Creative Confidence

F@*# self-doubt. I despise it. I hold it in contempt, along with the hell-spawned ooze-pit of Reistance from which it crawled. I will NEVER back off. I will NEVER give the work anything less than 100%. If I go down in flames, so be it. I'll be back. ~Steven Pressfield


 Are you confident in your ability to be creative? Do you feel free enough in your spirit to create your own art without fear of being judged? Do you have the courage to create irrespective of what others might say about the child borne of your creative passion?

When I was a kid, I frequently used to refuse to engage in creative endeavors or I would purposely create something bad just to prove I wasn't artistic. I put these limits on myself because my brothers were quite the artists, one was great at drawing and the other a musician. My mindset took the perspective that since I couldn't be a better artist than them I would just avoid creative undertakings all together, I would supress my creative inclinations. I believe this mindset came about because I was silly enough to compare myself to others and I was extremely competitive. There are times, I have learned, that having an extremely competitive nature can hinder one's ability to grow, to enjoy.

I didn't really begin to indulge my creative instincts until I graduated from college. My creative expression began with the written word then to photography followed by painting with vibrant acrylics. For a couple of years I was heavy into woodwork which lead to crafting knife handles out of uncommon wooods and other exotic materials. This past year, I have come full circle to expressing myself with the written word via this blog. I toyed with the idea of writing a book, a personal experience trieste, but the circumstances around which the book was to be themed, my life in an exotic land, fell through so, at this time, the plan to write a book is on hold.

Oddly enought, I am most likely to enter the zone when I am creating my art. I say oddly, because for a long time I surpressed this instinct out of fear of not measuring up to someone else, to anyone else. I say oddly, because, growing up, I considered myself an academic, an intellectual, not a creative, not one of those oddball artists wearing funny clothing and spouting bizarre thoughts. I was a 'normal' person.

 I have since come to believe that we all have a creative instinct, an instinct to create our own art, an inner drive to create our own beauty. I believe we tend to not indulge this deep rooted instinct out of fear, out of fear of criticism, out of fear of rejection, out of fear we are not good enough.

My art does not win awards, does not get displayed in a gallery, does not make me famous. My art does not bring me financial gain. I have sold a few photos but not enough to come close to offsetting the financial investment in materials, not enough to pay back the time spent creating my art. In fact, the money received from my photographs just barely covered the cost to have the photo produced by the local photo store.

But that's ok because I don't create art for others. If someone else finds my art pleasing then I'm glad I could bring some joy into their life. If not then there is no lasting affect on me. I don't create art for financial gain. I create art because I enjoy expressing myself through creative endeavors. I create art because I get a buzz from the creative process, from using my skills to create something I find to be beautiful. In the long run, when it comes to my art, the only opinion that really matters is mine because I create art for art's sake, for my personal satisfaction. I create art because my soul breathing is expressing itself in the beauty of my art. To not breathe would be unsatisfying at best and death at worst.

What beauty does your soul express in your art? What beauty would you create if you didn't fear being judged?

The Zone

When meditation is mastered, the mind is unwavering like the flame of a lamp in a windless place. ~Bhagavad Gita

There are occasions when I enter 'the zone'. When I get into a focused mindset and time slows down, time ceases to have meaning, time ceases to exist other than the singular entity that is now, time ceases to have bounds defining existence. In an instant, an hour passes, hours pass, the day moves from dawn to dusk in the time it takes to breathe a breath, in the time it takes to utter a word, in the time it takes a heart to beat.

It is similar to being in your comfort zone but at a level of deeper intimacy, a place where you are one with universal existence, an existence that is all encompassing of time and matter yet an existence that exists solely in the realm of what you can see and feel yet know not that you have thought or feeling. It is a point in the space time continuum where concentration is fully engaged for hours without deviation, without a loss in focus, without a loss in energy. It is a transcendent state, a mystical state where one does not experience anything but total oneness with the activity at hand. It is a state of complete and total absorption. It is a slice of heaven, an ounce of nirvana, an enlightened existential state. It is akin to devout prayer, to focused meditation.

This is not a place one can choose to go. Once cannot say, I am going into the zone and be magically transported to supreme concentration. I find I most frequently get into the zone when pursuing my hobbies which, for me, are a place of intense self actualization.

There are times when I am out fishing on the big waters in Central Canada, casting my tiger striped Suick toward the shore line, retrieving with the jerk technique that attracts the ferocious Northern Pike when time stands still and I am one with the wind, the water, the sun, the rhythm of my body.

Many times I have been writing, writing my blog, writing a personal essay, crafting words to create pictures, crafting words to capture the essence of ideas hovering at the periphery of my consciousness and sip my hot tea to find it has turned ice cold in the hours that have passed while the words marched across the page and created a work of personal art.

I fondly remember starting wood working projects in the afternoon then opening the garage door to discover it is night. I was so in tune with my creation that I had even forgotten to eat yet felt no hunger, only the satisfaction of birthing my work of art.

In the past 5 months, I have frequently found myself entering the zone while at my day job. I have occasionally, in the past, entered the zone at work but never with any consistency. Lately, though, I have been entering the zone with increasing regularity. Not a week has gone by in the past two months where I have not hit the zone at least a few times each week. The adrenaline release I have been getting at work is such that I was excited about returning to work after my vacation in Turkey.

My interludes in the zone have not been day long affairs because, as a Manager, I regularly attend meetings which, by their very nature, require nonzonal interaction. I have been hitting the zone primarily in the evenings when I work on the materials for the Leadership Training Program I am developing.

I am thoroughly enjoying creating this program, creating the materials for the program. I am enjoying the research, the carefully designed outlines with which I am not happy until the ideas flow seamlessly in the PowerPoint presentation. I am enjoying crafting the words and finding pictures that illustrate those words. I am enjoying putting together words and pictures that complement each other in the explanation of the ideas I am trying to instill in my students. Then, I enjoy, presenting the information to the students eager to learn about leadership.

I guess, most of all, I love making a difference in the lives of my students and, because the subject I am teaching is leadership, knowing people I will never meet will benefit when my students apply their skills and lead others.

World Foods

You can't just eat good food. You've got to talk about it too. And you've got to talk about it to somebody who understands that kind of food. ~Kurt Vonnegut

The Meat House in Istanbul

I grew up, blissfully unaware that food had flavor, that food could be more than something to fill a rumbling belly. My staples growing up were CBS, Chicken, Beef, and Spaghetti with the universal spice of salt slathered on to my mom's content. Not content with just salt, she also liberally applied seasoned salt to many of our meals based on her rationale that "seasoned salt is not really salt".

Coming out of my youth, haute cuisine was, to me, steak, probably because it was such a rarity to kids fed more typically on hamburgers, and tuna casserole which is still a favorite which boggles the mind of many of my friends.

Turkish Baklava

I have had the good fortune of traveling to a number of countries during my life. Besides my home country of the USA, I have been to Canada, Jamaica, England, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, India, and, most recently, Turkey. During my travels, I learned to indulge in then to always partake, exclusively, of the native faire as I feel it is important that my pallette be stretched to new limits. This wasn't too difficult because my first real trip abroad where I was forced to eat the native foods exclusively was to England and, well, the blandness of English food makes my mom's dishes seem quite flavorful.

I had a similar experience in Germany when I ate Bavarian food which I found to be on level of blandness that would rival the best food in England.

Turkish Flounder

Jamaica piqued my interest with their wonderful Jerk Chicken which, when combined with the local Scotch Bonnet peppers, is a savory delight that leaves the lips tingling and the mouth watering.

The food I eat in Canada is almost always freshy caught fish, fish caught by me and my team of fishermen, that is cleaned and eaten within minutes or, at most, a couple of hours, of being caught. It is spiced and cooked by Americans so it can't really be called Canadian faire. It is, however, the freshest food I have ever eaten.

Traditional Turkish Food
in Cappadoccia

Swiss food, no matter the cuisine, is always tasty with the possible exception of the fondues which I find to be on the bland side. I like a kick to my food something I have not experienced with the cheese based dishes. The biggest down side of Swiss food is the hefty expense associated with a meal.

Food Bazaar for the freshest foods

Indian food was my first exposure to a true sensory delight in the eating realm. The taste of the food, very different than typical in the US, had so many flavors my mouth erupted in the extravaganza of spices and tastes and smells. The one dish I remember not enjoying was the rice dish with shredded cilantro. Cilantro leaves a very bad taste in my mouth.

Until my recent trip to Turkey, Italy was my favorite country in which to partake of food. In that country, high quality food seems to be almost a religion. Everything I ate was delicious.

Luscious Organic Strawberries

Turkey, however, has set the standard by which I now judge food. Everything I put in my mouth while in that country was a succulent treat. The meats were flavorful. Not just the spiced meats but the unspiced meat itself had wonderful flavor. The fruits were out of this world succulent. We purchased strawberries, cherries, and some local based fruits from the open market. The market itself was a sensory treat of smells and colors. They were, by far, the sweetest strawberries I have ever eaten. I couldn't stop putting them in my mouth until the bowl was empty.

Strawberry Nirvana

While I was in Turkey, I can honestly say, never had a bite of anything that was not fresh and packed with flavor from the fruits to the vegetables to the meats to the myriad breads to the rice pudding. I even had fast food kabobs one day and, though slighly dry, were oozing with flavor. Everything I ate in that country left my mouth smiling with joy.

The only problem I have with the Turkish food is that it's in Turkey and I'm in the US. On every one of my other overseas trips, I was content with coming home to the US and digging into my familiar foods, my comfort foods. That changed on my return from Turkey.

On the last day of my vacation, I was back in the US and decided to get some Mediteranean food in Chicago. I wanted a last grasp at Turkey before my work week started. I found the restaurant, Taxim, on Yelp that was rated at 4.7 out of 5 stars so I went there to eat with my girlfriend. I ordered their chicken dish and she orderd pork on a skewer.

My first bite into the chicken was a shock of salt! I am not a big salt lover so I peeled off the skin to chew on the meat and, to my dismay, it was almost flavorless. I would have sworn I was eating tofu had I not personally peeled the meat off the bone. This chicken was completely the opposite of the Turkish chicken which had much flavor to spare.

My girlfriend's food turned out to be similar. Brown lumps of meat, supposedly pork, with barely discernable flavor outside of the saltiness. And her french fries were drowned in olive oil. The meal cost us $80 and was a huge disappointment. How anyone could rate this swill a 4.7 stars stymied the both of us. I later rated the place on Yelp and was frustrated that the lowest I could rate it was 1 star.

The next day, my work team had an outing at Bob Chinns, a well known seafood restuarant, one where I truly enjoy the food. Well, used to enjoy the food. Compared to the fish I had in Turkey, this fish brandished little flavor, very little to excite my pallette. I finished my Salmon and could only look down at my plate in despair.

It seems, Turkish food has become my Turkish delight and has ruined me for food in my native country. I fear I may not enjoy food again until I head back to one of those countries where, unlike the US, food still is succulent with flavor. The funny things is, the last thing I thought about while planning my visit to Turkey was Turkish food and it has left as big an impression on me as the ancient wonders.

To Ink or Not To Ink?

You may lose your most valuable property through various ways. You may lose your house, your wife and other treasures. But of your moko (tattoo), you cannot be deprived except by death. It will be your ornament and companion until your last day. ~Netana Whakaari of Waimana

When I was growing up, tattoos were the purveyance of the 'not nice' component of society. They were for sailors and bikers and harlots. They were for the baudy, they slightly psychotic, the people with a chequered past, people you feared at some level. Today, tattoos are commonplace, so common that, except for the extemely inked person, they barely draw a glance. Except for the person with ink covering more than half the body, tattoos go almost unnoticed. Even the most inked person does not carry the stigma associated with the artform in my youth.

I have considered getting a tattoo at points in my life, considered expressing my individuality with a personal stamp of ink somewhere on my body. For various reasons, some rational, others irrational, I have never moved the idea from a considered thought to an actual needling of ink.

My biggest fear is probably terror of the needle. The fact the tattoos are done with needles, a needle that pierces they skin a multitude of times, gives me grave concern about being inked. This fear, most likely, falls into both the rational and irrational categories. My mother is a nurse and, as such, when we were sick as kids, she gave us shots. We were given shots because, to quote my mom, "the medicine get's into the bloodstream faster." Of course, as kids, we hated shots because, on top of already feeling crappy, we were getting a painful projectile stuck into our behinds. At times, I fought the needle so hard, my dad had to hold me down so she could administer the healing injection. The injections finally stopped when we kids would non longer tell her we weren't feeloing well.

 Another issue with tattoos is the body tends to sag with age. A butterfly tattoo on the breast may, over time, descend to the waist line looking like a colorful aardvark. And who want's an aardvark, no matter how colorful, permanently engraved on their body? I can't even imagine how horrid any artwork would look on a butt that swells, and sags, and becomes dimpled with fat as the years pass.

Over time, the stamp chosen may trigger painful memories instead of the good thoughts when it was originally imagined. For that reason, getting the name or picture of a person you are in a relationship with is on my list of really bad ideas. People may hurt you, betray you, discard you but the tattoo lasts until the grave. I wouldn't want to go through stuck with the name of an ex visible on my body.

All this being said, all my concerns aside, I am again entertaining the idea of getting inked. I have grown ideas for two tattoos. The first is a tattoo symbolic of my three kids. My eldest daughter once made me a nice design, a design capturing the essence of each of the three kids, but, in a fit of range, tore it up then chewed it up so I couldn't piece it back together. Something representing my three kids, and possibly my grandson, would be fitting because they are all dear to my heart and, no matter what happens, they will always be my kids. Not sure where this tattoo would best go on my body. However, I do know that it would be something I would want to be readily visible to me so that rules out my backside.

The other idea I have for ink is a saying that has come to symbolize my view on life. It's a saying on my RoadID, an emergency response bracelet I wear in the event I get hurt while riding my bicycle and cannot interact with someone trying to help me out. The quote is in addition to the names and numbers of my emergency contacts. It's something I purchased because most of my riding, both on road and off road, is done solo. The quote is:

Be the change you want to see in the world

The quote has been attributed to Mahatma Gandhi, a person who lived a life that I find to be admirable. While there is no authenticated record of him every uttering the exact phrasing, there are authenticated writings that can be distilled into the concept captured in those words. Whether uttered by Gandhi or not, I still have taken this quote as a vision for my life. I can see this quote on the underside of my left wrist as a frequent reminder of how I wish to live my remaining days, a person living an exemplary life.

Will I finally get a tattoo? Will I build up the courage and submit myself to the psychological scarring of a needle piercing my skin repeatedly? I don't know. Today, I am 50/50 for inking but that's also 50/50 for not inking.

Oh The Places You Can Go

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go... ~ Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You'll Go!

One of the things I cherish about long bike rides is having dedicated time for my mind to wander, having dedicated time for my mind to trigger off of seemingly arbitrary events (a song on my eclectic iPod playlist which always plays in random mode, a color worn by a person I passed strolling along the lakefront trail or the wiggle in her walk, a sound emanating from a myriad of sources, a pattern in the buildings lining Lake Shore Drive, a smell which triggers much more than thoughts, a feeling welling up to an unknown trigger, the line of Chicago Street & Sanitation trucks parked nose to tail blocking the bike riding path and road to funnel protesters away from the NATO summit) and unearth thoughts hiding deep within the recesses of my mind. 

Are the thoughts really hiding, afraid of exposure? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the thought that works it's way through the grey matter is a thought I would rather not examine, would rather not entertain. Today, a song lyric about God pushed me to delve into my living out aspects of my faith. Today, Sunday, found me cycling on the lake front in Chicago instead of attending church services. This is probably the 4th week in a row where I was "otherwise occupied" and was "not able to attend" services. For two of them I was in a predominantly Muslim country so I have a reason I can justify as valid. The others, well, that would be a litany of excuses and, as my sister often says, excuses are the nails in the coffin of failure.

Other thoughts are not hiding they just need a trigger to spring into life. When I came upon the line of trucks blocking the path and street today, I pondered for the first time the effect NATO has on my life other than blocking me from riding a part of the Lake Front Trail near the Museum campus that I really enjoy because I am very close to the water and I get a great view of Chicago. There are protesters in the city this weekend who have a big problem with the organization. It seems one of their biggest issue is spending money on war instead of medical care. I see NATO as a necessary entity. I don't always agree with it's policies but am glad it exists because, I believe, it's important countries have discussions with multi-facted perspectives before they enter an international conflict rather than the alternative of taking unilateral action based off a single point of view.

More often than not, the thoughts are fleeting, ephemeral musings I would like to develop in a blog but they disappear as fast as footsteps in the wet sand on the shore of the Aegean Sea. I had a bunch of these today as I do every time I go out for long bicycle ride. Unfortunately, I did not want to stop my ride to log the ideas in my iPhone. If I did stop to capture every one I would go half as far in twice the time. Still, at the end of the ride, I could kick myself for not recording at least a few of them. But, I do ride for other reasons than to allow my mind space to wander.

A big reason I took up cycling is for the health benefit. Heart disease runs in my family. It took my paternal Grandfather when he was in his 40s and resulted in my dad having a quad bypass in his early 50s. Them having the heart disease gene does not necessarily mean it was passed on to me but I would rather be safe than wake up one day having a premature conversation with Saint Peter at the pearly gates. Also, I added a few kilos to my weight from last summer and need the exercise to reduce the tire around my midsection so I can fit into my clothes again.

I guess, the best thing about riding is the physical travel and mental travel, is the discovery that comes from not always knowing where I will go on the journey, is not always knowing which road (or trail) I will take on any given day and never knowing which events will trigger a journey of the mind. It's the discovery of the places I can go physically and in my imagination.

In Their Footsteps (A Reflection On My Time in Turkey)

There was never yet an uninteresting life. Such a thing is an impossibility. Inside of the dullest exterior, there is drama, a comedy, and a tragedy. ~Mark Twain

During my time in Turkey, I had the opportunity to take in an extensive amount of history, to walk in the footsteps of the ancients, the footsteps of the moderns, the footsteps of the remembered, the footsteps of the forgotten, the footsteps of the famous, the footsteps of the common.

I walked in the footsteps of Byzantine rulers through the immense doors of the Hagia Sophia, doors through which the only people deemed worthy of passing were the ruling class. All others had to enter via smaller, adjacent doors, ordinary doors for the ordinary man and I wondered, if I was that Byzantine ruler that believed he was a god, would I have been a benevolent god or a demanding god, a forgiving god or an exacting god.

I walked in the footsteps of Sultans, walked along the stone path designed specifically for the Sultans royal feet in the Topkapi royal palace, the stone path that passed through the harem where the harem girls cast their eyes upon the Sultan perhaps hoping he would choose them for a night of pleasure, perhaps to plant his seed allowing them to a ascend the ranks of the harem girls. I walked in the footsteps of the sultans, their sons, thier daughters, walked in the very places were schemes were hatched and intrigue unfolded, in the very places were alliances were formed and betrayal plotted, in the very places where life was granted or life was taken away.

I walked in the footsteps of the artists and engineers that designed and decorated the great sanctuaries, the sanctuaries that attempted to become holy artifices as they reached heavenward toward God, attempted to know God, sought to enter the presence of God, sought to bring God into their presence by creating perfection on earth, by creating a place worthy of the magnificence of their God, always in the hope that their creations would be deemed worthy by God thus God would bless them for the ages.

I walked in the footsteps of worshippers when I entered the holy places known today as the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia, and many others for whom I know no name or who's name has been erased by time. I walked in their footsteps, felt their awe thousands of years later as I looked to the heavens while standing in these holy places, as I looked into my very heart hoping it reflected the presence of God.

I walked in the footsteps of the underground people, the tunneling people, the people that built the immense underground cities, engineering marvels with ventillation shafts, communication shafts, enemy traps, bedrooms, living rooms, school rooms, worship rooms, walked in their footsteps through the narrow passageways that led deeper and deeper into their subteranean kingdom, deeper into their lives, deeper into their psyche and there I shuddered just contemplating a life, my life, any life hidden from the warmth of day, hidden from the caressing rays of a sun rising above the horizon in an explosion of fire.

I walked in the footsteps of the fairy castle builders, the people that created vast cities in the sides of hills and mesas and canyon walls, the people that painted intricate frescoes in the ceilings of caves, caves carved into solid rock with hand tools, caves that were the early Christian churches, frescoes depicting the life of Christ, the life of Mary, the stories of the Bible, many roomed cities, multi floored complexes with columns and balconies, rooms connected by tunnels and staircases containing places to cook, places to congregate, places to worship, places to lay the bones of the deceased.

I walked in the footsteps of Caesars on the marbled, processional street cutting through the heart of Ephesus amongst the towering, crumbling buildings, pillars, and statues, walked in the footsteps of Paul the Apostle at the ruins of Ephesus, a significant New Testament city, and imagined him prostelytizing the Gospel, reasoning with the people out of the Old Testament Scriptures, outlining the many passages pointing to, proving that, Jesus was the Christ, was the embodiment of the promised Messiah, proving that Christ rose from the dead, imagined Paul in impassioned debate, imploring all to accept the light that is Jesus and enter eternity at Jesus' side.

I walked in the footsteps of the devout during a powerful rain when I visited the House of Mother Mary, the home where Jesus' mother once lived, in the footsteps of the pilgrims who have made and continue to make the journey from the four corners of the earth to visit the shrine where, they believe, Mother Mary will answer their prayers in no matter which language they utter their petitions, where they drink water from deep springs which, they believe, has the power to heal the aches and pains inflicting mondern man, where they write their prayers on scraps of paper and hang them so, when they are no longer physically present at the shrine, Mother Mary will continue to intercede on their behalf.

I walked in the footsteps of the ancients at Priene, Militos and Dydyma, walked amonst the ruins, amongst the carved stones, the erected pillars, ran my fingers over the proclamations of politicians etched in marble with an ancient script, walked in these places built during the glory days of the Roman empire, days they believed would never pass into history, days that were erased as easily as my footsteps on the sandy beach with the next rising wave.

I walked in the footsteps of slaves, the people that weren't considered people, the people who were not permitted to lift their eyes and gaze upon royalty under fear of death, the nonpeople on whose backs the palaces were built at the behest of kings, on whose shoulders the pillars were raised to support the magnicient domes of the cathedrals, the people's whose ravaged feet dragged the stones to build the temples to give glory to Gods they did not believe in, the expendable people who built the colliseum's then entered those same arenas and had their blood spilled upon the sands for the entertainment of the Roman mob.

I walked in the footsteps of modern man, in the footsteps of today's Turkish, was blessed with the hospitality of people I did not know before arriving, people who took time out of their busy schedules to show me the ancient and modern wonders of their land, people who made me feel like royalty with their attentiveness, people who made me feel loved, people I now count as friends.

Most of all, I walked in the footsteps of the common man, in the footsteps of the people that built history yet, by her fickle nature, have been forgotten by history, in the footsteps of the every day man upon who's back society thrived, the family man that hunted so his wife could eat, that struggled so his children could thrive, who bled that his family may live, who took up the mantle of suffering on a daily basis in the belief that his legacy would make a difference in the circle of his family and that their lives would go on and, hopefully, be better than his own, walked in the footsteps of common man who is remembered only by the dusty trails created by his footsteps while walking over the land which sustained him, the land that created and recreated him for millenia.

I, a common man myself, stand on the shoulders of all those commen men that forged a life in this world by their sweat and tears, men whose daily, ordinary activities built the foundation on which today's civilization stands allowing me to look into the past, to see the present, to glimpse a future. I, a common man, hope that I live a life which builds upon the foundation so many have died to create, a foundation forged on hope, a life on which the next generations can launch themselves into the future. I, a common man, hope I live a life worthy of the common man, the unsung heroes that blazed the trails long before I walked in their footsteps.

Turkey Day #10 (The Last Day in Turkey)

Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey. ~Pat Conroy


Today is it, the last full day in Turkey, the last day we will immerse ourselves in Turkish culture, the last day for hanging out with the hospitable Turkish people, the last day for Turkish food, which we have come to adore and must find back home in Chicago or, heaven forbid, I will need to find recipes and learn to cook the delicious faire, at every corner shop, the last day in Asia, the last day in Europe, the last day we will walk amongst some of the most spectacular creations by ancient man on our planet, the last day of a physical, mental, emotional journey that began years too late and ends decades too soon.

The most important part of the journey is that it had a beginning. We took the step to leave the confines of the comfortable US culture where we navigate the daily cultural nuances with nary a thought. We took the step to enter the unknown, bravely visit a new world where we were the outsiders, we were the guests, where we had to adapt our behaviors, where we had to put aside those things we take for common in our own culture and try to adjust our existence to meld with the culture at large.

I could see myself living in Turkey particularly along the West Coast where the Aegean Sea caresses the land repeatedly, continually, nonstop, yesterday, today, and forever. A constant, loving hand depositing the gifts of sand and polished stones of many hues at the feet of the mountain ranges which begin at the seashore and rise quickly to touch the clouds. I could see myself taking a grueling bicycle ride to the clouds in the morning with legs burning and sweat pouring to see an ancient shrine then descending to the ocean in the evening for a refreshing swim in the salt water before a bite to eat and a chai at sunset.

Could I adapt quickly? To the climate a resounding yes. To the culture, to the people? Yes for the culture is vaguely familiar to my own and the Turkish are a welcoming people who, I believe, would help me understand Turkish life. For me, the biggest challenge would be the language for, it is my understanding, the Turkish language is notoriously difficult to learn. It has a grammar structure that requires interpreting every sentence twice, once to understand the subject and once to understand the object of the sentence. The complexity stumps some very adept linguists. But I would put forth the effort to learn.

If I had to make a qualifying statement about this trip, I would say it was a huge success. We were able to see a number of the countries wonders both ancient and modern. We sampled the food (extensively sampled the food and ate enough in the last three days to last us a week) and picked up a few words in the language (not as many as I would have liked). And we met some people with whom we became friends.

The thing about international travel, though, is the measure of success is not so much what you do and see as it is about making the mental trip, the mental transition into acceptance of other’s and their way of life. Success comes by virtue of leaving one’s comfort zone, leaving one’s culture behind and attempting to immerse oneself in another culture, to make one’s way in an unfamiliar world. Success is entirely in the attitude with which one approaches the adventure of international travel.

Turkey Day #9 (The National Park & Meat)

Eating, and hospitality in general, is a communion, and any meal worth attending by yourself is improved by the multiples of those with whom it is shared. ~Jesse Browner


For our last day on the West Coast, we again had our friend Mustafa graciously be our guide. Mustafa, at the request of his cousin, took two vacation days so that he could show us around the area. He, like his Aunt and Uncle, is a shining example of Turkish hospitality, a hospitality the likes I have only seen once before and that was during my stay in India. Both of those countries put American hospitality to shame. I might even go a bit further and ask the question, do Americans have even the basic understanding of generous hospitality.

The national park runs along the shore of the Aegean Sea. The water changes hues from cerulean blue to turquoise to black in the depths. There are sandy beaches and rocky beaches and hidden beaches which could be seen only from high up on the road. For each beach, we were entertained by stories of Mustafa’s youth and joys shared with cousins. His stories helped the beaches come alive.

We had the good fortune of running into a herd of wild pigs, brown hairy creatures reminiscent of the Javelina in the American Southwest but on the bigger side. Among the herd were two piglets colored differently than the rest of their brethren with stripes of dark and light brown presumably to allow them to hide more easily from predators in the shadows.

After the National Park, Mustafa dropped us off at the summer home for some much needed rest. We grabbed some food and headed down to the Aegean Sea with a couple of chairs where we sat, talked, listened to the waves lap the shore, and watched the passing of shadows for a couple of hours.

Dinner that night was at Echi, a steak house that was filled with various meats both familiar and unfamiliar to me. The ladies, who ate some meat, watched in apparent horror as Kenan and I stuffed our faces with meat and wine and more meat and more wine to which, the ladies uttered the phrase ‘diet starts tomorrow’ on more than one occassion. It was a decadently pleasurable meal and a fitting salute to our final evening on the West Coast of Turkey.

During the meal, we talked of the Brazilian steak houses in Chicago where, for a base fee, one can eat meat until gastric explosion. The idea of this brought a bright light to Kenan’s eyes and is a place I promised to take him when he visits Chicago next year. If anyone can get the most for the money at a Brazilian steak house, it would be Kenan for he has a prodigious appetite.

The night was not finished with the meat. I had mentioned the previous day that I like sutlac, Turkish rice pudding. So, on the way home, we stopped at a desert house for some outstanding rice pudding that I savored with a smile on my face.

Turkey Day #8 (Ancient Wonders)

To remain ignorant of things that happened before you were born is to remain a child .~Cicero


Today’s travels took us to Prienne, Militos, and Dydyma for another tour of ancient wonders, ancient cities that today are in various states of decay. The typical term for them is ruins but I am not comfortable calling them ruins for, though they are in disrepair, they are giants of the imagination, giants left over by their creators that inspire awe and wonder in anyone that sets eyes upon their glory.

For today’s tour, our host was again Mustafa. We had not seen him since he and Selma picked us up from the airport upon our arrival in Izmir. Mustafa is a jovial fellow frequently found smiling and always willing to lend a helping hand, or to suggest variations on our tour. He is the cousin of my workmate, Murat, and frequently entertained us with stories of their youth growing up and their antics in these historical places we visited today. Stories such as having a stick fight in the tunnels of the Militos amphitheater.

Each of the sites had a unique personality, each had subtleties in it’s design that captured our attention, that focused our eyes and minds drawing us into historical revelry as we wondered how the ancients lived and marveled at their creations.

Prienne was a sprawling city with a temple to the Goddess Athena. Its backdrop is a sheer mountain wall keeping it safe from anyone trying to attack from the rear. It’s front opened up to a sprawling valley in which enemy troops would be visible for miles allowing the city to prepare for battle. Aside from the temple, we were able to walk through market shops, homes, and a theater. The theater front row and four seats for nobility which were still intact.

Militos primary focal point was a wonderfully preserved amphitheater. It was not preserved in the sense that it was without decay. It was preserved in the sense that we were able to walk the steps, sit upon the bench seats, look down upon the stage area and imagine the ghosts of the actors plying their trade. The theater had some grand tunnel entrances, massive arched entry ways that dwarfed us as we walked into them.

Outside of the theater, we went on safari, walking the grounds where no path existed resulting in us needing to climb stone structures to move between the remnants of many buildings. We were able to get to places off the beaten path and see buildings without other people speaking and destroying the auras of the places we were creating in our minds.

Our final historical destination of the day was Didyma where the Temple of Apollo is hosted. For me, this was the favored of today’s three destinations. The columns there, the three main ones that were still standing were enormous in both diameter, many larger than my six foot frame, and to the height which they extended into the sky. For the columns that had tumbled over the centuries, stones lay all about the place. These were the most massive stones I had seen anywhere over the past days of touring ancient wonders.

As we walked the Temple, I continually marveled at the work of the craftsmen and engineers that moved the design from the heads of artists to the reality of stone upon stone upon stone to create a structure that far surpasses the beauty in designs of today’s more ornate buildings.

The ancients had to transport the raw materials without the aid of a truck, carve the beveled edges, the scallop edges, the figures, the flutes and curves without a power tool or a computer. Then they had to raise these massive sections high into the air, sometimes more than sixty feet up, and balance them atop the others without a heavy crane at their disposal. I continually found myself mouth agape in awe as I walked in and about Apollo’s Temple.

Today was our last day of viewing the remains of the ancient wonders, the last day we walked the ancient marble streets, the last day we stood amongst the giant structures of rock, the giants of antiquated history. Today was also the first day we would have memories of time spent with the ancient wonders, memories that will last our lifetime.

Turkey Day #7 (Our West Coast Hosts)

People can only live fully by helping others to live. When you give life to friends you truly live. Cultures can only realize their further richness by honoring other traditions. And only by respecting natural life can humanity continue to exist. ~Daisaku Ikeda


Our local hosts collected us at 10 am for another adventure on the West Coast of Turkey. The primary destination for today was Ephesus, an important, ancient city that, today, is listed as one of the 7 wonders of the ancient world and is an outdoor museum both preserved and being renovated. First, we were treated to a brunch at an organic restaurant up in the mountains with wonderfully tasty food. Again our meal was native Turkish faire with the addition of some absolutely amazing organic scrambled eggs. The flavors of the food popped in my mouth and, though my stomach was a bit rumbly, I ate my fill.

Ephesus, our next stop, was a wonder and is a must see for anyone visiting this country. I enjoy learning about history, but was not prepared for the emotions I experienced at this ancient city. Seeing through the ruins, sitting on the seats of the Amphitheater where ancient plays were shown to emperors and Roman citizens alike, navigating the Celsus Library where some of the great minds like Paul the Apostle engaged in debate, walking the marble thoroughfare that once featured the promenade of royalty left me awestruck.

The first moment I sat on the stairs of the amphitheater moved me almost to tears. It was an emotion that caught me off guard, an emotion whose source still eludes me. I am not sure what about that place touched me but touch me it did. Had my time been unbounded, I probably would have sat on those steps for a good hour trying to imagine the scenes that played out two centuries ago with me a member of the audience. I probably would have sat in the library for an hour looking up at the great columns, the statues, the inscriptions on the wall trying to imagine great minds debating the issues of the day. I probably could have spent the entire day trying to reconstruct the daily lives, the fleeting lives of the people that once walked this great city.

After Ephesus, our hosts, Selma and Keenan, took us too the picturesque city of Siringe for local wine tasting, some shopping, and another meal, this time primariy of Manti, a Turkish dish of noodles, garlic, red sauce, and yogurt. Then we went to a seaside town where we were treated to baklava and some very tasty pistachio ice cream. Our last stop before going home, was a local bazaar where fresh vegetables and fruits were purchased for us to snack on in the evening. They wanted to buy us another dinner but we had to decline as we were not able to stuff another morsel into our mouths.

These hosts are amazing people. They have put their lives on hold for the past two days to ensure our stay in Turkey is memorabe. They are kind, generous, attentive, and, loving. Kenan is very funny. Despite our language barrier, he is able to make us laugh with his antics. Selma is very warm and it is through her that we primarily commincate with the couple, her and Googe translate, frequently at the behest of Kenan who says, “Translate. Translate. Translate.” We could not ask for better hosts. I now know what it takes to be treated like royalty.

We, Irene and I, ended our day with a walk along the Aegean Sea, a walk at the waters edge with the waves lapping at our feet, waves erasing the footsteps we were planting, waves hiding the memory of our time on the beach. As the sun set over the Greek island of Somos on this gorgeous spring day, we walked back to our hosts summer home, the home they graciously allowed us to stay in while we visit the West Coast of Turkey.

Turkey Day #6 (The Big Game)

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness. ~Mark Twain


We woke early to a crisp, sunny morning as we begin another day of travel. A look out the window revealed dozens of colorful, hot air balloons at various heights against the back drop of a blue sky carrying the dreams of the passengers into the clouds. The hotel staff of the Local Cave Hotel, a very attentive group, had breakfast ready for us including Turkish coffee and chai for sustenance at the start of the next phase in our trek around Turkey. They made us a special early breakfast well before they normally opened in the morning.

Today, we head to the West coast of Turkey to Izmir, Soke, and Guezlcamli (pronounced: goozle chamlee), where we will have the opportunity to view even more ancient wonders, via a 3 hour layover in Istanbul. There will be two legs of travel, two potential opportunities for luggage to disappear yet again. The first plane was so spacious, I could actually cross my legs comfortably. Outside of business class, I don’t ever recall having so much leg room on a flight.

The second leg took off over half an hour later than scheduled. I find this extra frustrating because we are being met at the airport in Izmir by locals, by a friend’s mother, Selma, and cousin, Mustafa, who have graciously agreed to give us a two day, personal tour of the sites in their region. Though it’s not my fault, I still feel bad at making them wait.

For our first stop after a late lunch, we visited the house of the Virgin Mary, a shrine to Jesus’ mother in what is said to be the place she lived. Our visit to the shrine was during a heavy rain storm. Visiting the shrine is a pilgrimage for many Christians. Outside the shrine is water from an underground spring which one is to drink and say a prayer. The rain was hitting us very hard at this point so we decided to forgo other sites for the day and headed into Soke to meet up with Kenan to begin the rest of our evening.

We went out for dinner at a local fish restaurant, one with a TV so we could watch the big match between Galatasary and Fenerbache. Which ever team won the game, would be the league champion for the year. In the event of a draw, Galatasary would be the champion due to having a superior point total for the season.

The restaurant was full with people just picking at their food during each of the halves. Fans from both teams were present so it was fun to watch the ebb and flow of the crowd as each team drew close to scoring but we never did experience the ecstasy of the ball hitting the back of the net.

During the halftime interval and post game, we did enjoy the wonderful seafood. Following the traditional Turkish starters of cucumbers, cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce, we ate stuffed mussels, calamari, prawns, and fish. All the food was very fresh and very delicious as were the wines, both red and white. I typically am a red wine drinker but tried the white at the behest of my guest. We ended up drinking two of the white and one of the red.

There was a language barrier between us and our hosts but we did speak the universal language that is football (soccer) so communication was able to occur at a level those of us who love the beautiful game understand. In the end, Galatasary was the champion and there was much rejoicing in the crowd. There was also much rejoicing in the streets.

Following dinner, we went out for a drink and enjoyed the revelry of the fans that had taken to the streets. People were blowing their horns and singing of the glory of their team. It was a site to behold. In football, you are born to a team. Your identity is tied to a team. You live and die with the success of the team. So, when your team wins the championship, especially against a hated rival, there is a joy that is deep, a joy that is complete.

While out for the post dinner drink, we met up with some of their Turkish friends. One of the couples was adept at English so could translate allowing us to express much deeper thoughts. I was finally able to let them know of the quality son they raised. He is a person I work with in the US. I was able to tell them that he is a respected individual in the company and that we are expecting big things from him in addition to the great work he is currently doing.

Following the post dinner drinks, we set off with our hosts to their summer home by the Aegean sea in Guezlcamli where they dropped us off for a much needed sleep.

Turkey Day #5 (They Dwelt Below)

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends. ~Maya Angelou

Our time in Cappadocia is limited and the area is vast so we decided to take a guided tour today to see as much as possible of this beautiful land. Generally, I prefer to sightsee on my own time with a book to absorb knowledge at my own pace. The logistics of this trip would not allow us the luxury so, at the recommendation of our hotel proprietor, we boarded a small bus today for a one day tour of some exciting historical sites.

One highlight (or lowlight pardon the pun) of the guided tour was a visit to an ancient, underground city that was abandoned long, long ago. A city that was built beneath the surface of the earth with virtually no discernible structure above ground to give away it’s location to its enemies.

This particular city was 8 stories down, 8 subterranean levels of living quarters for humans and their animal livestock. There were rooms for schools, traps for enemies, deep wells to harvest water, long ventilation shafts, and rooms for worship. For lighting, small pockets were cut out of the rock which held oil that was burned. Gathering the amount of oil required to keep this city lit and keeping the flames burning must have been a full time job for many people.

We descended all the way down to the 8th level frequently bending because the ceilings were low. By trip end, my knees were sore and my quads ached from squatting as I navigated the passages. The longest descent composed of 110 steps, 110 steps of closed in walls. I tend to be a bit claustrophobic so had to calm my heart on more than one occasion.

The engineer in me was awed at this amazing world beneath the land, amazed at how skillful the people must have been to create this world, wondered how they were able to bore shafts with nothing more than hand tools, hand tools and a will to persevere despite the hardships.

I tried to imagine how challenging it must have been to live beneath the surface, away from the rays of the sun for days, weeks, perhaps even months at a time. How challenging it must have been to raise a family in the close confines. How challenging it would be to dwell beneath the surface of the earth. I don’t know if I could have lived that way and stayed sane.

Turkey Day #4 (Cappadocia)

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. ~Edward Abbey


Are we in the same country today as we were yesterday? The signs are still in Turkish but all else bears little resemblance to Istanbul. It is as if during the hour long ride in the airplane and half hour jaunt by vehicle, we were transported not only to another world but to a different century. Time is slower here in Cappadocia, people move at a more leisurely pace, their is no hustle, no bustle, no vendors haranguing me to purchase their wares.

Cappadocia is a land of ephemeral beauty, a cross between my beloved Southern Utah and the Badlands of South Dakota with a flavor that accentuates the combination, a flavor that is still uniquely Turkish. The shapes of the land forms known as fairy chimneys seem derived from the Islamic script, the same flowing strokes, the same gentle angles adorn both the writing and the land.

The fairy chimneys are frequently hollowed out, hollowed out by human hands to create rooms, windows, doors, shelves, fireplaces, a city of rocks in the rocks. The were seemingly ubiquitous on our hike in and around the city in the rocks and we took a good measure of time exploring them on our hike, a hike cut short by rain. During the worst of the rain, we took respite in a chimney, a room about ten foot square, that protected us from the wet and the brisk winds. We sat in the doorway and looked over the city, the empty city where people once flourished.

It was quiet in that room. Quiet outside in the vast surroundings and quiet inside of me. I was still, still for the first time since this trip began. I was comfortably still, relaxed, enjoying the peacefulness that infuses my body when I am hiking in landscapes defined by the rock that creates these natural playgrounds, these holy grounds. We probably could have sat there for hours, hours in silence, hours as first man and first woman surveying our domain, had the temperature not dropped and a chill crept into our bones. However, there was to be another twist before we headed back to the trailhead.

While sitting in that rock cave isolated from all people except the lovely woman nestled in my arms, the Islamic call to prayer sounded. I did not understand the words, had no idea what the caller was saying to his people, only knew it was a call to prayer because of what I learned during my stay in Istanbul. Yet, the intonations, the syllables uttered in that lovely, lyrical mode felt mystical, felt reverent, felt holy.

I felt this way because, I believe, humans are designed by God to be spiritual beings, designed by God to long for him, designed by God to seek him. Are, by our very nature, incomplete without a solid connection to God, have a hole in our heart that can only be filled by God. The longing to fill that hole has defined man’s existence since the ancients worshipped for thousands of years in thousands of sacred places like Cappadocia.

When the rain finally abated, we braved the cool winds and headed back to the hotel to get some warmer clothing so our next round of exploration would be more comfortable. Walking out of the rock city, I realized that I felt at once at home, safe in familiar surroundings while fully aware that I had never before set foot on this ancient, hallowed ground.

Perhaps the familiarity was because I saw a fairy chimney that was a near exact match to Balanced Rock in Arches National Park, perhaps it was because I feel so comfortable in stark landscapes peppered with rock formations that seem more fantasy than real, perhaps it is because I am as comfortable in reality as I am in my fantasies, perhaps it is because I am more comfortable alone with my thoughts than I am surrounded by the teeming masses.

I’m not really sure why I felt so at home during the hike but, I do know, that I will be going hiking into the rock city again to enjoy God’s creation, to enjoy looking out at ethereal landscapes as the ancient did when they carved homes into these rocks under the power of their own hands, if, for nothing else, to enjoy the feeling of being at home though I have never before walked these lands.

Turkey Day #3 (Istanbul With A Local)

People don’t take trips – trips take people. – John Steinbeck


There are many things an iPad is good for, tasks that are easier to perform on an iPad than on a bulky PC such as reading Kindle books and surfing the web and keeping in touch with friends via Facebook. One of the things the iPad is a wordprocessor substititute for my blog. Writing my blog is not a problem because I purchased an keyboard that doubles as a cover to protect the screen while it jiggles in my backpack next to my cameras and assorted items necessary for recording my travel experiences. The big problem I encounter is that I cannot move my pictures from my Canon cameras to my iPad for inclusion in my blog.

For me, pictures accent the written word thus are a valuable addition to expressing my experiences. So, I guess, a laptop purchase is in my future. Today’s first stop was Topkapi Palace, a very large, architecturally significant historic site just walking distance from our hotel. (Actually, anything can be walking distance when depending upon how long one desires to walk or on how far one underestimates the distance to get some place and refuses to part with cab fair because the destination must be just around the next bend in the road). We left to be there by opening time and beat the crowds but it seemed many others had the same idea and we had to wait in a few lines.

Upon entry to the Palace, we headed over to the harem, the place where the Sultan’s housed their many wives. Personally, I can’t think of why anyone would suffer more than one wife at any given time aside from a wide selection to satisfy the nuances of lust on any given day. From the layout, it seems they sultan was isolated from the harem allowing him relative domestic bliss.

While we were able to visit the harem with relative easy flow of movement, the remainder of palace became quite crowded and exhibits like the jewelry rooms required suffering long queues. We headed back to the hotel to check on our luggage to no avail. The promise of a drop off by 10 am did not happen, unless 10:00 am is written as 3:00 pm. We couldn’t wait because we had plans to meet a local near the new palace for a half day tour of Istanbul outside the tourist peninsula. This is where the long walk came in.

My best estimate is that we walked more than 5 miles because the destination was just ahead….again and again and again. We met Turksan and the local tour began. Having walked so many miles, it was nice to sit in an air conditioned car and relax while he gave us both the history of his country and a picture of life, joys and challenges, in modern Turkey. With him as our guide, we were able to visit all three of the local peninsulas traveling through both Europe and Asia.

Turksan was a great guide. He took a 1/2 day off of work at the behest of a Turkish friend I have in the US to take us on the tour. He was very personable and hospitable which, I am told, are traits the Turks exhibit to their guests. Turksan was the embodiment of hospitality. Sitting in uncrowded, local squares/plazas with contemplative views of the Bosphorous River, eating local sweets, and drinking Chai (Turkish Tea) or Turkish Coffee (mud like consistency with a bitter taste in my opinion) was a much needed relief from being continually accosted by vendors.

Of the most spectacular views, was looking across the Bosphorous to see the many amazing mosques in the distance. They dominated the view but not in a grotesque, garish, Disneyland way. Rather, they fit with the contours of the terrain with opulent, dignity. We were treated to dinner on the top floor or a restaurant high on a hill that gave a lovely view of the area, the mosques, the skylines, the brides, the river. As has been the case everywhere, the food was outstanding. We had a traditional Ottoman meal, lots of meat, (meat means lamb not chicken), yogurt, sauces, vegetables. This is faire I could feast on the rest of my life and be very, very happy.

The evening ended with a Ferry ride from the East to the West and Turksan driving us right to the door of our hotel. We thanked him profusely, exchanged pleasantries before calling it an evening. We had hoped to hit the bed early for the next day, we had a 7:00 am flight to Nevsehir, but, due to the glee of finally getting our luggage and a quick trip to a gift shop, sleep came a couple of hours later than planned.

Turkey Day #2 (Istanbul)

Not all those who wander are lost. ~JRR Tolkein

What a day in Turkey. The weather was outstanding as were the sights. We visited the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sofia in the morning. Then we wandered for hours in the packed bazaars where the vendors hawking their wares pounced on anyone even glancing at thier items.

The Blue Mosque is the first Mosque I have ever entered. The architecture and the interior designs were sites to behold. Domes dominated the structure internally with the main prayer area being a cavernous entity beneath the main dome. Internally, arched walkways dominated the visuals.

The Hagia Sofia is a Mosque that was once also a Christian Church. There are mosaics of Christian entities that were covered up by Moslem paintings only later to be partly uncovered. The Mosque, which is now a museum, is decorated with both Moslem and Christian art. Here, too, were domes and arches. One entered through massive doors that were once only used by the Byzantine emperors. Today, I walked in the same places as the ancients who died centuries before I was conceived. That type of history is typical in this old part of Istanbul and the immensity of time can be overwhelming to imagine

We lunched near those main attractions and paid the tourist prices as a result. Out meal was twice the price of the previous evening. However, it was outstanding faire. We both had chicken dishes with mine prepared in the traditional Ottoman way. I simply cannot give enough praise to the quality of food. With our hunger satisfied, we headed out to the Grand Bazaar.

It seemed everywhere we walked in the Grand Bazaar and outside the bazaar was one huge shopping mall but nothing in comparison to malls in the US. The Grand Bazaar is in a massive building with business intertwined in a labyrinth and is more crowded than any mall at Christmas time. I can easily see one getting lost in there for hours just trying to figure out where they entered. The nearest description I can give to the place is that it is a series of narrow halls each with it’s own theme in regards to goods. To navigate easily, one would need to lay down Ariadne’s thread.

The streets outside the Grand Bazaars are Bazaars in their own rights. Streets are themed. There are streets with leather goods, streets with jewelry, street with T-shirts, streets with spices and candies, streets with animals, primarily birds for sale either as pets or food. I’m thinking the primary use is fresh food for I don’t see how one would keep a pheasant as a pet and the chickens looked plumped for the cooking pot

I had wanted to just browse the bazaars, study the wares without becoming entwined in the seller buyer arena. However, my luggage has yet to arrive and my clothes were getting a bit ripe so I thought it a good idea to at east get some clean underwear and a clean shirt so I could be a bit fresher as I meet up with a friend of a workmate for a tour of modern Istanbul. I also left my hat, a very cool hat on the airplane so had to purchase a new one to protect my head from the bright sun. It was the only item I debating pricing with the vendor and picked it up for 25% off the initially quoted price. I’m sure I still overspent but not as much as I would have had I not turned to walk away with his opening offer.

Amazingly, just about every street we waked teemed with people. Teemed in that it was difficult navigating because people were literally shoulder to shoulder to shoulder. People of all colors, shapes, and sizes. People in Western attire and many women in traditional Moslem attire. I have never seen so many headscarves in all my life. There were women in pencil cut, skin tight jeans leaving no curve to the imagination and women in full black Burkhas’ showing only the eyes. I guess that is the dichotomy of life in Istanbul, the modern living in harmony with the traditional, the place where West meets East.

The amazing thing to me, someone raised in the more or less homogenous Midwest and a Chicagoan used to definite dividing lines separating white from black from Latino from Asian, is that the meeting of West and East is not a collision, rather, a blending of many cultures, an intermingling of people raised in vastly different belief systems, a harmonious integration where diversity is embraced.

Turkey Day #1 (Istanbul - Finally)

I had arrived at the airport one hour early so that, in accordance with airline procedures, I could stand around. ~Dave Barry

Travel plans didnt go neitherly as smooth as planned. After a relatively smooth trek through security (had to be record time for me), we discovered our plane was delayed by 5 hours then was cancelled all together. We hustled to the service desk where we had to wait an hour to reach the counter. Once we reached the counter, we spent another hour as they tried to get us on another flight. Because there was a problem with the computer system and we could not be unseated by United for another flight, we had to leave terminal one and go to terimnal 5 and visit Turkish air. Turkish air told us there was nothing they could do for us and that United had to give us a FIM. So, back to termianal one, back through the now very long security line, back to the service desk for the FIM then back to Terminal 5 with the FIM for a booked flight. All in all, the entire process from entering O’hare to finally getting on a flight saw us spending 9 hours at the airport. The fight cancellation was not the fault of the airlines as foul weather in Europe was the straw that broke the camels back for this trip. I must give credit to United as they busted their butts to get us an alternate flight. And they gave us $40 in food coupons to spend in the terminal. I am very glad I didnt have to pay my own money to eat because the food we purchased was barely edible. I would like to say everything went smoothly once we boarded the plane but that wouldn’t quite be true. Upon landing, our checkin bags were nowhere to be seen and as of midnight, there is still no words on their whereabouts. The best guess is the were still at O’Hare.

We reached our hotel, a hostel actually, around 7:30 pm Turkish time(GMT-2) on 07-May-2012. All told only lost about 5 hours of vacation time. However, we have tight plans which now must be adjusted so we can visit the old palace in Istanbul.

The Yakamov hostel is a very small room near the heart of old istanbul. We only plan to spend sleeping time here so a luxurious room was not something for which we felt the need to spend our cash. The hostile is ideally situated within walking distance of the grand attractions of old Istanbul and even closer to a myriad of restaurants that had us salivating on the cab ride up to our hostel.

We checked in and immediately went out for dinner. For some reason I cannot eat on airplanes, the smell of the food induces nausea, so I was quite hungry by this time. Right around the corner from our hostel was a restaurant called the “Sembol Meat House”. People that know me will understand why this place immediately attracted my attention. I am a meat lover. I consider anything green as what food eats and not something to be consumed by human beings, not unless there are copious amounts of meat for primary ingestion.

Our dinner consisted of the meat special, flat bread, wine by the glass, water by the bottle, chai (Turkish Tea), and, for desert, baklava. We ate on the patio and idyllic weather conditions. In the distance, the mosque sent out a call for prayers that could be heard quite distinctly. Hearing the call was a new experience for me. I am not Moslem, still, the call struck me with a sense of reverence.

The meal was outstanding. The flavors were rich and varied and the portions perfect of the two of us. The ambience was also rich in the multitude of languages spoken. We were the only two I heard speaking with a US English accent. THere were, however, quite a few British people eating at this restaurant.

I have noticed on my travels, that food outside of the US is much richer in flavors. I love American food, it’s what I grew up stuffing my face with and something I crave when returning from abroad. My travels have brought me to the conclusion that American food is dumbed down for the masses. The rich and varied flavors found the world over are somehow, to rich and varied for a generation raised on fast food to appreciate, to rich and varied and subtly exquisite to a people used to fat and grease and bland to understand the culinary joy they are missing. Food in America has become something to fill the void of a hungry stomach while in other parts of the world, food is an event unto itself

We took a nice long walk after dinner, We waked through the town, away from our hostel, and found the night life of Old Istanbul. Though we had just eaten and could not fit another morsel into our bellies, which is usually a time when i don’t even want to smell food, I was drawn to the scents of the many restaurants and found myself planning on which to try the remaining two evenings we are in Istanbul. I was only able to narrow it down to ALL of them.

We walked to the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque, both places we will visit tomorrow, and admired their resplendent exterior beauty as highlighted by the lines shining upon their facades. The architectural glory, what I could see in the night, left me with a feeling of awe, awe at these marvelous architecture both contemplated and implemented by man, awe at the Engineering genius going into these ancient creations.

The vacation has just begun and I already feel that Istanbul has gotten under my skin, that Istanbul has touched my sense of adventure, that Istanbul is a city I could, one day, call home.

A Touch of Culture

Poetry, plays, novels, music, they are the cry of the human spirit trying to understand itself and make sense of our world. ~Laura Malone Elliott

It's been over 30 years since I last went to a play. That play was Godspell , a musical put on by a High School in the neighborhood where I grew up. I went to the play because a good friend of mine had the lead. He later went on to be in a movie, My Bodyguard, in which he played one of the gang of bullies.

I typically don't attend 'cultural' events preferring rock concerts to pretty much any other 'cultural' type attraction. I was raised in a family where the arts were enjoyed but not pursued as a past time. However, when asked to attend a play in Chicago with my girlfriend, I figured it was time to try something new.

The play we saw was Freuds' Last Session, a two man show with the premise of an aging, atheist Sigmund Freud debating a young, Christian Clive Staples Lewis in the time before Lewis wrote his famous books. The debate was on the existence of God and touched on the related topics of love, sex, and the meaning of life. There's was a spirited debate. I found it interesting that Freud would degenerate into personal attacks during the debate while Lewis kept to reason and logic and to admitting when he simply did not have the answer.

My girlfriend is a trained counselor and is interested in Freud, one of the giant names in Psychology. I, on the other hand, have been a big fan of CS Lewis since I read his books arguing for the existence of God and other works on Christian apologetics. For me, his scariest book is the Screwtape Letters, a conversation between two demons discussing methods to draw people away from God. I find it is scary because I see my own susceptibility to wandering from the path in the plans of the demons, in the schemes of the demons.

I was captivated by the play for the story line and for the technique of the actors. The most fascinating aspect for me was that the two actors sustained dialog for a full 80 minutes. The dialog was deep, complex, verbose, and memorized. With just two of them on the stage, there was no one to pick up the slack in the event either stumbled over their lines. I am not smooth of speech so was also fascinated that the two men were able to talk, continually for the full 80 minutes without a stammer, a stutter or speaking at a rate that was unintelligible. The gift they have for speaking is one I have craved my entire life, a gift that has eluded me for almost 50 years.

Perhaps one of the most striking scenes was when Freud and Lewis discussed music. Though he liked music, Freud would not listen to music because it moved him emotionally in a way he could not understand intellectually and, if he could not wrap his mind around this condition intellectually, he simply turned the radio off when music was played to avoid the emotional entanglement. This, for me, was one of the saddest scenes in the play. I love music, love to sway to the rhythms, love to feel moved emotionally by the beats and rhythms. I can never see my life complete without music. It seems so shallow to avoid something so joyous, so sad just because you don't understand why it strikes a chord in one's heart.

During the play, I felt genuinely sorry for Freud, sorry he was so stubborn in his ways that he was unable to even entertain the notion of a higher power, unable to conceive that the world holds mystery outside of what can be seen or touched. I felt sorry for Freud because he saw suicide as the answer to his suffering. I felt sorry for Freud because his great intellect blinded him from seeing possibilities beyond the arrogance.

There was a time when I had the mindset of Freud as regards to religion. There was a time when I saw religion as a crutch for the weak of mind. There was a time when I saw organized religion as the enemy of reason. That was a time when I was as unhappy as Freud was portrayed in the play for I was as self centered as Freud was portrayed. Those times, ironically, were before I discovered the works of CS Lewis. Those time were before I delved deep into an intellectual apologetics for Christianity. Those were times before I became a believer in Jesus Christ. Those were times before I became a truly happy person.

Books: Harry Bosch Detective Series by Michael Connelly

A good book has no ending. ~R.D. Cumming



Ever since reading my first Harry Bosch novel, The Last Coyote, I have become a fan of the detective series. To date, I have read four of the eighteen novels with three of them consumed in the past ten days. The books tend to be faced paced, page turners that keep me captivated for hours on end to the exclusion of all other activities. In some respects, I curse the person that introduced me to the series because it has consumed virtually all my reading time at the expense of the many other books I have on my iPad.

It has been many years since a series of books has captured my attention the way this series has consumed me. As a kid, there was the Hardy Boys series. As an adult there was anything written by Tony Hillerman and the first five of the ten book Jason Bourne series. I was originally turned on to the Bourne book series by my brother who said the written version of the stories were much better than the movies. I would have to agree. Knocking off Marie in the second movie did not do justice to the importance of her character in the novels.

One of things I enjoy about reading a series of novels is watching the character progress over time, seeing how the characters life grows (or stagnates) over a time period much wider than the days/weeks captured in the pages of a novel. This is, for me, one of the endearing aspects of the fictional Jim Chee / Joe Leaphorn characters portrayed in many of the Tony Hillerman novels. With Tony's novels, I was given a peak into the evolving lives of the characters as they experienced love and loss and the effects of age. I looked forward to each novel Tony wrote and hurried off to the book store to buy the hard cover versions as soon as they hit the shelf for as much as I enjoyed the stories on their own, I was also eager to see the next events unfold in the lives of my fictional friends.

While reading the Harry Bosch novels, I again found myself both enjoying the stories and watching the progression of Harry's life, how he was forced to deal with the characters in the police department that repeatedly attempted to undercut his mission to solve murders, the progression of his partners and the occasional return of someone from earlier novels.

After reading Trunk Music (Novel #5), The Closers (#11), and Echo Park (#12) and encountering characters whose introduction referenced past events, I felt like I was missing something, missing the foundation that would allow me to better understand the main and peripheral characters along with the incidents that helped form Harry into the person he become in the latter novels. What better way to do this than to circle back to the first Hieronymus "Harry" Bosch novel, The Black Echo.

In The Black Echo, I again encountered Eleanor Wish, a character I previously met in Trunk Music, and discovered how Harry and Eleanor met and the incident that caused her to spend time in jail as was referenced to in Trunk Music. For me, this was good knowledge and, looking back, puts my appreciation of the tandem in a different light, a more exposing light than I had when first read about them.

As much as I would love to start the next novel, The Black Ice, I have to put the reading on hold. I leave for a dream trip to Turkey on Sunday and there are many things I must do prior to departing. If I crack the novel (sounds strange for a Kindle book), I will likely not get everything complete before leaving on that jet plane.