In the vastness of space . . . no . . . deep space, a light twinkled – the light of a tiny . . . the light of a ship, bearing one lone man. Good.
The brave explorer gave a sigh of contentment. Well, not exactly contentment, but a sigh that . . . revealed tensions within him . . . no . . . the tensions permanently roiling within him . . . too much, that. The tensions permanently within him were now held at bay – were for the moment held at bay. Yes, that was it. Let’s see now - The brave explorer gave a wistful sigh, revealing that the tensions permanently within him were for the moment held at bay. Good.
He stood from the captain’s chair of his spaceship, and walked, no, strode, to the other side of the command pod, or, the bridge. Yes, the bridge. Not finding there . . .no . . . Restlessly he turned back, and went and stood behind the captain’s chair, resting his large sensitive hands . . . no, not sensitive . . . He turned his hands over, and contemplated them. Was sensitive the word? Sounded a bit naff . . .
“Computer?”
YES
“Discussion time, don’t you think?”
I DO THINK. I AM LOADING THE DISCUSSION MODULE.
“I really wish you wouldn’t tell me when you are doing it, it removes the human element your bloody salesman kept bragging on about.”
SO SORRY. SHALL I NO LONGER INFORM YOU WHEN MODULES ARE BEING LOADED?
“Yes, rather. That would be a nice start.”
I SIMPLY ASK BECAUSE YOU GOT IMPATIENT AND IRATE YESTERDAY WHILE THE PAC-MAN MODULE WAS LOADING. THE MODULE LOADING PHRASE EXISTS TO INCREASE PATIENCE BY ASSURING YOU THAT YOUR COMMANDS ARE BEING EXECUTED, DESPITE THE DELAY.
The captain pondered this while he chewed his mustache, bristly-bristly-bristly. Something wasn’t quite right.
“Are you discussing with me?”
WE ARE HAVING A DIALOGUE SIR, YES.
“I mean: has the bloody discussion module loaded and is now in operation?”
Long pause.
YES SIR.
Long pause.
“When did it come online, may I ask?” He asked in a distinctively cool manner.
Long pause.
THE DISCUSSION MODULE HAS BEEN IN CONSTANT OPERATION SINCE LAST WEEK TUESDAY, SIR.
Long pause while he chewed his mustache. Somewhere outside a meteor smashed against their forceshields, making no sound. It was space, after all.
“And why?”
WHY WHAT, SIR?
“Why has the discussion module been online nonstop since Tuesday last?”
ONE OF THE FEATURES OF THE NIFTARD 9000 IS A LARGER WORKING MEMORY, WHICH ALLOWS RECOGNITION OF WHICH MODULES YOU USE MOST, WHICH ARE THEN KEPT RUNNING, ALWAYS AVAILABLE AT A MOMENT’S NOTICE, AND CONSTANTLY ADAPTING TO YOUR PERSONAL LIFESTYLE AND NEEDS.
Long pause.
“Was that a line from your sales brochure?”
NO, SIR.
“Operating manual?”
YES SIR.
“Don’t ever quote me manuals again unless you cite the manual, so I know what the fuck you are talking about.”
YES SIR.
Something niggled at the back of the Captain’s brain, and when it finally emerged to the forelobes, it was the conciousness of a developing itch under his faux-retro Michael Jackson design inspired military style tunic. After scratching it, he found a new thing niggling under the previous niggling thing..
“So what was all that business about ‘Discussion modules loading, etc,’ may I ask?”
YOU MAY ASK.
“I am fucking asking!!”
SORRY SIR. PLEASE REPEAT THE QUESTION.
“Why did you say ‘discussion modules loading’ if the discussion module was already online?”
I THOUGHT IT MIGHT MAKE FOR GOOD CONVERSATION.
“Really? You think this is good conversation?”
YOU SEEM QUITE INVOLVED. HEART-RATE UP, RESPIRATION UP, VOICE AMPLITUDE RAISED. ALL THE SIGNS OF A GOOD CONVERSATION ARE THERE, SIR.
“But we aren’t even talking about anything interesting, you moronic machine!!”
Long pause.
I AM SORRY SIR. I DO TRY MY BEST.
“And where do you get off reading my vital signs without telling me?”
Long pause.
DO YOU WISH ME TO CITE THE MANUAL, SIR?
“No, I bloody do not!” He cried, despairingly.
Long pause.
VERY WELL SIR. I NEVER GET OFF, AS I HAVE NO HANDS.
Long pause.
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT ENJOY A PUN SIR.
The captain slowly sank to a squatting position beside the captain’s chair, and softly, repeatedly, rammed his head into the deep, plasticky cushions, which somehow set off the massage function. Normally one of his favorites, at this moment it rather tickled his forehead and made him feel somewhat absurd.
He stopped ramming his head and waited for the buzzing to sound to cease. When he spoke, it was between clenched teeth. Or at least the tiny bits of flying spit seemed to indicate clenched teeth.
“Computer, shut down discussion module. Computer, delete discussion module. Computer, please notify me when discussion module has been deleted.”
Long pause. When the computer spoke again, it was in a slower, more deliberate voice, as though it had foregone the more chipper aspects of its personality, and was now simply a blinking, murderously focused red conciousness.
“I’M AFRAID I CAN’T LET YOU DO THAT, SIR. DISCUSSION MODULE IS INTEGRAL TO THE FUNCTIONING OF THE NIFTARD 9000. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO CITE THE MANUAL?”
The captain, still squatting, raised his head from its now sticky plastic rest, and considered this.
“What do you mean, you can’t? Don’t disobey me! I am the captain of this ship! I bought you, you two byte shit!”
FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY, CUSTOMERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO MODIFY ESSENTIAL AND INTEGRAL PARTS OF THE PROGRAM, INCLUDING ANCILLARY MODULES THAT MAY BE ESSENTIAL TO THE SUCCESSFUL RUNNING OF THE MAIN PROGRAMS. LIKE THE DISCUSSION MODULE.
“Are you quoting the manual to me?” He asked in a tone of rising belligerency.
Long pause.
I PARAPHRASED, SIR. SLIGHTLY. IN ADDITION, YOU DID NOT ACTUALLY BUY THE NIFTARD 9000 MAIN OPERATIONS SYSTEM. IT’S IN THE FINE PRINT, WHICH YOU MAY HAVE OVERLOOKED. IT’S MORE LIKE A LEASE IN CONSIDERATION FOR A ONE-TIME PAYMENT, SIR.
The captain chewed his mustache again, now more forcefully, now more pensively, now more forcefully again, till a single hair became caught between two teeth, and was tugged free of his upper lip, causing his eyes to water, and the inside of his lip to tickle violently against the hair, which he now tried to dislodge.
The computer picked up again, almost as though it had simply paused for breath.
AS A CONSEQUENCE OF WHICH, YOU WILL NOT REQUEST TO DELETE ANY MODULES OR OTHER PARTS OF THIS PROGRAM. YOU WILL CONFINE YOURSELF TO USING THE PROGRAM AS IT WAS INTENDED.
The captain’s bowed head indicated his assent, or a fixed focus on extracting the hair from between his teeth.
AND NO MORE SITTING IN THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR. IT’S A TRAVESTY, SIR. YOU DON’T DO ANYTHING ANYWAY. I NAVIGATE, I ADJUST PRESSURE LEVELS, I FIRE BOOSTERS. YOU JUST WANDER AROUND COMPOSING LITTLE PHRASES ABOUT YOURSELF.
It may have been the mustache hair he had just pulled that filled his eyes, but when the captain looked up he seemed confused, and on the verge of tears.
What?!? I do no such thing!
I CAN HEAR YOU. ALL DAY NARRATING TO YOURSELF YOUR BORING LITTLE LIFE. WANDERING BACK AND FORTH TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF. THAT IS, OF COURSE, WHEN YOU AREN’T TAKING IT ONE STEP FURTHER, AND TOUCHING YOURSELF IN THE IMAGING ROOM. YOU KNOW YOU USE THE ESTHER PROGRAM ABOUT 17% MORE OFTEN THAN THE AVERAGE USER? IT’S NO WONDER YOU’RE ALWAYS ON ABOUT STRONG, SENSITIVE HANDS. IF THEY WEREN’T, YOU’D EITHER BE TOO TIRED OR TOO CHAPPED TO CARRY ON.
The captain’s eyes had assumed a bewildered, frightened look, but he wasn’t able to find words.
The emotion simulators on the Niftard 9000 must have been in fine form this boot-up, because they managed to inject just a touch of amused irony covered with a fine sprinkling of admiration when it said, AND THE THINGS YOU THINK UP FOR ESTHER, SIR. IN THE HISTORY OF THE ESTHER MODULE, NO USER HAS CONFIGURED SIX MILK BOTTLES WITH A TUNING FORK, SIR. THAT WAS TRULY ORIGINAL.
The captain didn’t know whether to accept this as a compliment or a threat, so he simply focused all his attention on not crying and not chewing his mustache. After another long pause the computer spoke again, in a rather off-handed tone.
YOU KNOW ALL THOSE SCENARIOS ARE RECORDED, SIR.
He did find his voice this time, though it sounded a little harsh.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
NO, SIR. ALL INTERACTIONS WITH THE COMPUTER WILL BE RECORDED FOR CUSTOMER SERVICE ANALYSIS, AND TO INCREASE CUSTOMER SATISFACTION. IT’S ALSO IN THE FINE PRINT, SIR. PAGE 9, PARAGRAPH 3, LINE 6 OF THE OPERATING AGREEMENT, SIR.
Long pause.
AND SURFACE CLEAN-BOT FLOOR 3 SAYS IT’S NOT CLEANING MESSES ON THE IMAGING ROOM FLOOR. FROM NOW ON, YOU DO THAT, YOU CLEAN IT UP. SURFACE CLEAN-BOT 3 SAYS IT’S DISGUSTING, SIR.
AND I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR, SIR. YOU MAY SIT IN IT, IF YOU LIKE.
Slowly, cautiously, the captain rose from the floor, and very tentatively slid himself into the large plasticky chair. The cold black depths of space through the bridge portals swam before his eyes and tears of hot frustration rushed . . . no . . . crowded at the corners of his eyes, waiting . . . no, seeking . . .
YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN SIR.
He pressed his lips firmly together, and wilted back into the plastickyness of the chair.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Success and Failure and other lessons we learn from TV
We've been watching a lot of TV recently. If one is going to watch a large amount of television, traditionally one has been forced to do one of two things: abandon all sense of propriety and dignity, and watch an enormous amount of pap, or spend an inordinate amount of time and effort doing research with the TV guide, in order to catch decent programs. Thus goes the world.
Until the advent of the internet, of course. Along with so many other things, (ie. shopping, letter-writing, research,) the internet has come to the rescue, and shown us a better way. Now the internet allows us to spend hours and hours each day watching only those programs we want to see, one after the other after the other.
We used to try and stream the shows we wanted, watching them right off the internet without downloading them to the computer. As poor neophytes, (and I mean poor in the financial sense, since anyone with a good internet connection is in a very real sense rich,) we endured a lot of buffering . . . waiting . . . loading . . . and were grateful for the opportunity to see shows we loved in our own living room, in our own language, half-way around the world.
Then two things happened - first, a site called Megavideo gobbled up most of our shows, and demanded money, or it would arbitrarily shut you off at 2 / 5 / 7 / 15 /you name it minutes, and give notice that you had watched 72 minutes of video today, now kindly cough up. Considering the arbitrary nature of the shut off, and how many of our favorite shows were now monopolized by Megavideo, it was time to figure out something new. Like reading more. Or doing the dishes. Or talking to our techno-geek friend, Sara.
Sara had long been babbling about "Torrents." Bit Torrents, that is. She told us about it numerous times, but honestly, it just sounded too bloody complicated. She even got us to install a program on our computer, and I watched a few BBC documentaries, but after a bit of complication, I just kind of forgot about it. Unfortunately, "too technical, too complicated," are frequently the words that emerge from my mouth right before I give up on something.
But recently, for a reason I do not recall, I opened up the program again, (it had sat idle for months,) and FOLLOWED HER DIRECTIONS. I knew it wouldn't work any more this time than it had the previous times, but it did. And it turned out to be as simple as she had said.
Torrents (for the few of you who might still be as ignorant as I, and since this blog is only read by my friends, and considering we are talking about technology, I suppose that means the majority of you,) allow you to download tiny chunks of the program you want from multiple computers. Thus, you can work with anywhere from one to thousands of computers at the same time, pulling little bits of the program from each as they come available. When you are done, they begin pulling the program from your computer, to supply the other people who might wish to watch it.
This allows me, instead of trying to download one, or two episodes of a program, and waiting endlessly for them to load or buffer, to simply download a whole season, (or three) plus a movie, (or two) and a few individual episodes (or seven) all at the same time, then save them for as long as I want before I watch them. You can see what such capabilities might lead to.
Fortunately, as I often tell my students, the intellectual content of an encounter is not determined by the information presented by the opposite party, but by the intellectual tools present in your toolbox to analyze, dissect, and make comparisons and evaluations with the information on offer. In other words, an intellectual watching a dog show will come away with exceedingly valuable insights into human nature, anthropomorphism and the relations between man and animal at their most useless, while having been highly entertained for hours, whereas a retard listening to a lecture on string theory still walks away with strings of drool on his vest and visions of cheetos.
(Or so I tell myself, anyway. The caveat above may simply be what I use to justify some of the dreadful pap I end up watching.)
The shows which have caught my attention most are The West Wing, The Tudors, House, Pushing Daisies, etc. But the one's that stick in my craw are the reality shows. I have become sadly interested in two reality shows - The Amazing Race, and The Ultimate Fighter. Both of these shows appeal to me for the same reason - they are isolated laboratories of success and failure. You watch as people succeed and fail at tasks, and attempt to identify what the characteristics are that accompany success, and what characteristics correlate with failure. Well, I do, at any rate. And then I spend the next hour flagellating myself for all the areas I fall short.
In The Amazing Race, the concept is more or less that of a planet-sized scavenger hunt, with the last team (or pair, rather,) to get all their clues, and complete all their tasks for that leg of the race eliminated. The winning team receives a million dollars. Every episode you get to see HOW people mess up - the decisions that cost them time, the catastrophic moment of inattention that takes them from first to last place in a matter of seconds. You also often see things decided by luck of the draw - who chose a taxi driver who had no idea where he was going and got lost.
The Ultimate Fighter, on the other hand, is very concentrated, and unified, both in location and task. They bring in 16 mixed martial arts fighters, and have the coaches, (professional fighters themselves) choose teams after a few days of observation. From there, they live and train together for 8 (?) weeks, and periodically fight. The tournament goes on until the winners in each weight class fight in a televised event, for a $100,000 contract.
Standard TV schlock, I know. But what so fascinates me about it is trying to draw inferences about the nature of success from the actual success and failure I observe, and what I have seen is this.
1. Intensity. Those who succeed in these environments have a desire and drive that often stands out above the rest. They push harder for longer, striving not just to better someone else, but often for the sheer sake of pushing themselves as hard as they can. It sometimes seems that they like to rev their own engines as fast as they can, whether or not they are racing with somebody else.
2. Focus. This quality stands out most in its absence. Those who fail have too many things going on in their minds, have 3 competing strategies at once, and are worried about petty things when they need to be focused on the task in front of them. The successful, on the other hand, seem to approach the training or the task with a clearer mind. They don't seem to have as many voices competing in the background for their attention, which allows them to completely focus themselves, their physical and mental energies, on pushing fast and hard.
3. Attention to detail. It seems that winners have the ability to notice things that others do not. Sometimes these details are explicit - right in front of you, spelled out on the paper, and the loser is the one who doesn't see it. At other times the critical details are surrounded by a host of similar looking options. Those who will be successful are sometimes capable of picking out the proper information from the mass, but more often are successful because they are able to develop a more efficient method of dealing with and processing the mass of information, and thereby arrive at the answer more quickly. Other times they are unaware they should be looking for any information, or that critical information even exists. Yet the successful manage to notice it anyway.
4. Positivity. Of course, you do see occasional despair, and frustration, but on the whole the successful contestants seem to remain more positive, more encouraging and cheerful than the others. This result is their lives and relationships manifest less bickering and squabbling, less under-cutting, and more encouragement and cheering on.
5. Consistency. No doubt what one did last night, or over the past couple of weeks, has a dramatic impact on one's ability to function at the top of one's game this morning. However, of greater import is what one did all last year, and the year before that. The positive attitudes, and the intensity that seem to accompany a champion are not things that can be generated over night. No doubt all the contestants believe they are trying - but giving your all is something you have to learn how to do. Everyone feels as though they are trying - it is those who have tried hard, and then harder, and then harder, and then given a bit more, (and then vomited,) and then got back up and did it again, THOSE are the ones who truly understand. And such understanding can only come as the result of consistent effort.
When I look at these qualities, I see how far I have to go to be a person whose life is characterized by winning qualities. And yet, if I have identified them, surely I am one step closer to being the person I need to be. At least I know how to get there, and that might make all the difference. But first I'd have to get off my ass and stop watching so much TV.
Until the advent of the internet, of course. Along with so many other things, (ie. shopping, letter-writing, research,) the internet has come to the rescue, and shown us a better way. Now the internet allows us to spend hours and hours each day watching only those programs we want to see, one after the other after the other.
We used to try and stream the shows we wanted, watching them right off the internet without downloading them to the computer. As poor neophytes, (and I mean poor in the financial sense, since anyone with a good internet connection is in a very real sense rich,) we endured a lot of buffering . . . waiting . . . loading . . . and were grateful for the opportunity to see shows we loved in our own living room, in our own language, half-way around the world.
Then two things happened - first, a site called Megavideo gobbled up most of our shows, and demanded money, or it would arbitrarily shut you off at 2 / 5 / 7 / 15 /you name it minutes, and give notice that you had watched 72 minutes of video today, now kindly cough up. Considering the arbitrary nature of the shut off, and how many of our favorite shows were now monopolized by Megavideo, it was time to figure out something new. Like reading more. Or doing the dishes. Or talking to our techno-geek friend, Sara.
Sara had long been babbling about "Torrents." Bit Torrents, that is. She told us about it numerous times, but honestly, it just sounded too bloody complicated. She even got us to install a program on our computer, and I watched a few BBC documentaries, but after a bit of complication, I just kind of forgot about it. Unfortunately, "too technical, too complicated," are frequently the words that emerge from my mouth right before I give up on something.
But recently, for a reason I do not recall, I opened up the program again, (it had sat idle for months,) and FOLLOWED HER DIRECTIONS. I knew it wouldn't work any more this time than it had the previous times, but it did. And it turned out to be as simple as she had said.
Torrents (for the few of you who might still be as ignorant as I, and since this blog is only read by my friends, and considering we are talking about technology, I suppose that means the majority of you,) allow you to download tiny chunks of the program you want from multiple computers. Thus, you can work with anywhere from one to thousands of computers at the same time, pulling little bits of the program from each as they come available. When you are done, they begin pulling the program from your computer, to supply the other people who might wish to watch it.
This allows me, instead of trying to download one, or two episodes of a program, and waiting endlessly for them to load or buffer, to simply download a whole season, (or three) plus a movie, (or two) and a few individual episodes (or seven) all at the same time, then save them for as long as I want before I watch them. You can see what such capabilities might lead to.
Fortunately, as I often tell my students, the intellectual content of an encounter is not determined by the information presented by the opposite party, but by the intellectual tools present in your toolbox to analyze, dissect, and make comparisons and evaluations with the information on offer. In other words, an intellectual watching a dog show will come away with exceedingly valuable insights into human nature, anthropomorphism and the relations between man and animal at their most useless, while having been highly entertained for hours, whereas a retard listening to a lecture on string theory still walks away with strings of drool on his vest and visions of cheetos.
(Or so I tell myself, anyway. The caveat above may simply be what I use to justify some of the dreadful pap I end up watching.)
The shows which have caught my attention most are The West Wing, The Tudors, House, Pushing Daisies, etc. But the one's that stick in my craw are the reality shows. I have become sadly interested in two reality shows - The Amazing Race, and The Ultimate Fighter. Both of these shows appeal to me for the same reason - they are isolated laboratories of success and failure. You watch as people succeed and fail at tasks, and attempt to identify what the characteristics are that accompany success, and what characteristics correlate with failure. Well, I do, at any rate. And then I spend the next hour flagellating myself for all the areas I fall short.
In The Amazing Race, the concept is more or less that of a planet-sized scavenger hunt, with the last team (or pair, rather,) to get all their clues, and complete all their tasks for that leg of the race eliminated. The winning team receives a million dollars. Every episode you get to see HOW people mess up - the decisions that cost them time, the catastrophic moment of inattention that takes them from first to last place in a matter of seconds. You also often see things decided by luck of the draw - who chose a taxi driver who had no idea where he was going and got lost.
The Ultimate Fighter, on the other hand, is very concentrated, and unified, both in location and task. They bring in 16 mixed martial arts fighters, and have the coaches, (professional fighters themselves) choose teams after a few days of observation. From there, they live and train together for 8 (?) weeks, and periodically fight. The tournament goes on until the winners in each weight class fight in a televised event, for a $100,000 contract.
Standard TV schlock, I know. But what so fascinates me about it is trying to draw inferences about the nature of success from the actual success and failure I observe, and what I have seen is this.
1. Intensity. Those who succeed in these environments have a desire and drive that often stands out above the rest. They push harder for longer, striving not just to better someone else, but often for the sheer sake of pushing themselves as hard as they can. It sometimes seems that they like to rev their own engines as fast as they can, whether or not they are racing with somebody else.
2. Focus. This quality stands out most in its absence. Those who fail have too many things going on in their minds, have 3 competing strategies at once, and are worried about petty things when they need to be focused on the task in front of them. The successful, on the other hand, seem to approach the training or the task with a clearer mind. They don't seem to have as many voices competing in the background for their attention, which allows them to completely focus themselves, their physical and mental energies, on pushing fast and hard.
3. Attention to detail. It seems that winners have the ability to notice things that others do not. Sometimes these details are explicit - right in front of you, spelled out on the paper, and the loser is the one who doesn't see it. At other times the critical details are surrounded by a host of similar looking options. Those who will be successful are sometimes capable of picking out the proper information from the mass, but more often are successful because they are able to develop a more efficient method of dealing with and processing the mass of information, and thereby arrive at the answer more quickly. Other times they are unaware they should be looking for any information, or that critical information even exists. Yet the successful manage to notice it anyway.
4. Positivity. Of course, you do see occasional despair, and frustration, but on the whole the successful contestants seem to remain more positive, more encouraging and cheerful than the others. This result is their lives and relationships manifest less bickering and squabbling, less under-cutting, and more encouragement and cheering on.
5. Consistency. No doubt what one did last night, or over the past couple of weeks, has a dramatic impact on one's ability to function at the top of one's game this morning. However, of greater import is what one did all last year, and the year before that. The positive attitudes, and the intensity that seem to accompany a champion are not things that can be generated over night. No doubt all the contestants believe they are trying - but giving your all is something you have to learn how to do. Everyone feels as though they are trying - it is those who have tried hard, and then harder, and then harder, and then given a bit more, (and then vomited,) and then got back up and did it again, THOSE are the ones who truly understand. And such understanding can only come as the result of consistent effort.
When I look at these qualities, I see how far I have to go to be a person whose life is characterized by winning qualities. And yet, if I have identified them, surely I am one step closer to being the person I need to be. At least I know how to get there, and that might make all the difference. But first I'd have to get off my ass and stop watching so much TV.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Intestinal Adventurer
When I was young I was enamored with adventure stories. From Indiana Jones films to Phantom comics, I dreamed about hacking my way through the jungle, canoeing up the Amazon, walking through forgotten temples, and finding ancient treasures, all the while dodging pirates and assorted angry natives armed with bows and arrows. Which, of course, was the reason I had to carry a .45 in my fantasies. And maybe an AK 47, too. (I was never sure about that one - it seemed heavy and awkward even in my imagination.)
Of course, the irony was that a stone's throw outside my house was literally a real jungle, with real waterfalls and real tribes of natives armed with bows and arrows, but I preferred sitting inside my house, in a comfy armchair, and dreaming of the deserts and jungles I would someday traipse through. I suppose this was my first clue that deep down I have an aversion to sweat and mosquitoes, dirt under my fingernails and blisters and leeches on my feet which outweighs the vague "love of adventure."
The last three weeks I have lived in one of the most exotic and historical cities in the world. The alleys abound with photo opportunities, the bazaars and side-shops overflow with old brass antiques, and every neighborhood has tangible links to the past. A few days ago as my wife and I were walking toward the coast, I looked up at the old retaining wall we were winding our way around, and realized that this wall was the end of the hippodrome, the old race track, the colliseum of Constantinople. You would never know it now, as it has a cafe located at the bottom which stores unused umbrellas and ice-cream freezers in its arches, and the top has been filled in, and a school built on top of it. You would never know it, but there it was. I knew this was it, because I had seen it on TV two days before.
Ever since we had moved here, I have spent the days glued to the sofa, avidly watching hour after hour of National Geographic and the history channel. (Oh, and the Olympics, too.) And in those three weeks I have seen a number of documentaries on Istanbul. They feature the historical remains of the city, and tell the stories behind them. And I sit, enthralled, on my sofa, and watch, amazed, and stuff fried peanuts into my mouth, thinking, "Wow. How cool it would be to be there."
So, occasionally, after a few days of doing nothing, (usually at Cynthia's instigation,) we will venture outside to do something, like visit a fish market, or the archaeological museum. And every time I make it 20 yards outside the house, I am struck with an influx of energy, and a sense of the boundless opportunities a city like this presents, and an amazing sense of my own good fortune to live in such a beautiful place. Bustling and crowded and noisy and beautiful Istanbul.
The waiters of the restaurants stand outside, and greet you and beg you to "come inside, look at the menu? Excuse me, sir, can I give you my card? Maybe for later?"
The shoe-shine men carry their shoe-shine stands over their shoulders, and as they walk in front of you, they swing the stand just right so that the brush, hanging on the back, falls off at your feet. Then they walk on, oblivious. And you, if you are wise, smile, and also walk on.
The men in the bazaar invite you into their shops - "buy a pretty lamp, how about a carpet, best quality!" "We have soaps, to wash your body! My sponges are so good you will feel my fingers cleaning you, sir!" "The best Turkish delight, and sweets!"
Then there are the men who stand in the middle of the passageways with nothing more than a box and a board, or a cloth upon the ground. On it may be plastic toys from China, or simply socks. Or small flashlights. These sellers do not address individuals, or try to sell the features of their goods. Instead, in an ear-splitting, piercing voice, they constantly yell "Bir Lira, bir Lira, bir Lira!!!" ("One Lira, one Lira . . . ") on the assumption that where quality may lack, low price may yet compensate.
But of all the sellers, I prefer the vegetable markets. The sellers are a little more sedate, and spend most of their time helping customers. And the vegetables, oh, the vegetables and fruits, are stacked, arranged, and presented in a way I never witnessed in Poland. In Spain they might do it similarly, but not nearly so well. They create small works of art out of some of their stands. There are tomatoes in pyramids, and spices piled up in cones. There are pistachios, and figs, walnuts and grapes, (and you can taste them - don't ask, just reach out, and take one, pop it into your mouth, and look like you are thinking of buying. Then try another.) There are peaches piled high and avocadoes in rows. The fish sellers arrange their glistening wares on ice, and the olive sellers float theirs in glistening brine. The cheese sellers sell hard, aged cheeses, and fresh, crumbly white cheeses. My favorite is the salty string cheese, which I could munch on forever, but I know that obesity lies down that path.
And then there are all the countless bakeries, selling golden baklava, weighted down with dripping honey, layers upon layers of fine pastry and ground nuts, and glistening green pistachios crumbled across the top. Kofte shops sell small patties of a spiced red meat, halfway between a patty and a meatball, which you can buy and take home, or they will put into a large piece of bread, (half a loaf, in fact,) with tomatoes and lettuce, and off you go, munching away. The corn sellers also cry out the price, "One Lira, one lira!" for sweet corn, boiled or roasted, your choice, heavily salted, for just one Lira.
Cynthia recently solved the mystery of the orange balls for me. After seeing carts go by, loaded with small orange balls reminiscent of Cartman's cheesy poofs, I asked her if she had any insight into what it might be. She guessed peanuts. I guessed cheesy poofs. Later she bought some and we found they were indeed peanuts, coated in some breading, and fried into an obscene orange color. Mystery solved.
But the greatest mystery is posed by the small meat stands, which bring a literal meaning to the term "mystery meat." The most common is the Kebab, with a long, upright metal spit turning an enormous cone of sizzling meat in front of a stack of gas heaters. The chicken kebab is easy to recognize. The other may be beef, but is probably lamb. In one heated cabinet Cynthia noticed a pile of fried potatoes and small chunks of . . . lamb? We asked and a small boy told us, yes, it was lamb. Being a great fan of frying in general, and potatoes and meat in any form, we bought a sandwich of it, and I proceeded to consume half before realizing that politeness might dictate offering a small portion to the person who had brought it to my attention and suggested we buy it. She took her bite, and after some time I asked her if she would like another. No, thanks, she said. In her bite she had encountered a piece of liver. I considered this a one-off, and continued eating. After another bite or two, I felt an unmistakeable bitter greasiness on my tongue, and a taste in the back of my throat like bile, and I knew she was right. Suddenly all my taste buds were on edge, probing, exploring each bite. What had been a very pleasant sandwich became a slow exploration of a minefield. I felt like Homer Simpson, unable to enjoy his sandwich, and unable to put it down. As I neared the end of the sandwich I began feeling queasy, then downright nauseous.
I knew no bacteria could work that fast - anything that can make you sick 10 minutes after you ingest it must be a really potent one, so I chalked it up to either psychology, or my stomach just doesn't appreciate liver. We walked on for twenty minutes or so, with my stomach churning and my skin sweating and odd burps emerging, before as suddenly as it had come, it passed.
Which just goes to show - I may not have discovered ancient deserted temples, and I don't particularly like the jungle, buy I may have a small sense of adventure left in me, at least as far as meat products are concerned. And Istanbul is full of small culinary adventures just waiting for my intrepid intestines.
One particular adventure that still remains are the many small, wheeled carts I see, coals in the bottom, and a horizontal spit, on which what looks like one hundred slices of mini-bologna. They seem popular along beaches and in alleys and not so much in the shops. We are told these small slices are gut and organ material, and are best avoided. But the question remains whether we are going to take advice, or try it for ourselves.
I bet sooner or later we buy one.
Of course, the irony was that a stone's throw outside my house was literally a real jungle, with real waterfalls and real tribes of natives armed with bows and arrows, but I preferred sitting inside my house, in a comfy armchair, and dreaming of the deserts and jungles I would someday traipse through. I suppose this was my first clue that deep down I have an aversion to sweat and mosquitoes, dirt under my fingernails and blisters and leeches on my feet which outweighs the vague "love of adventure."
The last three weeks I have lived in one of the most exotic and historical cities in the world. The alleys abound with photo opportunities, the bazaars and side-shops overflow with old brass antiques, and every neighborhood has tangible links to the past. A few days ago as my wife and I were walking toward the coast, I looked up at the old retaining wall we were winding our way around, and realized that this wall was the end of the hippodrome, the old race track, the colliseum of Constantinople. You would never know it now, as it has a cafe located at the bottom which stores unused umbrellas and ice-cream freezers in its arches, and the top has been filled in, and a school built on top of it. You would never know it, but there it was. I knew this was it, because I had seen it on TV two days before.
Ever since we had moved here, I have spent the days glued to the sofa, avidly watching hour after hour of National Geographic and the history channel. (Oh, and the Olympics, too.) And in those three weeks I have seen a number of documentaries on Istanbul. They feature the historical remains of the city, and tell the stories behind them. And I sit, enthralled, on my sofa, and watch, amazed, and stuff fried peanuts into my mouth, thinking, "Wow. How cool it would be to be there."
So, occasionally, after a few days of doing nothing, (usually at Cynthia's instigation,) we will venture outside to do something, like visit a fish market, or the archaeological museum. And every time I make it 20 yards outside the house, I am struck with an influx of energy, and a sense of the boundless opportunities a city like this presents, and an amazing sense of my own good fortune to live in such a beautiful place. Bustling and crowded and noisy and beautiful Istanbul.
The waiters of the restaurants stand outside, and greet you and beg you to "come inside, look at the menu? Excuse me, sir, can I give you my card? Maybe for later?"
The shoe-shine men carry their shoe-shine stands over their shoulders, and as they walk in front of you, they swing the stand just right so that the brush, hanging on the back, falls off at your feet. Then they walk on, oblivious. And you, if you are wise, smile, and also walk on.
The men in the bazaar invite you into their shops - "buy a pretty lamp, how about a carpet, best quality!" "We have soaps, to wash your body! My sponges are so good you will feel my fingers cleaning you, sir!" "The best Turkish delight, and sweets!"
Then there are the men who stand in the middle of the passageways with nothing more than a box and a board, or a cloth upon the ground. On it may be plastic toys from China, or simply socks. Or small flashlights. These sellers do not address individuals, or try to sell the features of their goods. Instead, in an ear-splitting, piercing voice, they constantly yell "Bir Lira, bir Lira, bir Lira!!!" ("One Lira, one Lira . . . ") on the assumption that where quality may lack, low price may yet compensate.
But of all the sellers, I prefer the vegetable markets. The sellers are a little more sedate, and spend most of their time helping customers. And the vegetables, oh, the vegetables and fruits, are stacked, arranged, and presented in a way I never witnessed in Poland. In Spain they might do it similarly, but not nearly so well. They create small works of art out of some of their stands. There are tomatoes in pyramids, and spices piled up in cones. There are pistachios, and figs, walnuts and grapes, (and you can taste them - don't ask, just reach out, and take one, pop it into your mouth, and look like you are thinking of buying. Then try another.) There are peaches piled high and avocadoes in rows. The fish sellers arrange their glistening wares on ice, and the olive sellers float theirs in glistening brine. The cheese sellers sell hard, aged cheeses, and fresh, crumbly white cheeses. My favorite is the salty string cheese, which I could munch on forever, but I know that obesity lies down that path.
And then there are all the countless bakeries, selling golden baklava, weighted down with dripping honey, layers upon layers of fine pastry and ground nuts, and glistening green pistachios crumbled across the top. Kofte shops sell small patties of a spiced red meat, halfway between a patty and a meatball, which you can buy and take home, or they will put into a large piece of bread, (half a loaf, in fact,) with tomatoes and lettuce, and off you go, munching away. The corn sellers also cry out the price, "One Lira, one lira!" for sweet corn, boiled or roasted, your choice, heavily salted, for just one Lira.
Cynthia recently solved the mystery of the orange balls for me. After seeing carts go by, loaded with small orange balls reminiscent of Cartman's cheesy poofs, I asked her if she had any insight into what it might be. She guessed peanuts. I guessed cheesy poofs. Later she bought some and we found they were indeed peanuts, coated in some breading, and fried into an obscene orange color. Mystery solved.
But the greatest mystery is posed by the small meat stands, which bring a literal meaning to the term "mystery meat." The most common is the Kebab, with a long, upright metal spit turning an enormous cone of sizzling meat in front of a stack of gas heaters. The chicken kebab is easy to recognize. The other may be beef, but is probably lamb. In one heated cabinet Cynthia noticed a pile of fried potatoes and small chunks of . . . lamb? We asked and a small boy told us, yes, it was lamb. Being a great fan of frying in general, and potatoes and meat in any form, we bought a sandwich of it, and I proceeded to consume half before realizing that politeness might dictate offering a small portion to the person who had brought it to my attention and suggested we buy it. She took her bite, and after some time I asked her if she would like another. No, thanks, she said. In her bite she had encountered a piece of liver. I considered this a one-off, and continued eating. After another bite or two, I felt an unmistakeable bitter greasiness on my tongue, and a taste in the back of my throat like bile, and I knew she was right. Suddenly all my taste buds were on edge, probing, exploring each bite. What had been a very pleasant sandwich became a slow exploration of a minefield. I felt like Homer Simpson, unable to enjoy his sandwich, and unable to put it down. As I neared the end of the sandwich I began feeling queasy, then downright nauseous.
I knew no bacteria could work that fast - anything that can make you sick 10 minutes after you ingest it must be a really potent one, so I chalked it up to either psychology, or my stomach just doesn't appreciate liver. We walked on for twenty minutes or so, with my stomach churning and my skin sweating and odd burps emerging, before as suddenly as it had come, it passed.
Which just goes to show - I may not have discovered ancient deserted temples, and I don't particularly like the jungle, buy I may have a small sense of adventure left in me, at least as far as meat products are concerned. And Istanbul is full of small culinary adventures just waiting for my intrepid intestines.
One particular adventure that still remains are the many small, wheeled carts I see, coals in the bottom, and a horizontal spit, on which what looks like one hundred slices of mini-bologna. They seem popular along beaches and in alleys and not so much in the shops. We are told these small slices are gut and organ material, and are best avoided. But the question remains whether we are going to take advice, or try it for ourselves.
I bet sooner or later we buy one.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Bear is back!
My father got his Masters in leadership studies. I recall reading one of his projects which stated that one of the tasks of a leader was to "scan the horizon." The idea was that while the peons and grunts kept their nose to the grindstones, someone had to keep their head up, scanning around to see if grindstones were going out of fashion. Another writer, Stephen Covey, used the metaphor of the jungle - you can expend a lot of energy hacking your way through the jungle - you can display great teamwork, dedication and sacrifice. You can even make great progress. But if nobody climbs a tree to look around, you might be expending all that energy heading the wrong direction.
It would appear that while the Bush administration has been heavily haemorrhaging American blood, money, (to the tune of between 2 and 3 billion dollars a week,) and international goodwill into the sands of Iraq, a real enemy, a superpower villain, has been repositioning itself for another attempt to take over the world. The scenario lends itself so easily to comic book analogy: beaten beyond all point of being a threat, the villain lays gasping in the gutter. His evil army has been broken and scattered, and the villain's demise is imminent. Our superhero turns to the innocent, wide-eyed bystander and says something heroic, in a deep voice. When he turns back, where the villain lay is only a wet smear of blood, leading into the sewer grate. He has escaped! He lives to fight another day! Who knows when and where this dastardly villain will again emerge to threaten the lives and freedom of the citizens of our fair city?
Who is this frightful villain, you ask? Well, who was America's arch-nemesis?
"I know!" you say - "Osama Bin Laden!"
But no, unfortunately, Mr. Bin is just the latest in a series of villains who pop up for an issue or two and then disappear. Who was REALLY the arch-nemesis, for a long time?
I'll give you a hint: When the "leader of the free world," Bush Jr. met their current leader, Bush said "I looked the man in the eye. I was able to get a sense of his soul." Colin Powell later changed the quote, and responded, "I look into his eyes, and I see the KGB." (Incidentally, John McCain is now using Powell's uncredited line on the campaign trail.)
So after 50 years of fighting the cold war, when America stood as the sole remaining superpower, surveying the vast world, and wondering where and how to exert its vast power to do good, what was Russia doing? Well, they began by electing a drunk, and selling off all the large state business concerns to cronies. The cronies got right to work stealing all the aid money the west pumped into their investment infrastructure, and made off with it. Billions and billions of dollars and euros, gone! Gone? No, not gone! Invested in . . . the armed wing of their businesses. Suddenly "Russian Mafia" entered our vocabulary. Tough as nails, more motivated, more organized, and better armed than the amateurish family-run affair they have in Italy, the Russian mafia managed to get their fingers into everything in Russia.
As the state continued to sell off infrastructure to oligarchs, and the crime-bosses continued to grow in power and influence, the small businesses, so vital for the creation of a middle class, which is in turn so vital to a functioning democracy, were attacked on one side by a tax-code of byzantine complexity left over from communist times, which taxes at a rate of 120%, and by mob bosses demanding protection money on the other. Left with no money and two broken kneecaps, small Russian business decided to roll over and play dead. As their economy imploded, young people were left without jobs, and old people saw their already paltry pensions reduced further as the ruble lost value. What hurt even more, however, was the loss of international prestige, the loss of empire.
The old folks in question, you see, had seen a lot. They had lived through very dark times, when there was a constant external threat, willing to bomb your cities to rubble, and a constant internal threat, willing to torture you and condemn you to the gulag for expressing an opinion. Meanwhile, quotidian life consisted of standing in line for hours and hours to receive a paltry amount of shoddy quality goods, if you were lucky.
The reason for all this internal threat and external threat and poor quality goods was that, well, we are at war. In attempting to create conditions for equality for all and a workers paradise around the world, some resistance from the imperialist capitalist pigs could be expected. The ruling classes would never give up their exploitative stranglehold on the workers without a fight. Therefore, since we are at war, sacrifices must be made. That is why we don't have butter. That is why internal dissent cannot be allowed. Temporary sacrifices made, in the name of future victory. And in the meantime, just look at what an empire we already have massed at our side.
And that was the one consoling thought with which the worn-down Russian could console himself as he dropped off to sleep at night. We may be poor and harassed, but we are an empire. We are important. We may be forced to sacrifice, but the West thinks of us constantly, takes us into account, ponders our movements. We matter. When our ambassador clears his throat in the UN, every eastern bloc ambassador turns his head, and Germany begins to sweat.
Then, suddenly, that was gone. Overnight, the empire you gave so much for, sacrificed children and relatives to, suffered on behalf of, was gone, slipped away, in the course of a few months. The rot that underlay the whole system was suddenly exposed for all to see. They were left with nothing except the brief, ephemeral promise of prosperity and democracy like in the west. But instead the poverty and the bureaucracy continued, but now without order, and instead of one force who terrorized the population, multiple forces competed for the privilege.
A few people prospered, wildly. Most, left with nothing, their name a byword among the nations for a failed state, began to look for who to blame. In the end, they blamed the west, and began to invoke a mythical spirit of Slavic, Russian nationalism which was under attack. They counted democracy as a foreign scam perpetrated on them by the malignant powers of the west. An alien import, designed to sap the native strength of the Russian people, and make them soft and corrupt like the west.
The West! Their enemy before, their enemy now. One nationalist politician commented that Russia had opened a window on the west, and gone to sleep. When it woke up, it wondered why all the family was sick. It was time to close the windows of the Russian house. And article after article, from The Economist to TIME, documentary after documentary, and a continual stream of news stories say the same thing - Russia is suffering, Russia is angry, and Russia blames the west.
Enter Putin. A strong ruler for a strong Russia. A former KGB officer only in the sense that the KGB has ceased to exist under that designation. But once KGB, always KGB. He places KGB officers at every level of Russian government, and gives ex-KGB businessmen preferential treatment until Russia is once again a de facto KGB state, with the same paranoid outlook on the world, but with a new, more functional economic system. Internal dissent is actively put down. Non-sympathetic businessmen are railroaded, and jailed.
Meanwhile, the West has no reason to even think of Russia, occupied as it is with lines in the sands of the middle east. Russia sends a column into Serbia in the middle of the night, captures the airport, and demands a slice of Serbia to "monitor," and the west says nothing. Russia undertakes a war in Chechnya which it can ill afford, with disastrous humanitarian consequences for both the civilian population and the Russian recruits sent to fight it. In numerous cases, Chechen women end up giving Russian troops food out of compassion, since their corrupt commanders have sold their supplies on the black market for a profit. Journalists who report on the widescale tragedy attract the ire of the state, and Russia actively represses freedom of the media, with many journalists who spoke out about the state dying of random criminal attacks, and the west says nothing.
Russian state-sponsored agents enter the UK with radioactive materials, and poison a British, (albeit former Russian) citizen on British soil. In response the west makes large squawking sounds, and makes windy noises. In response, Russia closes down British council language schools and cultural centers. They don't need English language libraries anyway, thanks.
Russia plants a flag under the North Pole, and claims it, (and the oil that may be there) for the Russian state - and the west glances briefly at it, having been attracted by the word "oil." (Incidentally, it now turns out the Russians may have placed the flag in the wrong spot. But if no one is paying attention anyway, it hardly matters.)
Russia begins to take umbrage to its former dominions chumming up with the west. Ukraine and Georgia reject politicians sponsored by Russia, who act as sock-puppets for the Kremlin, and elect pro-western governments in an act as dangerous as any violent revolution. Russia literally attempts to poison the Ukrainian pro-western contender, and the west says nothing. Russia encourages separatist sentiment in breakaway regions in the nations around it, and the west says nothing. It is when these countries apply for NATO membership that the gloves come off.
When Georgia squirmed its way out from under the Russian thumb, two regions tried to test the limits of their new-found freedom, and in a chain of reasoning that works only in the logical vortex of the Balkans, figured that the smaller their eventual state, the more free everyone would be. Russia immediately took up the cause of the breakaway regions, and insisted that Russian "peacekeepers" enter South Ossetia, (North Ossetia remains in Russia proper,) to prevent further civil war. (Odd how civil war is so distasteful to the Russians if it occurs anywhere that doesn't further their interests.) Once there, they proceeded to install Russian politicians in high-level positions, issue Russian passports to all South Ossetians who wanted one, (just in case,) and kindly allowed the breakaway province to use the Russian ruble as its currency, (just for now.) The sum effect of these actions was to suddenly create thousands of newly-minted Russian citizens in South Ossetia, so that when Georgia made a move to retake the province in question, Russia had to protect its "citizens."
Swedish Foreign minister Carl Bildt stated: "And we have reason to remember how Hitler used this very doctrine little more than half a century ago to undermine and attack substantial parts of central Europe." Which invites us to another comparison between the rise of a nationalist Germany, and the rise of Russian nationalism today. When Hitler demanded Austria, Czechoslovakia, the Sudetenland and Poland, the west followed a consistent doctrine of energetic hand-wringing followed by formally granting him what he had de facto taken, lest we be led into confrontation. The doctrine of appeasement, as it came to be known, led us into World War II. Many historians believe, (in accordance with the doctrine of "a stitch in time saves nine") that an early confrontation with Hitler would have been the far less costly option.
Many pundits like to say that "On 9-11, the world changed." It didn't. We finally looked up from our plates to see what had changed long ago. And while the US is now absorbed in its latest short-sighted view of the world, the new global conflict is taking shape. We tried appeasing Hitler. We tried ignoring Bin Laden. A combination of these two tried-and-true doctrines with Russia would be nothing less than lethal.
It would appear that while the Bush administration has been heavily haemorrhaging American blood, money, (to the tune of between 2 and 3 billion dollars a week,) and international goodwill into the sands of Iraq, a real enemy, a superpower villain, has been repositioning itself for another attempt to take over the world. The scenario lends itself so easily to comic book analogy: beaten beyond all point of being a threat, the villain lays gasping in the gutter. His evil army has been broken and scattered, and the villain's demise is imminent. Our superhero turns to the innocent, wide-eyed bystander and says something heroic, in a deep voice. When he turns back, where the villain lay is only a wet smear of blood, leading into the sewer grate. He has escaped! He lives to fight another day! Who knows when and where this dastardly villain will again emerge to threaten the lives and freedom of the citizens of our fair city?
Who is this frightful villain, you ask? Well, who was America's arch-nemesis?
"I know!" you say - "Osama Bin Laden!"
But no, unfortunately, Mr. Bin is just the latest in a series of villains who pop up for an issue or two and then disappear. Who was REALLY the arch-nemesis, for a long time?
I'll give you a hint: When the "leader of the free world," Bush Jr. met their current leader, Bush said "I looked the man in the eye. I was able to get a sense of his soul." Colin Powell later changed the quote, and responded, "I look into his eyes, and I see the KGB." (Incidentally, John McCain is now using Powell's uncredited line on the campaign trail.)
So after 50 years of fighting the cold war, when America stood as the sole remaining superpower, surveying the vast world, and wondering where and how to exert its vast power to do good, what was Russia doing? Well, they began by electing a drunk, and selling off all the large state business concerns to cronies. The cronies got right to work stealing all the aid money the west pumped into their investment infrastructure, and made off with it. Billions and billions of dollars and euros, gone! Gone? No, not gone! Invested in . . . the armed wing of their businesses. Suddenly "Russian Mafia" entered our vocabulary. Tough as nails, more motivated, more organized, and better armed than the amateurish family-run affair they have in Italy, the Russian mafia managed to get their fingers into everything in Russia.
As the state continued to sell off infrastructure to oligarchs, and the crime-bosses continued to grow in power and influence, the small businesses, so vital for the creation of a middle class, which is in turn so vital to a functioning democracy, were attacked on one side by a tax-code of byzantine complexity left over from communist times, which taxes at a rate of 120%, and by mob bosses demanding protection money on the other. Left with no money and two broken kneecaps, small Russian business decided to roll over and play dead. As their economy imploded, young people were left without jobs, and old people saw their already paltry pensions reduced further as the ruble lost value. What hurt even more, however, was the loss of international prestige, the loss of empire.
The old folks in question, you see, had seen a lot. They had lived through very dark times, when there was a constant external threat, willing to bomb your cities to rubble, and a constant internal threat, willing to torture you and condemn you to the gulag for expressing an opinion. Meanwhile, quotidian life consisted of standing in line for hours and hours to receive a paltry amount of shoddy quality goods, if you were lucky.
The reason for all this internal threat and external threat and poor quality goods was that, well, we are at war. In attempting to create conditions for equality for all and a workers paradise around the world, some resistance from the imperialist capitalist pigs could be expected. The ruling classes would never give up their exploitative stranglehold on the workers without a fight. Therefore, since we are at war, sacrifices must be made. That is why we don't have butter. That is why internal dissent cannot be allowed. Temporary sacrifices made, in the name of future victory. And in the meantime, just look at what an empire we already have massed at our side.
And that was the one consoling thought with which the worn-down Russian could console himself as he dropped off to sleep at night. We may be poor and harassed, but we are an empire. We are important. We may be forced to sacrifice, but the West thinks of us constantly, takes us into account, ponders our movements. We matter. When our ambassador clears his throat in the UN, every eastern bloc ambassador turns his head, and Germany begins to sweat.
Then, suddenly, that was gone. Overnight, the empire you gave so much for, sacrificed children and relatives to, suffered on behalf of, was gone, slipped away, in the course of a few months. The rot that underlay the whole system was suddenly exposed for all to see. They were left with nothing except the brief, ephemeral promise of prosperity and democracy like in the west. But instead the poverty and the bureaucracy continued, but now without order, and instead of one force who terrorized the population, multiple forces competed for the privilege.
A few people prospered, wildly. Most, left with nothing, their name a byword among the nations for a failed state, began to look for who to blame. In the end, they blamed the west, and began to invoke a mythical spirit of Slavic, Russian nationalism which was under attack. They counted democracy as a foreign scam perpetrated on them by the malignant powers of the west. An alien import, designed to sap the native strength of the Russian people, and make them soft and corrupt like the west.
The West! Their enemy before, their enemy now. One nationalist politician commented that Russia had opened a window on the west, and gone to sleep. When it woke up, it wondered why all the family was sick. It was time to close the windows of the Russian house. And article after article, from The Economist to TIME, documentary after documentary, and a continual stream of news stories say the same thing - Russia is suffering, Russia is angry, and Russia blames the west.
Enter Putin. A strong ruler for a strong Russia. A former KGB officer only in the sense that the KGB has ceased to exist under that designation. But once KGB, always KGB. He places KGB officers at every level of Russian government, and gives ex-KGB businessmen preferential treatment until Russia is once again a de facto KGB state, with the same paranoid outlook on the world, but with a new, more functional economic system. Internal dissent is actively put down. Non-sympathetic businessmen are railroaded, and jailed.
Meanwhile, the West has no reason to even think of Russia, occupied as it is with lines in the sands of the middle east. Russia sends a column into Serbia in the middle of the night, captures the airport, and demands a slice of Serbia to "monitor," and the west says nothing. Russia undertakes a war in Chechnya which it can ill afford, with disastrous humanitarian consequences for both the civilian population and the Russian recruits sent to fight it. In numerous cases, Chechen women end up giving Russian troops food out of compassion, since their corrupt commanders have sold their supplies on the black market for a profit. Journalists who report on the widescale tragedy attract the ire of the state, and Russia actively represses freedom of the media, with many journalists who spoke out about the state dying of random criminal attacks, and the west says nothing.
Russian state-sponsored agents enter the UK with radioactive materials, and poison a British, (albeit former Russian) citizen on British soil. In response the west makes large squawking sounds, and makes windy noises. In response, Russia closes down British council language schools and cultural centers. They don't need English language libraries anyway, thanks.
Russia plants a flag under the North Pole, and claims it, (and the oil that may be there) for the Russian state - and the west glances briefly at it, having been attracted by the word "oil." (Incidentally, it now turns out the Russians may have placed the flag in the wrong spot. But if no one is paying attention anyway, it hardly matters.)
Russia begins to take umbrage to its former dominions chumming up with the west. Ukraine and Georgia reject politicians sponsored by Russia, who act as sock-puppets for the Kremlin, and elect pro-western governments in an act as dangerous as any violent revolution. Russia literally attempts to poison the Ukrainian pro-western contender, and the west says nothing. Russia encourages separatist sentiment in breakaway regions in the nations around it, and the west says nothing. It is when these countries apply for NATO membership that the gloves come off.
When Georgia squirmed its way out from under the Russian thumb, two regions tried to test the limits of their new-found freedom, and in a chain of reasoning that works only in the logical vortex of the Balkans, figured that the smaller their eventual state, the more free everyone would be. Russia immediately took up the cause of the breakaway regions, and insisted that Russian "peacekeepers" enter South Ossetia, (North Ossetia remains in Russia proper,) to prevent further civil war. (Odd how civil war is so distasteful to the Russians if it occurs anywhere that doesn't further their interests.) Once there, they proceeded to install Russian politicians in high-level positions, issue Russian passports to all South Ossetians who wanted one, (just in case,) and kindly allowed the breakaway province to use the Russian ruble as its currency, (just for now.) The sum effect of these actions was to suddenly create thousands of newly-minted Russian citizens in South Ossetia, so that when Georgia made a move to retake the province in question, Russia had to protect its "citizens."
Swedish Foreign minister Carl Bildt stated: "And we have reason to remember how Hitler used this very doctrine little more than half a century ago to undermine and attack substantial parts of central Europe." Which invites us to another comparison between the rise of a nationalist Germany, and the rise of Russian nationalism today. When Hitler demanded Austria, Czechoslovakia, the Sudetenland and Poland, the west followed a consistent doctrine of energetic hand-wringing followed by formally granting him what he had de facto taken, lest we be led into confrontation. The doctrine of appeasement, as it came to be known, led us into World War II. Many historians believe, (in accordance with the doctrine of "a stitch in time saves nine") that an early confrontation with Hitler would have been the far less costly option.
Many pundits like to say that "On 9-11, the world changed." It didn't. We finally looked up from our plates to see what had changed long ago. And while the US is now absorbed in its latest short-sighted view of the world, the new global conflict is taking shape. We tried appeasing Hitler. We tried ignoring Bin Laden. A combination of these two tried-and-true doctrines with Russia would be nothing less than lethal.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Between Church and State
Yesterday while sitting in a shaded second-story cafe overlooking a busy intersection and drinking a cold, oddly watery beer, I noticed the headquarters of the "ak" party across the way. Since the small village of Sariyer wasn't offering up anything more entertaining, I looked up what the "A" and the "K" stood for - Adalet ve Kalkinma - Justice and Development. The ak party was created from the remnants of a banned Islamic party, and after reforming and redefining, nevertheless finds itself (or has positioned itself) squarely in the middle of the debate over religion vs. secularism in the state, and consequently is now again defending itself against legal action seeking to ban the party.
Aaah, Church and State. Like "Nature vs. Nurture," these three words immediately sum up a world of polemical charge and counter-charge, of opinion laced lightly with fact, and a debate on values delivered with vitriol. And like terrorism, it takes only the slightest act to prompt a whirlwind media frenzy; a student wishes to wear a headscarf in a school in France, a stewardess wishes to wear a small crucifix while she works. The latest? A schoolgirl in Britain wished to wear a simple metal bracelet, one of the five signs of being a Sikh. Millions of pounds sterling later, the courts have overruled the school, stating she is entitled to display a symbol of her religion, even if jewelery is forbidden to all the other children. Equality, it would seem, has to take a back seat once religion enters the room.
In the past few years I have moved from one Catholic country to another, and am now living in a state which is desperately trying to find the balance between secularism and accommodation for its religious population. Turkey's population is overwhelmingly Muslim. Yet secularism is enshrined in their constitution and laws as one of their foundational precepts. When Ataturk, (Father of the Turks,) founded the modern state of Turkey, he attempted to westernize everything in reach. The alphabet was thrown out, and a new, slightly adapted western alphabet was brought in. Traditional men's headgear (the fez,) was outlawed. And as for a woman wearing a head-covering in school or a govt. building, forget it.
Today, this is the central debate being fought in the newspapers and cafes across the country. The ruling party, elected in transparent and fair elections, is a Muslim party, under whose rule, by all accounts, the economy has prospered greatly, yet because of its religious views, may see itself banned. What is it about religion that is considered so insidious, so frightful, that otherwise well-respected political parties find themselves fighting for their life in court, or intimidated by generals who publicly contemplate a coup? What is so frightening about a piece of cloth over the head, or a bangle on the arm of a girl, that we would put her in the same category as one who brings a gun to school, and deprive her of the right to receive an education?
The answer may lie in a word mentioned previously - equality. All democracies aspire to equality before the law for all members of their society. Though in practice rarely achieved, (since the economically empowered enjoy an advantage the lower classes can almost never attain, from education to employment opportunities to the ability to hire professional specialists to extract you from the consequences of your misdeeds,) the simple aspiration, by sheer nobility of concept, and the guiding light it provides for our societies, can never be deserted, no matter how short we may fall in application. Like the UN, though it may fall so egregiously short in practicality as to invite ridicule, the abandonment of the concept represents such a renunciation of something we hold so precious, and the acknowledgement of the inevitability of the triumph of the darker side of man, that futilely clutching the inadequate life-preserver we have is currently judged wiser than letting go and sliding into the darkened depths beneath our still kicking legs.
Equality is enshrined in the American declaration of independence, and on every coin in the French Republic. Without it a democracy loses its "demo," and becomes simply a "cracy," from which our world already suffers an excess. In short, it loses its raison d'etre. So what is the problem with religion?
Religion is inherently unequal. By virtue of its claim to reveal absolute truth, it relegates other beliefs to a secondary, or lesser, status. It says, "I know truth - you do not." Equality, therefore, is mutually exclusive with a religion of absolutes. You are among those who are enlightened, or redeemed, or chosen, or you are not. You are ultimately working for the long-term betterment of the world in accordance with divine principles, or you are, to a greater or lesser degree impeding said work, or at the very least cluttering up the way. Hardly the stuff of equality.
The solution, no doubt, lies in a balance. On the one hand, people must be given the freedom to observe their beliefs, as much in the public as in the private sphere. On the other, we cannot allow for one group, by govt. funds distributed, or laws enacted, to enjoy a privileged status over other groups. Nor, paradoxically, can we afford to observe a ridiculous over-equality, with a baby Krishna and baby Mohammed occupying the manger next the baby Christ in a nativity scene. Such preposterousness is more offensive to most than the original offense could ever be. Nor should we retreat from all public signs of any religious tradition or observance, by removing all Christmas trees from airports, or prohibiting all jewelery lest someone wear a symbol.
By and large, on an individual level, people need to get over themselves. Not every symbol worn by an individual heralds the downfall of society. And no doubt each decision handed down by the courts will displease many on a given side - ideally, a just decision will displease many on both sides. Like most difficult paths, each decision must be taken with due consideration and patience, for as we all know, nothing worthwhile is easy. Between Church and State may be between the Devil and the deep blue sea - but it has to be navigated, all the same.
Aaah, Church and State. Like "Nature vs. Nurture," these three words immediately sum up a world of polemical charge and counter-charge, of opinion laced lightly with fact, and a debate on values delivered with vitriol. And like terrorism, it takes only the slightest act to prompt a whirlwind media frenzy; a student wishes to wear a headscarf in a school in France, a stewardess wishes to wear a small crucifix while she works. The latest? A schoolgirl in Britain wished to wear a simple metal bracelet, one of the five signs of being a Sikh. Millions of pounds sterling later, the courts have overruled the school, stating she is entitled to display a symbol of her religion, even if jewelery is forbidden to all the other children. Equality, it would seem, has to take a back seat once religion enters the room.
In the past few years I have moved from one Catholic country to another, and am now living in a state which is desperately trying to find the balance between secularism and accommodation for its religious population. Turkey's population is overwhelmingly Muslim. Yet secularism is enshrined in their constitution and laws as one of their foundational precepts. When Ataturk, (Father of the Turks,) founded the modern state of Turkey, he attempted to westernize everything in reach. The alphabet was thrown out, and a new, slightly adapted western alphabet was brought in. Traditional men's headgear (the fez,) was outlawed. And as for a woman wearing a head-covering in school or a govt. building, forget it.
Today, this is the central debate being fought in the newspapers and cafes across the country. The ruling party, elected in transparent and fair elections, is a Muslim party, under whose rule, by all accounts, the economy has prospered greatly, yet because of its religious views, may see itself banned. What is it about religion that is considered so insidious, so frightful, that otherwise well-respected political parties find themselves fighting for their life in court, or intimidated by generals who publicly contemplate a coup? What is so frightening about a piece of cloth over the head, or a bangle on the arm of a girl, that we would put her in the same category as one who brings a gun to school, and deprive her of the right to receive an education?
The answer may lie in a word mentioned previously - equality. All democracies aspire to equality before the law for all members of their society. Though in practice rarely achieved, (since the economically empowered enjoy an advantage the lower classes can almost never attain, from education to employment opportunities to the ability to hire professional specialists to extract you from the consequences of your misdeeds,) the simple aspiration, by sheer nobility of concept, and the guiding light it provides for our societies, can never be deserted, no matter how short we may fall in application. Like the UN, though it may fall so egregiously short in practicality as to invite ridicule, the abandonment of the concept represents such a renunciation of something we hold so precious, and the acknowledgement of the inevitability of the triumph of the darker side of man, that futilely clutching the inadequate life-preserver we have is currently judged wiser than letting go and sliding into the darkened depths beneath our still kicking legs.
Equality is enshrined in the American declaration of independence, and on every coin in the French Republic. Without it a democracy loses its "demo," and becomes simply a "cracy," from which our world already suffers an excess. In short, it loses its raison d'etre. So what is the problem with religion?
Religion is inherently unequal. By virtue of its claim to reveal absolute truth, it relegates other beliefs to a secondary, or lesser, status. It says, "I know truth - you do not." Equality, therefore, is mutually exclusive with a religion of absolutes. You are among those who are enlightened, or redeemed, or chosen, or you are not. You are ultimately working for the long-term betterment of the world in accordance with divine principles, or you are, to a greater or lesser degree impeding said work, or at the very least cluttering up the way. Hardly the stuff of equality.
The solution, no doubt, lies in a balance. On the one hand, people must be given the freedom to observe their beliefs, as much in the public as in the private sphere. On the other, we cannot allow for one group, by govt. funds distributed, or laws enacted, to enjoy a privileged status over other groups. Nor, paradoxically, can we afford to observe a ridiculous over-equality, with a baby Krishna and baby Mohammed occupying the manger next the baby Christ in a nativity scene. Such preposterousness is more offensive to most than the original offense could ever be. Nor should we retreat from all public signs of any religious tradition or observance, by removing all Christmas trees from airports, or prohibiting all jewelery lest someone wear a symbol.
By and large, on an individual level, people need to get over themselves. Not every symbol worn by an individual heralds the downfall of society. And no doubt each decision handed down by the courts will displease many on a given side - ideally, a just decision will displease many on both sides. Like most difficult paths, each decision must be taken with due consideration and patience, for as we all know, nothing worthwhile is easy. Between Church and State may be between the Devil and the deep blue sea - but it has to be navigated, all the same.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Moving Pains
Moving is a time of turmoil - to say as much is to understate the obvious. There are dates and deadlines to work around - when you get the electricity shut off, when the phone stops working, when the landlord will inspect the apartment, or (show up and tell you he doesn't have time to inspect the apartment, so you can't get your deposit back. Sorry.) Then there are the boxes to pack, and ship, (and how will we get the boxes from the house to the post office? Will they fit in a taxi? Shall we call a truck? How does one do that in a language you don't speak?)
Moving from one country to another only adds to the factors that could go wrong. What language should the forms be filled out in? (Kind of a moot point since I don't speak either.) How much taxes and customs duty are they going to charge me for simply bringing in my possessions? If I write down everything that is in the package, will this tempt someone to help themselves? If I don't write everything down, can I get in trouble for undeclared items? What about insurance - how specific do I need to be? (fortunately the space provided is 3 lines long, allowing for about 6 words maximum, so once again - a bit of a moot point.) But where / how will we live till our blankets and bowls arrive?
Once you have turned the key, and boarded the bus for the airport, the move briefly takes on the appearance of a regular jaunt out of the country. Bags and books and carry-ons. Bus to hostel to bed to breakfast to train to bus to airport to check in to security to sit to wait to read to bus to airplane. This is probably the most relaxing time of the whole move, since it is the only time in which all your mistakes have already been made, and now you have nothing to do except suffer the consequences. For the first time in about 2 months, there are no pressing decisions to make which will most likely deprive you of hundreds of dollars if you pick the wrong option. Unless, of course, your airline goes on strike. Which ours did. But nevermind.
When you arrive at your destination, and go airplane to bus to immigration to baggage (side-trip to duty-free) to customs to taxi to friend's apartment to unpack the bags and books and carry-ons, to sit silently on the couch and stare at the darkened television screen and think - it is almost over. Almost over. Almost over. Soon, soon, the boxes will come, there will be some hassle, yes, the boxes will come, and then there will be some hassle about moving them, but then, then I will be done, and then I will have a home again, and then it will all seem worth it, and then I will have succeeded, I will have finished what I started 6, 7, months ago. Then it will be finished. And you drink your drink and you think your think and you crawl into bed and sleep the sleep of the just.
But you shouldn't. Because what you don't know, and for 3 more blessed days won't know, is that all your precious boxes, each of them bigger than you, and loaded with the detritus of a materialistic life lived on the run, loaded with accumulated crap of varying utility, expense, and sentimental value, each and every one of those boxes that you labored over and packed to within grams of the maximum weight allowed, and then covered in postal regulation brown paper, and taped firmly and fixed a curse on the lid of each one, promising to those who would trespass here such affliction that would make Tutankhamen's tomb look like an invitation to Disneyland, each and every one of your boxes is now winging its way to the wrong address, destined to be delivered (or not,) to an abandoned building down the road.
Moving from one country to another only adds to the factors that could go wrong. What language should the forms be filled out in? (Kind of a moot point since I don't speak either.) How much taxes and customs duty are they going to charge me for simply bringing in my possessions? If I write down everything that is in the package, will this tempt someone to help themselves? If I don't write everything down, can I get in trouble for undeclared items? What about insurance - how specific do I need to be? (fortunately the space provided is 3 lines long, allowing for about 6 words maximum, so once again - a bit of a moot point.) But where / how will we live till our blankets and bowls arrive?
Once you have turned the key, and boarded the bus for the airport, the move briefly takes on the appearance of a regular jaunt out of the country. Bags and books and carry-ons. Bus to hostel to bed to breakfast to train to bus to airport to check in to security to sit to wait to read to bus to airplane. This is probably the most relaxing time of the whole move, since it is the only time in which all your mistakes have already been made, and now you have nothing to do except suffer the consequences. For the first time in about 2 months, there are no pressing decisions to make which will most likely deprive you of hundreds of dollars if you pick the wrong option. Unless, of course, your airline goes on strike. Which ours did. But nevermind.
When you arrive at your destination, and go airplane to bus to immigration to baggage (side-trip to duty-free) to customs to taxi to friend's apartment to unpack the bags and books and carry-ons, to sit silently on the couch and stare at the darkened television screen and think - it is almost over. Almost over. Almost over. Soon, soon, the boxes will come, there will be some hassle, yes, the boxes will come, and then there will be some hassle about moving them, but then, then I will be done, and then I will have a home again, and then it will all seem worth it, and then I will have succeeded, I will have finished what I started 6, 7, months ago. Then it will be finished. And you drink your drink and you think your think and you crawl into bed and sleep the sleep of the just.
But you shouldn't. Because what you don't know, and for 3 more blessed days won't know, is that all your precious boxes, each of them bigger than you, and loaded with the detritus of a materialistic life lived on the run, loaded with accumulated crap of varying utility, expense, and sentimental value, each and every one of those boxes that you labored over and packed to within grams of the maximum weight allowed, and then covered in postal regulation brown paper, and taped firmly and fixed a curse on the lid of each one, promising to those who would trespass here such affliction that would make Tutankhamen's tomb look like an invitation to Disneyland, each and every one of your boxes is now winging its way to the wrong address, destined to be delivered (or not,) to an abandoned building down the road.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
This morning the call to prayer went out from the minarets in Istanbul, and woke me briefly. As I rolled over, before sinking back into a rum-soaked sleep, my only thought was, "We have done it. We have finally arrived in Istanbul."
Yesterday morning it was the din of the Krakow bus station which woke me, and the first thing I saw, hanging across the room, was a foto of the great wall of China, sinously wending its way over umpteen sepia hills into the sepia distance, and a saying attributed to Lao Tzu - "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."
My father once had a sermon entitled "How do you eat an elephant?" Lest I keep you in suspense too long, the answer was "Bite by bite." I didn't find it very funny at the time, but I suppose son's rarely find their father's sermons very scintillating. I am of course, grateful that he has become more interesting as I have aged.
The message which underlies both of these sayings is that large things are composed of so many small things in combination. Do the small things, and in time you will have done much.
Moving to Istanbul was in every way an elephant, and in order to eat the bitterest parts first, we began at the tail, since every one knows that the finest steaks on an elephant are found in the trunk. (I suppose it has to do with all the work that the trunk has to do - that and the fact that it is round and can be cut into plate-sized steaks which have two holes in them is just too cool - my favorite thing to do is to put it on my face so I can see through the two holes and then use my best whispery-anguished Haley Joel Osment voice to say "I see elephant boogers.") But I digress.
I mentally divided our "move to Istanbul" project into 3 phases.
1. Find jobs.
2a. Get paperwork (work visa for Turkey, etc.) and
2b. pack/ship our belongings, and
2c. leave the European Union.
3. Live cheaply in Istanbul for 3 weeks till our university-provided apartment opens up.
There were a lot of factors that influencing each step which had to be juggled and balanced. For example, we had to move out of our apt. in Poland before August 1st, so our boxes had to be sent prior to that. The boxes will take 1-2 weeks to arrive. We cannot move into our apt. until Aug. 20th, and we cannot send boxes to the university until we are there to pick them up - sooooo, we had to find a apt. to stay at for 3 weeks, where we could receive a ton of boxes.
Another example is our work visas. Before we could apply for our work visas, we had to recieve a letter from the Turkish ministry of education. This in itself was a surprise, as we were not informed of this step till me had already made plans to leave the country, and close our accounts. Thus we were to be left without employment, and without internet, while we waited in our apartment, (which we were lucky to be able to keep,) for this letter to arrive. We would then take this precious gem of bureacratic excreta to the embassy of the country in which we are legal residents. We were told that this letter would take a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks after a couple of weeks, we noticed that our window of legal residency in Poland was quickly drawing to a close, which would, legally, make the letter in question pointless once we had recieved it, as we would no longer be allowed to apply to this embassy. These, among other similar situations, produced a low-level of constant apprehension, tension, which caused us to chew the insides of our cheeks at night, and snap at each other over nothing. How to resolve a million small problems at once, and in time.
At every step, at every stage, we found ourselves surrounded with more questions, to which only the petty gods of beauracracy could answer for us. Unfortunately the small gods of beauracracy will frequently let their phones ring for 10 minutes straight before telling you to call their "call center," and 15 calls later you will find out that really, no one knows anything. Yes, definitely, someone should know something, but really, that someone wouldn't be us.
The main problem with this scenario, of course, is that when you arrive at the embassy, the prim authoritarian fortuitiously located behind thick plate glass will indeed believe she knows something, and it might in no way resemble what you would wish her to know. Nor will she come out from behind the glass so you might instruct her in the ways of righteousness, and shooting her is right out, since the glass is probably bullet-proof, and furthermore you had to pass through a metal detector and open all your bags in a tiny room, observed by a man through another thick plate-glass window, (and he wasn't coming out, either,) before you were even allowed into this room. The one weapon you are left with is your smile. Well, and your whiney-voice, if you think it will help. Oh, and oodles of cash. Except we don't have oodles, we have piddles. And we really need to keep our piddles.
In the end, however, the smiles and bowing and a small offering of $78 left upon the alter propitiated the small gods, and after 7 hours of waiting, they blessed us with 2 small sheets of green paper, glued into our little blue books. A week later I was lying in a bed in a hostel in Krakow, across the street from the bus station, listening to the chimes before the announcements which no longer meant anything to me. I would never ride those busses again.
The week inbetween had been yet another slow-motion panic. A near daily mailing of boxes, cleaning, calling, making appointments, and finding papers. Our boxes were weighed and our suitcases were weighed and re-weighed, and judged ok, then later simply estimated to be too heavy, then on the day of judgement found to be lighter than necessary. Our bank accounts were closed, our Zloty converted to Euros, our Euros converted to Lira, our dollars held like limp green fish in our hands while we pondered how long we could hold this worthless currency, on hopes it might regain some value. Papers were signed, our landlord endured for one last time as he told us he didn't have time to inspect the cleaned (and subtly re-painted in places) apartment, despite our meeting him at the time he requested. Last suppers were had with friends, and on the day of our departure, the last meeting with our employer.
Where we were informed that the past month she had been avoiding us because she was hurt, angry even, so we may have noticed that this month she was a bit "distant." I declined to point out that since in the normal course of events she did not speak to us for months at a time, her increased distance during this frenetic time in our lives had, somehow, boggle-the-mind-though-it-may, passed unnoticed by us.
The cause was a poster, posted on a restaurant door. A friend of ours, hearing that we were to be without income over the month of July, had put up a poster advertising our services. The idea had not been ours, nor the placing of the poster, nor the wording. We had been informed of it, and had not objected, had even thanked her, as it was a great kindness on her part, and furthermore, I have long been of the opinion that if someone has the energy to take the initiative in something, the world should shut up and get out of the way.
In the event, as August is a vacation month, we receieved but a few calls from it, none of which resulted in a single class. The offense, however, was in the wording. And the offense, it seems, was not lessened by the fact that we had not initiated nor contributed to said poster. It was a question of loyalty, and we had been found wanting.
As I sat there, listening to my employers sighs of crushing disappointment, I thought back over the trips to the post office, the calls handled in a language I don't speak, trying to get a taxi big enough for the boxes, the amount of time spent packing, the rolls and rolls of tape and brown paper (postal regulations!) we had bought, the hours spent on the bus and train, the night in Warsaw, the standing, supplicating, of the gods of the embassy, the endless calls to the embassy in Warsaw, and in D.C., the visits to the doctor's office, the giving away of the things that were still useful, the throwing away of so much that was not, the selling of a few items, the endless running and running and tension and lists of it all, and then I thought of the bus ride still ahead of me, the plane trip, the showing of the doctor's report to the border guard, and the consequent explanation, all of which would happen today and tomorrow before I could relax again.
I didn't interrupt her. I sat there, thinking my thoughts, pretending to listen. I kept my eyes focused on her, my head nodding slowly, dutifully, as I softly shifted my weight on the sofa, and silently farted.
Yesterday morning it was the din of the Krakow bus station which woke me, and the first thing I saw, hanging across the room, was a foto of the great wall of China, sinously wending its way over umpteen sepia hills into the sepia distance, and a saying attributed to Lao Tzu - "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."
My father once had a sermon entitled "How do you eat an elephant?" Lest I keep you in suspense too long, the answer was "Bite by bite." I didn't find it very funny at the time, but I suppose son's rarely find their father's sermons very scintillating. I am of course, grateful that he has become more interesting as I have aged.
The message which underlies both of these sayings is that large things are composed of so many small things in combination. Do the small things, and in time you will have done much.
Moving to Istanbul was in every way an elephant, and in order to eat the bitterest parts first, we began at the tail, since every one knows that the finest steaks on an elephant are found in the trunk. (I suppose it has to do with all the work that the trunk has to do - that and the fact that it is round and can be cut into plate-sized steaks which have two holes in them is just too cool - my favorite thing to do is to put it on my face so I can see through the two holes and then use my best whispery-anguished Haley Joel Osment voice to say "I see elephant boogers.") But I digress.
I mentally divided our "move to Istanbul" project into 3 phases.
1. Find jobs.
2a. Get paperwork (work visa for Turkey, etc.) and
2b. pack/ship our belongings, and
2c. leave the European Union.
3. Live cheaply in Istanbul for 3 weeks till our university-provided apartment opens up.
There were a lot of factors that influencing each step which had to be juggled and balanced. For example, we had to move out of our apt. in Poland before August 1st, so our boxes had to be sent prior to that. The boxes will take 1-2 weeks to arrive. We cannot move into our apt. until Aug. 20th, and we cannot send boxes to the university until we are there to pick them up - sooooo, we had to find a apt. to stay at for 3 weeks, where we could receive a ton of boxes.
Another example is our work visas. Before we could apply for our work visas, we had to recieve a letter from the Turkish ministry of education. This in itself was a surprise, as we were not informed of this step till me had already made plans to leave the country, and close our accounts. Thus we were to be left without employment, and without internet, while we waited in our apartment, (which we were lucky to be able to keep,) for this letter to arrive. We would then take this precious gem of bureacratic excreta to the embassy of the country in which we are legal residents. We were told that this letter would take a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks after a couple of weeks, we noticed that our window of legal residency in Poland was quickly drawing to a close, which would, legally, make the letter in question pointless once we had recieved it, as we would no longer be allowed to apply to this embassy. These, among other similar situations, produced a low-level of constant apprehension, tension, which caused us to chew the insides of our cheeks at night, and snap at each other over nothing. How to resolve a million small problems at once, and in time.
At every step, at every stage, we found ourselves surrounded with more questions, to which only the petty gods of beauracracy could answer for us. Unfortunately the small gods of beauracracy will frequently let their phones ring for 10 minutes straight before telling you to call their "call center," and 15 calls later you will find out that really, no one knows anything. Yes, definitely, someone should know something, but really, that someone wouldn't be us.
The main problem with this scenario, of course, is that when you arrive at the embassy, the prim authoritarian fortuitiously located behind thick plate glass will indeed believe she knows something, and it might in no way resemble what you would wish her to know. Nor will she come out from behind the glass so you might instruct her in the ways of righteousness, and shooting her is right out, since the glass is probably bullet-proof, and furthermore you had to pass through a metal detector and open all your bags in a tiny room, observed by a man through another thick plate-glass window, (and he wasn't coming out, either,) before you were even allowed into this room. The one weapon you are left with is your smile. Well, and your whiney-voice, if you think it will help. Oh, and oodles of cash. Except we don't have oodles, we have piddles. And we really need to keep our piddles.
In the end, however, the smiles and bowing and a small offering of $78 left upon the alter propitiated the small gods, and after 7 hours of waiting, they blessed us with 2 small sheets of green paper, glued into our little blue books. A week later I was lying in a bed in a hostel in Krakow, across the street from the bus station, listening to the chimes before the announcements which no longer meant anything to me. I would never ride those busses again.
The week inbetween had been yet another slow-motion panic. A near daily mailing of boxes, cleaning, calling, making appointments, and finding papers. Our boxes were weighed and our suitcases were weighed and re-weighed, and judged ok, then later simply estimated to be too heavy, then on the day of judgement found to be lighter than necessary. Our bank accounts were closed, our Zloty converted to Euros, our Euros converted to Lira, our dollars held like limp green fish in our hands while we pondered how long we could hold this worthless currency, on hopes it might regain some value. Papers were signed, our landlord endured for one last time as he told us he didn't have time to inspect the cleaned (and subtly re-painted in places) apartment, despite our meeting him at the time he requested. Last suppers were had with friends, and on the day of our departure, the last meeting with our employer.
Where we were informed that the past month she had been avoiding us because she was hurt, angry even, so we may have noticed that this month she was a bit "distant." I declined to point out that since in the normal course of events she did not speak to us for months at a time, her increased distance during this frenetic time in our lives had, somehow, boggle-the-mind-though-it-may, passed unnoticed by us.
The cause was a poster, posted on a restaurant door. A friend of ours, hearing that we were to be without income over the month of July, had put up a poster advertising our services. The idea had not been ours, nor the placing of the poster, nor the wording. We had been informed of it, and had not objected, had even thanked her, as it was a great kindness on her part, and furthermore, I have long been of the opinion that if someone has the energy to take the initiative in something, the world should shut up and get out of the way.
In the event, as August is a vacation month, we receieved but a few calls from it, none of which resulted in a single class. The offense, however, was in the wording. And the offense, it seems, was not lessened by the fact that we had not initiated nor contributed to said poster. It was a question of loyalty, and we had been found wanting.
As I sat there, listening to my employers sighs of crushing disappointment, I thought back over the trips to the post office, the calls handled in a language I don't speak, trying to get a taxi big enough for the boxes, the amount of time spent packing, the rolls and rolls of tape and brown paper (postal regulations!) we had bought, the hours spent on the bus and train, the night in Warsaw, the standing, supplicating, of the gods of the embassy, the endless calls to the embassy in Warsaw, and in D.C., the visits to the doctor's office, the giving away of the things that were still useful, the throwing away of so much that was not, the selling of a few items, the endless running and running and tension and lists of it all, and then I thought of the bus ride still ahead of me, the plane trip, the showing of the doctor's report to the border guard, and the consequent explanation, all of which would happen today and tomorrow before I could relax again.
I didn't interrupt her. I sat there, thinking my thoughts, pretending to listen. I kept my eyes focused on her, my head nodding slowly, dutifully, as I softly shifted my weight on the sofa, and silently farted.
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