tale from another no-man’s land

The Russian invasion of Georgia taught me what my local friends had always admonished—plans are illusions. So when an American friend and I were still in Georgia a few months on and on a whim decided to visit Turkey that weekend, I didn’t stress about the unplanned nature of the thing. Just grabbed a small backpack and met him at the bus station. We’d find a way there somehow; no need to stress on the details.

We bought a so-called “direct” bus ticket to Kars, a town not far from Ani, the ancient Armenian capital now located in Turkey.

At the border of the two countries, the passengers disembarked and walked through the Georgian border control, through no-man’s-land and to the Turkish border control. The bus rolled through separately, with our luggage checked by whosoever wished to do the job.

B and I were in the middle of the line, but the guards had already spotted us as foreign. Everyone else was either Turkish or Georgian and we were the only ones bothering to read the signs.

One officer gestured for us to follow him from the line. We looked at each other then followed.

He led us into a squat brick building and down a corridor. We were shown into a small room, sparely set up. A large photograph of Ataturk looked down on us and the two chairs before his desk. There was nothing else in the room.

We sat down. He sat down. He had our passports.

We tried to look like we weren’t watching our passports, and like we were unconcerned about being brought to a private location. B settled this by looking mildly constipated and I smiled hopefully.

The officer nodded at us and looked down at our passports. “You are American.”

“Yes.”

“That is bad.”

Truly there are few responses to that judgment when a uniformed representative of another country’s security is stating this while holding onto your passports in a remote outpost of the world.

I think I went for “ah?” and didn’t quite have the wherewithal to see how B was handling the news. I could feel Ataturk’s eyes on us.

The officer stared at us, then grinned.

“I am joking.”

On grateful and happy jelly legs we were escorted back to the bus.

We had just settled quite into the loveliness of the landscape when the driver pulled up to a station oasis in the middle of nowhere and told us to get out.  That the direct ticket was sort-of direct. A little minivan would be here in 45 minutes. We could take it to Kars. It would be free.

I climbed out, reveling in the stark beauty. A white star and crescent were emblazoned on a hill opposite a small stretch of water.

B looked at me through the bus-dust as it pulled away. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

I explained.

He studied me and then asked respectfully, “How good are you at telling time in Turkish?”

I blanched. “No, I’m pretty sure.”  Then I walked toward the short building opposite.

B followed. “Shouldn’t we wait here?”

“Nah. We should have tea. We’re in Turkey. Don’t worry. I’ve never been wrong yet in telling time in Turkish.” Then again, I’d never been right yet either.

I’ve had time to look back on that Turkish officer and his little joke. I suppose few Americans cross into Turkey overland through Georgia, and I suppose my smile and B’s constipated look were just too tempting. I can see that I should never be a person in uniform; my sense of humor isn’t cut out for it either.

Across the water from the station

Who Needs a TV?

That is, when you don’t have curtains.

Winding down for the evening, I shut the lights at my new apartment.  That second, a hundred different screens blinked into life–windows across the way.

Truth is, not much is “on” when your screen is someone else’s life as seen through their windows.  People watch TV or have silent conversations.  They clean and walk around seemingly aimlessly.   Some even read, or are they doing homework?  Who knows.  And that’s about it.   Mostly my reflections focused inward. 

On my window frames, on my bare apartment, the expenses, the future.  And then on memories.  Memories about frames.

Like last winter in Tbilisi, the Georgian capital.  When for light and heat I broke down and burned the wooden frames on my art.  How I learned to remove heavy duty staplers with a single hard-working tweaser.  (It’s all in the wrist.)  On deciding to make it festive by having friends over to skewer marshmallows (an overseas gift from a friend) with kebob sticks, toasting them over the picture frame fire.  Indoors.  The crackling sparks made by hidden staples that foraged so deep into the wooden frames that they’d ended up in the fire.  Our headlamps on.  Our laughter filling the cold, chasing out the void.

Frames.  They don’t have to be what we use to capture an image.  They don’t really even limit anything.  They just hold an image of an image, and even then, only for a moment. 

Then again, our lives are over in a blink, too.  In the meantime, it’s fun to think on reshaping frames, on tossing them into fires to make up our own ones.  At least then we’d never hold them sacrosanct.

Truth is, frames are part of our lives.  I suppose our brains need them.  And they do hold paintings up rather well.  And as Jesus and the Naked Guy are coming back soon, I’d best find me some new frames.  So when folks look into my apartment, they have something worth tuning into. 

Turkish Courtyard Seen through Doorway

Not Your Mother’s Dusty Frontier Town

Okay, I’ve harped on this before, but mayhap you didn’t believe me.

So I’m gonna quote it–with links–and then I’m gonna post pics.  And you, dear reader, can decide.  This is about Dogubayazit, my favorite frontier town.  It’s in Turkey, across the border from Iran.  And my quarrel is with Lonely Planet.  YOU be the judge.

Dogubayazit is described by Lonely Planet as a “dusty frontier town crawling with soldiers (which) has few charms of its own.”  See the link.  Proof.  Yes?

And now, Exhibit A through F–namely, my photos of said “dusty frontier town…with few charms of its own.”  Tell me, is that how you’d describe this gem?  :)  Photos below:

Old and Modern Share the Road, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Kid on the Street, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Market Scene, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Dogubayazit Street, Turkey

Fresh Bread and Dogubayazit Men

Friends on the Street

So–what do you think?  Dusty frontier town lacking charm?  Or hawt and colorful frontier town that yearns for exploration?  :)

A Bum Rap: Medieval Magic, Ancient Curses, Renaissance Paper and Peace Corps :)

Somebody please tell me Wikipedia loves me back.  Because I have fallen and cannot get up.

There was a time when chemistry, with its roots in observable chemical reactions, didn’t exist as an organized, procedure-bound field.  Instead, there was alchemy.  Some mixed it with magic.  Okay.

Well, that got me reading about what exactly those Medieval magical books, called grimoires, covered.  I won’t even MENTION–she said falsely–that the word “grammar” is linked to this word.  Because why set you on your own Wiki Free-Fall?  No reason at all.

So, these poor folk hiding their grimoires under floorboards and beds, in fear of the Church finding them and meting out punishment–what were they risking life and limb for?  Directions on spell-casting, recipes for medicinal powders and potions, instructions on making personal talismans, and (yikes) lists of angels and demons, as well as information on how to summon them to gain magical powers.   For this they died or were tortured.  Useful information, all.

But there’s more, if you’re willing to trawl history.  (And who isn’t, when such gems await?)

Turns out in days of yore, in this case Greco-Roman days, folks would hire others, consultants if you will, to inscribe “curse tablets” for them.  So, for instance, if my neighbor got away with stealing one of my chickens, I would have a curse tablet written with their name inscribed.

Business must have been good.  These consultants would apparently inscribe a bunch of tablets and have them lying around, waiting for someone to come buy and ask for a specific name to be added in the empty space.  Mass-produced curse tablets.

What will they think of next, our ancestors?

Well, I’m glad you asked.  Our democratic brethren the Greeks had another interesting system in place.  Back in the day before the reams of papers which throttle even our electronic period, they used broken pieces of earthenware pottery as voting ballots.  These were called ostraca.

Wait for it–

If they were voting to banish or exile someone, they would scratch the person’s name on the ostraca, leading to the term– “ostracism.”

MAGIC…..

And now, just because I’ve kept this inside for a whole day already, and truly that’s too long for my mortal coil, here’s an extra tidbit, which I’m going to toss at you as being at least peripherally related to the lack of paper in earlier days.

It’s related to my post yesterday on Cheapside.  I told you was looking up astronomical awareness and magic in the 1500s.  What I didn’t tell you, is that I bumped into Cheapside by means of stumbling over the links in Wiki’s chapbook page.  Chapbooks were pamphlet-like booklets printed during this period (and beyond.)  They were not bound, and not considered high literature, per say.  And today, remaining copies are very expensive and rare.

As Wiki puts it:

“Because of their flimsy nature such ephemera rarely survive as individual items. They were aimed at buyers without formal libraries, and, in an era when paper was expensive, were used for wrapping or baking. Paper has also always had hygienic uses and there are contemporary references to the use of chapbooks as bum fodder (i.e. toilet paper).”

Bum fodder….  What a term.  And believe it or not, I do have a story to relate.  I know, you’re mildly shocked I’m continuing past these gems and into territory so questionable.  I understand completely.  So only follow me if you’re ready.

Ready?

This is the briefest of anecdotes from my Peace Corps days.  I’ve alluded to the varied maladies that strike one in Peace Corps.  One of these, which almost everyone got, was amoebic dysentery.  And when one has dysentery, one doesn’t really have time to run about town looking for soft and luxuriant brands of bum fodder.  Anyway, one’s town or village probably doesn’t carry anything softer than crunched up newspaper.

So, to be brief, it does happen that one simply grabs whatever’s near one, and runs to the outhouse.  One might, for instance, grab one’s language book and run out.  And then one might very, very, very rapidly try to study those words while squatting, realizing that whatever page gets torn out, ain’t no-one ever gonna study those words again later.

Yes, I really did say that.  And yes, that really is Peace Corps.  Welcome, if you’re here perusing for tips on what to do with your spare two years and three months of altruistic feelings.  ;)

I think my photo should feature something completely different, so you can return to your day sprightly and clean.  As always when you leave my blog.  *cough*

Hot Air Ballooning in Cappadocia, Turkey

Surreal Anatolian View

Remember my post about that gorgeous frontier between Turkey and Iran?  Here’s a view of the palace from below.

Ishakpasha Palace from Dogubayazit

Still around the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

~ JRR Tolkien

Detail Disoriented; a tale of woe and–nope, that’s another post. Oops

I don’t lie on my resume anymore.  Not since my mid-20s.

Let me rephrase.  By lie, I mean use those ridiculously self-serving phrases career counselors encourage when you enter the workforce. Such that every twenty-something’s resume is littered with obsequious and patently false declarations that they are detail-oriented yet see the big picture, and are team players yet work well independently, are tactful yet cutting edge, etc, etc.

Oh no, not I.  I know myself now.  And I refuse to lie.  I, dear reader, do not love details at all.  Heck, I see a detail, I cross the street.  At a run.  Scattering pregnant women and strollers in my wake.

But there are some details I do live for.  For instance, do you know:

1.  The origin of the word ‘pummel.’

It’s from the olde English word, ‘pommel.’  Which referred to the hilt of a dagger.  To pommel someone was to hit them with the hilt rather than the blade.  Analogous, as someone remarked today, to pistol-whipping.

2.  The origin of the name ‘Istanbul.’

Ooh, this one is simply fab.  It goes back to days of yore, or more specifically: the lead up to the Fall of Constantinople in 1453.

The Turks had their hearts set on taking this city, the great metropolis of its time, rivaling every other bastion of history.  It had wealth, strategic location straddling two continents, and was just plain HAWT.  Ottoman spies were sent to ferret out the city’s weaknesses to plan a winning attack.  They would chat up Greek merchants on their way to trade in the city.

“Where are you going,” the spies would ask, by way of innocent greeting, I suppose.

“To the city,” the merchants would respond.

Not ‘to Constantinople.’  To the city.  Just like folks living in Northern Virginia will refer to DC as “the city” or “the district,” or like folks living in Brooklyn or Jersey will refer to Manhattan simply as “the city.”

And what is the Greek for “to the city?”  Is tan polin.

Magic……

Work details just don’t cut it at that same level, do they?  Not often, anyway.

(Did I just use this post as an excuse to post a Turkey photo????  Naw, I’m not that kinda gal.)

Istanbul, Turkey

The Two Realms of Novel Writing (for me)

Thomas Mann once quipped that:  ”A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”  Well, maybe it wasn’t a quip.  Maybe it was God’s honest truth.  ;-)

I’m finding that when I write, I work simultaneously within two separate realms.

Realm Gel

Realm Gel is my laptop.  This is where I type the story, for the most part in sequence.  That is, the order the story unfolds (or rather, is told).

Sometimes I’ll find I don’t know how to get from A to B on my plot line, although I know A must run to B for the story to unfold properly, and in those cases I write the scenes I can see or sense in my mind’s eye.  The connective tissue will come when it comes.

For example:  I have S in danger in one location, and A in danger in another location.  I know that they must reunite to face their peril together, but that both will have run-ins or find crucial information before that time.  But maybe I don’t know how they meet up again, although I know that when this happens, S and A have very different ideas of what their priorities should be, and that scene is hot in my mind.  So I simply write that scene that I see.  I mark the “gap” with yellow highlighter, so I know it’s there and to write it.  It lingers in my mind until the solution is found, or another scene evolves into the connection I need, and it’s seamlessly added.

(Ha! I hope it’s seamlessly added.  But right now I still see strings all about the place.  But that’s what a first draft is for.  Cutting the pattern and doing the first fitting.)

My only rule thus far is don’t go back.  So if you read the manuscript now, you’d see that character K’s pool hall is called something completely different in the beginning of the book, and that he’s minor and cheery at best.  And yet around page 142 or so, when he’s referenced again, it seems he has a much greater role in the book’s plot, and his character has been given depth that isn’t even hinted at in the beginning.  In other words, you can see the progression of the idea in the various parts of the manuscript, because I haven’t gone back to the beginning yet, to fix him up, set him up better, and rename the pool hall.  That’ll come later.

And his progression, absent in Realm Gel, is evident in my second realm, where he developed in the wings.  Realm Gel is the part that I think non-writers focus on as the main storytelling tool.  At least, that’s what I focused on.  But that leaves out the crucial realm of idea percolation and story development.

Realm Wings (beloved notebooks, blessed be they)

I value my notebooks more than my money in my purse at this point.  It’s in my notebooks that everything cooks and percolates. It’s my fridge of ideas, my farm of buzzers.  It’s there that I brainstorm plot, explore characters and write down random quotes, questions (for myself) and tips.  In a sense, the book springs from this well.

And although an outsider couldn’t glean what I was going on about, the notebooks remain sacredly, sacredly private.  Like a heart of hearts, except never to be shown.

My notebooks read like they’re written by a loon ordered by a judge to speak only in the form of questions, or to make contrary statements one after another.

I have scrawled questions of the “what if Y did Z?” variety, and of the “is P really R?” type.  Then there’s a whole bunch of “what does D really want?” or “what line would B never cross?”  And let’s not forget the “Does B need to think this way, because otherwise he couldn’t accept what F has done?”  Or “would D take it back if he could?“

Then there’s things like:  G is in control.  G is in control, but only at night.  D controls G.  D is afraid of G.  D created G but G’s out of control.  D is afraid of D. (Yeah, that won’t throw anyone for a loop.)  In the end, it’s about throwing all the options out there till one feels right to me.  Eventually Realm Gel will see the answer as it’ll be the story that’s chosen.

And most noticeably, I have entire characters and suggestions of overarching plot/framework in the notebooks which haven’t yet seen the light of laptop day, yet they together with the laptop form the evolving book in my mind.  The twain–references in the notebooks and writing in the laptop–can only meet when they’re ready.  When they can take their mantle on in the story.

Sometimes I can get caught up with where I am in the notebooks–ALWAYS ahead but ALWAYS facing questions I don’t have answers to–and forget that my laptop’s not caught up with them.  Then I feel I have hit a bump in the writing and must brainstorm before writing further…until I read over where I’ve left it, and realize I’ve LOADS yet to share with Realm Gel, thanks to Realm Wing’s ongoing trip.  :)

It’s like the laptop is the map with the pins for “where we’ve been” and the notebooks are future travel musings, but laden with more stress and tension.  Because, of course, usually when one travels, one is trying to AVOID the river with crocodiles, but if you’re in a book set in Africa, well, you’re trying to figure out how to make sure everyone MUST cross the river (or die), and with a baby in tow.  :)

And it’s Realm Wing that takes flight in the middle of the night, on subway rides, in the cafes, on the streets, and while watching TV or cooking, and for that reason my trusty notebooks are always with me.  From time to time, Realm Wing is so ready to take flight that I simply grab the laptop and let the idea flow straight into Realm Gel.  But there’s always, always, two realms to this writing my first draft….

Anyone reading this writing too?  If so, how’s it for you?

* The author has no crocodiles in either Realm, nor, as of yet, any babies.

Standing Before the Church: Ani in Turkey

It’s Not What You Know. It’s What I Don’t.

I’m working in a wine shop for the present.  And I find myself noticing something that’s been pointed out to me for years.

I can speak English, Russian and Hebrew to varying degrees of fluency.
I can read basic Turkish, Ukrainian, Georgian and Serbian/Bosnian/Croatian.
I can recognize many Armenian and Arabic letters.
I have shabby Azeri, Polish and Afrikaans comprehension.
I know the difference in pronunciation of “sz” in Hungarian vis-a-vis Polish, and can read a variety of permutations on the basic Latin alphabets used by Turkic and Slavic dialects.

But I know not a whit of Italian, French, Spanish or Portuguese.  The only languages really useful in a wine store.  And I can’t even fake French.

So I now concur with all and sundry.  I apparently am only attracted to zany languages.  *sigh*  :)

** Photo below of another zany place.  Click on it for zany information.  The only kind I gather about me.

Remaining Husk of a Church in Ani, the Ancient Armenian Capital Currently Located in Turkey

Remembering My Favorite Frontier Town – Dogubayazit of Eastern Anatolia

Dogubayazit Street Scene

“Oh. My. God.  There’s the most amazing place we MUST SEE.”  This I announced to Brian, whose face lit up as he entered the hotel room.

“What? Where?”

“But we can’t go.”  And I went back to reading the guidebook on my lap.

“What?  Why did you tell me?”  But I held my silence.  ”Ruth!  Where is it?  Why can’t we go?”

I looked up.  ”It’s called Ishakpasha Palace, and it’s, and I quote, ‘breathtakingly beautiful, the star attraction of Eastern Turkey.’”  I snapped the guidebook shut.  ”But it’s about nine hours away, and–”

“That’s no problem!”  Brian’s eyes were wide.

“It’s on the border with Iran, and–”

“So what!”

“And,” I continued darkly, “there have been violent protests in the town where we’d have to transfer minibuses to get there.”

“How do you know?”

I gestured at the TV set in our little room.  He glowered.  ”You don’t understand Turkish that well.”

“I understand video of running people and guns, and I can read the bottom of the screen where they announce where it’s happened.”  I set my chin obstinately even as I felt that pin-prick of excitement which means the slightest effort will have me on my feet, backpack on and ready for adventure.

Apparently my stubborn face is rather convincing, though.  Brian just sighed and threw himself onto his bed with a book.

It wasn’t yet 6am, but the sun had been up for over an hour.  Eastern Anatolia keeps the same time as Istanbul way out west. We’d gotten into the habit of taking predawn strolls through Kars, taking in the sights and sounds of this different world. Like us, the locals were up, washing down freshly baked breads with hot tea.

It wasn’t long after we left the hotel before we bumped into someone interested in driving us to Ishakpasa.  For a price.  And it wasn’t very much longer before we agreed to it.

***

The next day we sat for hours in the car, snapping photos of the undulating Eastern Anatolian landscape as we drove to the farthest reaches of Turkey.  At Mount Ararat our driver condescended to stop for a few seconds, but otherwise he hurtled along the road as fast as Turkishly possible.  (A Georgian would have driven over us, but an American wouldn’t stand a chance.)

We drove past checkpoints and tanks, and through beautiful Turkish villages that screamed for us to stop and marvel.  But they were nothing compelling for our driver, and he refused every request to stop.  At one point I asked him why.  ”Dogs,” he said curtly.  I raised my eyebrows.  I understood that concern; in Georgia stray dogs can be dangerous.  But…really?

“We will risk dogs,” I said firmly.  (Well, I actually said something more like, “Dogs are okay.”  My Turkish is limited.)

His look in the rearview mirror was stern.  ”And terrorists.”

Ah.  Now that I understand.

***

We finally reached Dogubayazit, described lacklusterly by Lonely Planet as “a dusty frontier town crawling with soldiers” with “few charms of its own.”  I couldn’t disagree more strongly.

Brian and I both were stunned, taken aback by its color, its vibrance and its bustle.  We loved it.  But no rest for the wayward traveler, our driver seemed to think.  And up we crawled through the winding roads up the mountains to Ishakpasha Palace, perching majestically atop one craggy peak and gazing down at a hazy valley rich in blue, green, yellow and red hues.  The view was breathtakingly beautiful, as per Brian’s explicit demand.  It was just…beautiful.  Lustrous, rich, exotic, a perfect gem.  It was worth it.

It was also closed.

***

Now, when you’re a Peace Corps volunteer, disappointment is no shock to your system.  So I could say I felt that familiar friend creep up my spine, and I knew after a moment of mutual silence we’d be back on course.   This just required a moment to groan, to laugh at ourselves, and to bask in the joy of being here, despite the forces being united against our entering the palace.  So I took a moment to climb alone to a picnic table up the hill while Brian scanned the knick-knacks sold at a kiosk nearby.  Rejuvenated, we reunited and climbed up the mountain a ways together, looking over the palace walls from above, and to the horizon reaching into deepest Turkey.

“Let’s hike,” I suggested.  That would be cheerful and bring endorphins, and we could get a magnificent view of both the palace and our beloved Dogubayazit below.  Brian agreed and we jumped up and set off.

But not too far.   Almost immediately we agreed the mountain was way to steep and dangerous for us to dare it.  Which was approximately when we saw about five teenagers prove us wrong in the most frightening way.  No climbing for us, then, even if it proved we weren’t sure-footed locals.

Our driver was itching to return, but we were enchanted by the palace and weren’t ready to leave it.  Through the foliage above I made out a little building.  We headed there and found a cafe overlooking the palace.  We sat ourselves down and enjoyed a hospitable cup of Turkish tea and conversation with the proprietor.   It was, in the end, magical, even though the palace itself remained a locked haven from us.  It was the sweetest failure ever.

And fortified by our tea, we took a lovely stroll through those gorgeous streets of Dogubayazit.  It was amazing being somewhere so very different from any place either of us had ever been.  I’ve literally never been somewhere so different in my life.  I look on it as one of the best trips ever.

I absolutely loved this town, visually.