Our First Year: Everywhere

Nisantasi - How The Other Two Percent Lives

My Grandpa used to read to me endlessly. My grandparents had an entire set of children's books at their house and I wonder if my Grandpa didn't regret getting Richard Scarry's "Best Storybook Ever."

He patiently read me stories for hours and many repeatedly. We both knew all the words to "Goodnight, Little Bear" and when I stayed overnight at my grandparents' house we reenacted the story before bedtime with me being the little bear hiding on Papa Bear's (or in this case Grandpa Bear's) shoulders while he pretended to look for me.

My first memorable impression of Istanbul came from that book somewhere around age three or four. There was a story about Couscous The Detective and something in the story led him to Istanbul. It was busy, and there was a bazaar and people dressed in a number of stereotypic ways. Couscous disguised himself in what I now know to be a burqa in order to trick and capture the bad guys (one of which may have been a cat...it's been awhile....).

As Emily says, there's usually some truth inside stereotypes and indeed Istanbul has women in burqas and chaotic old markets among an also modern city with very European dressed people. The part that holds the most true is the somewhat dingy and absolutely crazy bustle of this ancient crossroads of civilizations.

Yesterday, we discovered that Couscous had not been up to Nisintasi (said Nishantash because the ending I shouldn't have a dot, as it's a letter we don't have and it's silent). Up on a hill over Beyoglu stands the Beverly Hills of Istanbul. I wanted to see it because it's referenced in almost every work by Turkish author Orhan Pamuk. It's where he grew up and still resides. Why wouldn't he?

As our taxi took is up the hill from Taksim Square, the cloud began to lift and the sun shone down, illuminating Nisantasi. It felt like we had reached the Emerald City and that little people dressed in green would come out of the Gucci and Prada stores to welcome us to the Merry Ol' Land of Nisantasi.

Every brand name you can think of was there. So was a very fancy mall, European looking cafes and high end and international restaurants. If Emily gets a sushi craving, we now know where to go. If I need to take refuge in a cafe or patisserie that feels like Cannes, we now have the Cannes withdrawal antidote.

The apartment buildings are beautiful, the streets immaculate, women seem to walk comfortably alone down streets, people dress better and there's an fresh, clean feel to the area.

Interestingly, fewer people we encountered spoke English. Perhaps outside the tourist zone, there's less reason for it - although I would expect many of the educated professionals who live in the area are multi-lingual. They just didn't happen to be the people working at the local cafes.

When Emily finished her work, she took a walk around the area and took some photos. As she went to get a shot of an apartment building she thought was particularly pretty, a police officer stationed there told her not to take a photo. He got a nearby woman who spoke some English to tell Emily she could not photograph the building - a very important Turkish man lived there. Other buildings were fine to photograph - just not that one. When they realized she really had no idea who lived there, they had a laugh. Emily moved on.

Emily kept expressing her shock at how amazingly different Nisantasi is from the rest of the city. I kept saying that in any big city anywhere in the world, there's a place for the wealthy set. We knew Istanbul has its wealthy. Of course, I have read enough Pamuk to have some idea of what we might find. Nisantasi actually surpassed my imagination.

Of course, as Emily pointed out - if a foreigner saw downtown Los Angeles and then took a bus to Beverly Hills, what kind of image would they have of Los Angeles? Of America in general? It would be hard not to be overwhelmed by the disparity.

Seeing how Nisantasi is kept well and some of the older, more historic parts of the city and its beautiful landmarks have been left to turn black with soot and age saddens me.

At the same time, there was something strangely comforting to me about Nisantasi. To some degree it's the knowledge that Nisantasi is an area with nouveau riches - that people who are there made it there. There is upward mobility, which many societies can't claim. There's also the fact that in a strange way, it sets the balance straight. There has to be someplace with order and celebration. In Nisantasi, life felt lighter. It's hard not to like that.

At moments like these, I realize that no matter what, a part of us gravitates to the class and status with which we were raised. For all the times I've enjoyed sleeping in huts, eating off street carts, flushing the toilet with a bucket of water, and learning how the locals live - I can't deny that I enjoy the comforts and standards of home.

As much as I might like to feel I can "get real" and enjoy what is out of my cultural context, there's a reality that I have a comfort zone. I'm not yet sure if acknowledging this reality is a sign of maturity, or of getting old. Perhaps in my 30's - to my shock and horror - I'm more comfortable and more spoiled than I was in my 20's. Only time and Region 2 will flush this out and offer clarity.

There is no doubt that the change from Cannes to Istanbul has been more jarring than I expected. Going from gentle breezes, calm streets, and a very civilized life on an azure sea to the rough and tumble of the ancient and yet less developed metropolis of Istanbul leaves me with more questions than answers. Somehow, in the center of those questions, I found Nisantasi.

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How Bazaar

It's like there's a funk in Istanbul. You can't quite put your finger on what makes it so unusual. My friend Leanne would love to point her finger in my face and tell me it's the melancholy described by Turkish Nobel Prize winning author Orhan Pamuk in his book "Istanbul" (which I'm reading). While there's something I detest about the idea of communal melancholy, I'm coming to believe that perhaps its true.

Istanbul is very serious. There doesn't seem to be an overriding cohesion, It's orderly chaos. Public transportation hums along, but as soon as the tram passes, men pulling large boxes on carts begin walking in the middle of the streets again. And at semi-regulated five-way street mergers, who knows who has the right of way. Pedestrians seem to feel they have the right to walk anywhere anytime until someone in a car decides he's let enough pedestrians push him around....

We still have much of Istanbul to see, but so far - I still feel as though I just can't get my arms around it. Most cities are so easy. It doesn't take more than a few minutes in Paris to get that it's a city of art, culture and beauty sculpted by kings and celebrating the first and for many years strongest secular European power. An hour in Hong Kong and you feel the energy and synergy of the natural synthesis of East and West. And everyone knows about one night in Bangkok....

But Istanbul isn't so clear about its intentions. People are teeming. Things are happening all over the place. It's just not forthcoming with exactly what it's all about. Whatever it is, it's not about celebration or reaching up to the heavens or even taking care of business.

In fact, Emily and I were discussing that although we started our trip in Turkey back in July, that Istanbul feels like a completely different world than the Mediterranean cities. Antalya had an identity linked clearly to the water, sun, trade and a past of rich traditions. People felt happy and well...normal.

We have until November 1st to figure out Istanbul. And like a psychologist presented with an undiagnosed schizophrenic, I have questions. Nothing in my reading has given me the full range of answers I seek - so there's only one thing to do (and it's what we're here to do anyway), engage the subject.

Since Emily was trapped at Heathrow most of the day Saturday, we decided to spend the day working so that we could explore Istanbul on Monday. As befits any psychological examination, we began at the Grand Bazaar.

I expected something like the old market in Akko, Israel. Emily expected something more makeshift feeling like the Thursday street market in Alanya. What we found was a structure that to me resembled the market in Jerusalem, only cleaned up and gentrified to the point of being a hair shy of a mall. Prices were completely retail and the "stalls" were really shops. Veni, vidi, vici and we were out of there.

We made our way down narrow, cobblestone streets among heavy crowds through blocks of clothing and handbag shops. There were mostly locals and we had no real idea where everyone was going or what they were doing in the middle of the day on these narrow roads which were filled by pedestrians until the occasional motorcycle or car decided to barrel down the road.

There were a surprising number of shops specializing in wedding dresses and other "formal" attire which included dresses we didn't guess would fit with a Muslim society. The tight fitting, bright colored, somewhat revealing dresses practically sparkled in the shop windows as women in conservative attire and headscarves walked along the streets. It seemed so odd.

Eventually we made our way down to the old Spice Bazaar which looked a lot more like the market in Akko. The old building was dark, inside with high, arched ceilings and a feeling of being a place of trade for centuries. Instead of being lit up by bright halogens, the market glowed with the warm and vibrant colors of spices. Smells swirled around and Turkish delight vendors offered samples. Mounds of spices, teas, and candies lined the rows and created a feast for the eyes. Here I could imagine the bustling trade of the old Istanbul where spices were indeed at the heart of East-West exchange. Once upon a time, this largely tourist market was a powerhouse of commerce.

Of course, in all of these markets, keeping the aggressive vendors at bay is one of the major activities of the excursion. Whether walking through the Grand Bazaar or down the street below our hotel at dinner time, we are just wildebeest to their lions' hunt. One has to be as light-footed and quick as a gazelle to escape the jaws of "Why not?! You just come look!", "You already ate? That's okay, you just come have a drink. Sit!" and "I have a jacket in your size - here, try it on!" One has to be mindful of which path he or she walks down, lest one stir the wild and hungry leather salesman.

After a brief trip through the Spice Bazaar, we were ready for a change of scene and activity. There's only so much Bazaar one can handle in a day. For more than half a year, we've been waiting to see "Eat Pray Love" and found ourselves in places that either didn't have it yet or where we had no movie theater - until now.

Obviously, "Eat Pray Love" has certain similarities to our own journey.... India and Bali being major stops on our route. We may not have gone to Italy, but we ate plenty in Greece. Liz Gilbert's travel around the world involved exactly the same sequence of regions as our trip. Given that everyday, I write this blog - there are some fun parallels. Many times I have imitated the movie trailer and said to Emily, "First you will lose everything (us putting everything away in storage). Then you will get it all back (the stuff we buy) and then you will return to Bali and I will teach you everything I know! (which isn't very much)."

So, a tram and funicular ride took us to the fancy and very beautiful Beyoglu area where we found our movie theater. Istekal Cadessi is like the Third Street Promenade of Istanbul. Shopping and restaurants run for blocks along a pedestrian street that in its 19th Century heyday was considered to be like a little piece of Paris in Istanbul where the elite went to be seen. Today, it has a mixture of nice shops, several movie theaters, three Burger Kings, two Pizza Huts, one KFC and one Starbucks. Afternoons and evenings, crowds fill this area to capacity and we felt as if we had hit the most popular place in the city.

Once we started exploring the interesting, narrow, cobblestone side streets filled with restaurants, small shops and hotels overlooking old neighborhoods leading down to the Golden Horn which could be seen clearly below. The beautiful old - although often very aged - houses and apartment buildings are gorgeous and beckoned Emily to photograph them. The interesting textures and shapes of the old Beyoglu neighborhoods are a pool of fascination.

After the movie we made our way back to our area through the Autumn rain and got a quick dinner.

By the end of the day, we had seen old and older, European and Middle Eastern, crowded and more crowded, and chaotic and more chaotic. People were everywhere doing everything. There were some areas clearly more touristy than others and places that made more and less sense to us. But the essence of Istanbul still eluded me. I remain ever watching, ever mindful, ever seeking to make sense of this strange mix of peoples and history.

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Breadwinners

There's no two ways about it - Turkey is a man's society. Most jobs are done by men and you see a lot of men congregating and socializing in public, and not so many women. We have yet to have a female server at a restaurant. The only women on the hotel staff are maids. Every shop except the cosmetics shop where Emily bought shampoo was run by men. On the streets, you see men bustling about moving goods, making deliveries.

Men are definitely still the breadwinners in Turkey.

Of course, that's not the case among Emily and me. Starting earlier this year, Emily began receiving a flood of classes from her four online universities. Her income became the best it's ever been. Her teaching makes more than my writing does. As a result, we have divided it to where my writing pays the bills at home (of which there are still surprisingly many) plus a little and her teaching is our primary spending money.

In the past few weeks, one of Emily's more reliable online schools took an unexpected hit with sharply declining enrollment and two of her four scheduled class sections were cancelled. The college was under significant scrutiny by Congress and has apparently been weathering bad press.

Meanwhile, another of Emily's schools - her best payer - just didn't have a need for her usual course this five week term and didn't give her a class as they usually do. The good news is that they had her teach two courses last term and so financially, it all evens out.

To make up for the loss of classes, she got yet a third school for which she teaches regularly to toss her a second section of her usual class. When it's all said and done, she still has work and we're fine.

In fact, she'll have a little more free time than last month, which will be particularly nice for her as we get to Nepal.

Luckily, she keeps a "diversified portfolio" of schools and a lack of work in one place doesn't leave us high and dry. Also, fortunately for us, we're getting close to the end of the most expensive part of the trip. Our costs for Region 2 and 3 drop significantly, which we have been looking forward to. It'll be nice to be in a phase when we really don't even need a budget.

Still, at this stage of the game, we live well by any standard. Truly, we've been blessed to have a very nice expendable income and not to travel on a shoestring. We eat at restaurants for every meal. We do all the activities we want. Typically, we spend more on weekends and a little less during the week when we're working. Everyplace we go we buy one decorative item for our future home, one cookbook (in English except the one from Cannes where I decided to be a smart ass and buy a book in French), and a dress for Emily. Emily hauled home the first round of loot with her on her visit.

Overall, working as we travel has gone amazingly well. Sure, we shop carefully for our lodging based on high speed Internet and in Region 2 (India/Nepal) and Region 3 (Southeast Asia) we may be have to pass up some destinations for the same reason.

Being adjunct faculty and a contract writer leaves us exposed to ups and downs as well as the whims of our employers and clients. Despite the bumps that can occur, such as what recently occurred with Emily's class changes, we have been making it work and living very blessed and well.

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Crossing Continents On A Sunday Afternoon

A sleek and expensive private boat captained by a man in a white robe, turban and long beard and four or five women in burqas with veils pulled up to us at the same time that our boat was blasting some song about partying and drinking. This is Istanbul. And this is also how our cruise down Bospherous began.

Yesterday we took a boat through the Golden Horn and up the Bospherous, straddling the line between continents as we enjoyed a sunny day which illuminated the heart of Istanbul. From the river, everything looked beautiful - green hills, fresh air, gorgeous old mansions, incredible mosques, modern city skyscrapers in the background and a few palaces here and there.

From the river, the glory of Istanbul's past is still crystal clear.

Sunday is a family day in Turkey and people were out in force, enjoying the sunshine around the river. When we got off our boat, an area filled near the docks filled with food stands was flooded with people. Three boats at the side of this area formed the core of a makeshift restaurant specializing in its famous fish sandwiches. Hundreds of people lined up at these boats where men working as quickly as they could were grilling up and serving the sandwiches to the greedy crowd.

Once they paid their four Lira per sandwich, they settled onto the stools and tiny tables covering the stretch of quay and those who could not get a stool headed for steps and walls nearby - munching their sandwiches and cups of pickled vegetables purchased from an adjacent stand. Clearly, we had stumbled into an Istanbul Sunday, family tradition.

How can you pass up something people hoard around to eat? It has to be tried.

Unfortunately, grilled fish sandwich has no appeal to me. So, the burden of exploring this Istanbul tradition fell on Emily, who took it on as it deserved to be taken on. I ate roasted chestnuts from one of the city's ubiquitous chestnut vendors. How could I not? Here chestnuts cost peanuts!

Once finished, we walked the short distance to the Galata Bridge and on foot, crossed over to Asia. One small walk for us, one giant leap of a continent.

It turns out that this part of Asia feels very much like the adjacent part of Europe except that as soon as you cross into Asia, there's a Starbucks. The small-time fish sandwich vendors in Asia also don't command the same popularity.

This city that spans two continents and has for centuries been at the heart of East-West trade, tells its story best on the faces of its people. As we walked the crowds around the river, I looked at people. Some are light and European, others dark and Middle Eastern. Some have features that look Persian and Arab. Others are more Slavic and Greek. And then there are those - probably from Turkey's most southeastern regions - who look central Asian. For centuries the people of the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires and later the Republic of Turkey made their way to Istanbul where they created the diversity of this unusual city.

The language too shows the unusual mix of cultures. Every now and then, I see a word on a sign I can identify from knowledge of another language. Gari is station as in train station. Gare is the word in French. Yesterday I ordered a shabzhi borek - a vegetable stuffed pastry pocket. I knew what I was getting into because of years of Mazyar's mom's - and later his wonderful and amazing wife Makhameh's cooking. Shabzeh is green vegetable in Parsi (Persian). One man in Alanya told us that he's an apprentice. He didn't know the word in English, so he said it in Turkish - stage. It's stage or stagiare in French, so I caught what he meant. Several of the names of the months match Hebrew like Tammuz. What I've gathered is Turkish is an amalgam of the words and ideas of the cultures that made up and influenced the Ottoman Empire.

The mixture of beliefs and cultural outlooks show in their dress. From the women in burqas to the ones in average dresses with headscarves to those wearing clothing that fit to go clubbing - one thing Istanbullus agree on is that there is no one way it's done. To my surprise - and we saw some of this in Antalya - grandmothers with headscarves often have daughters without them.

But most interesting to me are the occasional women with headscarves that leave the front of their heads exposed to show off styled hair. These women straddle the line and of course - in my humble understanding on the headscarf's purpose - undermine the goal of the headscarf which is supposed to preserve a woman's beauty to be seen only by her husband. It can't be easy to decide what you are and want to be in Istanbul.

Over the past 90 years since the founding of the republic, Istanbul has swelled - growing to ten times its size from the Ottoman days. That's a lot of growth especially when most of it was in tough times. The result has been a city whose gorgeous traditional buildings and monuments mix freely with cheap, poorly constructed cement block buildings which in turn lay in the shadows on modern skyscrapers.

In all the walking and sailing between Europe and Asia, we caught up more on our last two weeks - all the little details we didn't have time for on the phone or email. We synched up on different issues from the basics like what our daily spending budget should be in Istanbul to the more important issues like which facial expressions and gestures our one-year-old niece Hayden can now make.

All the talk of home made me miss many people and wish that some of them, too could walk around with us, trying not to get hit by anyone or anything. "Love, move over to the right, a man with giant boxes on a hand cart is trying to pass you...."

We both got extra work done per the weekend so we spend today out and about in what has turned out to be a wet, stormy Istanbul Fall day. Nonetheless, we will go to markets, bazaars and maybe a hammam or a movie. It's so hard to decide - do you want your body scrubbed down, or to watch a movie for relaxation?

For now, as we untangle the mysteries of Istanbul, we battle Emily's new found case of jet lag. When Emily can't sleep soundly at night, you know things have gone weird. But in the mix of the chaos and unusualness that is Istanbul it's like shouting into a wind tunnel.

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Reunited

We were like Peaches and Herb. Only Peaches was wearing a 49.5 pound backpack and had just flown around the world and Herb was really tired from getting in to Istanbul at 1am. But it still feels so good....

We spent our evening catching up and being happy. Emily opened her presents from France. I had to get her things that she might have gotten herself had she been there. And then it was time to crash. We were both exhausted.

In our reunion, we chose to mostly ignore the fact that we're in Istanbul. Internalizing being in Istanbul and reuniting are just too much to absorb at the same time. So we stayed on the street our hotel is on which is a cute, but touristy street. Everything felt fairly normal.

Today, we go out bravely into Istanbul - our first real exploration.

I had a day of waiting for Emily and in the time began observing and picking up a few things. Firstly, there's nothing that really prepares you for Istanbul. It's not European, it's not Asian and it's not Middle Eastern. It has some aspects of all of these, but it is something else altogether.

Istanbul is hard. After coming from some of the softer places in the world, it's jarring. It feels to me like Taipei in the way it's neither third world nor first. The shock of Istanbul is that for a city with well over a thousand years of history, it is filled with cruddy 20th century buildings. After the fall of the Ottoman Empire, Turks began destroying and burning down many of the beautiful old homes and buildings only to replace them with brick and later, cement block structures a la every third world country out there.

This is so much so that on our first day in Turkey in July when we headed to Alanya, I wondered where the thousands of years of history went...I didn't see any old buildings or monuments as we went from Istanbul to the Mediterranean coast.

Istanbul is a strange mix of old, new and run down. It has a beautiful new train system running right past our hotel. I used it to get to the airport for only $2 and it was very well used since it passes through numerous neighborhoods and districts. Within these areas, you see everything from beautiful hotels and malls to apartment buildings which, although probably no more than sixty years old, need to be condemned.

Things work a little differently here. To get on the light rail tram, you need a token. But the tram station doesn't sell tokens. Stores nearby the station do - but only one or two. You have to know which one, which just means walking up to stores, asking and being pointed in the right direction. Totally surmountable - but different....

And then there's the social ambiguity. Turkey is a Muslim country kinda' sorta'. It is predominantly Muslim, but with a large, government encouraged atheist and non-religious population. So, while it lives in a backdrop on beautiful old mosques and a history of being proudly Muslim under the Ottomans, today it has a mix of cultural mores. You see plenty of women with headscarves and conservative dresses, but also those who match most of the women walking down the streets of New York or Paris.

I have read that public affection between men and women should be avoided. On the tram, I was surprised to see couples holding hands, interlocking arms, kissing in a few cases and standing and talking intimately. There was a lot of affection for a crowded tram in any city. So, while I have no desire for Emily and I to test the waters, it seems that perhaps Istanbul is socially in flux.

Streets are chaotic. The city has no real center. The old buildings are absolutely gorgeous. We look down the street from out hotel and the Golden Horn sitting flush full of ships sprawls out before us. One of the world's great harbors - coveted highly throughout history - is bustling with life, business and sending fresh air into the city.

While we are both excited to explore this fascinating and very different city, I find myself mildly mourning France. Had we come from Greece and never headed West, Istanbul would still have been a change, but somehow a little more in keeping.

Coming from comfortable, convenient, orderly, genteel, cultured, beautiful southern France I find myself shocked - especially when people walk right at me. People here don't seem to subscribe to the "excuse me, move to the side" system. Nor do they subscribe to the don't walk into each other convention. It's every man for himself on the streets and sidewalks of Istanbul, so you have to watch other people's trajectories.

I've lost my wonderful walking culture, beautiful French language, cultured surroundings, cafes, patisseries and Mediterranean sunsets. But I regained my beautiful wife, who lights up my heart. So, with that - we'll venture out into the streets of Istanbul and try to understand this unique culture without getting hit by a person.

Our airplanes dropped us off at the furthest edge of Europe. It will be up to us to literally walk into Asia as is fitting for the last stop in our Mediterranean phase of this journey.

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Y Vamos Por Todo!

The day started off so French. I got up, picked up my laundry, finished packing my bag checked out of my hotel (10 am checkout) and headed into the center of town - to a cafe right near the airport bus stop. Buses from Cannes to the Nice Airport leave every half hour on the dot, and I bought a roundtrip ticket, so I just needed to drag my stuff from the cafe to the bus stop about 100 feet away and I was good to go.

I did my Cannes thing. I hung out at the cafe, did my work, had some lunch and killed a little time on the Internet until it was time to drag my 55 pounds of backpacks to the bus.

I was the only passenger for that run, so I had my own private bus. I watched the scenery roll by and had my little nostalgia for France moment. As we left Cannes and passed by several laundries, I thought, "But who will do my laundry??!! No one will ever do it as well until Bali!"

Laundry is actually a constant quiet fear of mine. I've never been anywhere I couldn't get it done - but there are some big differences in convenience and quality. When I lived in Bangkok, the white shirts used to come back with the occasional sooty streak because they hang laundry and the air is so polluted. Bali, on the other hand, makes the laundry come back smelling like I didn't know laundry could smell and everything is ironed - right down to underwear. When I left Bali, I actually waited months to wear the last pieces of Bali-laundered clothing because I wanted to hang on to the smell.

Istanbul just doesn't strike me as laundry-promising. And I know Nepal isn't....

The Nice airport is very nice and about Burbank size. It was a breeze to get through, though the Air France ticket counter lady seemed stressed. When I asked her if it had been busy, she said no. I asked was it a hard day? She said it's a very stressful day with the strikes and the situation in Paris with the fuel being cut off to DeGaulle and Orly airports. I asked if that was affecting Nice (because you would have thought this ticket counter woman was overworked and overwhelmed by the crisis). No, not at all...we're fine here.

But clearly, the unions have pushed things into national crisis. Yesterday, they shut down several oil refineries and cut off the fuel pipelines to Paris' two major airports. Sarkozy then ordered riot police to re-open the fuel pipeline and get at least a couple of refineries up and running. He succeeded without any real opposition, but then the unions shut down several more refineries in other parts of the country. Sarkozy has vowed that pension reform will and must happen and that he won't capitulate.

Cutting of the fuel to one of the world's major airports (DeGaulle) is shocking. Without fuel pipeline restoration, the airport had enough fuel to make it only through the weekend - maybe a little beyond... Flights between Nice and Paris were delayed and some cancelled. Two things are for sure - France is in a state of crisis and so is the lady who checked in my baggage.

The Nice Airport was great, calm, organized, well-resourced - it was all very French and happy.

Then it happened.

Alitalia was late getting in. And they took their time turning the plane around for my flight - probably because they're Italian and everyone needed a smoke break and coffee. My scheduled connection time in Rome - 1 hour, 10 minutes. Big airport. TIGHT.

As it was time to board, things turned Italian. Alitalia doesn't announce boarding - everyone just swells round the gate and when the ground staffing start scanning boarding passes (or Cartes D'Embarquement), it's like being in a group of Italian soccer fans. Boarding is...enthusiastic and any observer knows it's time.

Onboard, I asked a flight attendant if I would make my connection given the delay. He said, "Sure, no problem!" like a man who doesn't give a shit. I asked, "Really?!" He asked for the flight number and said he'd check on the flight status of my connecting flight and get back to me. That never happened. So, when I was getting off the plane in Rome, I told the flight attendant in front my connecting flight number and asked if he can let the other flight know I'm coming. He said, "They already know..."

I know from past experience with a British Airways connection in Heathrow that's code for "You're on your own. Good luck!"

To make matters worse, Rome doesn't use many jetways. You get off on the tarmac and buses take you to the terminal. And they don't move the buses as they fill, they wait until EVERYONE on the flight is on a bus. Buses take 5-10 minutes to reach the terminal. As the bus started moving, I had 40 minutes until flight time. As the bus door opened, I jumped out and started running.

My flight wasn't listed on the departure board. I asked an Alitalia representative at the first gate I can to where to find my flight.

"It's at gate G6 and they just started boarding. Go up there, turn left - and I would go quickly, because you don't have much time..." I was at gate B1.

I ran. Rome is a HUGE airport and I knew this from my tight connection before when I had 1:20 to make my connection and made it just in time for boarding. I had a sense of how far I had to go, and sprinting was my only real solution.

Oddly, not only did a man running through the airport with a big backpack not phase too many people, but I wasn't the only person who was running somewhere. People were pretty nice about letting me through.

My shins began to hurt. I wasn't wearing my sandals or running shoes. My nice, black Kenneth Cole's were great for Cannes, but bad for running through Rome. I knew these cramps from other sprints through airports on work trips. Something about that kind of shoes kills my shins.

Then I heard my backpack straps start to rip. They had sustained minor damage from the backpack being heavily loaded in previous flights - but me running at full speed and it at full capacity, made it bounce up and down, tearing the pack at the seams.

I slowed down. Things weren't looking good. How could I get across this airport in enough time to make this flight? Even if I made it within five minutes of flight time, they'd probably have shut the gate and told me it was too late like when I ran through Heathrow to make my connection to Paris in 2007. The British Airways' flight crew showed up for my LAX-LHR flight two hours after departure time, having taken the wrong bus from their LAX Hotel and somehow going to Long Beach....

I had 25 minutes. On the flight I had already thought about what would happen if this connection wasn't possible. Emily wouldn't reach Istanbul until the next night and I had nowhere I had to be until then. I could get a flight the next night and get in a little after her if worse came to worse...

Then I thought, "If you don't want to get stuck in Rome overnight, you're going to have to run!" I thought about Emily. I thought that if I miss this flight, I want to show up at that gate sweaty and irate so the airline has to do right by me. Then I thought of Shakira.

"Waka Waka" plays all the time in most of the cafes I've worked in both in Greece and France. The Europeans love the World Cup and they love that song.

I thought, "Y vamos por Todo!"

I whipped my backpack off my back, wrapped my arms around it and returned to full sprint until I reached the split-off for G and H gates. I actually nearly ran one man down. I felt a little bad about that. He looked scared. But in my head, I heard "People are raising their Expectations, go on and feed them, this is your moment, no hesitations...Today's your day, I feel it, you paved the way, believe it..." So I kept running as if that airport was my own personal World Cup.

Then I hit the Passport Control. The Rome airport is divided into the "EU Flights" section and the "Non-EU Flights" section. I went from Nice to Rome, so I was in the EU section. In order to leave the EU, I had to stamp out. I ran up to the "Special Needs" line lady and begged, all sweaty. I told her my flight in was late and my flight out was boarding. Could I use the Special Needs lane? I wasn't that special...no go.

I got in the passport line and watched to see who was the best stamper. I put my bets on the fast lady on the far left and she was indeed the right choice. I'm not sure she even scanned my passport - she saw United States and stamped me. She also saw sweat and was right next to the Special Needs line where I had begged.

I had 18 minutes. The sign said G gates to the right. I ran. I passed people, I ran up an escalator and smack into a train terminal. The G gates were accessible only by train and I had to wait for the next one. When it finally came people were standing around confused about whether it was the right train or not. I was on the train but some people were standing in the train doors hesitant. I didn't have time for this.

"G Gates, here!" I yelled and the crowd got on.

When those train doors opened on the other side, I ran. The G terminal was literally like a slalom. paths branched off left and right - G1 and G2, curve left then G-3 and G-3, path to the right. I swerved along the curved paths hoping to make a goal.... G6 and two people, the LAST people were boarding.

I was a mess, but I was there. The girls at the gate thought it was pretty funny. I elatedly walked down that stairwell to the last bus to the plane with just a minute to spare. I had won the World Cup of the Rome Airport. And was rewarded by an exit row seat so I could stretch out and enjoy my victory in comfort.

"Tsamina mina eh eh, Waka Waka eh eh, Tsamina mina zangalewa. This time for Istanbul!"

RIP Black Backpack Bought In A Supermarket In Ubud, Bali for $10
(2005-2010)

2:30 am - Istanbul hotel room

Sent from my iPad

Cold Pizza, The Rights Of Children, And Au Revoir

"See, now you have to eat it cold," the man at the table next to me said, proving his point. My 45 minute discussion with the man and his friend had left my French pizza waiting. Of course, the whole conversation started with the man pointing out that if I kept working during lunch, my pizza would get cold.

Ironically, a cultural difference I self-identified and wrote about just yesterday was pointed out to me deliberately at lunch. The nice man's point led to a much lengthier discussion about work, lifestyle, family, culture and eventually perceptions of France, America and Europe.

But the important part - and the heart of the matter - is that if you don't stop and take even ten or twenty minutes to just eat your lunch, you'll spend your life eating cold pizza and letting the beauty of life pass you by.

My lunchtime friends reaffirmed many of my views of the French. They explained how Americans work too hard and have their priorities wrong. After a certain hour, turn off the cell phone. Just be at home, with your family. Give your kids your time. They'll remember it - and in the end, when you're gray and old, you won't remember how amazing the emails on your PDA were, but you will remember the times with your kids.

In about seven or eight different ways, they made this point clear. They also feel that England and America don't get it - life has to be more about living and the quality of life. "England doesn't know anything!" the man said. "We're always at odds with them," said the other.

But these French gentlemen weren't unappreciative of the value of work either. They have businesses. One said that because he owns his own store, he works more hours than anyone in a company would and that all the laws about the maximum number of hours in a work week don't pertain to him - he has to work to make his business work.

"But there's a time to stop. Saturday, Sunday - you give them to your children. After 9 pm, turn off the phone - no one needs to be calling you about work. You have to have a time when it all stops."

I explained that I worked through my lunch so that I could finish earlier and go walking about Cannes during my limited time here. That won me some forgiveness.

These work-life balance advocating gentlemen also loathed the European Union. "People think they can just merge together all the countries of Europe. It can never happen, it's not possible! It makes sense for trade and business, but not for government." And they asked me if Americans understood that - because it was important that people outside Europe understand this.

These men are tired of footing the bill for Greece and Portugal and feel that France was and maybe is better off without the Euro. This was the third or fourth time I've heard this sentiment.
For my understanding of their points, my answering their questions on American points of view and practices, and my avid French conversation (one guy spoke no English at all), they bought me a limoncello to drink with them. For them it was their after-meal apéritif, for me it was a pre-cold pizza palate cleanser.

The good news is that the cold pizza was excellent either way and that French mozzarella takes mozzarella to another level. Bravo, French cows.

It seemed like a fitting experience for my last full-day in Cannes. These gentlemen summed up everything I believe the average, level-headed French person would think right down to the after meal drink.

After cold pizza and finishing my work, I did my shopping, walking and sunset routine for the last time. I walked along the streets I've come to know so well and thought how amazingly comfortable I've become in Cannes. I came here to "wait" for Emily. I hadn't actually to expected it to feel so home-y to me. It wasn't last time was here. But maybe between last visit and the two weeks I've spent here this time, I've come to really know Cannes and see it in a different light. I have had a little glimpse into the community and life here - and I've liked it very much.

I headed to one of spots that's best for sunset viewing where I noticed a sculpture I hadn't given much attention before. "Children Have Rights" - and it listed them. My favorite - they have the right to be helped first in an emergency or disaster. The sculpture stands right next to a large playground.

The French I've seen are very tender with their children. I've been impressed how nice people are to any child and I've especially noticed the sweetness and care I've seen parents and grandparents give their children. It made perfect sense to me that France would honor children's rights.

My last full-day in Cannes had something very much in common with my first - they were laundry days. I waited until yesterday to bring my clothes to the laundry so that I could get the most clothes possible cleaned here. The clean laundry comes back perfectly folded, packaged and smelling like rosewater.

Nice smelling laundry had a price beyond what I paid for the service. It meant the pickings were slim in the dresser drawers. So, for the first time since I arrived, I went out not only not in jeans, but in shorts (Cannes Dress Code violation 1a) and sneakers (DCC violation 2b).

Because I had my sweatshirts laundered, I took along my jacket - meaning that by the end of the day I was wearing shorts, sneakers, a polo shirt and jacket. On my first day, and really for the first week even, I would have been mortified. I could have been asked to leave and I would have, in shame.

But yesterday, I went out boldly and assured. I was not some visiting tourist. I was Cannoise - and people around town have come to know this. So, I could have laundry day and still be allowed to eat my cold pizza, drink my limoncello, buy my wife presents and stand around for sunset near the fishermen who were dressed better than me.

As I leave France and hand over my Cannoise identity along with the key to my studio, I can say that I feel enriched. I may not have bought anything at any of the expensive clothing stores on the Rue Antibes, and I didn't stay at the Carlton - the best looking hotel in town - but I feel wealthy. I am walking out Cannes with everything I wanted from it. I have always wanted to live in the south of France and I did, for two weeks.

Now I head very happily back to Istanbul and back to my wife - who makes anyplace she is, my home.

Sent from my iPad

Working And Talking

My life as a Cannoise is very simple. On weekdays I mostly work and talk. This really isn't anything different than what I did on weekdays in Los Angeles and Seattle. Only, I sit in cafes, write and when I talk, it's usually French. So, in that way, I'm more like a cliche. If only I smoked and drank heavily at night, we could wrap that one up and tie a bow on it.

My work is the most boring part of my day. That's not to say it's bad, or I don't like it. Lately, I've been writing articles for Business.com. I don't know how many have posted yet - but at some point, it will be a lot since I write between 20 and 30 a week.

Everyday, I have a large list of titles from which I can choose. My strategy is to pick ones within the same topics and themes as much as they present themselves because I already know what to do and where to find references.

As a result, I have written at least eight variations on how to start a non-profit organization. Sometimes, I think they add the more titles just for the joy of making me recite the information again... "Draft your articles of incorporation per your state requirements. Your secretary of state makes this information, along with applications and instructions available online...." I imagine that editors fall asleep reading these articles.

So, besides exercising the depth of my knowledge on how to start a home health agency, work as a medical biller and coder, and form an LLC, I talk to people. That's the far more interesting part of my day. My iPad is very often the opener to discussion. People look at it, inquire about it and then I work my French magic....

I've experienced great strides since last week's series of linguistic stumbles. There was an incident which I wrote friends from my high school French class about just to admit to people who understand how horribly I conjugated a sentence and that I had failed our group. A line from that email: " 'I to go to return' brilliant. What am I, Frankenstein's monster?!"

Since that fateful day, I have either started to greatly improve, or stop noticing my mistakes. Maybe some of each. But I know I'm becoming a lot more comfortable speaking with people casually - which is where I had the most trouble with before.

Once a conversation is rolling and I warm up, things usually get more interesting. Yesterday, a couple from Toulouse sat down next to me at the cafe. The asked about my iPad (said ee-Pahd) and within minutes we were discussing the transportation strikes, the public benefits systems, the Euro and why their worst fear is to become like America where Ronald Reagan would leave people to die in the streets.

A combination of diplomatic skills and linguistic limitations led me to leave much of that alone. But I did manage to ask if they have to choose between pushing back the retirement age for two years or keeping France's credit rating and access to capital for say, affordable home loans - what would they choose (because that is the choice at hand)?

"Rights are rights - and we have the right to our public retirement. The banks and the stock market destroy everything...."

However, a few minutes later, a Swiss family (not Robinson) came and took the table next to me. Again, an inquiry on the iPad - only no one knew which language we should be using. I heard German, then French, so I spoke in French - but they spoke English better than French....

When it got sorted out we spoke English and I learned that they were very tech-savvy, hard working, fun loving people who drive to Cannes for their vacations. They seemed far less interested in whether or not Ronald Reagan would kill them on the streets and far more interested in when they would be getting the white iPhone 4.

Over time I've had many interesting short and lengthy conversations in which I've learned little tidbits. One woman has a sister who lives in Kansas City, Missouri. She and her family visit regularly and think America is fantastic.... Except that in the town of Pomme De Terre, Missouri, she discovered that people didn't even know their town was French for potato! She said she knows it's not actually the case, but it makes Americans seem so....uneducated.

Another woman thought America is really the best for vacations because of our national parks. She couldn't get over Yellowstone and thinks it's the best place she's ever been.

One man was so excited to see me using my iPad keyboard docking station that he asked to borrow it to show his wife - which he did as if he had found proof of a reason why it was okay to get an iPad.

And the 28 year-old guy who worked that bar at one cafe I was at last week is going to New York for the first time in a few weeks on a work-exchange program. We discussed what it's like to live in America and how to use his accent to his advantage with women. He's been working on sounding like an American and has nearly perfected his accent when he recites several movie phrases.

So, between beverages and articles, I talk and I learn. When the articles are all done for the day, I shop for my dinner - I buy things from the charcuteries and bakeries every day. Then I walk - just me and Cannes and a sunset.

As I near the end of this time in Cannes and this quaint little routine of mine, I feel as if something has changed since I arrived. I have discovered that with a little practice and relaxation, I can pull off being Cannoise for a bit.

I know working through lunch and wearing hooded sweatshirts (I didn't bring sweaters) separate me from the pack in some conspicuous ways. Despite my fellow Cannoise seeing these things - rightfully - as my shortcomings, they have been kind to me and made me feel as if I have a place.

In turn, I have gained the confidence to go boldly into the the future proche, the conditional and the occasional subjunctive in ways I never would have dared before. Whether I've succeeded or failed - I'll never fully know. But my Cannoise friends have made me feel as if I have succeeded. That has made it all worthwhile.

Temple of Bread

Sent from my iPad

Sunrise, Sunset

The storm passed and the sun came back to Provence. The rain swept out all the entertainment industry people from last week's conference and Cannes seemed to feel fresher and lighter in every regard.

Cafes were no longer crowded. The streets were quieter. Locals' voices could be heard again. I walked easily down the sidewalk on the main street by the water, which was no longer flooded with people - not even Diane Keaton. The last great event of the year is over. Trucks were taking away all the conference accoutrement (because that's the word they actually use here). It was as if everyone in Cannes took a giant breath of fresh air.

They were free to go back to the business of being Cannoise - which of course involves watching the sunset. I love being in a place where sunset viewing is part of the way of life. It was especially so in Patmos where sunsets took on colors and shades that made it a show - and the people know it.

The Patmos sky has deep hues of reds, blues, purples and oranges giving off a warm glow to end the day. Not so in Cannes. It's more like a giant GE Soft White bulb moves gently toward the mountains and lowers itself, diffusing its pale yellow glow with whatever clouds are available.

Sunsets have a way of stopping time. Watching a sunset, I can easily remember so many amazing sunsets I've been fortunate enough to enjoy. In the spark of a moment of light and water, places and times came rushing back to me - causing me to have to remember where I was.

I've seen some remarkable sunsets. I thought back to Bali where sunset is also an event to watch. Reds and deep pinks stretch out across the sky, leaving it in glow the color that little girls wish they could get their dresses to match.

I remember not long after moving to Bali when a neighbor took my friend Chad and I to Ku De Ta - a restaurant which at the time I thought was the epitome of Western spoiling of the island and which later became one of my absolute favorites. Ku De Ta sits up against the beach in Seminyak. People gather there for drinks while they watch the sunset over the water. Like a magic alignment, the sun sets at Ku De Ta - giant, bold and right in front of you as you stare back at it heading down behind the Indian Ocean.

Of course, that's not the only place you have to be in Bali to watch the sun weave its magic. Watching a Kecak and Fire dance at Ulu Watu, stopping at a ridge on the side of a windy road running through the volcanic mountains, looking out my upstairs window, sitting in my yard - I saw the sun color the sky in ways I hadn't imagined possible.

I remember my first night ever in Bali - years before I lived there. While watching the sun drop slowly over the water, smelling the clove in the air from their kreteks (clove cigarettes), fragrances wafting from the flowers and spices from the restaurant kitchens - I thought how amazing it must have been for the first European traders to land here. Bali felt so mysterious, exotic and far from home.

In places like Bali, Southern France, and Patmos, people take and make the time to watch the sublime. It's one of the great joys of living in these places.

But I come from a culture that doesn't take sunset so seriously. Sure, we catch a good one here and there - often out the car window when we're heading home from work. If you live on the water in places like Marina Del Ray, Malibu or Seattle - maybe then you notice it more. It's one of the reasons to buy in these places. But by and large, the sun sets as we hustle and bustle around in our evening routines.

We're certainly not the only ones. I can't remember too many sunsets in Taiwan and I don't remember anyone stopping to watch them. In Singapore, it's a shame that people don't look up at the sky. Singapore has amazing clouds, light and some phenomenal sunsets. I had many evenings in Singapore when I thought how no one noticed how gorgeous their sunsets are.

In the golden glow illuminating columns of clouds, I could imagine a mysterious, older Singapore of trade, and spices and all sorts of people passing through port. In the early visits to Singapore before living there, I loved to go up to Fort Canning on the top of the hill overlooking the harbor, where at sunset you feel like you've fallen back in time.

I'm fortunate to be in a moment in my life when I have the luxury to stop and watch the sunset. After all, time isn't always ours for the taking. I'm even more fortunate to be in a place with sunsets as interesting as these and with people - local people - sharing the sunset with me.

I'm fortunate to have a wonderful and amazing wife with whom I will rendez-vous in Istanbul this Saturday. I look forward to wondrous sunsets over the Golden Horn, the Bosphorous, the Himalayas, Bali and numerous other places ahead. Each and every day, something in those time-stopping flashes of light, coming out of the sky and bouncing off the water, brings me back to her.

Sent from my iPad

A Grinding Halt

The French are trying to strangle themselves. They seem to do this from time to time and they're back for more right now.

The French transportation unions are striking and today to flex their muscles. Buses, trains, flights - even local transportation is affected. The biggest cities will feel the most pain - meaning Paris will be dying with some types of trains running as low as 50 percent of normal in the middle of the week.

Flights volumes at Orly and DeGaulle airports are being reduced to 50% and 70% respectively. Airlines are prioritizing which flights go and which don't (transcontinentals get top billing). There's talk of renewing the strikes on a day by day basis with possible rolling strikes so everyone can share the pain.

But that's just the inconvenient part. The crazy part is that we're on day 16 of dockworker strikes which have caused ships to line-up at the Port of Marseilles for days at a time. Goods, including oil are not making it into the country. Corsica is literally expected to run out of gasoline any minute - if it hasn't already. All of their stuff comes in by boat.

Why? Because in order to protect France's AAA credit rating - which is a foundation of France being able to access capital cheaply as well as a tenet of its commitments to maintain EU and global stability - France has to undergo pension reforms.

A few days ago, a law was passed to raise the minimum retirement age from 60 to 62. A bill just passed the lower house of the French Parliament to raise the minimum age for a full-pension retirement from 65 to 67. All indicators say the legislation will make it through the Senate too.

There are protests and strikes in different parts of France - mostly the big cities like Paris, Lyon, Marseilles, and Bordeaux. Here in Cannes, people are either not highly political or very quiet about their thoughts. I've seen libraries more politically charged than Cannes was yesterday in the wet weather.

Tuesday is a national transportation strike and apparently, the buses which run up and down my street are fewer.

However, much to President Sarkozy's credit, he's holding firm. In my humble, outsider opinion, waiting two years longer for government full-pension retirement (which our country doesn't even have) is better than watching your country financially sink and pull Europe and the world down with it. I'd rather leave something for my children and grandchildren. That's just me.

To the American mind, getting a government full-pension seems like a luxury. Having seen other parts of the world - the very idea that people would strike over these financial reform measures would be unfathomable in Singapore where the country's well-being, financial health and survival are paramount. I have no doubt that everyone would be on the new program in a heartbeat and applaud their government for steering the ship of state so well.

But Europe has lived in a welfare state for a very long time now and messing with people's pensions doesn't go well here. In some fairness, our country will face pains like this when we finally take Social Security reform by the horns. The choices will be harder than raising the retirement age two years and calling it solved.

That said, this is the second country we've/I've been in now where protests against austerity measures have started to cut off the supply of goods. At the end of our time in Patmos, transportation strikes were beginning to affect food supplies to grocery stores and restaurants. Patmos, like Corsica depends on boats for its very life. Islands are the first places to feel the pain. The people in Athens and Paris don't think about what happens to a family in Patmos or Corsica.

Naturally, this brings us to Napoleon. Yes, I just used Napoleon's birthplace to make a major segue combined with a left turn. All this talk of strikes, protests, French unions rising up against government to protect their benefits somehow got me thinking about one of they key dispositions of the French people - they want to be taken care of.

I firmly believe that despite France's truly functioning democracy, its value is less on democracy than liberty. In its heart of hearts - in a part of France's soul it would only admit to if you wrestled France to the ground and threatened to remove all the art until it answered your question honestly - it loves a benevolent patriarch.

The French loved the idea of overthrowing a checked-out, uncaring, out-of-touch Bourbon king who had them in poverty while the corruption of his state went rampant. Heads rolled - literally - and there was liberty. But after a quick and scary dance with Robespierre, France's First Republic lasted all of five minutes before Napoleon Bonaparte went from revolutionary general to Emperor. And as my four-year-old niece said on the phone yesterday, "You know what? You know what?" - people liked him.

Not only did he bring glory to France and create a massive French empire throughout the continent and overseas, but he did something far more sweeping - he created property rights and civil liberties in codified form.

For the first time ever, even peasants owned their homes. Everyone was afforded due process of law (unless you pissed off Napoleon) and there was security in tangible and intangible ways. Napoleon - megalomaniac that he was - advanced the quality of life for the French people, and also for many of the people whose countries he invaded.

France struggled its way through 80 years of regular and severe political upheaval from Napoleon's First Empire to a Restoration Monarchy, Second Republic, and Second Empire before it made its way to the Third Republic where it finally had a successful democracy. And it had two presidents in its entire existence. Why? Because they like a good patriarch.

Fast forward to the Fifth Republic (the one we're on now) and they still have six year presidential terms where the norm is multiple terms. DeGaulle, Pompidou, Mitterrand and Chirac are fixtures in France's psyche. Good luck finding a town in France that doesn't have a dedication to DeGaulle and Pompidou - and Clemenceau for that matter (shout out to the Third Republic).

All this to say that the French look to their leaders to take care of them. They want their presidents to navigate the passages of uncertainty and keep them safe and comfortable. They want their personal freedoms, but they don't really want to make all the big choices and decisions.

Sarkozy is under fire in a lot of the media here. He's becoming unpopular because he's not making people feel so taken care of. I think he's doing exactly what it takes to keep France in a position of strength and that the heat will pass when people can see their country's place in the world was successfully safeguarded.

If they don't cut off supplies and kill themselves first.

Here, on the dunes nearby the old chapel of Our Lady of Safe Travel
Napoleon returned from the island of Elba, and set up his first camp on the night of March 2nd, 1815 before thrusting toward Paris by the perilous passage through the Alps.

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