I Love You

Pictures of Photographs From Istanbul's Platform Garanti Contemporary Art Center

Until returning to Atlanta most recently, I hadn't realized how much kudzu shapes the city. It reminds me of when I first learned how overwhelmingly humanity is outnumbered by insects; I feel as if we are closer to a construction of negative than positive space.

In The Airport

I hate you.

More news Tuesday evening.

I Don't Particularly Remember Being Born Here

"I just remember thinking to myself, I just brought terror to someone else under the American flag, and that's just not what I joined the Army to do."

- Staff Sgt. Timothy John Westphal

It's a good article. Very long, very detailed, sickeningly graphic.

The funny thing is, every time I start getting homesick, I read something like this.

Poof!

Homesickness-b-gone!

Colonial Matters

I'm writing this now because I'm still not sure I understand it.

Two days ago, I was swept into the company of a huge white Zimbabwean. I could describe him in some deeply lyrical way, but it would be easier for both of us if I only listed the most important facts of him:

1. On his left arm there was a tattoo of the word “Rodesia”, Zimbabwe's old colonial name.

2. On the other side of that arm, there was a tattoo of an empty crucifix.

3. On his right leg, he had given himself a “tribal” style tattoo.

4. There were more tattoos on his back, but I don't remember them.

5. I never talked to him when he was sober.

6. I only talked to him once while I was sober.

7. He was in the British Army's paratrooper unit, until he was kicked out for fighting too much.

8. From there, he entered the French foreign legion, but deserted when he realized they would make him learn French.

9. Currently, he works as an electrical engineer in London's Tube.

10. His London girlfriend dumped him by email the day we met.

11. Over the two nights I drank with him, we were kicked out of three bars, one restaurant, and two clubs.

12. He had been injecting himself with steroids ever since arriving in London 5 years ago.

13. He wore a pair of sandals he'd stolen from another backpacker while staying in Southern Turkey.
    
    
    

So, on the second day that I knew him, it was 3 pm, and I was writing in the shade outside our hostel. Behind me, a pair of workers were using pickaxes against sidewalk pavement.

He sat down and offered me a beer, which I took. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and spent some time explaining how Istanbul's population reacted to his shirtlessness throughout the earlier portion of that day. I showed him the writing I'd been working on, and a piece which was recently published, neither of which he cared for. We chatted, and he sent a Swede to buy us another four pints of beer. Then, we spent some hours watching the roadwork behind us, until finally deciding to “find some girls”. He put on a shirt, and we left the hostel carrying our unfinished beers.

We first struck out for the University section of Istanbul, got lost, and decided against that portion of town entirely. Eventually, we found ourselves only a few blocks from the hostel. The Zimbabwean mentioned a mob boss he knew in the area named Ismael, so we decided to find him. Finding the boss was very easy, even given our drunkenness, as every Turk we asked immediately switched from Broken Tourist English to their actual (still patchy) English, giving us precise and respectful directions. When our journey had begun, I was convinced that the Zimbabwean had never met the boss, but the natives' responses to his name quickly erased my doubts.

We eventually found Ismael in one of his shops, a very empty room which allegedly sold leather goods. He has two sons and one daughter. The son, who is an ex-boxer, served the three of us tea while the Zimbabwean arm-wrestled Ismael. This was their way of saying “hello”, and my wrist still hurts from attempting to say “hello” back.

We had a long conversation, covering Turkish politics, European politics, why Jews didn't die in the twin tower attacks, and Ismael's philosophical transition from Turkish nationalism as a young man to his present Humanist Islamacism. Occasionally, the Zimbabwean would point out that I was both Jewish and had studied at Oxford. Each time this happened, Ismael would continue smoking his cigarette, then nod to indicate the truth of both these facts.

By nine, the three of us had gotten sick of each other, so we left.

The next hour was spent walking from Ismael's shop to Istanbul's fashionable section, where we began what would turn out to be an entire night spent being kicked out of clubs. The problem was the Zimbabwean, and I wish I could blame it on the Zimbabwean and the massive amount we drank, but it really was just the Zimbabwean.

There was one club that we were kicked out of twice, and it was the only place I regretted leaving that night. You see, if you asked a certain type of Turkish man (never a Turkish woman, who would only ignore you) for directions to a specific club, he would offer to take you to an even better one. The three of us would walk until we reached an alley on the very edge of the district. We would discuss how cheaply the Turk could provide us with cocaine or hash. I don't remember what the different Turks wanted for hash, but they were always selling a kilogram of coke for one hundred Lira.

So, we got to this Turk's club, went inside, and found a small blacklit room, completely deserted except for the bartender, five bouncers, and a limp handful of Russia's most hideous prostitutes. We sat down and looked at the prostitutes. The bouncers looked at us. A waiter appeared and asked if we would like anything to drink or eat. After we had declined both offers, the bouncers gently escorted us from the club.

This happened twice.

There were other bars and clubs we were kicked out of, but that was my favorite.

Eventually, we realized that talking to Turkish girls led to us being kicked out whatever place we were drinking in, so we stopped doing it. Then, we realized that looking at Turkish girls also led to our removal. After we realized that dancing within twenty feet of a Turkish girl was also forbidden, we gave up. Sharing a third bottle of wine, we began walking back to the hostel. The sun almost rose while we were walking, but Istanbul's streets were still deserted.

The next afternoon (today) I woke up and realized these things:

1. I was very hungover.

2. I would not drink for at least another two days.

3. The Zimbabwean had been kicked out of the hostel sometime between returning to his room and breakfast.

4. When he left, he took my sandals.