Author: zora

Turkey: On Toilets

Duh: Persian cats come from Persia.

I only realized this when we were in northern Syria and the cats were starting to look quite a lot shaggier and fluffier than all the lean, mean Cairene felines, which look just like temple paintings say they should.

Double duh: Turkish toilets come from Turkey.

This only dawned on me in Antakya, just after we’d crossed the border from Syria and checked into our cheapie hotel right by the bus station. In itself, this was quite exciting–normal travel rules dictate that the hotels by bus stations be utter flophouses. This one had spotless tile floors and posters of alpine heaven adorning the walls next to a carefully dusted tchotchke case.

We dumped our stuff, and I walked to the shared bathrooms–and started laughing like an idiot. It’s not like I hadn’t seen a million squat toilets already on my trip. But here we were in Turkey–experiencing all its cultural contributions to world civilization! And I’m not being sarcastic–I kind of like squat toilets. Very efficient…as long as your knees are strong and you have a decent sense of balance. I even enjoy the challenge of using one on a moving train.

Then I walked over to the shared shower room, and laughed again. Who would’ve guessed? Turkish baths come from Turkey too! I was delighted to see the grand technology of the hammam scaled down for home use.

Granted, there was a rudimentary little shower head in the square, tile-floor room, but it was clearly a retrofit to the basic Turkish bath setup: a marble basin, a tap, a drain in the floor and a shallow wide-mouth bowl (purple plastic, in this case, but exactly the same shape as the silver ones they use in fancy hammams). Sadly, the usual burly masseuse in nylon thong underwear was not a part of this home hammam, so I was on my own.

I toyed with the shower for a second, but the water was on the unpleasant side of lukewarm. So I gave Turkish bath tech a chance–and boy was I glad I did. If you’re going to take a bath with nippy water, it’s surprisingly pleasant to soap yourself up and just dump that water over your head again and again and again and again and again….

A million douses later, I finally toweled off, slipped on my clean caftan and stepped into my flip-flops. (Our $20/night hotel room actually came stocked with two pairs of plastic bath slippers…but only in men’s sizes, and they were a little bit stinky. It’s the thought that counts.) I floated back to my room on that mellow, limbs-turned-to-jelly post-hammam buzz. Guess I didn’t need the burly attendant to scrub me down after all.

Here’s Peter enjoying his free slippers, and a cold Efes. (The bathrobe: model’s own.)

Cheap hotel in Turkey

On Head Scarves and Anti-Americanism

Just to answer the two most frequent questions I got before leaving for my trip:

1) Was I going/would I have to wear a head scarf?

No. None of the countries I’m visiting have any laws requiring it, and I tend to think tourists who adopt this look when traveling anywhere but Iran and Saudi are a little dopey for doing so. First of all, their scarf-wrapping skills are inevitably bad, and they look all lumpy. And they are probably not Muslim, so not required to. Cairo is a giant city with a global outlook, and the fashion on the street is more cool urban than frumpy babushka.

That said, wow, there are a lot more women wearing the hijab (head scarf) now, and even quite a few wearing the full black niqab, and even a couple doing that spooky thing where they put the sheer black veil entirely over their faces, so they look like ghosts. I’d say the split ten years ago was maybe 60/40 covered to uncovered, and now it’s more like 90/10.

Which doesn’t mean everyone is looking all modest and pious. Lordy, no. I haven’t seen so many tight clothes since Queens. And the care lavished on selecting the colors of scarves and the pinning and so on–straight off the pages of Hijab Fashion, and I am not making that magazine title up.

I’ve never been too bent out of shape about the hijab. It is not keeping women down–although it can be used to do so, along with a million other things. For the most part, it’s just another piece of clothing, and taking it off is not going to liberate anyone by itself. That’s not what women thought a generation ago, though–and it’s these older women, resolutely in polyester business suits and perfect coifs, that I don’t see much in Cairo anymore. The same backlash against overt feminism is happening in Egypt as is happening in the States–it’s just manifested differently. In the US, “I don’t consider myself a feminist” goes with midriff-baring tops and visible thong underwear; in Egypt, it goes with a bright-blue hijab tied to show off your earrings and a super-tight long-sleeve shirt and ankle-length skirt.

I’m sure there’s more to it, and every woman has a different reason/explanation/story (or none at all) for why they wear the hijab. It’s none of my business, really. I just appreciate the fashion parade.

(Though I do carry a scarf in my bag for wearing when I visit mosques, which is just polite.)

2) Don’t they hate Americans?

No. A lot of people really, really hate George Bush & Co., but they’re perfectly capable of distinguishing me from George Bush. No Texan accent, to start with.

There has been so much talk of anti-American sentiment in the Middle East that even I was starting to believe it might be true, even though I could not imagine someone in Egypt or Syria actually telling me they hated me because I was American. And it’s not like I believed it enough to start telling people I was Canadian or some crap.

Yes, I counted exactly two awkward silences following our admission of nationality–if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all, these two guys were clearly thinking.

More often, though, we got smiles, thumbs-up, “Ahsan nass!” (The best people!), “Yankee doodle!” and even “Hotsy-totsy!” (Huh?) One Syrian security guard said, “George Bush!” with a thumbs-up (we told him he was nuts), and another guard said, “George Bush bad!” while smiling apologetically. People in the Middle East are smarter than the American press gives them credit for.

And they are still kinder than most Americans would ever be to visiting Middle Easterners. I feel especially ashamed about this last point, and I will be practicing my crazy hospitality skills on anyone who comes within range–brace yourselves.

Syria: On Human Kindness

When Peter and I went to Syria in 1999, we were bowled over by just how incredibly nice and kind people were. Unlike Egyptians, however, these people did not have a clutching, crazed fascination with us as foreigners, and so were also exceedingly polite. It was odd to be in a place that was more closed off from global culture and yet also more blase and cosmopolitan than Egyptians could ever be.

More concretely, it was disorienting for me to sit in a park, alone, for half an hour and have absolutely no one bother me. Well, finally a young kid approached me, and he very nervously, blinkingly asked, “D-d-do you have the t-t-time?” After that, he asked me if I was Russian (aka a prostitute), and scampered away in shame when I said no.

Fast-forward to Syria 2007: Mobile phones, Internet and satellite porn have arrived, but not much else has changed. People are still exceedingly nice. Legitimate businesspeople still offer you the very thing they’re selling for free, which makes no sense at all. People say “Welcome” and don’t use it as a preamble to papyrus vending. Basically, Peter and I walked around for a week on the verge of tears of joy–every time someone did something nice, we would grab each other and blink the moistness from our eyes. I thought often of my mother’s made-up Spanish phrase, “Mi corazon es gordo”; my heart did indeed feel fat with love for all human endeavor, whether that came in the form of directions given clearly or an especially tasty sandwich.

Before we knew it, we were tearing up over, say, the bike-shop owner sharing his lunch with us, the tamarind-juice seller asking us whether people drank tamarind in America then offering us our drinks for free, Koko the adorable tailor making Peter a perfect shirt, everyone who offered us water and Kleenex to wash our hands, the bike-shop owner giving us a box and packing tape, the guys at the post office telling us how to navigate the system instead of being the usual sullen bureaucrats, the guys at the restaurant giving us cheese and salad when they saw me eyeing their plate, the bike-shop owner telling us he would give us a bicycle when we had a baby…

I could go on. And we really liked the bike-shop owner. He should get a medal. He’s certainly the only person who’s ever made me think twice about not procreating.

I realize there are some slightly problematic issues with us fetishizing Syrians this way. Egyptians did many of the same nice things (some were even helpful at the post office!), as did Turks once we crossed the border, but I’m not bursting into tears over them–is it just because they’re not locked away in a pariah state? And it’s hard to ignore Syria’s questionable political situation, along with the kerjillion posters of Bashar al-Asad, the most un-dictator-looking dictator ever. (In fact, because he’s so dorky, I simply can’t believe he means anything but good. I’m rooting for him, but I’m afraid I’ll regret that I typed this one day.)

See, one free lunch and I’m an apologist for a dictatorship. Did I mention how you can drink the water and there’s no crime? Excuse me–I feel a little crying jag coming on.

Cairo: On the Way Out

Well, that was a little whirlwind. Peter and I leave for Aleppo tomorrow morning at 10:30. We will be traveling in style to the airport in one of the new air-conditioned yellow taxis that actually use meters and print receipts. I hope they age better than most of the improvements that have been attempted in this city that decays faster than any one I’ve ever visited.

It’s happening of course: I’m getting nostalgic already. I left the Windsor Hotel bar, which is a museum of nostalgia, just at twilight, and something about the air, and the smell, and the honking of horns, and the men smoking sheesha and watching soccer, and the trees with the bright-red blooms, made me a bit sad.

That all vanishes when it’s 106 degrees out, as it was for one day last week, but for now I’m happy to have been back and found a new affection for this place that was so problematic for me for almost a decade.

Sorry no more tales of travel-guide-author road rage and all that. I will try to pull together a couple more anecdotes and post again when I’m in Turkey in another week and a half.

Cairo: I Am Not Being Served!

Dining alone is probably the worst thing about being a travel guide writer–but _not_ dining alone turns out to be slightly worse.

After my Pyramids trail of tears, I just wanted a nice little dinner, in a spot near my hotel.

But no, apparently. I went to two separate restaurants and simply could not get served. It was the oddest thing–I talke to the maitre d’, I went over to a table and I waited for someone to bring me a menu. And waited. And waited. Now I’ve been told that these places have notoriously bad service. At the time, though, it was very hard not to take it personally.

From a guidebook-research perspective, however, it was great: I got to sit in these places for about 20 minutes, look at the food, see who came in and out, generally soak up the vibe, and then not have to pay a penny! Of course I had to slink out in shame (well, I pretended to get a cell-phone call), but I guess it was worth it.

I finally was driven into the arms of Felfela, a serviceable but unexciting tourist joint. This finally pushed me over the edge, as I was barraged with bad service English: “Bon appetit,” said the guy as he poured my much-needed beer, and it went downhill from there.

On my walk home, I passed so much more bad English, on signs, on T-shirts in windows, from random people trying to talk to me, that I was at the breaking point that only a part-time copy editor can get to.

I read a little fluent English before bed, and slept OK. Peter has since arrived, so I have good English input again. The drawback, of course, is that my Arabic is now floundering.

I realize now, as the guy at the Internet cafe is fiddling with my computer and potentially reading what I’m writing, that I’ve become the horrible tourist complaining about bad service. Let me just clarify it is 85 percent my fault that I didn’t get served in those restaurants. Next post: I complain about getting overcharged!

Cairo: Hitting the Wall

I went to the Pyramids on Tuesday, and my attitude took a turn for the worse. The tourism & antiquities council has been very proactive about cutting back on hassle at the pyramids, but has created some other ghastly issues:

1) There’s a hideous concrete wall, topped with chain-link and wire, around most of the plateau. Looking down from the plateau, you see the neighboring village backed right against it–an unfortunate architectural echo of the wall in the Palestinian Territories. I wonder if anyone in the 8,000 tour buses that trundle up there every day even notices.

2) And the whole plateau is now geared only to tour buses–the paved roads are wide enough only for one of these wheezing, lumbering air-conditioners on wheels, so if you’re on foot, you have to trudge through the sand, batting away people with made-in-China alabaster pyramids, cheap dishdashas and the perennial camels as you go. The difficulty of walking then makes you look like even more of a grump for not taking up anyone on their offers of camel and horse rides.

3) Now that the number of vendors and camel drivers on the plateau is controlled (I actually saw one of the tourism police guys giving chase to some interlopers–they on horseback, he on a camel), the line of conflict for the high-pressure horse-and-camel-ride sales has just moved farther out from the Pyramids. So you’re sitting in traffic at a light, and some guy comes up and tells you the road is closed ahead, and it’s better to take a horse…which he conveniently has. Fortunately, I know how to say “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” in Arabic.

4) The tourism police guy I talked to essentially admitted they have no control over the situation. “Yes, the official price for a horse or camel ride is EL35 per hour,” he said. “But of course you’re still expected to haggle.”

Anyway…the Pyramids. They’re still there. You kind of have to go, because they’re a wonder of the world. I had to go, because it’s my job. But with all the heat, buses and horse hassles, it’s a little hard to have fun.

I wonder–has anyone gone to the Pyramids and come away saying, “What a great day!” instead of, “Oh sweet Jesus, I just want to get into bed with a cold compress and a gin-and-tonic!”?

Please let me know… It will make me feel like I’m doing this for a reason.

Cairo: City of Contrasts

In the back of my head, I’m already writing drafts of the Cairo chapter introduction. One cliche I cannot bear in travel writing is that “fascinating clash of ancient and modern, limousines next to donkey carts, etc.” routine. Yes, it’s true, but it’s true of pretty much everywhere in the world aside from the US, Canada and Australia. If you have more than a couple hundred years of history, you automatically inspire lazy writers to tote up all the thrilling contrasts.

So there I was in the mobile phone shop at 11.30pm (take that, “city that never sleeps”!) and in walks an Upper Egyptian straight out of central casting. Which is to say, a super-rural guy whose look, in Egypt, epitomizes “not in step with the modern world,” right down to the poofy blue turban thing and the big ol’ mustache and the rubber flip-flops.

And then of course he whips out the blinkiest flashiest cell phone ever. Even the shop worker was laughing. And then the Upper Egyptian guy says to the shop guy in Arabic, “Tell her, ‘Welcome to Egypt.'”

Hmm. This is going to be tricky.

Mission Burritos in NYC

AV sent me this:

The Alameda-Weehawken Burrito Tunnel

Like her, I am not sure what to make of it. Especially because Mission-style burritos are not readily available in NYC, unless you consider Chipotle legit, which I’m sure purists don’t. So it’s not only faux-history, but faux-present.

But who can resist the marvelous thoroughness of this description?

Past the Colorado border, however, the temperature of the surrounding rock exceeds the Curie point of iron and the burritos must slide on their bellies in their nearly frictionless Teflon sleeve, kept from charring by pork fat that slowly seeps out of the burritos as they thaw. By the time the burritos reach Cedar Rapids (traveling well over a mile a second) they are heated through, and anyone who managed to penetrate into the tunnel through the Cleveland access shafts would find them ready to eat.

I’m now frustrated and hungry for a burrito, but I love the authoritative diagrams and photos, as well as the website’s motto: “Brevity is for the weak.”