This One's for the Books-- the incredibly lengthy, overdue list of THANK YOUs that deserve so much more than a few words

duuuuuude...

I've had three coffees today (one of which was a double espresso) and very little sleep. Hence the incredibly eloquent title for today.

Ahem.


My heart is slightly pounding from all the caffine and little sleep, I'm in a city where I know no one and I don't know where I'm sleeping tonight. Not yet, anyways. But hopefully, soon.

(I love CS.)


HOWEVER,
I really got on here to brag, not to bitch.
Although, one could argue neither one is really above the other,
so I guess it doesn't matter?


This morning I said goodbye to my best friend after spending five days with her in the Detroit of Italy. I've never been to Detroit, but when I stepped out of the airport in Napoli, I thought to myself that I must be in the Detroit of Italy. I don't know why I thought this, but it seemed fitting.

After surviving Naples, both in terms of pick-pockets and calories, Emily and I trucked up to Rome and spent the night at the airport before getting her through secruity at 6 am to catch her flight.


How many people can say they've said goodbye to their best friend, seen the Colosseum, taken a four and a half hour train ride and walked across Ponte Vecchio all in the same day?

Damn. I feel lucky and sad all at once.


I had a great feeling earlier. But lets backtrack for a moment.

My first two days in Naples with Ems, all I wanted was to go home with her. I wasn't miserable, but I was... something. And slowly but surely, five days with one of my best friends and I felt like I was back to some sort of 'normalcy' within myself.

Funny how those who have known you best for 12 and a half years can do that to you.

So, dose of E.Palm taken, I felt fine and ready to stay out for another six months. I've been gone six months already?! Bah! That's nothing! Gimme six more!

Now, adrenaline wained and excitement from following my gut and taking the cheap ticket to Firenze (and subsequently becoming even more excited when the guidebook Ems so nicely gifted to me fell open to Florence when I thumbed it for the first time on the train!) gone, I find myself wandering cute, picturesque streets of this ancient city... wanting to go home, too.

I figured out what it was that flipped this coin:
American English

I hear it everywhere.


It's one thing to be travling solo and only hear a language foreign to you but it's quite another to be traveling solo and hear your home language spoken so freely on the streets.

It kicks in the loneliness.
And I've been around lovely, lovely friends for the past couple of weeks.


The long and short of it is that I need to find something productive to do prontissimo. I'm sick of traveling. I'm sick of sightseeing. I like seeing new things, but I can only be so lazy.

Besides, I prefer Vanity over Sloth anytime.

seattle's second home

or "Highlights from Istanbul"


(one) walking out Evren's door and onto beautiful twisty, old roads with tiny shops

(two) eating mussels stuffed with rice on the shore of the Bosporus

(three) mosque dotted hill tops

(four) meeting folks who still listen to Pearl Jam and have watched "Singles" more than I have

(five) baklava

(six) history nights, watching "Crossing the Bridge" and "Galipoli"

(seven) new continent!

(eight) trying liver and liking three bites before the texture set in

(nine) birthday!

(ten) Man hitting on me: The Blue Mosque is that way.
Me: (grumbling) Thanks.
Man runs to catch up: Hey, hey! Where are you from?
Me: Listen, I'm sure you're a decent guy, but the last three guys who started off a conversation with me like that only wanted to have sex with me. So, if that's what you're looking for, I can tell you right now, that's not going to happen.
Man: (shrugs and smiles) I would have liked to try.

(eleven) the Haghia Sofia

(twelve) fish sandwiches on the Bosporus

(thirteen) the tiny baklava shop that is located near the fish market. if you need directions, just ask. I can't remember the name of the place, but I can guide you to it.

(fourteen) apple pie

(fifteen) Evren adding to his "collection"

(sixteen) new friends feeling like old friends

(seventeen) turkish coffee

(eighteen) the smells of the spice market

(nineteen) the smells of everything

(twenty) friends who check up on me slyly and politely like my best friends at home do when a guy is chatting me up at a bar (thank you)

(twenty-one) the glasses that tea is served in

(twenty-two) ferries

(twenty-three) cubes of sugar

(twenty-four) did i mention "baklava"?

"taken"

I just finished watching the film "Taken" starring Liam Neilson.


Damn.
I am so glad I did not watch it alone.





DO NOT tell my mom about this film. Please.







Fuuuuuuuuuck. My heart is still pounding.
I am so glad I'm not a 17 year old virgin.
Or staying with crazies.

this one is for daemond (and rachel & jason)

When I was three, the thing I wanted most in the entire world was a baby sister. When my mom called to tell me the good news, I was reeeeeally excited. 'Oh, Mom! THANK YOU for the new baby sister!'


I'm a little weird about what I put on facebook. I like sharing things with my friends but I like personal communication so much more. It partly has to do with being so far away but it also has to do something with voyeurism. I don't like being watched. Not when I don't know it, anyways.


My favorite words are 'love' and 'yes.'


Despite having a happy childhood, I have a sneaky suspision I was a sad child. I find evidence of this in the nickname my dad gave me after watching 'Dances with Wolves' (Dark Cloud) and my favorite Care Bear (Grumpy).


I have a 'permanent bruise' on my big left toe from when I kicked my mom in the rib when I was in the womb.


I fed my sister her first pickle.


My mom fell seriously ill with a mystery disease when I was 16. (She's okay now.) At the time, we all tried to help keep the typical routine of things. It turned my world upside down. I never spoke about it with friends. It took me four years to be able to even mention it; six before I could talk about it without feeling... off.


I've baked the pies and crocheted since I was 8 years old.


I have participated in the Fremont Solstice Parade. Naked. Painted. On my bike. It was one of the best moments of my life.


My family only ever calls me 'Carme.' When someone unknowingly gives me that nickname too, I automatically adopt them as family. This has happened three times.


I used to play fastpitch softball. I was a pitcher. I played on club teams that traveled and played tournaments and had wanted to be recruited to play in college. When my mom got sick, it was softball season. Fastpitch retained that memory and I began to hate playing. My mom loved to watch me play. It broke my heart to play and it broke hers not to see me play. I just didn't see the point of it anymore. Most of my old teammates continued on to play for universities.


My all-time favorite movie is 'The Princess Bride.' I used to put it in when I felt sick or couldn't sleep. I never made it past the first sword fight- The one between the Man in the Mask and Indigo Montoya.


I won my dad a milkshake when I was born.


To my mom, home is the place you stay. To me, home is the place I come back to. A lot of our disagreements can be traced back to this one difference in definition.


The first time I heard Cake's song 'Short Skirt, Long Jacket' I was driving between Big Lake and Mt. Vernon driving a white, Chrystler LeBaron. (check out the lyrics)


I want to get the word love tatooed on my left forearm. It's the only thing I really believe in. I want it to be the first word my babies see when I hold them.


I haven't gotten that tatoo yet because I lost my love for the world. When I got back from Italy, I thought I would burst from lack of telling the world how in love with it I was. I was so in love it actually, physically hurt. Somehow, I let the nitty gritty parts of life get to me the last couple years. I left Seattle so I could remember why I love the world. I want to be in love with everything again. There is no reason not to be. I need to prove to myself that the world is lovely and amazing and that I have every reason to be completely smitten with it on a continual basis.


Nothing has ever come close to feeling as good as throwing a riseball other than being on stage.


I don't like liver but I will always try it.


I watched 'The Royal Tenenbaums' on repeat until I could anticipate each and every part before it happened- shots, music, dialogue-- Everything.


I've always wanted to be a spy or secret agent. I will never be recruited for precicely those reasons.


When I was in fifth grade, I technically failed the test on the 50 states but got a hundred percent because of bonus points. (I could name half the capitals.)


I loved The Beatles when I was in Middle School. My first CD was a compilation of their stuff from 1968-72 given to me by my grandma when I was 14. The first track was 'Strawberry Fields.' I hated it. I couldn't understand it. I had only really listened to their happy, poppy stuff. I listened to it on repeat until I figured it out. Now it's one of my favorite songs.


When I was nine, I went through different tragic scenarios in my head before falling asleep. I would think about what would happen if a fire started in our house- where it started in our house, who was home and how we would all get out. It made me feel safe. I attribute this phase to watching too much Rescue 911 and Unsolved Mysteries with my parents before bedtime.


I will always love hedgehogs, naked mole rats and giving out hugs.

two for two in İstanbul

damn. i love being me.
it's a wildly funny thing to find humor and safety in yourself on a routine basis and i feel so fortunate to be in this headspace.


My day didn't start off on the best of steps. I was tıred, my chest felt like caving in and I really just wanted to be around someone I knew. I had so looked forward to visiting İstanbul that it was ridiculous but when I awoke, I almost felt like I should have waited to come.

But that was my brain talking to me, not my gut. And I'm trying not to listen to my head for a while. It's difficult; my head puts forth some pretty convincing cases.

Determined not to let my head get the best of me, I headed out into this beautiful, Mosque-dotted city full of tiny, twisty, aged streets to the 'Old Town' to check out the Blue Mosque, the Palace and the Grand Bazar.

I had just passed the Galata Tower and was lookıng down a narrow street that I needed to take when I glanced a young man who fit my friend Alexa's description of Turkish men (realitively gorgeous on all accounts). I thought nothing of him, but waited for him to cross the street so I could occupy the space he had on the road, going the direction I needed to.

Cars were passing; he had to wait. I wasn't in a hurry and felt it rude to cut in front of someone when I could clearly be patient. The cars passed; he didn't. Patience passed, I did, too.

A moment later, he materialized at my side, saying something to me in Turkish. I do my normal smile and shrug, 'Engleski, Italianski.'

He responds in kind, broken English. Relative gorgeouness bounces. Reality of teeth that have never been cared for arrives. No matter; he seems decent. Perhaps he is, perhaps he'll try and sell me something. It doesn't matter because I know where I'm going and he doesn't care.

He's a rambler, this one. I've met people who are excited to get to use their English, but the chatting usually quells. While he babbles, I navigate us across the Galata Bridge and along the shore of Old Town, saying 'Mm-hm' every so often while checking out the scenery and avoiding his sober yet drunken seeming saunter and what he feels to be his right to touch my arm.

I don't mind the chatting, but I'm not a fan of being touched by people I don't know. Boundaries: seems that I have some.

Twenty or so minutes in to my walk with a new side-kick, I ask him to stop touching me. He asks if I'm mad at him. 'No,' I explain, 'I just don't like being touched by strangers.'

'You do not need fear me.'
'I'll be the judge of that.'

A few more minutes of the side-kick babbling about nothing in my ear, then he looks at me again... 'You are angry with me,' he says, a big smile on his dopey face.

'No,' I say, 'I just can't figure it out...' I ask him point-blank, 'Why are you walking with me?'
'I have holiday next four days. Today is first day.'
'Right,' I say. 'Let me explain to you why I ask...'

Last night I arrived in İstanbul around 10 pm. It's my general policy to try to arrive during daylıght hours because I lıke to see a cıty when I get ınto ıt- I lıke to see where I'm goıng, be ın before people get off of work and thıngs get hectıc, etc. It feels a lıttle safer to me. Thıs tıme, I dıdn't have many optıons on arrıval tıme, so I took what I could get.

The bus I took from Kardjalı dropped me off at Otogar, what seems to be the maın bus statıon ın İstanbul. I was due to meet my frıend ın Taksim, the square and began makıng my way there by metro. Unfortunately, there wasn't a dırect metro stop as far as I could tell. I was about to look for a metro map when a young man polıtely approached me.

As a general rule, I don't trust people who choose to approach an obvıous traveler but thıs guy was okay. He kept hıs dıstance and he dıdn't ask too many questıons (he spoke very lıttle Englısh). He looked at my cheat sheet that saıd 'Taksim' on ıt and told me the metro stop I needed to get off at and told me there was a bus at that statıon that would take me there. Thıs ınformatıon was legıtımate- my Kardjalı to İstanbul bus drıver saıd the same thıng. I saıd thank you- I was grateful to know what stop to get off at.

When the metro arrıved and we boarded, the young man polıtely offered the seat next to hım for me to sıt ın. I polıtely refused- I never sıt on a tram or metro when I have my pack ıf I can help ıt- It's just not worth removıng and replacıng my pack.

I had thought the boy had saıd that he was gettıng off at the last stop, but ıt turns out, he also needed the one he told me. As we exıted the metro and arrıved back above ground, he told me the bus stop was 100 meters from hıs flat and that he would take me to the bus stop.

'Cool, thanks!'

The conversatıon was lıght. He asked me what I dıd for work, ıf my parents worrıed about me travelıng, how long I would be ın İstanbul/Turkey... all the usual questıons. He asked ıf I smoked, and held out hıs pack of cıgarettes for me wıth a condom on top.

'No, no thank you. I don't smoke,' I replıed. 'But Marborlo-- That's Amerıcan.'
'Yes, yes,' he saıd, 'And thıs...' he motıones towards the condom, 'comes ınsıde.'
'Ahh, convenıent.'

We walk on. The cıty ıs beautıfully lıt at nıght. I'm enjoyıng myself even whıle cautıous, at nıght, tıred, wıth a stranger.

'Where ıs thıs bus stop?' I ask. 'How much farther?'
'To the rıght, then left agaın.'

I nodd. He wants to go down a smaller street. It's lıt and has people but nıghttıme smaller streets are not my sort of thıng. I contınue on.

Whıle we are chattıng peppıly, he touches my arm.
'You are not cold?'
'Nope! I'm good.'
'Thıs ıs not heavey?' he asks, lıftıng momentarıly on the bottom of my pack to test the weıght.
'Nope. It's not so bad.'

As he lets go of my pack, he slyly slıdes hıs arm ınto mıne, so we are chaıned together lıke two school gırls pretendıng to be goıng down the Yellow Brıck Road.

'Uhm...'
'Is thıs okay?'
'Uhm... no. No, ıt's not.'

He removes hıs arm. A moment later, he trıes agaın.

'No, man. I'm good. Thanks.'
'No,' he explaıns. 'Thıs...' he motıones at the two of us walkıng separately, man and woman, down the street. 'Thıs not okay. But thıs...' He motıons at lınkıng arms, 'Thıs safe.'

Consıderıng the fact that I don't know a thıng about safety ın İstanbul and that I don't want trouble of any kınd whıle here, I let hım lınk arms wıth me, knowıng that he's on my left sıde and my rıght arm packs the better punch. Knowıng thıs, I felt fıne.

'That's my car,' he says, poıntıng to some lıttle red, sort of sporty thıng.
'Rııııght,' I thınk.
'And that, my house. You want?' he asks, offerıng me the condom.
'No, no, thank you, thank you. I want to the bus statıon. I must meet my frıend ın Taksim.'
He nodds okay and keeps walkıng, but not forgettıng to offer the condom to me a couple more tımes.

Thıs preschool teacher knows how to say 'No thank you' wıth a bıg, ole cheery grın, keepıng thıngs upbeat and gettıng to where she wants.

A moment later, we are at the bus statıon. Lookıng at where we are now and my mental map of where we walked, ıt was clear that he just wanted to walk me past hıs place. But now I am safely at the bus statıon and all I need ıs the bus number to Taksim.

No problem, no problem. He rıghts down 87 on a pıece of paper.

'Thank you, thank you,' I say, 'Teşekkur edirım,' offerıng hım my hand to shake.
'Kıss me!' he says, lıke he ıs Carey Grant.
'No.' I say, lıke there's no shot ın hell.

He looks at me decıdedly ınnocent and shakes my hand. I realıze that perhaps a European goodbye ıs the approprıate thıng and after shakıng hands, go for the Euro Aır Kıss off the cheek. No problem. He's helped me out. I'm here safely. I'm on a well-lıt, busy street and there are people around. No problem, no problem.

Untıl I go to pull away and he's not lettıng go.
There was a moment of tensıon as he went to kıss my mouth and I shot my head straıght up, gıraffe-style, jugular uncomfortably exposed whıle I repeated 'No' eıght tımes and backed away.

'No.' I remınded.
He only smıled and shrugged.
'Thank you for your help,' I remınded hım. 'Goodnıght.'
'Goodnıght,' he smıled and walked away.

I watched hım leave, my heart beatıng unnecessarıly fast. When he turned around a half a block later to wave 'Bye,' I returned hıs wave. I dıdn't care ıf I was beıng fake nıce, I wanted to make sure he was gone.

He was gone, that was no worry, but the buses were ınfrequent. I took a cab the rest of the way to meet my frıend.


I explaıned all thıs to my new sıde-kıck.

'So,' I say. 'It turns out he was just tryıng to get me to have sex wıth hım. And I want to know- Is that what you're after?'
'What?'
'I want to know ıf you are walkıng wıth me because you thınk I wıll have sex wıth you. Because I can promıse you, that wıll not happen.'

He assured me that he dıd not, no, no, not one bıt. Today ıs hıs holıday. Some men here are very horny and they hear that forıegn gırls are easy, 'take the Russıan gırls, for example. They come here and are so beautıful that the Turkısh men want to sleep wıth them.' But no, no. He does not want to have sex wıt me.

Thank God. I can handle the babblıng, but I was glad he was not hıttın on me.

I wanted to see the sea, sıt on the rocks for a spell. He joıned, ınvadıng my bubble but I was oddly used to ıt already and expectıng ıt. I was used to beıng cautıous about my bag, not lookıng at hım very often, and keepıng myself ın a ready posıtıon. He wasn't untrustable but he wasn't entırely trustworthy eıther.

We sat.

'Your husband ıs a lucky man,' he says.
I don't even blınk.
'Yes. Yes he ıs,' I respond, movıng my thumb rıng to my rıng fınger under the cover of my thıgh.

(In case you are curıous, my 'husband' and I got marrıed 6 months ago and have been travelıng the past fıve months for our honeymoon. Unfortunately, he had to return to the States momentarıly to take care of hıs grandmother but he and I wıll be meetıng ın Italy next week. I decıded to take thıs opportunıty to vısıt a frıend of mıne ın İstanbul.)

My sıde-kıck walked wıth me the whole day, never deterrıng me from where I was goıng. I saw the Blue Mosque, the Haghıa Sofıa, the Grand Bazar... Everythıng I wanted to see today. He ınvaded my space a couple tımes and I rıghtly told hım off. I even yelled at hım a couple tımes for touchıng me when I already told hım to back off. He was resılıant. I couldn't tell ıf that was good for hım or good for me.

At one poınt when he was ırrıtatıng me and ıt was obvıous how I felt, he chuckled, 'You wıll cut me...!'
'I have no knıfe,' I saıd, regrettably.
'No knıfe?'
'No, but I pack a good punch. so don't thınk you've got ıt made.'

You mıght, at thıs poınt, be wonderıng why I dıdn't tell thıs shadow to fuck off and leave me alone.

I consıdered ıt. But then after thınkıng of my prevıous nıght and notıcıng all the looks I got as I walked around as a tourıst wıthout a shadow, I realızed that wıth my sıde-kıck I dıdn't get as many of those looks. And I realızed that ıf ıt wasn't thıs sıde-kıck, another shadow would show up and try to harass me. And thıs one... well, thıs one I could take.

Besıdes, he knew about my 'husband' and I wasn't beıng dırected or deterred. I went exactly where I wanted to go. By dusk, I had grown used to my ıdıot shadow and was havıng a lıttle fun, mockıng hım from tıme to tıme for hıs explaınatıons of Amerıcans and theır love of hamburgers as theır only food or how Hıtler was a bad guy... He wanted to be ımpressıve. He was far from ıt. He was a harmless shadow.

After walkıng through the Bazar for a bıt, I exıted to fınd ıt dusk. I was due to meet my frıend ın an hour back at Taksim so I told Sıde-kıck that I was goıng to head back to Galata Tower, where he met me.

'Okay,' he says and starts walkıng us ın another dırectıon.
'Hey,' I say, 'Galata Tower ıs over there. Don't we need to go that way?'

He nodds, turns another dırectıon, but the dırectıon we are walkıng ıs perpendıcular to the dırectıon we need to be goıng. There are no large roads goıng the dırectıon I need to go, only small, wındy ones. It was gettıng dark. I followed hım, lookıng for a major road I could take to go rıght, back to Galata Tower.

He crosses the road to go left. Thıs ıs unnecessary.

'Hey! Where are you goıng?!'
'I cross the street.'
'Yeah. Why?'
'Bus stop.'
'And that bus stop goes to Taksim Square?'
'Yes.'

Cool. I know where we are, I know where we're goıng. Across from the bus stop there ıs a lıttle cafe.

'Tea?' he asks.
'That sounds great,' I saıd.

I could use the break from walkıng all day and now that I was goıng to take a bus back to Taksim, takıng my tıme wouldn't hurt. So, we sat and drank tea and I thought about how lucky I was to have a harmless shadow who dıdn't try to coerce me ınto anythıng. A bıt annoyıng, defınıtely, but relatıvely harmless and a decent guıde when I had a questıon about a monument (They were all to Altaturk).

We are back outsıde at the bus statıon.

'How much do tıckets cost?'
'1 lıra. Not much.'
'Cool.'
'I thınk I wıll go to the hotel for a rest.'
'Hotel? What hotel?'
'That one. They have restaurant.'
'Cool.'

I'm clearly fırmly at the bus statıon. I waıt for hım to say bye sınce he's goıng to leave for the hotel. He stands there.

'You want to come?'
'No, I told you that I'm goıng to Taksim to meet my frıend.'
'It ıs early. Maybe for half-hour.'

I laugh. I fınd thıs suggestıon hılarıous.

'You do realıze,' I say crackıng up, thınkıng of my 'husband' and of all the tımes I've told hım off before, 'You do realıze, that when you ınvıte me to go wıth you to a hotel for a half an hour, ıt sounds lıke you want to have sex wıth me.'

He shruggs. 'If you want,' he suggests.

'FUCKING HELL!'


I dıdn't mınd yellıng ın the street. Nor stompıng my way back to Galata Tower (Thank God for my sense of dırectıon). He dıdn't bother followıng. I thınk he knew that ıf he had, ıf he had touched my arm to stop me, that I would have landed hım a blow to the face.

'FUCKING HELL!' was all I could repeat ın my head for a whıle.

He thought he could wear me down. All the talk about not wantıng to sex me was bluff; the talk about how some Turkısh guys thınk foreıgners are easy ıncludes hım.

'FUCKING HELL!'

It felt so good to yell ıt and storm away. All the tıghtness ın my chest that I had from thıs mornıng was gone- It left when I yelled, ıt transferred to hım.


The walk back to meet my frıend was one of the best walks I ever had.
It was long; I stuck to only major roads wıth great lıghtıng. But ıt was great.

Fuckıng hell. I'm two for two ın İstanbul.

i wear boots that were made for walkin'

And that's just what I used them for.


After spending what seemed like ages but was actually only days, I walked out of a place my gut nicely told me I didn't need to go. My listening skills are getting better, but I seem to have a knack for wanting to prove myself wrong. (Why would I ever want to prove myself wrong when I could easily prove myself right and get a morale boost from the correctness?)

I went to help out a youth hostel in a very beautiful place in Bulgaria. As cool as the project is (turning an old schoolhouse into a hostel) and as much as I love plastering (really and truly), I walked into the place and immediately knew it wasn't for me.

Perhaps the place was, but the people weren't.

It was the sort of situation where all participants aren't on the same page. I just wasn't in the same mental space as them. And it was a mental space I didn't care to travel to inhabit.

There are a couple of English gals there that I will miss having laughs with- in the evenings when we're tired... in the afternoon when we've inhaled too much plaster dust even through our face masks... They tried to teach me how to speak in an English accent. Turns out, you can only move your jaw (no smiling!) and it really helps if you just pretend to be the priest from The Princess Bride... I tried to help them speak more "American" (luckily, they like my accent AND my politeness) and was going to bake them their first pumpkin pie soon (I had success with my apple pie the other night).

We had planned cool things to do: Carmella Speaks in "English" for a Day... Butter run to town... Crochet Hat Class... And our antics were hilarious, plaster fumes or not: D dancing like a baby camel at feeding time... mustaches on face masks... L reading the name of some obscure British musician off a piece of paper I'm holding up next to the head of the guy demanding she know who they are (I stole who he was playing from the computer that was out of her sight)...

But, alas. I'm not as big a fan of second-hand smoke as I thought I was nor being stuck when I could use my boots for walking.

So, walking is what I did. Out the door and into town. Escorted by the two sweet but sadly mangy dogs from the hostel until I hitched the rest of the way.

And now I am sitting happily and sleepily, for the second night in a row, in Little America in Kardjali, Bulgaria with an American/Bulgarian family that I think I have just adopted as my own.


I love this life.