Auguri!

It’s December 29th as I write this, the fifth day of Christmas. Back home I suspect the holiday is long over, the Christmas season, at least in my experience, begins some time before Halloween and ends shortly after Christmas dinner. Over here, it’s still going strong.
Of course, it starts a lot later over here. With the exception of the fake pine arch that went up in front of the bar down the street around Halloween (and actually, it may have been up year round and I just hadn’t noticed it before), the first signs of the holiday don’t appear until well into December. Dec. 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, is a major holiday and is the usual day for decorating the home and putting up a tree if you have one. (The Christmas tree is not a universal decoration in Italy and, I’ve been told, becomes scarcer as you travel south. Everybody, on the other hand, puts up a Nativity scene.)

The city welcomed the Christmas season at its own pace. Every day something new would appear. I walked into Piazza Navonna on the 3rd to find that they had cleared out the art peddlers and street musicians and had set up what looked like a carnival midway, complete with merry-go-round and games. Booths around the perimeter have been selling crèche figures and La Befana, the witch who fills the stockings of good children on Epiphany. Stalls sell torrone, a seasonal candy of nougat and nuts that comes in both a soft, gummy morbido and a molar cracking duro, as well as candy apples, Nutello smeared crepes (I have unfortunately discovered that Nutello is good stuff), and cotton candy, which on windy nights tends to slip its surly bonds and go wafting through the air. A disreputable looking Santa holds court from his sleigh by one of the fountains.
Throughout the city, decorations went up piece meal. The tree halfway up the Spanish Steps was only partially decorated by the 15th. The Nativity Scene in St Peter’s Square, assembled behind canvas,isn’t revealed until Christmas Eve. The inflatable snow globe next store to the Shwarma Shack didn’t arrive until the 20th. Every walk through town became a little more interesting. I have yet to see an animated Christmas shop window but the wrought chocolate stable at Giolitti’s continues to draw a crowd.

In the ongoing debate between colored and white lights, white clearly got the nod, with a strong contingent of pale blue on a few streets. Via de Coronari (the way of the rosary bead makers), a straight narrow shot from Navonna to the Tiber, is hung thick with strands and stars and looks great, as do a number of the main thoroughfares.
Sadly the weather didn’t always cooperate. A cold snap about 10 days ago froze the water in some of the fountains but it was followed by a warming trend and lots of rain. On Christmas Eve morning the skies opened, throwing down monsoon sheets of rain. (I, unfortunately, was conducting a tour of the Palatine Hill at the time. I’ve never been that wet in my adult life.) Rain pounded through the afternoon but eased around 5. A friend had called that afternoon with tickets to Midnight Mass at St. Pete’s so I was grateful.

Midnight Mass started at 10:00 PM (Don’t ask questions.). The doors opened at 8:30 and we planned to arrive around 8. By then the line already completed a full circle around St. Peter’s Square (which is neither a square nor a circle but it is really big). The wait wasn’t bad. A group of German priest behind us took advantage of the time to practice their hymns and we took turns wandering over to check out the Nativity Scene. (There was a side installation of a Philippine fishing village (the Apostles were fishers of men) that was interesting. Apparently, every year a different country is awarded the honor of adding a temporary addition to the display.) We were inside in no time.
St Peter’s is massive. It’s also one of the few buildings that uses forced perspective tricks to make it appear and feel smaller than it really is. We were sitting fairly close to the aisle and realized when he passed that the pope was a small man but by the time he got to the altar, he was tiny. Choirs were stashed in various side chapels and a small brass choir was perched on a balcony that was w-a-a-y up there. Mass was being broadcast by Vatican TV so the entire basilica was bathed in bright light. The multi-lingual service was hardly an intimate experience but memorable nonetheless. Walking out at the close and gazing down on the square with its massive obelisk and tree was a stunner.
The crowd quickly soaked up the fleet of waiting cabs and the Metro had stopped running at 9 so I was walking but the rain had stopped and it was a pleasant enough night. It wasn’t a lonely walk. In a town of 500 churches, there are plenty of people on the streets as midnight mass is letting out. I stopped off at Piazza Navonna for a candy cane (first of the season, and at 1 Euro a piece, probably the last) and made my way home.
We all have our Christmas traditions and I have mine, so before going to sleep I got on my laptop and sorted through youtube until I found a clip of Darlene Love singing Christmas (Baby, please come home), then fired up my Kindle, hopped into bed and started reading Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I think I made it to the fourth paragraph.

Christmas day itself was quiet and drizzling. Heading out to a brunch, I would have sworn the town was deserted but as the day progressed, more and more people appeared on the streets and by nightfall, a number of shops had opened. By Sunday, the streets were in full bustle. The rain seemed to have finely cleared away and a bright, jovial, stirring cold had settled in. Everywhere people were wishing each other Buon Natale, the more politically correct Bona Feste, or the all-purpose Auguri, which translates roughly into “Best Wishes” but is far more robust and festive than that meager greeting.

And so it continues. The streets are full of visitors, Santa still is still offering his lap, Carabinari’s, particularly those scheduled by attractions like the Trevi Fountain, have traded in their sub-machine guns for capes and cutlasses and pose with children, and folks are singing carols in St. Peter’s Square. I wandered down to Navonna Tuesday night were a small and mobile brass band was cooking up a second line-Latino hybrid that had driven a bunch of high school kids to spontaneous choreography. It didn’t have much to do with Christmas but it was festive…and what’s wrong with that.
Auguri!

Thanks. I needed that.

Originally my opening line was going to be something along the lines of “Truth be told, this ex-pat  business isn’t  always everything it’s cracked up to be” but that sounds really petulant, not to mention naïve, so let’s just say that while it has a lot of highs, it can hit some real lows, which doesn’t exactly qualify as a news flash either. Last time I wrote I was coming off of a really great trip through Turkey. It was a remarkable experience, a real high, but by the time I was writing about it, things had already started to slip a bit.
It started when I took the evening shuttle bus to the Istanbul airport only to discover that my 11:50 flight had left at 11:50 AM (as scheduled, I might add). Now, in my defense I would like to point out that Pegasus Airlines has only one flight daily from Istanbul to Rome and that when I made the trip in August we left a few minutes before midnight, but that’s a weak excuse because over here the airport follow 24 hour time and a flight leaving ten minutes before midnight would be leaving at 23:50. Regardless, there wasn’t a hotel near which meant I was going to be spending the night in the Istanbul Airport.
That actually isn’t that bad of a deal. Heck, when you consider I spent the previous night on a bus, it could even be a step up. The drag was that for the previous couple of days, I’d been trying, with progressively less success, to ignore a burgeoning toothache which was suggesting that here was a root canal in my future. Add to that the realization that the orange tabby that had been hopefully eyeing me while I ate my final Turkish meal had apparently retaliated for my refusal to share by spraying the day pack which, under other circumstances, would have served as my pillow. Sleep was going to be hard to come by.
Anyway, I got through the night and back to the Rome, where, after tossing my pack in the washer, I got re-acquainted with my bed… so, things were looking up, right? Well, not exactly because within the next week I caught some nasty upper respiratory mess, met with a very accommodating Italian dentist who wanted to pull all my remaining wisdom teeth (I think he has some new equipment he’s dying to try out), and ( and here’s the kicker) had my pocket picked in Naples (I don’t really want to talk about it but let’s just say, if you go to get on the commuter train and it’s way too crowded, don’t squeeze your way in, just wait for the next one. Oh, and if you have a money belt, use it fercryinoutloud!)
Now I know it’s unseemly to be complaining when one’s living in the Eternal City, even if winter here can be a cold and rainy thing, but there it is. Any city has the potential to become a just another city from time to time I suppose. At least it does for me. Usually, the antidote for that is a little exploring but sometimes the motivation can be hard to come by. (Have I mentioned that the winter months tend to be cold and rainy?)
Of course, then a touch of homesickness creeps in. I start longing for a big cup of drip coffee in a “to go” cup, speculating what Christmas will be like without the lights of Hampden or Darlene Love on Letterman, and wondering what’s happening on this season of Dexter or 30 Rock or Treme (Is there even a new season of Treme?). I even got pretty close to going to McDonald’s the other day (but I blame that on a scene in Laura Lippman’s latest book.) Anyway, you get the idea. Put it all together and it’s a funk. Nothing clinical but not of any value either.
So, here’s what happened. A couple of days ago I was futzing around the apartment ‘cause it was cold and damp outside but when I looked out the window and it was snowing. Not hard, mind you, but it was more than flurries. This is not a common occurrence over here. Last February a couple of inches fell one morning and the city ground to a halt because no one had seen that for 25 years. A number of friends of mine mentioned that they had taken pictures of St Peter’s dome covered with snow but I had already decided on my destination in case of snow- the Pantheon.
Now it’s a half hour walk from my apartment to the Pantheon and as I set off I’m hoping that I get here before this stops. By the time I get to the Colosseum, just a few flakes are coming down but things start to pick up again as I’m head by the imperial forums. Some even seems to be sticking in the Piazza Venezia which holds the city’s largest Christmas tree. (Great lights on this tree, by the way. In addition to your basic white lights, there are these long (18 “) hanging strips that have a series of small bulbs firing in sequence. The resulting effect suggests shooting stars. Never seen that before.)

Thankfully, it’s still coming down by the time I get to the Piazza della Rotunda. Inside a small crowd has gathered as, apparently, I’m not the only one with this idea. It’s subtle but snow is drifting down through the oculus. I snap a number of pictures but I doubt that it will translate. That’s ok. (It’s gonna have to be). I put my camera back in my pocket and just watch for a bit. Somebody calls my name and I turn to greet a couple of friends of mine who had come down as well. (I’m still surprised when I run into people I know on the streets of the city.) We all just stand there looking up. It’s actually not all that dramatic, I mean you really have to look to see it but, then again, I’m living in Rome, and standing in the Pantheon with friends, and it's snowing. What are the chances of that happening?
(This didn't start out to be a Christmas post but for the last four days, this program hasn't let me load pictures.  So, on the off chance that it works today, I'll close by saying...)
Buon Natale, everyone.

A Second Helping of Turkey

Some things are better the second time around.
I went to Turkey last August or, more accurately, I went to Istanbul. It’s a mammoth city. Population estimates for the greater Istanbul area range from 10 to 16 million people, and while it occasionally looks like a western city (Starbucks, Burger King, Sbarro’s Pizza for that matter), it’s mosques and minarets, head scarves, and five times daily calls to prayer let you know very clearly that you’re not in Kansas anymore. I liked it a lot but also found it intimidating. The language was totally unrecognizable (although there are plenty of English speakers), the population tended to be pretty stone faced, and those that weren’t were trying to sell me a carpet. It was hot, humid, exhausting but, nevertheless, intriguing.
Since that trip a number of people have told me that I needed to see the rest of the country and since it’s prudent visa-wise to get out of Italy every now and then (now and then being every 90 days, long story), I decided to go back and head out into the country. I flew into Istanbul Gokken Airport (it’s in the Asian part of the city) and found an inexpensive shuttle to my hostel. Traffic was murder (as usual) and the trip took three hours (in other words, it took less time to get from Rome to Istanbul than it took to get from the airport to the hotel.) The driver and his sidekick, however, seemed to be having the time of their lives, constantly changing lanes, cutting people off, and driving on the shoulder. Istanbul traffic makes Rome looks organized, traffic lights appear to be merely suggestions, crosswalks are flat-out dangerous, and the alternate merge is a foreign concept.

The highlight of the trip occurred when they flagged down a candy salesman working around one of the toll plazas. They bought two boxes of whatever he was selling and passed them around the van. It appeared to be the Turkish version of cotton candy but more brittle (candy fiberglass insulation would be close). It tasted of sugar with a hint of some kind of grain in there as well. The candy was forgettable but I still can’t get over the fact that the guy was running around highway traffic selling it. (Ok, it was congested highway traffic, but still. This would be like working as a squeegee kid at the Delaware Memorial Bridge.)

I eventually got to the hostel, checked in and headed out to wander. I was staying in Sultanahmet, the old part of the city. I walked over a few blocks and cut through the road between the Blue Mosque and Sofia Haj. It’s hard to grasp how massive these two buildings are. At first glance they appear to each be hunkered down on respective hills but under further inspection it becomes clear that each is the hill, that beneath the main body of each mosque is a cascade of smaller domes and roofs that support them. The Sofia which was desanctified years ago and is now a museum looks a little worse for wear by day but by night, it holds its ground impressively.

I grabbed a kebab at a nearby restaurant, and then stopped at one of the sidewalk vendors who was ladling out what was described as an Ottoman era winter health beverage made of milk, honey, and spices. It tasted like a thinned version of egg custard. Not bad but I could only drink about a quarter of a cup. Back to the hostel and to bed.

My bus to the hinterlands wasn’t leaving until late in the day so I had some time to wander around the city. The carpet touts were still thick around Sultanhamet but once I got a few blocks away the pressure really lets up. Besides I was learning that it was more fun to talk with the touts than it was to ignore them. Turks are, by and large, gregarious and it’s not unusual to have someone start up a conversation and follow it up with an invitation to get a cup of tea. I never entirely trusted that invitation and always declined, but I suspect that most were sincere.

Down by the Bospherous the fish boats were doing a brisk business selling sandwiches and the Galata Bridge was thick with folks fishing off the sides. Mostly they were reeling in little five inch numbers which some would chop up, marinate in lemon juice, and sell on the spot. Others were managing to land some larger fish: trout, bass, and something that looked like an oversize version of the pencil fish from my childhood aquarium. I crossed the bridge just as it was starting to rain so I decided to double back, head to the hotel where I caught the shuttle to the station for my bus to Cappadocia.

Turkey doesn’t have much of a train network and inter-city air can be expensive so the preferred mode of transit is the overnight bus. I had mixed feelings about this. I don’t sleep well in any moving conveyance but, it did bring back fond memories of touring Europe in the splendid company of Battlin’ Dan McCormick and the inestimable Bruce Greene. Armed with backpacks and Eurail passes, we used to rely on overnight trains to save on room costs but I’m 30 years older and far less flexible than I was in those days. I would have been willing to spring for a room.
Not much to say about the bus ride. It was long but reasonably comfortable. What appeared to be a broad Turkish crime comedy was playing on the monitors. Crew men prowled the aisles handing out tea and coffee. Nobody seemed to speak a lick of English. I managed to fall asleep around 3:30 or so but we immediately pulled into a rest stop which, of course, woke me. Sometime around 6, we pulled into the Nevsehir, where I was pointed towards the short bus to Goreme, my destination.

Nevsehir isn’t exactly a garden spot. Most of what I saw was apartment buildings that were either under construction or recently finished. Nothing was landscaped. The whole town looked bombed out. Within about 15 minutes all the other passengers had departed the bus. It was just bleary-eyed me and the driver slowly moving through fields of shale and I’m wondering “What am I going to do here for the next two days?” Little did I know.
The terrain started to look more attractive as we approached Goreme. Hills stretched towards mountains and a smattering of the distinctive conical structures that the area is famous for began to appear. The driver dropped me off in front of the Goreme tourist information station where a driver from the hostel was waiting (how ‘bout that?). Five minutes later I was sitting amidst the cushions surrounding the dining table in the terrace café of the rustic Paradise Cave Hostel. The center of the room was occupied by a squat square wood-burning stove warming the room and the ubiquitous Turkish teapot sitting on it. (While you hear a lot about Turkish coffee, tea appears to be their passion and they brew it in a double boiler pot with a small pot of super strong tea resting on top of a larger pot of steaming water which is used to dilute the other.)
The other residents were a mix of folk from Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong, and Korea. I think I had at least 25 years on all of them but they didn’t seem to mind my bag roller amongst their backpacks and, frankly, I was enjoying the casually desolate atmosphere. Breakfast was typically Turkish: eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese, olives, and cheese crepe thing that was great. The staff was inordinately low-key. At some point they jotted down my passport number and pointed me towards my room. They never mentioned money or asked to see my voucher. It all seemed to be far away from the US, or Rome, or even Istanbul for that matter.
As the name implies, parts of the Paradise Cave are carved into the stone that dominates the area. In the case of my room it was the bathroom, which was freezing, but I managed a quick shower before jumping into a van for the 200 km Cappadocia tour that was part of the tour package.

Capadoccia is known for its otherworldly landscape. What I wasn’t prepared for was the number of other worlds represented. Underground cities carved into the bedrock, valleys full of sandstone structures that looked like piped meringue, limestone towers topped by conical boulders, and the previously mentioned stone teepees. They call them fairy chimneys. The amazing thing is that so many of these structures have been used as housing from 800 BC until as recently as the 40s. Many were the homes of monastics and a number of carved and frescoed churches remain. It was an astounding day, no sleep or otherwise, and I crashed early.
The alarm rang at 5 the next morning because I was supposed to be at Urgu Balloons at 5:30. Apparently, if you’re going to go up in a hot air balloon, Cappadocia’s a good place to be, and while I have issues with heights, I figured as long as I’m here… Still not sure why they wanted us there so early though. From 5:30 til 7 we did nothing but drink tea, eat cookies, and watch the same video over and over and over again. We also were keeping track of every gust and breeze because the previous day’s trips were cancelled due to excessive wind.

Finally, a little after 7, a couple of pick-ups from rival firms cruised by with baskets on the beds. A rumble went through the crowd. Minutes later we were ushered into a van and off we went. The staging area was only about a half mile away and clearly we weren’t the only ones with this idea. There were at least 30 balloons being filled and launched. I appreciated the buzz of activity thinking it wouldn’t give me time to get nervous, but actually, there was a brief moment. I had just climbed into the basket and was resting my elbow on the side when I looked down at the grass six ft below and realized before long that would be 6000 meters away. I felt that quick rush of panic, thought “I can’t do this” and then settled. A minutes later we were ascending and it couldn’t have been smoother. The woman next to me said “I feel like I’m floating” and I pointed out that she was, but she just kept saying it so I had to pitch. Other than that it was a perfect morning.
The rest of the day was much like the previous one but in a good way and actually, that was how the week went. Overnight buses, natural wonders, and historical sights. Turkey is rich with old Roman settlements. From Cappadocia, I traveled to Pammukalle, site of Hieropolis but also known for its calcium rich hot springs that leave the cascading hillside looking ice-encrusted. From there, on to the Roman ruins in Ephasus, site of the Temple to Artemis, one of the wonders of the ancient world (only one column remains today but the field is full of schoolkids selling bookmarks and flipbooks ).

Pamukkale

Being late November, the crowds were thin throughout, mostly young backpackers. When I was in Europe years ago, Turkey was not a standard stop on the itinerary but I don’t think Midnight Express did much to encourage travel there. Today though, it seems a fairly popular stop. Cheap, casual, windswept, and ancient. Here’s a history that stretches considerably before the founding of Rome and, in many cases, appears more intact. A hard place to leave.

The Library at Ephasus

One last word about the overnight buses. While I found them exhausting, they did offer some interesting glimpses into Turkish culture. At most of the late night bus stations, large crowds had gathered, playing drums and blowing chanters as young men were being seen off. Through the windows, I could see them working through the crowds, kissing the hands of the older women of the town and then pressing them to their foreheads, in a display of affection and, I guess, servility. In some cases, the men of the village would hoist the departing ones on their shoulders and carried them moist-eyed to the bus. I later learned that this was the traditional send-off for mandatory military service. The guide in Pamukkale explained the custom to me then turned away, saying that he was about to start crying himself because he hadn’t served his term yet.

I don’t know that I’ll make it back to Turkey. There are other places to go over here, but there’s more to see there as well, the massive stone heads of Nemrut Dagi, the acropolis of Pegamum, the dervish rites in Konya. It’s got a lot to recommend. If anybody reading this is looking for a place to visit, that isn’t like anyplace else, give it some serious thought. And if you need a travel companion, you probably wouldn’t have to ask me twice.