Die Hard Three

One of the things I don’t understand about Istanbul is the retail situation. Specifically why it is that the clerks working in the shops are almost exclusively men. This is not a problem if one is purchasing, say a portable generator, but when you’re looking to acquire a women’s scarf or shawl or wrap or sarong whatever they’re called, it can be a bit unnerving.

So like the carpet guys, the scarf salesmen tried to sell me a crazily overpriced item – an item that I had no way of verifying the actual value. He started at $700 which is insane, considering that my flight from YOW to IST was less than that. But the strangest part came when it was time to show me how a scarf works. So he calls in his assistant, this bearded, 25-year-old guy who then proceeded to model for me about half a dozen different scarves.

Man, I wish I’d snapped some photos. So I guess my questions is: why aren’t there any women doing this work? I bet they’d be pretty good at it. Maybe one day I’ll unlock the mystery but right now I’ll have to settle with making up my own answer: cause that’s the way it’s always been.

Photogenic Turkish lumberjacks (image unrelated)

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This part of the world is famous for their carpets. And I’m not talking about the beautiful, rarely-vacuumed, plush, dark green, wall-to-wall carpet that adorned my room for so many years. You know, the carpet that my cousin Erin and Lotta loved (re: hated) so much.

I’m talking about the handmade (by whom? not sure, probably children) Persian and Kurdish and Turkish rugs that every traveler to the Orient *has* to bring back home with them – otherwise, how will your friends know you visited somewhere if they can’t walk all over the evidence every time they enter your home?

The lady at the airport in Ottawa said I had to bring one back even though I expressly told her I was not going to. I said the same thing here in Turkey but the sales guy would have none of it. And I do have to say they’ve got a pretty effective system.

The first guy who engages me on the street speaks perfect english and has an incredible knowledge of my home country. He’s the one that draws me in. This whole trip I’ve been doing the “I’m from Canada’s capital” bit and the *only* one to get the right answer is this carpet guy. At the front of his store there is a picture of him with former caretaker Prime Minister Paul Martin. On his phone, a picture of him with Jean Charest.

or the Surplusinator as I like to call him. Does Paul Martin know his likeness is being used to sell carpets in Turkey? Would he be surprised? What’s his cut? The sales guy won’t say.

He then hands me off to the carpet expert. They bring me into a nice room with an open space. They offer me tea imported from Armenia. Then, after showing me a couple of samples, the expert informs me that this is just the showroom, if I want to see the real good stuff, then we have to go to the warehouse (a three minute walk).

I finish my Armenian tea and we head off through the Grand Bazar’s labyrinth of shops to some Cheneyesque undisclosed location. I’m a bit wary of the whole situation, following some stranger I just met to his “warehouse”.

During this trip I’ve been adhering to a strict WiFi-only policy but I find myself debating whether or not to break it and post a waypoint so my mom can know where to start looking if this is a kidnapping. We enter a courtyard and I instantly know that this scene in the film version of this story will be a crowd-pleaser. Next to the warehouse entrance I see this:

It means “diamonds”

As I enter the room I quickly look for other exits and check for any locks on the main door. The survey results are not promising: zero of the former and three of the latter. I quickly devise an escape plan in the event things go south – try and take out the big guy, then deal with the little one. Defeating an abduction anytime after T = 0 is really difficult – so you have to act fast.

I then realize that if I’m going to be this paranoid I probably shouldn’t have drank that delicious tea. They could have easily slipped a forget-me-now in there and I’d be down for the count.

This train of thought pulls me back into reality and I do a quick evaluation of the whole situation: they just want to sell me a carpet. I know this because they have the full endorsement of a respected former Canadian Prime Minister. It’s highly unlikely that he would lend his name to a Turkish carpet business that kidnaps people for ransom.

So one of the problems of shopping in Turkey is that there are no prices but each clerk insists he’s going to give you the best price. Problem is, you have no frame of reference.

One guy tried to tell me that I could sell this $4000 carpet in the States for $10,000. As I was leaving his store he offered me a 50% discount. It makes no sense.

So I’m dressed like a hobo and I tell the guy straight up that I have no money. I tell him I’m not buying anything. But still he tries to sell me one. He throws down some really nice looking carpets. He keeps asking me to make an offer. I refuse. He asks what my lower bound is. I tell him fifty CAD. He’s not impressed. I then try to explain how we should reject the basic assumption of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.

Tyler’s words coming out of my mouth.

We sit there for a few minutes in silence each waiting for the other to say something. I win this battle of the carpets when he realizes I’m not going to budge.

He stands suddenly and I tense up – for a brief moment I think the kidnapping is back on. But instead he shows me the door. Unlocked. Free for me to pass through.

As I walk past my mom’s diamond shop, I think, “I should go shopping for one of those scarfs I see everywhere – there’s no way it could be as crazy as the carpet experience, right?”

Wrong. So wrong.

To be continued…

One of the fun things about traveling is you can do like the locals do. I suppose one could do these same things at home but it loses a certain quality. And in that vein, one of my favourite things about the men here is their moustaches. It’s like every month is Movember. So when I woke up at 11:30 this morning I decided that I would visit one of the many barber shops in town and attempt to go native.

Navigating the barber shop was an experience in itself. While I was able to communicate which part of my head I wanted him to groom, I was having problems conveying the other parameters (straight razor the neck, trim the beard, local the mo).

Careful, I need that neck.

Lucky for me one of the other customers was able to help. I spoke to him in German, he spoke to his wife in English and then she translated into Turkish for the barber. We all had a lot of fun, shooting the breeze, snapping selfies, and trying to figure out why I didn’t just speak to the wife in English.

In the end we all managed to achieve what I can only describe as “Full Borat”… albeit over a decade since the film was released.

It’s never too late, right?

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Right now I’m sitting close to the water watching the people go by. There are some boats floating nearby and on the wharf there are a bunch of food vendors. One of the stands reminds me of the wishing booth that made Tom Hanks big in that movie, Big.

About fifty yards to my right there’s a bridge with dozens of people fishing over the side. I’ve been observing these guys (all men) for a few days now and have not been able to determine if they are fishing for fun or for food. For bait, some are using bread, others chum. I want to give it a try at some point. I’ll have to work up the courage to ask one of the dudes if I can try his pole.

Are we still doing phrasing? “Did we ever stop?” Let’s ask Shaggy…

This city would make Joanne both happy and sad. Happy that there are cats everywhere and sad that there are cats everywhere. But they seem to be well looked after. My local pub has a resident mascot naked Zeki who has napped next to me each of my past two visits. On my way over here I dropped in and the server offered me a tea (on the house) and their cat remembered me and rubbed up against my leg.

It’s nice to be loved.

I’m not a huge fan of purchasing non-toilet-related items when I travel but I think I will have to bring home one of these tea sets. Tiny glass cups with beautiful porcelain saucers.

The tourists you can spot a mile away – just look for arms. The locals are mostly covered up. From what I can tell it’s a combination of a culture of modesty and the fact that they seem to find 17 degree weather cold. In Ottawa last Friday it snowed on the way to the airpot, so I can’t really complain.

Walking around parts of Istanbul today it was impossible to tell that it was Remembrance Day. There were no poppies. No flyovers. No 21-gun salutes. From what I understand, in the Great War Turkey was on the “losing” side*. Most of what I know about history comes from the movies (even ones I have not seen) and Gallipoli (1981) had Mel Gibson (on Team Commonwealth, “victors”) invading some remote part of Turkey (Jesse please correct in the comments any of the inaccuracies in this post).

Anyway, it seems to me that lately on Remembrance Day, we’re “remembering” the wrong sorts of things. From what I read it’s mostly about the “sacrifice” of the pour souls who died (and survived) objectively horrible circumstances and my heart breaks when I think about these people (or any people) suffering like people do in war.

But when people use the term sacrifice in a Remembrance Day context, it seems to me like they have this idea that when a soldier dies in war it’s akin to (spoiler alert) Gene Hackman at the end of The Poseidon Adventure (1972) where his actual (but cinematic) sacrifice saved the lives of the other actors. But that’s not war. Not even close. And while there can be found many localized examples of wartime acts of meaningful sacrifice, on the whole, a wartime death is a pointless one.

So I’d like to propose that this year, in addition to those who died, we remember something different. Specifically, remember 2003 when Canada decided not to participate in the Iraq War. Today, a significant number of voting-age Canadians are too young to appreciate what was going on back then. So with the benefit of hindsight, I’ve prepared an analogy to help them understand.

You know that one night when all your friends were going out to get really drunk in a dodgy bar in a sketchy part of town and you knew in you heart that it would turn into a shit show so you stayed home even though they were pressuring you to join them? And it ended up that you were right and they got into this big fight over something made up and several people ended up in the hospital and some were arrested and a decade later they’re still dealing with the fallout from this one night.

And afterwards, while you helped your friends when you could – driving them to their physiotherapy appointments and court-appointed anger management classes – you were secretly really pleased with yourself for making the right decision to stay home that night.

I mean, there’s no question you made the right decision – compared to your friends you’re much better off. Your reputation is mostly intact. You’ve got a lot more free time and disposable income that you can direct at more worthwhile endeavours. Like that second floor bathroom fan that needs to be repaired. Or fixing the outdoor speakers by the hot tub. That really nice girl you met recently – you can take her to New York for a few days in January. Everyone loves New York.

Yes, that was Canada back in 2003. And it’s also us now.

So this year, I want you to remember all the good times over the previous decade that you had with your military friends who didn’t get sent to Iraq in 2003. Remember playing regular hockey with them. Remember their minds not being warped by having to spend months or even years in a war zone under the constant threat of sudden death by IEDs and sniper fire. Remember their nightmare-free sleeps where they didn’t have to relive the horrible things normal people end up seeing, experiencing, and doing when they get deployed in a combat role to an active war zone. Remember them being here. Remember them still being here.

Remember that in 2001 Canada did decide to participate in the war in Afghanistan and that too many of our soldiers have come back damaged physically and mentally or not at all.

Also remember all the people that do end up in war. And more importantly, try to make it so that they don’t.

Anyway, sorry about the serious post. I’m pretty sure most of you come here to lighten your day, not heavyen it. And not wanting to disappoint, last night at the pub I was chatting up the two Serbian ladies at the table next to me. While discussing the cistern they asked me if I “put my finger in the hole and made a full circle for happiness”. Apparently there’s a Blarney Stone-like feature of the Roman cistern where one has to rotate ones hand around a fixed point for “happiness”. But I didn’t know that and I found it to be a pretty funny thing for them to say.

* note how one of the “winners” of the Great War (France) still has giant swaths of their country that are uninhabitable due the large quantity of unexploded munitions that have been there for almost a century.

So I accomplished one of my life’s goals today – I visited the famous Roman cistern that features prominently in the second James Bond film. I’m a huge fan of the Bond movies but I remember not liking From Russia With Love when I saw it as a kid. There was a lot of talking and a lot less action than the Roger Moore outings that introduced me to the series.

But I watched it again earlier this year for the first time in about three decades and I have to say I found it to be one of the best. The thing I liked the most about it was the beginning of the film – we were almost fifteen minutes in before James Bond made an appearance. They spent this time setting up the villains, which, when you think about it, is the way a Bond film should be.

Everybody knows who James Bond is. After Coca-Cola 007 is probably the most recognizable brand on the plant. So why is it they start every film with Mr. Bond having a briefing with his boss explaining the mission? Would it not make more sense to spend this valuable screen time with the new characters (the villains) observing their plotting?

I heard once that Quentin Tarantino expressed interest in writing and directing a James Bond film. I don’t use the expression “greatest anything ever” that often but this easily falls into that category. Apparently it never got off the ground because the producers want to have complete creative control over the finished product and with a heavyweight like Tarantino on board, they would not. So they go and hire someone like Sam Mendes who will do what he’s told like a good soldier and make what is objectively the stupidest Bond film ever made.

And Speaking about Skyfail I think I’m going to visit the Grand Bazar on Wednesday. I hear it’s quite the spectacle.

The cistern looks spooky but it was not. Too many tourists.

And speaking of villains, the bad guy should be played by Robert Shaw.
Always.

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So I made it through my first daiye in this NEW COUNTRY. Victoria: you’ve been to England before so your current trip does’t count for your country total. Remember I was in London with you in 2004 (Jebus, 10 years this month. Where does the time go?)

Anyway, each time one visits a new country there’s this getting-to-know-you period where the traveller has to adjust to the new environment. And Istanbul has been pretty easy. It’s not Tunisia (what the hell is a “louage”?) and it’s definitely not Australia (congealed soya sauce on toast? Barf).

The main thing I’ve noticed here has been the smoking. It’s banned in bars but no one cares. And yesterday I watched a movie and they had a ten minute smoke break at the one hour mark. They didn’t even wait for Matthew McConaughey to finish his sentence – and it was an important one.

Otherwise, everything is pretty normal for a Mediterranean country. I see some people begging in the streets and one of the locals informed me that there is a lot of Syrian refugees here. I rarely get to see world events up close – it’s kind of sobering.

The plan for Day 3 is to go see the giant cistern from From Russia with Love. I’m curious to find out if the Russians were stupid enough to build their embassy right on top of it. I’m at the pub right now writing this post and there are lots of cats around.

The DJ is blasting Shaggy. Time to head home.

Before I left home my mom (or Alma, as some people prefer to call her) asked me to send her a detailed, written copy of my travel itinerary. I asked her why and she said it was because she wanted to know where to “start looking” in the event I go missing (her words not mine). Now I’m not planning on disappearing or anything like that but I will admit I did spend a couple of hours on the flight over musing about how she would go about searching for me if I did.

Her approach would be quite different from mine. I would start with the digital traces – Facebook updates, blog posts, geo-tagged images, and the like. But while she knows how to use a computer, my mom is from an era where one had to press comically hard just to operate a keyboard. Which back then would have been attached to a typewriter. A manual typewriter that didn’t even use electricity. Probably the first thing she would do after discovering I was missing is jump on the next flight to IST and start her search in-country, on the ground, old school.

Her investigation would begin slowly at first, tracking down and interviewing any people I might have had contact with – the flight crew of AC810, the employees working the the information desk at IST Terminal 1 arrivals, my AirBnB landlord, and any of my friends in the city. She would of course have to recruit some local sources from the criminal underworld. This would be accomplished by her hiring a grizzled, low-rent, private detective named Tolga to help her navigate Istanbul’s seamy underbelly.

When interviewing any potential witnesses she would show them a hardcopy of this image (my most recent selfie available) which would have to be accompanied by a disclaimer saying that my appearance could have changed – it is Movember after all.

We would eventually find out that Tolga, a disgraced former police officer, was kicked off the force a few years earlier and that he refuses to reveal why, his gaze shifting down and to the right every time the subject is brought up. My mom would have some reservations about hiring him because she remembers seeing the YouTube videos of the Taksim protesters being whaled on by all those cops in riot gear (none of whom were disciplined) and she would just assume that he must have done something extra crazy to get himself fired.

So even with the detective’s help it would have taken a while to piece together all the information about my first few days in Istanbul, but eventually my mom would get a break in the case after receiving a ransom note via one of Tolga’s sources. The note (written entirely out of letters cut from old newspaper headlines) would demand payment of money in exchange for my safe return setting into motion a cat-and-mouse game of Hostage Negotiation.

And I have to say that I think it’s a good thing that securing my release would be the responsibility of my mother (and if not her, someone who shares an emotional bond with me). This bond is important because the government employees who normally run these things get paid no matter what happens to me, while someone with whom I share an emotional connection will go that extra unpaid mile to get me home safe.

I worked in government for many years with many great and competent people. But the environment tends to be one that is adverse to risk, and successfully negotiating a ransom this complicated will require risk taking, creative thinking, improvisationing, and extra mile going. It’s unfortunate but the incentives just aren’t there for the government guy. The person I have an emotional connection with – that’s the person in whose hands I want to place my life. My preference is for someone with experience negotiating million dollar business deals and who has access to a good copy editor (to reduce the likelihood of the deal being soured by a spelling error).

Anyway, it remains to be seen how this all ends. The only thing I can say right now is that we find out that Tolga was fired from the police for disobeying a direct order to turn the gravel sprayer he was manning on a group of non-violent protesters and that he ends up teaching Alma several valuable life lessons about the unreliability of social and cultural stereotypes.

Day 1 to 24 Istanbul (Turkey)
Day 25 Luxembourg City (Luxembourg)
Day 26 to 30 Paris (France Republic)
Day 31 Istanbul (Turkey)
Day 32 Back in Canada

Gravel sprayer T35 in happier times.

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Did you know that a Canadian Prime Minister once posed nude for an official photograph? To find out which one, you’ll have to read through to the end of this post. You think you know who it is? Here’s a clue – you’re probably going with “Liberal Party” but nope – “Progressive Conservative”. On the outside those guys are all Snow White but in private, they’re wearing ladies’ underpants.

Hello and greetings from the world’s shittiest WiFi network! My blog is back and it’s going to be better than ever. I’m writing to you today from Terminal E at Toronto Pearson’s Airport International.

For my blogging of this upcoming trip (Turkey, Istanbul) I’ve decided to spice things up a little. You see lately my blog’s hit count has been at an all-time low and I need to make some changes if I’m going to defeat my brother in the War of the Blogs (I recently won the War of the Cars). I’ve been averaging only two hits per day while he uses his position as a respected, successful, published author and educator to drive tonnes of traffic to his site.

My articles this time out will continue to include all of the traditional things you’ve come to expect from a blog that is dedicated almost entirely to writing about the plumbing and electrical systems of distant, far-off lands – but I’ve decided to add some new features:

• Teaser intro paragraphs (like the one above) that grab the reader’s attention and won’t let go until the end of the article
• Sponsored content. Send me $5 and I will write anything you want – I’ll even make it so that the people reading the post believe the content to be true.
• Naked photographs of Kim Campbell – she’s the one who has benefited most of from Canada’s variable-length election cycle.
• Sensationalized Headlines – ones that are so outlandish, the the reader’s head will literally explode after reading them. Thousands will die.
• Altered photographs that defy the imagination but are purported to be real.
• Final paragraphs that force the reader to go back and skim the whole article a second time because they don’t include the promised resolution to the teaser from the intro paragraph.
• Cryptic references to movies and TV shows that the reader has not seen or even heard of.
• Salacious claims that are written as truth but are patently false.
• Misleading links to previous blog posts that have but a fleeting relation to the topic at hand.

So there you have it. That’s what you can expect over the next thirty-two days. It’s a ten hour flight. Next post will be from a different timezone – I’m not exactly sure which one