Die Hard Three

I think today might have been the first time in my life that a totally random group of strangers has applauded (non-ironically) something I’ve done. For ironic applause, you just have to ask me about my grade 8 ski trip to Camp Fortune. But that’s for another time – today’s story is about what went down just after 17:00 this evening.

Two weeks ago I obtained a ticket to see a taping of Last Week Tonight with John Oliver in New York City and (in keeping with standard event lining up protocol) I arrived at the studio an hour early in an attempt to try and secure a seat close to the front. So just before they were about to let us in, I was standing on West 57th Street chatting with one of the other contestants when I heard an unmistakable sound.

The lineup

A sound so horrible, no one ever at any time has ever wanted to hear it. Ever.

I immediately turned to look and across the street a woman was speeding by on her bicycle and her mobile phone had fallen off her person and was sliding along the road behind her. Glass and plastic scratched and scraped on the disgusting New York asphalt.

By the time my brain had processed the situation she was out of earshot and there was no calling her back. I had to make a split decision. Do I go for it and try and recover the phone and catch her? Or do I just take my time, go get the phone, and if it still works sell it try and contact the owner?

Everyone else in the line just stood there, motionless, and did nothing as this tragedy unfolded before their eyes. It was going to be up to me.

Seeing as I have both a recurring nightmare about losing my own phone and a reckless disregard for my well being, I bolted from the safety of the front third of the line and ran face first into New York City traffic to try and rescue the fallen phone.

Compounding the danger was the fact that 57th is one of only a few streets in New York that supports bidirectional traffic. I somehow made it to the other side without getting run over and quickly scooped up the phone. It’s owner was about a hundred metres away and had slowed down for a red light at 11th Ave. This was my chance!

I took off down the road at full speed. Which, to be honest, is not very fast. When I was about twenty metres away and almost out of breath I thought the light was going to change so I yelled,

“Hey! Hey lady! You dropped your phone!”

She turned around and I coasted the last few metres with her gold Samsung Galaxtar or whatever the hell they’re called held forth in my sweaty hands. In a span of about three seconds her expression changed from confusion to shock to disbelief to gratitude. She barely had time to thank me before I was off to get back in line to see John Oliver – I didn’t want to miss the show.

It still works! 

As I approached the lineup of showguests, they spontaneously gave me a standing ovation for my effort.

Ok, they were already standing. And they had plenty of time to organize something for my return. But they did clap.

My mission successfully completed, I returned to talking with Megyn, and tried to act all casual like it was no big deal. But secretly, I was really pleased with myself.

The End

It’s that time again. Time for travel.

I arrive at the Ottawa bus station thirty minutes before our scheduled departure and the lineup for the 22:30 to Syracuse consists of exactly two people. At the departure gate the security staff are cheerfully inspecting all carry-on luggage of any passengers traveling to the U.S. If this were an airport I would have asked what they were looking for, but seeing as it’s a Greyhound bus I just assume it’s for their own amusement. As they review my passport I inquire about the bus and how full it’s going to be. Dude points to his list and tells me there’s only twelve people on this flight tonight.

This makes me happy because it means I will have space to spread out and chill for the three-hour drive to Syracuse. Boarding is not for another ten minutes so I sit myself down on a bench next to this African-looking fellow who tells me he is also heading to NYC. I ask him where he’s from and he tells me Montreal. I switch to French and he’s immediately a lot happier to be speaking not English.

We board the bus shortly before 22:30. I don’t even bother with the WiFi because the AC power outlets on the back of the seats do not work. I’m going to have to conserve power if I’m going to survive on a single charge all the way to NYC. Screen brightness – reduced to the lowest setting. Unnecessary programs – shut down. All radios – turned off.

Sitting in front to my right is Omar. I noticed his Lebanon passport at the security station. I make a joke about how his mere presence is going to delay us at the border by several hours. He laughs and tells me he’s done this a bunch of times and it shouldn’t be too long.

I’m exhausted from spending the whole day helping Brent mud the unfinished drywall in his garage and install a new toilet in his en suite bathroom. Last year he bought a new old house and there’s a lot of work to be done. Before he picked me up at 10:30 I also sanded the floor at my place and applied the final coat of Varethane.

I manage to fall asleep before we pass Kamper Kong on highway 416. I wake up when the bus pulls into the U.S. Customs station and the immigration guy comes on board to collect our passports. Without fail he secondaries the African and the Arab guy. As he’s talking to the African guy I can tell this is not going to end well – he has a very poor command of the English language, no visa, and his passport had expired. The three of them leave the bus and fifteen minutes later Omar returns.

The African guy is gone for almost an hour. They put him back on the bus but they won’t let him in the country. According to the customs official he’s got no papers – and from what I can tell he’s not supposed to even be in Canada. They send the whole bus back to Canada to drop this guy off so Border Services Canada can deal with him.

Of course now the bus has left the US so we have to go through the passport check a second time. It’s now 01:35 and my connecting bus is departing Syracuse in exactly forty minutes. I use my last few seconds of Canadian data to Google maps the distance – we’re ninety minutes away. I check the Greyhound website and there’s another bus leaving an hour later at 03:15.

I hope they honour my ticket.

We pull into the Syracuse bus station with five minutes to spare and I make my way into the building and sleepily start searching for the bus to NYC. A bunch of people are lined up and I ask one of them if this is the New York bus. He tells me that it goes to Ottawa and points to the other end of the hall. That’s the New York line, he tells me.

A woman in the line overhears our conversation and realizes she too wants to go to New York and not visit Ottawa. We walk over to the NYC bus lineup together and wait for them to open the gate.

When they finally let us on, there is only one pair of unoccupied side-by-side seats. My new travel friend follows me on the bus and asks if she can take the aisle seat next to my window one. I have no reservations about sitting next to her for the four-hour journey. She’s thin with no unpleasant oder and she carries herself with this no-nonsense attitude that New Yorkers are known for.

We chat a bit before falling asleep. Abbie has to work at 09:00 so she’ll be going straight from the Port Authority bus terminal to her job (marketing for a Times Square hotel). She was in Syracuse for her boyfriend’s grandfather’s funeral. She tells me he was a veteran from the Vietnam war who had been married for sixty three years. He passed away in the VA Hospital after they (the family and the physician) made a decision to not continue treatment for his illnesses.

She’s also from New Jersey. When she tells me this I immediately ask her if she’s ever seen the greatest movie to take place in NJ – The Long Kiss Goodnight. She has not and adds it to her list of movies to watch.

We arrive in New York at 07:40 on Star Wars Day. The weather is perfect and pushiest of New York’s pedestrians have yet to rise from their slumber. I slowly make my way to the hotel (which is located in Queens). There is an “L” train metro station one hundred metres from the hotel (a hotel that used to be a paper factory).

Check in is not until 15:00 so I need to kill a few hours. I head out into the burning sun without any sunscreen in search of a grocery store. I find one and discover that in the U.S. one can buy Gatorade by the gallon.

That’s almost four litres for my imperially-challenged readers.

I return to the hotel, tired but rehydrated, to nap in the common room and wait for the room to be ready.

It’s going to be a fun week.

Hi Ikea,

Your Facebook page does not allow for regular folk to post pictures (and I’m too lazy to write up a description) so here is an idea to help you improve your website. Suggest you make the drop down list of your cabinets dimensions more readable. This image will show you what I mean.

Thanks in advance, your loyal customer.

Jason

PS: I’m excited to see the new Sektion. It looks great!

After spending over three weeks in a (culturally) foreign land I found myself surprised by how accustomed I’d become to my surroundings. This (mild) shock revealed itself when I left Istanbul after 24 days and arrived in Luxembourg. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this county, it’s a smaller Switzerland minus the mountains and the Italians.

The first thing to hit me was the language. I went from being able to understand nothing to understanding almost everything being said by the people around me. The locals in Luxembourg speak a mixture of German, English, and French. Back in Istanbul (even after three weeks) I remained unable to perform even basic identification of the Turkish language. If a given conversation on which I was eavesdropping did not include their most popular word (tamam; means “good”) I was defeated.

Turks (in general) look like Turks. Brown or black hair, dark complexion. Beards on the men. They don’t look Arab. They don’t look Greek. They just look Turkish. You’ll understand what I mean after about five minutes observation of the hordes of people that are constantly marching up and down Istikal Street. But there are some exceptions. I met one Turk who looked like he was from Norway. Often times the women dye their hair blond – this makes identification more difficult.

I did develop some scene-specific workarounds. In my favourite pub in Istanbul if one of the servers was talking with a customer who did not appear Turkish, by default the customer was probably Turkish. I was able to deduce this from that fact that most of the people who worked at this bar spoke Turkish.

But to be fair they could have been speaking Armenian or Kurdish. Most likely Kurdish (on my last day there my favourite server informed me that she was in fact a Kurd). There are lots of Kurds in Turkey and their situation is not the best. I was doing some research for a project and I discovered that the Kurdish alphabet (the latin one) has a bunch of letters that aren’t in the Turkish one. But the thing is, the “extra” letters were not officially recognized / supported by the Turkish government – effectively limiting parents from naming their children certain ethnic Kurdish names. This situation has since been corrected.

Anyway, after visiting Luxembourg, this got me thinking – how is it that Luxembourg exists and Kurdistan does not? From what I can tell Luxembourg should be part of Germany or France. It’s main industry is banking and tax avoision (i.e. it has no actual industry – basically – all graft, no host). They speak German and French. Plus there are only like 100,000 Luxembergers. There’s more Kurds than there are Canadians yet there is no Kurdistan proper.

The Basque people must be scratching their heads in amazement (or bombing things in anger) that stupid Luxembourg gets to exist as an independent self-governing state and Basque does not. I know my training as an engineer doesn’t really qualify me to comment intelligently on these topics, but I think my position as an empathetic human who has traveled extensively to many countries gives me some leeway.

The other things that surprised me after arriving in LUX were the existence of women’s arms and necklines as well as the physical contact (general touchiness) of people I’d just recently met. When I first got there I stationed myself at the bar of Kafe Konrad for 5 hours while Dan went to “work”. And the server (Sylvia) was wearing a black sleeveless tank top with a… generous(?) neckline. And I thought: “Holy crap. I have not seen a woman dressed like this since I left Canada”*.

Istanbul is a pretty liberal city and the women dress well, but there’s a modesty to their appearance. They always look good (makeup, hair) and they wear tight clothing but they use the layer system. Also, it’s winter so there’s practical reasons why they choose not to show off a lot of skin.

So when Dan came to drag me away (thanks buddy) from my new favourite place in the whole world (by virtue of my awesomeness I got a free, giant cookie, a free glass of Gluhwein, and a free bowl of Thai soup), Sylvia gave me a big hug. Compare that with the pub in Istanbul where I went every day for 24 straight days and the servers were very contact-free with the goodbyes before I left for Paris.

To drive the point home, the next morning when Dan and I were leaving his place, we bumped into Sylvia (by coincidence she lives next door). When I saw her I started to laugh because she’s exactly one of two people I know in the whole, tiny county. So she was laughing too and I went in for the hug but (being Spanish) she went in for the kiss. In my culture the man has to cook a seven-course meal for a girl on the seventh date after seven weeks before he get’s a kiss (it’s called the rule of three sevens). Apparently this rule does not exist in Spanish Luxembourg. Or if it does, it’s not enforced.

Look, you can see her arms and my bewilderment.

I returned to my favourite Istanbul pub to publish this post and say final goodbyes. I was treated to some delicious, spiced potatoes (deep-fried). I love this place.

*What I was actually thinking was, “Holy crap! I have not seen a woman’s boobs or arms since I left Canada.”

when I packed for this trip I was thinking that I would be spending all 32 days in the (relatively) warm, Mediterranean climate of Istanbul. So here I am in Luxembourg City and it’s almost freezing and I have no hat or gloves with me.

You’re probably thinking, “He’s got a scarf. That will help keep him warm.” Well… yes and no. I do have one with me but I’m not going to wear it (I refuse to conform). Also, my jacket has a broken zipper – I can’t even do it up.

And it’s just my light jacket. My proper winter one is back in Ottawa. And it’s Christmas Market season. This means I’m going to be standing outside for hours on end enjoying all the festivities without the proper winter clothing.

I might be able to borrow a hat from Dan, but he tells me he’s only got one. And it’s a fedora. And he tells me he needs it.

I think he lost a bet or something.

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Why yes. Yes I have. Today is my last day in Istanbul before I head over to Luxembourg / Paris and I wanted to be really, really clean for tomorrow’s flight. So this afternoon I headed over to the Beşiktaş Hamami – you know the one, it’s down by the Beşiktaş Vapur İskelesi.

First a little background on the Turkish Baths. There are three types:
1) Private
2) A second type I can’t remember right now
3) Public

I chose to go to the public one because a) they’re the cheapest and b) if they’re run by the city it means that the guy giving the scrub down is a municipal government employee. In my country this would be considered a very unusual job for a city worker and I wanted to find out what they’re like.

I didn’t know what to expect so I messaged Hanna beforehand – she told me they have a room where one can lock up any valuables. And there would be nudity. I’m pretty ok with that. My many trips to Finland have left me numb to the idea of being stuck in a sweaty box with a bunch of guys, naked save for the towel that is meant to go between the bench and your bum.

Things started off really, really badly. How badly? Well they have separate entrances for men and women and when I got there I accidentally walked into the ladies’ bath. This would not have been a big deal in Finland (or maybe it would have) and I have no idea if it’s a bootable offence here in Turkey because when I opened the door and saw a half-dozen naked women sitting around, I immediately yelled “I am a stupid foreigner!” and ran away before they could call the cops.

Can any of you tell which is for the boys and which one is for the girls? I couldn’t. 

I then made my way over to the men’s side where I was greeted by a guy who spoke no english. He gave me a pair of slippers and took my shoes away. I was then shown to a room where I was told to strip down to my towel and lock up my clothes and other things. I was introduced to my… bath guy (I’m sure there’s a technical term in Turkish) and he told me to wait in the sauna for 25 minutes and then we would begin the scrub.

So after my time in the sauna (it was not very hot compared to the Finnish ones) dude told me to lie down for ten minutes on the giant marble platform in the centre of the bath. I lasted about three. It was so hot I’m sure I would have gotten first degree burns had I stayed any longer. He came back and took me to the cleaning station where he performed an exfoliation procedure. If you thought I was white before, now I’m damn near transparent.

After the de-skinening he gave me a good washing and then it was back to the burn platform for the massage. The massage was interesting cause it included a lot of joint cracking. Spine. Neck. Ankles. Fingers. The table was so hot that dude had to keep pouring cold water over me. At one point I used my slippers and small bucket to act as a buffer between me and the surface. It was impossible to relax for any part of this massage.

On the plus side he did stay away from my swimsuit area during all this. Which is understandable – that’s for me to manage. Also, they give you a towel that you’re supposed keep wrapped around your waist.

After it was all done I was pretty bagged. You know when you get a shot at the doctor’s and they make you stay in the waiting room to see if there’s going to be some sort of reaction. Well this is exactly how I felt as I exited the bath. I sat around in the lobby for about twenty minutes while my brain and everything settled down.

Total cost was about $25 CDN and one hour of time. I’d go again: Turkish Bath = recommended.

My guy

Me, the cleanest I’ve ever been.

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So I survived today’s protest march. I wasn’t too worried. One of the veteran demonstrators was wearing a pair of crazy high-heeled shoes – and this put my mind at ease. I figured this was evidence that there wouldn’t be a lot of running.

But the cops, they weren’t messing around. They brought one of their tanks and this one guy had this real cool-looking paintball gun, or that’s what it looked like anyway. Anyone out there know what it’s for? Rubber bullets? Beanbag gun? Tagging troublemakers?

Also, his head is way too big for his body.

And is it just me or do these guys look like they’re extras from the sequel to Spaceballs?

For a group of medical professionals, there was an unusual amount of cigarettes and hearing damage. The Turks love smoking and loud things.

The bus ride home was uneventful – I slept for about half of it. Ankara seems like a pretty boring city – relative to Istanbul anyway.

Earlier in the week my landlord invited me to travel to Turkey’s capital (Ankara) to participate in a good old fashion protest march – Turkish-style! I’m not sure what to expect but I don’t think it’ll be water cannons and gravel sprayers. This is because the group I’m traveling with is made up almost entirely of medical doctors and medical nurses. They are going to be marching to protest changes to the regulations that govern their profession. It’s not clear (to me) what their specific demands are but what is clear is that they have some really good protest songs.

This one guy has a flute and he’s got everyone clapping and singing – even thought it’s after 02:30 in the AM and we’re all really tired. I’ve noticed many of the protests in America are severely lacking in this area. Even though we’ve had lots of things to protest, the last good song came out in the early nineties and it was for a cartoon.

I was told we’d be taking the bus to get there and I had visions of some beat-up old school bus, with pleather-covered benches, no seat belts, and a crazy driver names Mahmet. My visions turned out to be inaccurate because the bus we got was a Mercedes!

So here’s our itinerary

Depart Istanbul 01:30
Arrive Ankara 08:00
Protest 11:00 to 13:00
Depart Ankara 14:00
Arrive Istanbul 21:00

Will make for a long day, but these seats are pretty comfortable. I should be able to get a couple hours of shut eye.

Today I realized that all forty of my Thanksgivings have been Canadian. I mention this because on Thursday I was invited to my first ever American Thanksgiving meal / event / party. And it was great. Stuffing. Chicken pretending to be turkey (the food not the place). Beer. And a good mix of Yanks, Canuck, Turks, Swede and a ridiculous number of Finns (two).

So I spent the better part of the evening talking with one of the Turkish guys who happens to be gay. It was a fascinating conversation. I have some Canadian friends (and one American) who are gay and I talk to them pretty regularly but I’ve never talked to them about being gay. So the other night, dude was more than happy to answer my interview-style questions about what it’s like to be gay in Turkey.

Disclaimer – when I blog my travels, I’m reluctant to write about any of the negative aspects of my host country. This is because of how the human brain works – I could write a hundred articles saying that country X has the best toilets in the world but if I publish a single sentence about a single bookstore selling a single novelty item with a quote from Adolf Hitler, then that’s all the reader will be able to remember about the country for the rest of her life.

I’m told it’s his “big lie” quote and not his “Armenian” one.

So here’s the thing about Turkey – the military service is mandatory for men. But, you can get an exemption if you’re gay. In the US it used to be that gays were exempt from joining the army. Of course the main differences between the two systems are a) the American statute has been abolished b) an individual’s decision to join the US army is a voluntary one and c) the manner in which the army goes about determining ones… how do I put this… level of gayness? Yeah, I think that will have to do.

In America, disclosure of this information is voluntary. In Turkey the current system involves an interview, a six-hundred-question psychological test, and then a second interview. And here’s the kicker – once you get exempted, you get to have your information in the giant, countrywide government database include a record of your sexual orientation. This is all very unsettling because the country has been moving in a more conservative religious direction. If an extreme government were to come into power, this information could be used to very negative ends.

It’s also a huge change from the previous system where individuals were required to provide video evidence of their homosexuality. I’m not making this up. And this system, it had to work inside a large government bureaucracy. Just imagine a bunch of (presumably) straight, old, Turkish army guys sitting around a meeting room trying to decide which sex acts are “gay” and which ones are not.

Somewhere there exists a written record of this meeting. Internet, don’t fail me now.

I really didn’t want to have the Hitler bookmark be the thumbnail. Here’s a photo of 2.5 litre bottle of Coke instead. We don’t have these in Canada.

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