I'm bored to death of trite travel writing with descriptions of foreign traffic jams, toilets and cultural misunderstandings. But here I go....
The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a stark contrast to the world outside: trucks spewing fumes dodging eachother, tuk-tuks and daring pedestrians; limbless beggars and half-constructed buildings. It was built by one of Ceylon's English governors, for his local mistress. Bits of "The Bridge Over the River Kwai," were filmed here. It’s nothing, if not a nice place to rest your head after a long flight.
A train heading straight to the city leaves from just outside the hotel, taking it costs about 10 cents. Of course, we missed the train, and grabbed a cab. This was the first in a series of confrontational business transactions. Of course, once we got through that, we learned the cabby had four kids--two boys, two girls. He dropped us off at Majestic City, one of Colombo's biggest shopping malls. The smell of sweet-popcorn wafted through the air-conditioned atmosphere alongside club-volume techno-music. Teenagers and families alike strolled through. As a rule I hate shopping malls, but this one had its own special charm.
Our first tuk-tuk ride took us to Colombo's fort, and to a travel agent that didn't exist. So on foot, we searched the city for an umbrella and walked to the "World Trade Centre" to make some adjustments to our return flight. The agent we spoke with sat in front of a computer but sent our request to London via "telex," which is apparently the thing before email.
Our second tuk-tuk driver proved to us that traffic laws do exist in Colombo, and that they are enforced. The traffic ahead of us seemed never-ending, and if I'd had the chance, the balls, I would've skipped ahead of it too. I guess he thought he could get away with driving on the wrong side of the road, but I think his near-collision with a motorcycle cop was the first mistake. Eventually, the cops did manage to make him pull over. They peeked in the back and informed us, the passengers, "He dangerous."
After a long chat, the driver came back and drove us to the train station. He said something about going to court…
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Monday, 17 November 2008
Long Overdue
I haven't written anything in ages... in part it's because I've been pre-occupied with other things. In part, it's because it's been a long time since I've felt like I'm on vacation, and I guess that despite my lack of feeling settled, I'm living real life now. Maybe feeling unsettled is part of that. In any case, it is somehow easier for me to process events when they are new, when they are temporary. This posting I actually wrote in September, a night out with friends but on my own at the same time. If you manage to make it through, I can tell you what the next one will be about. In any case, the posting is long overdue:
Head.
What?
La tete.
Excuse me?
How do you say it in French, giving head?
Ah, I see, la pipe...
I'm standing in line at subway and it would be fabulous if my night were already over. I'm sure I wish that less than the guys standing behind the counter. I've just come from a children's psychiatric hospital. Well, it's not that anymore. Now there are adults living there and no doctors. The adults pay £80 per week.
A new crop of drunkards has walked into the restaurant--if you care to call Subway a restaurant. One of them tries to butt in front of me but the guy behind the counter knows I was there first, so ignores him and takes my order.
A WHOLE SIX INCHES!!!
That's the drunk guy.
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN TAKE ALL THAT??
Wow, so charming. It's easy to ignore him, but his friend manages to be even more obnoxious. The friend walks behind me and touches my head. I politely ask him to not (fucking) touch me and he repeats my words in a mocking tone, because what else could a drunk guy with a limited vocabulary actually say?
At times like these I start to think laws that limit alcohol consumption (Thank you Boris, for your first law in London) are a good idea. Would religion help? Some might.
Now back to the mental hospital. I can't decide if I find it creepy or not. The railings and flooring are made of wood and the windows are big with nice curtains. It's not institutional, in the way modern hospitals are. There are still kid's books lying around though and thats a bit weird. One is about lions eating little boys or something, how can that be good for psychologically disturbed children? Still, if I weren't so intent on getting a "real home" this might be a good place to move into.
The bus home is filled with more drunk people. I had to wait ages at King's Cross to get it. There was a group of men wearing bright orange vests huddled around the entrance of the station and as I watched them, I wondered if their presence had anything to do with today's evacuation. I wasn't in the station, but outside. The sidewalk was jammed with people, some of them freaking out. One lady was shoved up against a news stand and loudly saying to no one, everyone, "One minute you're just standing there and another, there are so many people you can't move! What is going on here???"
I heard someone say something about a bomb scare.
But it was actually another evacuation that put me in the mental hospital.
Earlier in the evening, I was standing outside a pub, freezing and hungry while Bruno rolled a cigarette and Lili tried to convince a carpet layer that his views on immigration were misinformed. I ditched them to go home, so made my way down to Oxford Circus and the Central Line. When I got to the bottom of the escalator, sirens started blaring. I kept walking with the crowd for a moment and then everyone stopped suddenly, collective delayed-reaction. Then someone said, "There's an emergency, we have to evacuate."
Some people tried to go up the escalator that was the still rolling down. Then we all
started walking forward, through the maze of tube-station hallways.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... ALL PASSENGERS ARE NOW BEING ASKED TO EVACUATE DUE TO AN EMERGENCY.
I walked in the crowd and turned a corner and then another. I half expected a cloud of black smoke to be greeting me around each one. Then I heard someone say, There's a body on the tracks... But who knows if that was true?
I wondered if maybe that lame goodbye to Lili and Bruno would be the last anyone ever heard from me. Then I told myself to just calm down, the exit would be right around the next corner. It was. Then I went to the mental hospital.
The next posting will be about finance. It's as if I'm learning through osmosis, just by being here...
Head.
What?
La tete.
Excuse me?
How do you say it in French, giving head?
Ah, I see, la pipe...
I'm standing in line at subway and it would be fabulous if my night were already over. I'm sure I wish that less than the guys standing behind the counter. I've just come from a children's psychiatric hospital. Well, it's not that anymore. Now there are adults living there and no doctors. The adults pay £80 per week.
A new crop of drunkards has walked into the restaurant--if you care to call Subway a restaurant. One of them tries to butt in front of me but the guy behind the counter knows I was there first, so ignores him and takes my order.
A WHOLE SIX INCHES!!!
That's the drunk guy.
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN TAKE ALL THAT??
Wow, so charming. It's easy to ignore him, but his friend manages to be even more obnoxious. The friend walks behind me and touches my head. I politely ask him to not (fucking) touch me and he repeats my words in a mocking tone, because what else could a drunk guy with a limited vocabulary actually say?
At times like these I start to think laws that limit alcohol consumption (Thank you Boris, for your first law in London) are a good idea. Would religion help? Some might.
Now back to the mental hospital. I can't decide if I find it creepy or not. The railings and flooring are made of wood and the windows are big with nice curtains. It's not institutional, in the way modern hospitals are. There are still kid's books lying around though and thats a bit weird. One is about lions eating little boys or something, how can that be good for psychologically disturbed children? Still, if I weren't so intent on getting a "real home" this might be a good place to move into.
The bus home is filled with more drunk people. I had to wait ages at King's Cross to get it. There was a group of men wearing bright orange vests huddled around the entrance of the station and as I watched them, I wondered if their presence had anything to do with today's evacuation. I wasn't in the station, but outside. The sidewalk was jammed with people, some of them freaking out. One lady was shoved up against a news stand and loudly saying to no one, everyone, "One minute you're just standing there and another, there are so many people you can't move! What is going on here???"
I heard someone say something about a bomb scare.
But it was actually another evacuation that put me in the mental hospital.
Earlier in the evening, I was standing outside a pub, freezing and hungry while Bruno rolled a cigarette and Lili tried to convince a carpet layer that his views on immigration were misinformed. I ditched them to go home, so made my way down to Oxford Circus and the Central Line. When I got to the bottom of the escalator, sirens started blaring. I kept walking with the crowd for a moment and then everyone stopped suddenly, collective delayed-reaction. Then someone said, "There's an emergency, we have to evacuate."
Some people tried to go up the escalator that was the still rolling down. Then we all
started walking forward, through the maze of tube-station hallways.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... ALL PASSENGERS ARE NOW BEING ASKED TO EVACUATE DUE TO AN EMERGENCY.
I walked in the crowd and turned a corner and then another. I half expected a cloud of black smoke to be greeting me around each one. Then I heard someone say, There's a body on the tracks... But who knows if that was true?
I wondered if maybe that lame goodbye to Lili and Bruno would be the last anyone ever heard from me. Then I told myself to just calm down, the exit would be right around the next corner. It was. Then I went to the mental hospital.
The next posting will be about finance. It's as if I'm learning through osmosis, just by being here...
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Job Hunting
Yesterday I had my first meeting at a London employment agency.
Considering how hard its been for me to get these people to open their doors for me, it makes my desire to work for the BBC look like the equivalent of aspiring to walk on the moon. In any case, I was finally allowed in to one of these places. They sat me down at a computer and asked, "Do you audio-type?" I said sure, I guess so, and I've always considered myself a pretty good typist.
"Don't curse yourself!" The lady replied.
Then, at that moment, I actually developed a sense of nervousness.
What if I really am a crap typist and have just been deluding myself all these years?
And if I fail these tests then... I really should just go home and desperately thank the CBC for allowing me to sit at their desks and bang out the notes I take while on the phone, be glad to not work at McDonald's or Marks & Spencer... (I am glad anyhow, every day.)
When I was finally brought back upstairs the interview process began. This is the part where they determine whether or not I have a personality, whether I bathe regularly, whether I pick my nose in public... I asked to see the test-scores.
The results? Well, lets just say there's hope for me yet. I wouldn't want to brag....
Considering how hard its been for me to get these people to open their doors for me, it makes my desire to work for the BBC look like the equivalent of aspiring to walk on the moon. In any case, I was finally allowed in to one of these places. They sat me down at a computer and asked, "Do you audio-type?" I said sure, I guess so, and I've always considered myself a pretty good typist.
"Don't curse yourself!" The lady replied.
Then, at that moment, I actually developed a sense of nervousness.
What if I really am a crap typist and have just been deluding myself all these years?
And if I fail these tests then... I really should just go home and desperately thank the CBC for allowing me to sit at their desks and bang out the notes I take while on the phone, be glad to not work at McDonald's or Marks & Spencer... (I am glad anyhow, every day.)
When I was finally brought back upstairs the interview process began. This is the part where they determine whether or not I have a personality, whether I bathe regularly, whether I pick my nose in public... I asked to see the test-scores.
The results? Well, lets just say there's hope for me yet. I wouldn't want to brag....
Friday, 9 May 2008
Thursday, 1 May 2008
An Obituary
Born in a Chinese factory, made with bits of plastic and silicone from around the world, my Nokia cell phone died quickly and painlessly at approximately 4:30 pm yesterday--April 30th, 2008.
I turned on my bike near Angel Tube Station in London, when the phone flew out of my pocket and directly under the wheel of a bus. A kind passer-by attempted CPR, but several important internal organs were crushed during the accident. There was no hope.
A public memorial service will be held in Abney Cemetary, Stoke Newington, at 2pm on May 2.
I turned on my bike near Angel Tube Station in London, when the phone flew out of my pocket and directly under the wheel of a bus. A kind passer-by attempted CPR, but several important internal organs were crushed during the accident. There was no hope.
A public memorial service will be held in Abney Cemetary, Stoke Newington, at 2pm on May 2.
Saturday, 26 April 2008
Turkish Viagra
Some people (usually roasted chestnut vendors) claim that "Turkish Viagra" is found in chestnuts. Personally, I believe it is found in Turkish olive oil, maybe Turkish air, or maybe Turkish water. Wherever it comes from, it is plentiful in Istanbul.
Its impact first hit me upon arrival at Ataturk Airport. I approached security at the domestic gate, placing my carry-on bag on the x-ray conveyor-belt. A guard stood facing me, looking me in the eye and taking one step back with every step forward I took. I removed my coat. "Shoes please," he said. I removed my shoes. "Belt please," I removed my belt. "T-shirt."
I stopped.
He repeated, "T-shirt, please."
I looked at him, raising my eyebrows. He stared back, unsmiling.
His friends looked on from the other side of the gate. They remained composed for just a minute, then cracked up, laughing, saying something in Turkish. I walked through the metal-detector with my t-shirt on. Apparently I was not a security threat.
I am a frequent flyer but, I'd never met an airport security guard with such a comic approach to his job. I spent the next week driving along the winding roads of Turkey's South East coast and laughing about the encounter. I thought it was random, but a week on my own in Istanbul changed my mind.
There's not one particular story that serves to exemplify my Istanbul experience. There was a story on every corner, on every half-block.
I appreciate a sense of public life: the idea that people are not tucked away behind desks emailing each other (as my life so often tends to be) or at home in front of televisions. Istanbul has a larger than life public life, but as far as I can tell, it's entirely male-dominated. I was never served by a woman in a restaurant and never encountered a woman sitting outside a carpet shop sipping tea.
Bored young men are everywhere, standing around and looking for distraction. Tourists are perfect for this. They may say they're in the city to see the Hagia Sophia and get rubbed down at a hamam, but really they're without purpose. I'm the worst for this, as I am rarely inclined towards formal sightseeing. I tend towards wandering the streets and drinking coffee until the place feels familiar. So that's what I did in Istanbul, and everywhere I went I was welcomed with the opportunity to work on my meager Turkish vocabulary.
For my few words I barely paid for a meal (although I tried), and I even dodged offers of free hotel rooms. After two days, I was devising circuitous routes so as to avoid bumping into the men who I'd had conversations with the day before (conversations which I'd escaped by saying, "I've got to go but maybe I'll stop by and say hello tomorrow"). The conversations were standardized, and I'm sure, perfected in Italian, French, Spanish, Japanese…
That's not to say I didn't notice the finer points of Turkish sexual-dynamics. I learned to enjoy having doors held open for me, and considering my general clumsy-ness--I appreciated the sense of protection that comes with walking beside a man who's watching my back (or at least the road). Its conjures up an opposite memory: of a boyfriend who left me stranded with a flat tire on my bike in the middle of winter in downtown Toronto. Or for a subtler example: there was the band I interviewed in Istanbul. One of the musicians was American, but had grown up in Canada. The Turkish musician stuck firmly to the ladies-first mentality. The Canadian walked through doors in front of me and let them swing shut. We shared a cab, and before getting out he stopped for a second, looking back and asking, "Hey, you don't need any money for this do you?"
My Turkish adventure began much as it ended. I paid the clerk at my hotel 7 Lira 50 for the airport shuttle. I asked for a cup of tea and he led me to the dining room. There, he did not give me tea but gently brushed the hair out of my eyes, put his arm around me and tried to pull me close. I turned around and went outside to the bench to wait for the shuttle. He followed me and sat down beside me. "Next time you come to Istanbul, we go (hand motion for walking)? You will be my darling?"
NOTES FOR LAURA GREEN: I stained my new green shirt over breakfast on my first day in Kusadasi... you claimed you wanted to know these things. Upon meeting an archaeologist who I'd lined up an interview with, he offered me a glass of water. Can you guess what happened next? Of course you can. Not just spillage, but breakage. Immediate, breakage. When I left Istanbul, I accidentally stole the key to my hotel room. I'd been told there was only one. I also accidentally stole Clive Stafford Smith's scissors, and Billy's toothbrush (but neither of these cases of petty thievery occurred in Istanbul.) Also, I showed up early for my flight from Istanbul back to London. A whole day early, in fact.
Its impact first hit me upon arrival at Ataturk Airport. I approached security at the domestic gate, placing my carry-on bag on the x-ray conveyor-belt. A guard stood facing me, looking me in the eye and taking one step back with every step forward I took. I removed my coat. "Shoes please," he said. I removed my shoes. "Belt please," I removed my belt. "T-shirt."
I stopped.
He repeated, "T-shirt, please."
I looked at him, raising my eyebrows. He stared back, unsmiling.
His friends looked on from the other side of the gate. They remained composed for just a minute, then cracked up, laughing, saying something in Turkish. I walked through the metal-detector with my t-shirt on. Apparently I was not a security threat.
I am a frequent flyer but, I'd never met an airport security guard with such a comic approach to his job. I spent the next week driving along the winding roads of Turkey's South East coast and laughing about the encounter. I thought it was random, but a week on my own in Istanbul changed my mind.
There's not one particular story that serves to exemplify my Istanbul experience. There was a story on every corner, on every half-block.
I appreciate a sense of public life: the idea that people are not tucked away behind desks emailing each other (as my life so often tends to be) or at home in front of televisions. Istanbul has a larger than life public life, but as far as I can tell, it's entirely male-dominated. I was never served by a woman in a restaurant and never encountered a woman sitting outside a carpet shop sipping tea.
Bored young men are everywhere, standing around and looking for distraction. Tourists are perfect for this. They may say they're in the city to see the Hagia Sophia and get rubbed down at a hamam, but really they're without purpose. I'm the worst for this, as I am rarely inclined towards formal sightseeing. I tend towards wandering the streets and drinking coffee until the place feels familiar. So that's what I did in Istanbul, and everywhere I went I was welcomed with the opportunity to work on my meager Turkish vocabulary.
For my few words I barely paid for a meal (although I tried), and I even dodged offers of free hotel rooms. After two days, I was devising circuitous routes so as to avoid bumping into the men who I'd had conversations with the day before (conversations which I'd escaped by saying, "I've got to go but maybe I'll stop by and say hello tomorrow"). The conversations were standardized, and I'm sure, perfected in Italian, French, Spanish, Japanese…
That's not to say I didn't notice the finer points of Turkish sexual-dynamics. I learned to enjoy having doors held open for me, and considering my general clumsy-ness--I appreciated the sense of protection that comes with walking beside a man who's watching my back (or at least the road). Its conjures up an opposite memory: of a boyfriend who left me stranded with a flat tire on my bike in the middle of winter in downtown Toronto. Or for a subtler example: there was the band I interviewed in Istanbul. One of the musicians was American, but had grown up in Canada. The Turkish musician stuck firmly to the ladies-first mentality. The Canadian walked through doors in front of me and let them swing shut. We shared a cab, and before getting out he stopped for a second, looking back and asking, "Hey, you don't need any money for this do you?"
My Turkish adventure began much as it ended. I paid the clerk at my hotel 7 Lira 50 for the airport shuttle. I asked for a cup of tea and he led me to the dining room. There, he did not give me tea but gently brushed the hair out of my eyes, put his arm around me and tried to pull me close. I turned around and went outside to the bench to wait for the shuttle. He followed me and sat down beside me. "Next time you come to Istanbul, we go (hand motion for walking)? You will be my darling?"
NOTES FOR LAURA GREEN: I stained my new green shirt over breakfast on my first day in Kusadasi... you claimed you wanted to know these things. Upon meeting an archaeologist who I'd lined up an interview with, he offered me a glass of water. Can you guess what happened next? Of course you can. Not just spillage, but breakage. Immediate, breakage. When I left Istanbul, I accidentally stole the key to my hotel room. I'd been told there was only one. I also accidentally stole Clive Stafford Smith's scissors, and Billy's toothbrush (but neither of these cases of petty thievery occurred in Istanbul.) Also, I showed up early for my flight from Istanbul back to London. A whole day early, in fact.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Stoke-Newington. It's just like Turkey, only colder.
It only took me a day to find my first "miracle-food" here in London, and I owe it all to Stoke-Newington.
That's the neighbourhood where I currently make my home.
And its the hood's Turkish influence that's bringing me the goodness.
So that first miracle-food, is a miracle first off, because it only costs £1.50. It's called "gozleme," and it's a flat bread stuffed with either spinach and feta, or spicy potatoes. I'm sure there are other varieties... but I haven't stumbled over them yet.
Anyhow, just one of these babies makes a great meal. Perfect for lunch. For a while I was going in the shop almost every day.
There are two women who run the show there. One of them sits on a little stool less than a foot high, flattens and stuffs the bread, then cooks it on what looks like an upside down wok. She wears a headscarf, never utters a word. The other woman takes the cash, she's the smiley chatty-one. The last time I went in there she started asking, "How have you been? Where have you been? Is everything alright?"
She actually hadn't said much to me up until that point, not much, other than telling me if I wanted a baklava, I'd have to buy a whole box. So I guess I was a bit surprised at her concern. Surprised, but touched.
I think I'm ready to take my relationship with the gozleme ladies to the next level. I have a phrase, for the quiet one. Please, don't take offence to my Turkish mis-spelling. Here it is:
Elé nezé saaluk.
Health to your hands.
I like that. Its beautiful. Why don't we have sayings like that in English? Or am I just so accustomed to them that I don't even notice?
My next miracle food was the hummus-kebab. It costs only £2, and doesn't necessitate the eating of any of the meat on the massive, rotating spit. I'll eat that at some point I'm sure... but the hummus-kebab keeps it light. The first time I ever ordered one, I realized that I'd forgotten my wallet. I told the guy behind the counter to put the sandwich on hold and was about to run off but then the boss yelled, "Stop! Just take it, it's no problem."
Of course, the next day I popped in and dropped of the £2.
The third miracle-food is my current favourite. Yet again, we're looking at £1.50. And the taste, ohhhhh, the tasty-goodness of the Lamashun, is unparalleled. Basically, it's lamb wrapped up in a flatbread with salad and garlic-sauce and hot sauce.
That noise, you ask? My stomach, growling.
So this is my taste of Turkey, but in the snowy-English spring.
I'll get the real thing on Sunday.
That's the neighbourhood where I currently make my home.
And its the hood's Turkish influence that's bringing me the goodness.
So that first miracle-food, is a miracle first off, because it only costs £1.50. It's called "gozleme," and it's a flat bread stuffed with either spinach and feta, or spicy potatoes. I'm sure there are other varieties... but I haven't stumbled over them yet.
Anyhow, just one of these babies makes a great meal. Perfect for lunch. For a while I was going in the shop almost every day.
There are two women who run the show there. One of them sits on a little stool less than a foot high, flattens and stuffs the bread, then cooks it on what looks like an upside down wok. She wears a headscarf, never utters a word. The other woman takes the cash, she's the smiley chatty-one. The last time I went in there she started asking, "How have you been? Where have you been? Is everything alright?"
She actually hadn't said much to me up until that point, not much, other than telling me if I wanted a baklava, I'd have to buy a whole box. So I guess I was a bit surprised at her concern. Surprised, but touched.
I think I'm ready to take my relationship with the gozleme ladies to the next level. I have a phrase, for the quiet one. Please, don't take offence to my Turkish mis-spelling. Here it is:
Elé nezé saaluk.
Health to your hands.
I like that. Its beautiful. Why don't we have sayings like that in English? Or am I just so accustomed to them that I don't even notice?
My next miracle food was the hummus-kebab. It costs only £2, and doesn't necessitate the eating of any of the meat on the massive, rotating spit. I'll eat that at some point I'm sure... but the hummus-kebab keeps it light. The first time I ever ordered one, I realized that I'd forgotten my wallet. I told the guy behind the counter to put the sandwich on hold and was about to run off but then the boss yelled, "Stop! Just take it, it's no problem."
Of course, the next day I popped in and dropped of the £2.
The third miracle-food is my current favourite. Yet again, we're looking at £1.50. And the taste, ohhhhh, the tasty-goodness of the Lamashun, is unparalleled. Basically, it's lamb wrapped up in a flatbread with salad and garlic-sauce and hot sauce.
That noise, you ask? My stomach, growling.
So this is my taste of Turkey, but in the snowy-English spring.
I'll get the real thing on Sunday.
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