyptian Bazaar, a good five minute walk from his shop, I paused to let my thoughts catch up with me. Amidst the aroma of tea and spices I thought about rugs and kilims.

I walked outside onto the cobblestone square and the evening prayer rang from all sides. I closed my eyes as the breeze of the Bosphorus swept through my hair and the wings of the pigeons glided across my skin. I took a deep breath and salvaged the spices, the bodies, and the beef of the döner stands.

Outside, I was surrounded by a mystic Eastern melody, drifting from minaret to minaret, lifting me high where the seagulls hovered over the fishermen. Inside I was filled with content, but overwhelmed with longing to stay in this moment forever.

The prayer ended and I stood a moment, letting the three day dream of Istanbul and all its sensuous wealth wash over me before I crossed back over the Bosphorus to Bilgi Dorm.

Antiquity outside my window

Outside the window of Bilgi dorm, the tips of a mosque and its minarets are illuminated by a dull yellow light. These lights illuminate the city, casting antiquity and arousing a surreal feeling in my stomach. Just behind the mosque, I can barely make out shadows of stone buildings on a hill, with specks of the same yellow light. Below the window several stories is a tin roof, worn and patched, and below that, is a hole in the ground with a few thin boards thrown carelessly over it.

The alley way three stories down, illuminated by a single warm orange-hued light, is scattered with old chairs and rolled up rugs tossed in the corners. A few stories above, in the black of the night, a window shines with a blue tintd cold white light. The figures capped white gowns and white hats, rolls and pounds on a white lump of dough.

The outer layer of concrete sheds into an inner layer of bricks. Every wall here reflects the unkind aging of the city and dark marks of weather and pollution.

The city is calm, but alive at 3 in the morning. Not with flashing lights like Vegas, or with clicking of wine glasses like Italy, and not with a rumbling base of a techno beat like the beach bars along the Spree. The night is cool, and perhaps that is the reason why there are so many still out.
Along the bridge men and boys fish, their long slim poles arch over the dark still water. Beneath the bridge, a long line of colorful draperies flow with the morning breeze as women and men sit, chatting and sipping chai out of thin-waisted glasses. Old men blow smoke out of the colorful water pipes and brush their game pieces back and forth on the green velvet table top.

Would I be too Western or too cliché in feeling that I have stumbled upon an exotic jewel that is the orient?