Die Hard Three

When asked to explain what a Turkish toilet is, most people will describe of what is commonly referred to as a squat toilet. For those of you unfamiliar with this particular type of toilet, I alluded to them briefly in my birthday blog post from back in February. You can read the whole thing here.

And while they may seem strange to Western eyes, they are (in some respects) superior to the traditional toilets we enjoy in Canada and Germany. For example they use less water and the person operating it doesn’t have to actually touch it with any part of his / her body. Also, the squatting position is supposed to be a more natural way to go number two, as this short (but tastefully made and safe for work) video demonstrates.

I also used to think there was only one style of Turkish toilet, so you can imagine my shock, when I arrived here in Istanbul and discovered that there’s a another kind that’s specific to Turkey (and hopefully, in the near future, Canada). Yesterday I visited a home renovation superstore called Koçtaş (the funny little tail on the c indicates a hard c like in cat – to get familiar with the correct pronunciation feel free to say the name of this store out loud at work a few times for practice).

As soon as I arrived at the store I made a beeline for the toilet section and snapped this photo. Can any of you see what makes the toilets here in Turkey so special?

.

Sorry I haven’t been posting these last couple of days, I’ve been kind of busy trying to discover my life’s purpose and something this important isn’t going to happen overnight – it takes a whole weekend to reveal itself. I read once that a man without a purpose is like a fish out of water – flopping all over the place trying to not die too quickly. Most people go thorough life with minimal direction and until today I was one of them.

Here’s what happened.

This morning as I was leaving the apartment I decided to take a walk upstairs to find out exactly what sort of renovations they’ve been doing to the top floor of the building I’ve been staying in. I can’t recall if I’ve mentioned it already, but every morning since I arrived in Istanbul (save two) my “alarm clock” has been the (honest-to-god) jackhammering of concrete one floor above my room.

I though about complaining (to whom, I’m not sure) but then I realized the irony of my situation – renting a room with a massive construction project taking place on the floor above – and decided to let it go. The hunter has become the hunted, so the expression turns.

Anyway, when I got up there I found that the entire top floor of the building is being completely renovated. I spoke with the architect (the seventh one on this trip – that’s good luck right?) and she showed me the whole project. It’s going to look great when it’s done (I’ll put some pictures up later).

So it was while I was inspecting one of the unfinished bathrooms when I saw the roughed-in Geberit wall-mounted toilet – it was at that moment when my true purpose revealed itself. I’ve been told that for many men their purpose is uncovered only after dancing naked (and drunk) in the woods for several hours. I tried that on Saturday and nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. Things were revealed, but “purpose” was not among them (if the official police report is to be believed).

So it was this morning, in an unfinished bathroom, as I was staring at the tiled wall where the toilet is going to be installed, that my vision quest came to its (logical) conclusion:

My purpose is to bring back to Canada with me the secret of the Turkish toilets.

I’ll explain the details later but I will say this one thing now – I was not planning on writing about toilets on this trip. I honestly didn’t think Turkey would have anything meaningful to add to the subject. But I was wrong. So very wrong.

More to come.

And thank you Turkey, thank you for giving meaning to my life.

And also for not confiscating my passport on Saturday. I need it to get home.

.

Two incidences in the previous twenty-four hours have reminded me that a given traveller is more likely to die not at the hands of kidnappers or terrorist bombings, but by the simple act of doing rather unspectacular things in a moderately interesting world. Allow me to explain.

Incident the first: Last night when I went to the movies with the architects, the show finished late and the metro had already closed when we got out (around 00:30) so we decided to grab a cab back to Taksim. Taking a taxi is a straightforward enough activity in most parts of the world and I was more concerned with the driver ripping us off (by taking the long way) instead of what I should have been worried about – dying in a fiery car crash where speed was a factor.

He was driving like a maniac from the second we got into the car, almost hitting two pedestrians as we left the taxi stand (he actually went *between* them). Where we almost died was when our driver was doing about 110 kph in the fast lane (in what would have been an 80 zone in Canada) when another car going, I’d say, 150, passed us on the right missing our car (and another in the right lane) by mere inches.

It would have been doubly horrible given that 66% of the seat belts in the back of the cab were non-functional. We made it from Levent to Taxsim in one piece and (I assume) record time.

Incident the Second:  I decided to visit the Prince Islands. Nearly everyone I spoke to who had visited Istanbul said I have to go and today looked to be the final day of nice weather for about the next 5 months. So I grabbed the ferry at noon and landed at the big island around 13:30. The island was really nice – the absence of cars made it a lot more peaceful than Istanbul (which is anything but).

So I walked around and I somehow found my way to the highest point on the north side of the island – a forested area with a surprising amount of livestock wandering about. I managed to snap some really nice photographs of the west-facing part of the island without noticing that I was standing at the edge of a small cliff – a cliff from which I probably would have survived a fall, but the fact that there was no one around and it was two hours from nightfall, would have made a tumble rather precarious.

Standing there looking down, I had a vision of me laying at the bottom of this cliff with two broken wrists that rendered me unable to bypass the security features of the two iPhones I brought with me – oh cruel irony, what use is a backup phone if one is unable to operate the dialer?

Anyway, neither of those things came to pass but it did drive home the importance of functional seat belts and posting something on Facebook about my plans for the day before setting out on a mini-adventure all by myself.

Here are some more photos from the island. Stay safe everyone.

.

Yesterday I had to kill an hour while I was waiting for the barber to get back from his siesta and I used this time to look around this gigantic book-selling place.

From what I can tell, the Turks love their media. Print. Film. Sound. They have it all. Marconi may have invented the recording studio but the Turks took it to the next level.

Anyway, I’m wandering around this book store and I happen upon this book.

What is it about? It’s all in Turkish so I have no idea. The girl in the store said the title in english means – Dangerous Passport. And what is Jason Love? Is it a state of being? Is this book an instruction manual on how to reach this higher plane? Does one require travel documentation to get there? Is this documentation only obtainable at great risk to the applicant?

So many questions. Anyway, I’m going ask one of my Turkish architects to get it translated. I’m really curious to find out what it’s about.

I’ve been meaning to write about the rather excellent photobombs I’ve been executing on this visit to Turkey. I’ve aways enjoyed the practice but on this trip they’ve been a lot more fun. I think this is because I’ve expanded somewhat from the standard-issue photobomb people are most familiar with.

Done poorly and you could end up in a fistfight. Done well and can you make the world a more magical place. What I’ve learned over the years is that a successful photobomb is all about technique. Your garden-variety photobomb is pretty safe – it usually involves surreptitiously making your way into a photograph of a large group of people and it usually takes place in a bar or close to a prominent landmark. But on this trip I thought I would take it to the next level and find out if it is possible to photobomb a single individual who is posing for a random photo.

So on Saturday night Ozan and I had just left the bar to go get something to eat when I noticed a man setting up to take a photo of his supposed wife. I immediately seized the moment and jumped down to where she was standing and posed next to her. She laughed. And I laughed. And her supposed husband laughed. And he took the photo. And we all laughed.

And then they told me they were from Sweden! And then I told them my Swedish jokes! And then we all laughed even more! The man was especially enjoying it.

Ja it’s true! We Swedes *do* make a mess when we visit Denmark!

So the next day I was thinking about the whole thing and how it turned out pretty good. But there was something that was bugging me. Like it could have been even better. And I couldn’t pin it down. But this morning I think I figured it out.

I posted the other day about my trip to the barber shop and my objectively fantastic mo. I received a lot of positive feedback from the Interwebs, but the architects I’ve been hanging out with here in Istanbul – they didn’t say much about it. Which struck me as odd, because it is a pretty awesome mo.

Lucky for you, this morning I realized the problem: the beard part of my face was camouflaging the mo part. I also came up with a very simple solution: I just need to go back to the barber and get him to shave off my beard. Then, and only then, will I be able to fully commit myself to some truly epic photobombs.

Lumbersexual will have to wait a few weeks – right now, I’m turkmensexual.

That’s a play on the word “metrosexual” but for describing the Turkish men whom I’m trying to emulate. It’s not intended to describe men from Turkmenistan – although I imagine it could work there too.

.

So I went out last night with some of my architecture friends and the bar we were in got raided by the cops – the notorious Istanbul police. In my whole life I’ve never been so disappointed (except that one other time). Anyway, around 23:30 Ozan and I were in there drinking a half pint of Tuborg on the second floor overlooking the street when we saw about half a dozen guys in what appeared to be Power Ranger costumes enter the bar through the entrance on the main floor.

And they weren’t like the regular Power Ranger from the televisions show, they were more like the ones from the feature film reboot that never got made. You know, the one where the producers think they need to change something to hook the audience so they make everything gritty and realistic. So the lights come on and the WiFi goes off and I’m thinking, “oh man, it’s on”. I have no idea what “it” is, but “its” current state is one, not zero.

Anyway, so we end up sitting upstairs for what seems like a million years, waiting for the cops to bust in and start cracking skulls. But after half an hour of nothing happening I’m so bored I decide leave Ozan and go downstairs to see firsthand the chaos on the main floor. I get to the top of the stairs and all I see is one of the Power Rangers in the door trying to check some people’s identification.

And that’s it – after a few minutes they just left. And no one was able to explain to me what had gone down. Some people said they were looking for a specific person, others claimed it was underage drinkers. Either way, I think I know who they were looking for. Yes, that’s right. They were looking for Keyser Soze. I mean the Devil himself. It makes perfect sense. He is supposed to be Turkish. We are in Turkey. And there were a bunch of Hungarians in the bar. What more evidence do you need?

The view from the top of the stairs

.

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)

.

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?

.