The following is an excerpt from a short play I have just written called, "Lindsey and the Turk . . "
Lights up. A 28 year old red haired American woman stands on a street corner in Istanbul, shivering from the cold, her hands deep in the pockets of her purple coat. Enter young Turkish man, tall, who swaggers towards her.
Turk: Hello, where are you from?
Lindsey: Turkey.
Turk: What? Really?
Lindsey: Yeah, can't you tell? (pause) No, I'm from the U.S.
Turk: Oh, you are very sweet, like a honey.
Lindsey: How would you know that, you've been talking to me for 5 seconds.
Turk: Can I kiss you?
Lindsey: That's ridiculous. No.
Turk: (laughs) Do you want to drink a tea with me?
Lindsey: No, I am meeting my friend here.
Turk: Ok, see you later!
Lights out. End of play.
And this, dear reader, is but a snippet of an oft repeated scene enacted on the sexy streets of Istanbul. I returned to the fabled city after a few snow filled days in Ankara, where I helped in the creation of a snow fort, drank Salep (sort of like liquid vanilla pudding) and re-watched a few Woody Allen flicks.
Stepping off the bus into Taksim square, now decorated with strings of white lights, I easily made my way back to Ian's apartment, and knew I was close when I passed some sassy transvestites and the corner stand that sells intestine sandwiches. It was lovely to see my friend Ian again, we spent some time catching up and eating cookies, and of course drank beer at Ritim, the local watering hole. Ian's apartment building is in the midst of some small renovations, and they TOOK OFF THE ROOF the other day. That's right, as in, walk up to the top floor and check out the dark sky through rips in the plastic.
The weather was wretched, though familiar, as I waded my way through 2 days of very cold, rainy weather, not uncommon for this time of year. I spent a day wandering around the Blue Mosque, then stopping by to visit with my friend Melanie and her husband Ferhat. Ferhat is a chef, and made a delicious dinner that night of white beans with peppers, and an eggplant salad dotted with thyme. Melanie and I drank tea and made paper snowflakes, and we walked around the spice market and grand bazaar that night, dodging rivers of water that rolled down the streets, eating baclava type deserts and tangerines.
I spent a few hours at the Modern Art Museum, watched the men fishing off the Galata bridge, and bought a few last pieces of schwag to cart home with me.
Turkey got under my skin, and I feel that now that I have traversed a small portion of it, I have a sense of where I might like to go when I come back. It is a confusing, interesting place, most certainly. A country where Kurds are underdogs, to say the least, Armenian churches empty and the topic taboo, everybody seems gay but is apparently straight, women with headscarves cannot take classes, some people still believe that "gypsies stole my chicken," and "Jews control all the money." A place where Istanbul Turks work 14 hour days for 12 lira, and village men sit from morning to night sipping tea. Where if you meet a woman's family it means you want to marry her, where though people may be poor, there always seems to be enough to eat. I won't soon forget the amount of delicious olives, bread, cheese, and various dishes I ingested so happily, the sweet farmers who promised to find me a husband if I come back, and the overwhelming kind hearted Turks and foreigners, and friends and strangers, I met along the way.
As the plane arrived in Frankfurt from Istanbul the other morning the feeling of coming full circle was palpable. I made my way through the snowy streets, marveling at how familiar the city how felt, ready for beers and bratwurst. I hung out with a friend last night and we recorded an original song of mine- what a delightful way to end a pilgrimage! My brain is still sifting through the last 3 months, but before I go I wanted to thank you again for your listening ear.
I think if one has the chance to go on a soul journey, whether it be to travel to a grandmother's homeland or visit sites of Richard Brautigan books, it should be attempted come hell or high water. It seems that in searching for what we think we are lacking, we many times find that we had everything we needed all along. That has been my experience at least.
I don't feel this is the end of my adventuring, in fact quite the opposite. Though I am still sorting through some logistics, I will give you a hint that my days in Seattle are numbered. Seattle and I need to have "the talk" when I get back. I think I will take Seattle to Greenlake, we will walk around and drink our lattes and I will say, "I know we have been together a long time, but I think we need to see other people now." Seattle is like the long term boyfriend I couldn't bring myself to break up with, but I wasn't sure I wanted to marry.
I envision myself living somewhere warm for the time being, where a kitchen garden of basil and mint can be tended, little cactus can dot the windowsill, and rain will be contained to afternoon thunderstorms. A place where my father can drink Tequila sunrises on the front porch, and we can start a Linda Ronstadt cover band.
But in the interim, I look forward to seeing your sweet Seattle and Portland faces, eating some pumpkin pie and imbibing some strong micro brew, watching season 3 of Madmen and riding my bike again.
The snow is falling heavily here, and I have my fingers crossed I make it out of Germany tomorrow morning as scheduled despite the impending blizzard. I will dream tonight of Polish trains, Grzybow farm, my soul man Mick in his angel wings, Hope mama and the smell of Jasmine, Turkish villages, high school friends, rembetica beats and short lived bands.
I think this is the start of a beautiful thing. See you on the other side.
This is Red, signing off.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Brotherhood of Raki
I think I may have found paradise. It is located on the Bodrum Peninsula, 2.5 kilometers from the sleepy Turkish village of Derekoy, in an untouched valley, speckled with groves of olive and tangerine trees and a thirsty creek. Near the end of the road is a house, surrounded by garden beds and stone walkways, inhabited by happy chickens, a huge dog named Garcia, Sal and Nomo the geese, and a woman named Hope. She greeted me after I stepped off the local dolmus with a wide smile and warm hug, and promptly bought me tea at the men's kahve (coffee house) outside of which sat six or so old Turkish men in sweater vests and fishermen's caps, some with canes and all with deep smile lines around their eyes.
Hope and I were set up on a bit of blind date by our friend Michelle who lives in my other personal paradise, an earthship home located near Twisp in the glorious Methow valley on the east side of the Cascade mountains. I am happy to report that after meeting Hope I feel I have found a bit of a soulmate, approximately 3 decades older, but only 4 days apart by birth. Gotta love those Aries gals.
Hope and her husband Phillip moved here about 20 years ago from the bay area, and created a life for themselves brimming with love, the making of art, the cultivation of the land, and the connections with the people of the valley. Phillip passed two years ago, and although I am saddened that I never had the chance to meet him, I am honored to have been introduced to his spirit, his poetry, and the countless stories of his and Hope's life together. Apparently Phillip and I both love napping, and both need to eat snacks all the time.
My day would start with tea and/or the zen practice of making Turkish coffee, followed by fresh squeezed tangerine juice from the garden, and a bowl full of thick yogurt and homemade granola. We would work in the garden or around the house for a bit, then head off in the car to explore parts of the peninsula, whether it be drinking tea by the Aegean ocean and looking at the Greek island of Kos, hiking up to a mountain village, or visiting one of the many local markets to stock up on cheese, olives, tomatoes, and bread.
Hope taught me how to make Borek, a spinach pie type dish that she filled with wild greens, nettles, green leaf lettuce, ricotta, and sharp goat's milk cheese, wrapped in a fresh sheet of filo dough and fried up on the stove. I could eat it all day and not tire of it. She also showed me how to cook wild thistle, cranberry bean salad, and coconut milk bread pudding.
One evening for dinner we ate the following: wild mushrooms from the Aegean mountains sauteed with onions and garlic, fresh green olives, sheep milk ricotta and tangy goat cheese, octopus salad with garden endive and beet, and Peruvian potatoes right out of the ground. Be still my culinary heart.
In the evening, over a bowl of cookies and a teapot of sage tea, we would watch music documentaries, ranging from the story of 4 eighty-something soft shoe tap dancers who had been chorus girls at the Cotton Club in Harlem, to the Wim Wenders documentary "The Soul of a Man," which told the stories of the musicians Skip James, J.B. Lenoir, and Blind Willie Nelson. We traded music, my Gillian Welch for her Professor Longhair, my Danny Schmidt for her Eric Bibb.
The air smelled like jasmine, the stars dotted that sky like bright pieces of white flame tacked onto the darkness. The sun rose clear, and set dusty and pink through the valley. The skin of the olives was firm as the fell from the trees, and tangerines heavy and quick to shed their peels.
How happy and how lucky one may feel in the soul-full places of this groaning, spinning Earth.
Now, before waxing too philosophical, I must get to the heart of the matter, and the aforementioned title of this piece. With us this entire time, through thick and thin, was a lovely man named Ron, a friend of Hope's son who recently retired from a 30 year career in television, to roam around the world for a spell. He was the faithful dog walker to the massive, big hearted canine known as Garcia, and our all around handy man.
Ron is a traditional Minnesotan man, who shared with us this old saying- "There are three things you should know about men from Minnesota. We don't dance, don't carry umbrellas, and only take with us what we can fit in our pockets."
The Brotherhood of Raki occurred when Hope's close friend Ahmet came over with a bag full of fresh fish, to be grilled on an open fire and savored with multiple glasses of the potent and anise-based Turkish liquor, Raki. We had quite a spread- fresh grilled sardines, bean salad, olives, the whole nine yards. As Sunday afternoon progressed, the conversation and food was abundant and suddenly we were 2 full bottles and a couple mini-fridge sized bottles gone, and the men were weaving through the wind like Raki soaked sheets on a stormy day. Needless to say, our dear Ron proceeded to do a number of amusing things he has no recollection of, including mooing at cows, racing Ahmed down the valley, smoking a cigarette, and kissing Abdullah, the owner of the men's coffeeshop, repeatedly on both cheeks (as is customary in Turkey.)
Ron was a bit mortified the next day, but all was forgiven, and dignity was restored. The story got funnier the more we all thought about it, and Ron putting it best, saying, "Well, shucks, I guess that's the night I'll never remember, and you'll never forget." Well said, my friend, well said.
If there is a Brotherhood of Raki then perhaps we had a Sisterhood of Gypsy love. Hope and I were listening to Taj Mahal and getting ready to watch Gadjo Dilo, an absolutely stunning film about a (very hot) Frenchmen who meets a village of Romanian gypsies and proceeds to fall for a young woman who looks like a Roma Kate Winslet. As were getting ready to sit down Hope says to me, "Good music and hot gypsy sex! What more could you want, Lindsey?!"
Not a thing.
I am back in Ankara now, spending a few more days with Hope (who coincidentally also was planning to travel to Ankara this week) and staying with my friend Ryan again. In a few days I will board a long distance coach for Istanbul and drink the last dregs of my month of Turkish delight. I hope this finds you well, as always, and I promise a few more tales from the road before the jet plane takes me back to the moldy crotch of the Pacific Northwest that is my beloved homeland.
much love,
Lindsey
Hope and I were set up on a bit of blind date by our friend Michelle who lives in my other personal paradise, an earthship home located near Twisp in the glorious Methow valley on the east side of the Cascade mountains. I am happy to report that after meeting Hope I feel I have found a bit of a soulmate, approximately 3 decades older, but only 4 days apart by birth. Gotta love those Aries gals.
Hope and her husband Phillip moved here about 20 years ago from the bay area, and created a life for themselves brimming with love, the making of art, the cultivation of the land, and the connections with the people of the valley. Phillip passed two years ago, and although I am saddened that I never had the chance to meet him, I am honored to have been introduced to his spirit, his poetry, and the countless stories of his and Hope's life together. Apparently Phillip and I both love napping, and both need to eat snacks all the time.
My day would start with tea and/or the zen practice of making Turkish coffee, followed by fresh squeezed tangerine juice from the garden, and a bowl full of thick yogurt and homemade granola. We would work in the garden or around the house for a bit, then head off in the car to explore parts of the peninsula, whether it be drinking tea by the Aegean ocean and looking at the Greek island of Kos, hiking up to a mountain village, or visiting one of the many local markets to stock up on cheese, olives, tomatoes, and bread.
Hope taught me how to make Borek, a spinach pie type dish that she filled with wild greens, nettles, green leaf lettuce, ricotta, and sharp goat's milk cheese, wrapped in a fresh sheet of filo dough and fried up on the stove. I could eat it all day and not tire of it. She also showed me how to cook wild thistle, cranberry bean salad, and coconut milk bread pudding.
One evening for dinner we ate the following: wild mushrooms from the Aegean mountains sauteed with onions and garlic, fresh green olives, sheep milk ricotta and tangy goat cheese, octopus salad with garden endive and beet, and Peruvian potatoes right out of the ground. Be still my culinary heart.
In the evening, over a bowl of cookies and a teapot of sage tea, we would watch music documentaries, ranging from the story of 4 eighty-something soft shoe tap dancers who had been chorus girls at the Cotton Club in Harlem, to the Wim Wenders documentary "The Soul of a Man," which told the stories of the musicians Skip James, J.B. Lenoir, and Blind Willie Nelson. We traded music, my Gillian Welch for her Professor Longhair, my Danny Schmidt for her Eric Bibb.
The air smelled like jasmine, the stars dotted that sky like bright pieces of white flame tacked onto the darkness. The sun rose clear, and set dusty and pink through the valley. The skin of the olives was firm as the fell from the trees, and tangerines heavy and quick to shed their peels.
How happy and how lucky one may feel in the soul-full places of this groaning, spinning Earth.
Now, before waxing too philosophical, I must get to the heart of the matter, and the aforementioned title of this piece. With us this entire time, through thick and thin, was a lovely man named Ron, a friend of Hope's son who recently retired from a 30 year career in television, to roam around the world for a spell. He was the faithful dog walker to the massive, big hearted canine known as Garcia, and our all around handy man.
Ron is a traditional Minnesotan man, who shared with us this old saying- "There are three things you should know about men from Minnesota. We don't dance, don't carry umbrellas, and only take with us what we can fit in our pockets."
The Brotherhood of Raki occurred when Hope's close friend Ahmet came over with a bag full of fresh fish, to be grilled on an open fire and savored with multiple glasses of the potent and anise-based Turkish liquor, Raki. We had quite a spread- fresh grilled sardines, bean salad, olives, the whole nine yards. As Sunday afternoon progressed, the conversation and food was abundant and suddenly we were 2 full bottles and a couple mini-fridge sized bottles gone, and the men were weaving through the wind like Raki soaked sheets on a stormy day. Needless to say, our dear Ron proceeded to do a number of amusing things he has no recollection of, including mooing at cows, racing Ahmed down the valley, smoking a cigarette, and kissing Abdullah, the owner of the men's coffeeshop, repeatedly on both cheeks (as is customary in Turkey.)
Ron was a bit mortified the next day, but all was forgiven, and dignity was restored. The story got funnier the more we all thought about it, and Ron putting it best, saying, "Well, shucks, I guess that's the night I'll never remember, and you'll never forget." Well said, my friend, well said.
If there is a Brotherhood of Raki then perhaps we had a Sisterhood of Gypsy love. Hope and I were listening to Taj Mahal and getting ready to watch Gadjo Dilo, an absolutely stunning film about a (very hot) Frenchmen who meets a village of Romanian gypsies and proceeds to fall for a young woman who looks like a Roma Kate Winslet. As were getting ready to sit down Hope says to me, "Good music and hot gypsy sex! What more could you want, Lindsey?!"
Not a thing.
I am back in Ankara now, spending a few more days with Hope (who coincidentally also was planning to travel to Ankara this week) and staying with my friend Ryan again. In a few days I will board a long distance coach for Istanbul and drink the last dregs of my month of Turkish delight. I hope this finds you well, as always, and I promise a few more tales from the road before the jet plane takes me back to the moldy crotch of the Pacific Northwest that is my beloved homeland.
much love,
Lindsey
Monday, November 29, 2010
"Surprisingly Professional"
This title of this post refers to the name of my new band, which has existed for approximately 48 hours and some change, and will dissolve tomorrow upon my departure from the (surprisingly nice) city of Ankara.
I arrived Thursday night after a long, pleasant, tea-filled bus ride from Istanbul, during which time I had a lovely conversation with a Turkish woman who has lived in Istanbul most of her life, and works as an electrical engineer. She was returning to Istanbul by train on sunday, and shared that she loves to sit on the train with a thermos of wine and look out the window for hours. A woman after my own heart.
My connection to this city is a friend named Ryan, a man I had yet to meet but who came highly recommended to me by two of my favorite men, the Hunter brothers. He came bounding out of the university dorms as I arrived at his place, lanky arms and all smiles, and yes, a friendship was instantly formed. Ryan is teaching English for a private middle school and is one of dozens and dozens of native English speakers who were hired for one to two year contracts to teach in Ankara. Picture all of these young people, with an average age of 23, living in University dorms on a hill that overlooks the city and is about a 30 minute bus ride into downtown Ankara. Frankly I have just walked into a vortex, one that is built of beer cans and stories about who hooked up with whom the night before. It's a pretty hysterical scene, and a little exhausting, too.
Thursday evening was Thanksgiving part I, and consisted of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and lots of Whiskey.
Friday I spent the day in downtown Ankara, wandering around, eating roast lamb and vegetables for lunch, and drinking lots of coffee while reading my international spy thriller paperback.
That evening we went to a Turkish restaurant where they lay down a plastic sheet over your table, and throw down an OBSCENE amount of greens and tomatoes, sprinkled with lemon and olive oil, and you eat with your hands. Then comes a tray loaded with kebab, bread, and fire roasted peppers and more tomatoes. It was a lot of food to pack away, but it aided in soaking up the numerous liters of beer consumed by our group that evening. At this particular bar you can order a "tower" of beer, which comes in a tall, clear glass cylinder with a spigot attached. We sat downstairs in a packed pub with mostly Turkish patrons, listening to a wondeful guitar player singing acoustic, but very rockin, versions of contemporary songs. Again, eveyone knows the words and routinely breaks out into spontaneous dancing, sometimes on the tabletop.
My thirst for guitar playing was quenched the next day, as we nursed our hangovers and sat around Ryan's apartment. His next door neighbor Dan is a good ole' Northwest boy and recent Whitman grad, and between the two of them they have 2 guitars, 3 harmonicas, a tambourine, and a ukulele. They were planning to play some tunes at Thansgiving part II, scheduled to happen that evening. I quickly invited myself to join in, and the band was formed.
That evening we convened in the basement of a nearby dorm building, brought table and chairs down from various rooms, and lay out a decadent spread of homemade Thanksgiving fare on the pool table. We had pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, loads of chicken, gravy, sweet stewed carrots, and attempted stuffing. For many of the teachers it was their first thanksgiving away from home, and quite a special night. Following our food comas we set up shop near the end of one of the tables, and entertained roughly 25 or 30 people with a set list that included Johnny Cash, Old Crow Medicine Show, and Devendra Banhart. After our first song a girl said cheerily, "you all sound surprisingly professional!" Thus greatness was born.
This event reminded me how much I value creating and being a part of these types of experiences- not everyone throws talent shows or shoots watermelons with spear guns or cooks giant waffle breakfasts for all their neighbors- all y'all out there in the Northwest are doin it right!
Sunday Ryan and I played soccer in the sand covered turf (strange set-up) near his apartment, and recorded Devendra Banhart's "At the Hop," in Dan's apartment. I will be emailed a copy of this song soon, and will do my best to post it!
Tomorrow I leave Ankara for the wilds of Mediterranean Turkey, and though I am a wee bit reluctant to leave my makeshift home here, adventure calls! I want to be a beardless Farley Mowat, writing books about strange Turkish birds and mountain villages.
Things I miss in Seattle: Kate's Pub Happy Hour, micro-brew, and seeing the mustaches being grown on the upper lips of many male friends and colleagues. If someone wants to make me a little collage of the handle-bar progress (Chad . . .) I will frame it on my wall when i get home. Speaking of school, I have also been tickled by some of my old students excitement at gmail chatting with me, and asking lots of questions about when I will come back and hang out in their Improv class, and why the heck I am in Poland, or Turkey! P.S. Some of these students, who will remain unnamed, chatted me the other week while IN CLASS! I told the ladies they should go back to work and could talk to me later, and they replied, "but we already finished all our goal setting!" Sneaky little buggers.
Three more weeks and the skyline of Seattle will be imminent on my horizon. Prepare your couches for your dear departed friend, and I promise to entertain you with more stories from the Turkish travelin' road.
all the best,
Miss Lindsey
I arrived Thursday night after a long, pleasant, tea-filled bus ride from Istanbul, during which time I had a lovely conversation with a Turkish woman who has lived in Istanbul most of her life, and works as an electrical engineer. She was returning to Istanbul by train on sunday, and shared that she loves to sit on the train with a thermos of wine and look out the window for hours. A woman after my own heart.
My connection to this city is a friend named Ryan, a man I had yet to meet but who came highly recommended to me by two of my favorite men, the Hunter brothers. He came bounding out of the university dorms as I arrived at his place, lanky arms and all smiles, and yes, a friendship was instantly formed. Ryan is teaching English for a private middle school and is one of dozens and dozens of native English speakers who were hired for one to two year contracts to teach in Ankara. Picture all of these young people, with an average age of 23, living in University dorms on a hill that overlooks the city and is about a 30 minute bus ride into downtown Ankara. Frankly I have just walked into a vortex, one that is built of beer cans and stories about who hooked up with whom the night before. It's a pretty hysterical scene, and a little exhausting, too.
Thursday evening was Thanksgiving part I, and consisted of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and lots of Whiskey.
Friday I spent the day in downtown Ankara, wandering around, eating roast lamb and vegetables for lunch, and drinking lots of coffee while reading my international spy thriller paperback.
That evening we went to a Turkish restaurant where they lay down a plastic sheet over your table, and throw down an OBSCENE amount of greens and tomatoes, sprinkled with lemon and olive oil, and you eat with your hands. Then comes a tray loaded with kebab, bread, and fire roasted peppers and more tomatoes. It was a lot of food to pack away, but it aided in soaking up the numerous liters of beer consumed by our group that evening. At this particular bar you can order a "tower" of beer, which comes in a tall, clear glass cylinder with a spigot attached. We sat downstairs in a packed pub with mostly Turkish patrons, listening to a wondeful guitar player singing acoustic, but very rockin, versions of contemporary songs. Again, eveyone knows the words and routinely breaks out into spontaneous dancing, sometimes on the tabletop.
My thirst for guitar playing was quenched the next day, as we nursed our hangovers and sat around Ryan's apartment. His next door neighbor Dan is a good ole' Northwest boy and recent Whitman grad, and between the two of them they have 2 guitars, 3 harmonicas, a tambourine, and a ukulele. They were planning to play some tunes at Thansgiving part II, scheduled to happen that evening. I quickly invited myself to join in, and the band was formed.
That evening we convened in the basement of a nearby dorm building, brought table and chairs down from various rooms, and lay out a decadent spread of homemade Thanksgiving fare on the pool table. We had pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, loads of chicken, gravy, sweet stewed carrots, and attempted stuffing. For many of the teachers it was their first thanksgiving away from home, and quite a special night. Following our food comas we set up shop near the end of one of the tables, and entertained roughly 25 or 30 people with a set list that included Johnny Cash, Old Crow Medicine Show, and Devendra Banhart. After our first song a girl said cheerily, "you all sound surprisingly professional!" Thus greatness was born.
This event reminded me how much I value creating and being a part of these types of experiences- not everyone throws talent shows or shoots watermelons with spear guns or cooks giant waffle breakfasts for all their neighbors- all y'all out there in the Northwest are doin it right!
Sunday Ryan and I played soccer in the sand covered turf (strange set-up) near his apartment, and recorded Devendra Banhart's "At the Hop," in Dan's apartment. I will be emailed a copy of this song soon, and will do my best to post it!
Tomorrow I leave Ankara for the wilds of Mediterranean Turkey, and though I am a wee bit reluctant to leave my makeshift home here, adventure calls! I want to be a beardless Farley Mowat, writing books about strange Turkish birds and mountain villages.
Things I miss in Seattle: Kate's Pub Happy Hour, micro-brew, and seeing the mustaches being grown on the upper lips of many male friends and colleagues. If someone wants to make me a little collage of the handle-bar progress (Chad . . .) I will frame it on my wall when i get home. Speaking of school, I have also been tickled by some of my old students excitement at gmail chatting with me, and asking lots of questions about when I will come back and hang out in their Improv class, and why the heck I am in Poland, or Turkey! P.S. Some of these students, who will remain unnamed, chatted me the other week while IN CLASS! I told the ladies they should go back to work and could talk to me later, and they replied, "but we already finished all our goal setting!" Sneaky little buggers.
Three more weeks and the skyline of Seattle will be imminent on my horizon. Prepare your couches for your dear departed friend, and I promise to entertain you with more stories from the Turkish travelin' road.
all the best,
Miss Lindsey
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Pack of Wild Dogs
I have been in Istanbul for about a week, slowly taking bites out of the enormity of a city that is home to roughly 18 million inhabitants! WHOA! I have been having an absolutely swell time staying with my friend Ian, he continues to be a fabulous tour guide and host. We have imbibed much of the whiskey I bought from the duty free store at the airport, gone on long, meandering walks to drink fresh carrot juice, look at music shops, bookstores, and sit by the inky black Bosphorous to watch the ships at night. We have also spent a couple evenings watching youtube videos of the muppets singing "Oh Danny Boy," and the Dutch National Ballet performing a piece called "groosland" in fat suits. Amazing. I have frequented his favorite neighborhood sanwich shops and watering hole, where the beer is relatively cheap and nuts are salty.
Some of the best things I have eaten: a soupy egg dish with tomatoes and cheese, hot peppers and a shitload of bread; platefuls of green olives, cucumber, honey and butter cream (also with loads of bread); deep fried fresh sardines with salad; and turkish flat bread with spices, onion, and lemon as a garnish.
Things I have learned about turkish cuisine- Turks MUST eat bread with every meal, and are CONSTANTLY drinking tea.
My favorite day involved Ian and I taking a ferry to a nearby island about an hour away, and during the ride we drank our requisite tea and listened to the song-like sounds of tiny spoons touching the sides of small glass cups. This island was amazing, steep cliffs that rose out of the water, quiet seafront cafes and shuttered houses on wind blown streets. We grabbed a pack of cookies and a few beers at one of the little stores, and made our way to the top of the island, followed by two semi-wild dogs who were just thrilled that we were going for a walk. At the top we found an open meadow with horses, and a stunning view of the ocean, as well as the faraway shapes of Istanbul. Not being ready to leave, we traversed to the other side of the island, picking up two more dogs along the way. It is not often that a lady can say she hung out on a Turkish island with a pack of wild dogs, eating cookies and drinking beer on sea swept cliffs. We finished our day with a delicious fish dinner, and both promptly fell asleep on the ferry ride back to the city.
My other favorite night was when we went in search of a local rembetica band that was playing in the neighborhood, and upon finding the venue, were rewarded with some of the most beautiful, soul lifting music I have heard in ages. Rembetica is traditionally greek style music, with folk songs (a lot of times about drugs), accordion, violin, bouzouki, guitar, and clarinet. Everybody in this packed bar was throwing back glasses of Raki, favored liquor of choice in Turkey, like it was water, and before long the floor was filled with people dancing and singing along. It was gorgeous.
In between my sight seeing excursions I had the pleasure of meeting my new friend Melanie, another Seattle transplant, and we had a grand old time drinking tea, watching the old men fish by pier, and eating a fabulous dinner with her very sweet husband.
When the city starts to press in on me a little too much, or too many men give me wolf eyes, I retreat to a cup of turkish coffee and a book, and remind myself this is EXACTLY why I quit my job: so I could drink coffee and read in a foreign city, listening to the call to prayer and ruminating on the nature of life and whatnot.
Tomorrow I head to Ankara (apparently a shithole, but I am determined to have a fabulous time there) to stay with my friend Ryan and celebrate Thanksgiving. I have about 3 more weeks here, and I am lookin to take some long distance buses to some coastal beaches, and trade in my tea glass for a wine glass, and perhaps work on another farm.
This ginger is lovin Istanbul, chaos and all, and she wishes you a very happy and healthy thanksgiving, wherever you may be. Gobble Gobble from Turkey!
Some of the best things I have eaten: a soupy egg dish with tomatoes and cheese, hot peppers and a shitload of bread; platefuls of green olives, cucumber, honey and butter cream (also with loads of bread); deep fried fresh sardines with salad; and turkish flat bread with spices, onion, and lemon as a garnish.
Things I have learned about turkish cuisine- Turks MUST eat bread with every meal, and are CONSTANTLY drinking tea.
My favorite day involved Ian and I taking a ferry to a nearby island about an hour away, and during the ride we drank our requisite tea and listened to the song-like sounds of tiny spoons touching the sides of small glass cups. This island was amazing, steep cliffs that rose out of the water, quiet seafront cafes and shuttered houses on wind blown streets. We grabbed a pack of cookies and a few beers at one of the little stores, and made our way to the top of the island, followed by two semi-wild dogs who were just thrilled that we were going for a walk. At the top we found an open meadow with horses, and a stunning view of the ocean, as well as the faraway shapes of Istanbul. Not being ready to leave, we traversed to the other side of the island, picking up two more dogs along the way. It is not often that a lady can say she hung out on a Turkish island with a pack of wild dogs, eating cookies and drinking beer on sea swept cliffs. We finished our day with a delicious fish dinner, and both promptly fell asleep on the ferry ride back to the city.
My other favorite night was when we went in search of a local rembetica band that was playing in the neighborhood, and upon finding the venue, were rewarded with some of the most beautiful, soul lifting music I have heard in ages. Rembetica is traditionally greek style music, with folk songs (a lot of times about drugs), accordion, violin, bouzouki, guitar, and clarinet. Everybody in this packed bar was throwing back glasses of Raki, favored liquor of choice in Turkey, like it was water, and before long the floor was filled with people dancing and singing along. It was gorgeous.
In between my sight seeing excursions I had the pleasure of meeting my new friend Melanie, another Seattle transplant, and we had a grand old time drinking tea, watching the old men fish by pier, and eating a fabulous dinner with her very sweet husband.
When the city starts to press in on me a little too much, or too many men give me wolf eyes, I retreat to a cup of turkish coffee and a book, and remind myself this is EXACTLY why I quit my job: so I could drink coffee and read in a foreign city, listening to the call to prayer and ruminating on the nature of life and whatnot.
Tomorrow I head to Ankara (apparently a shithole, but I am determined to have a fabulous time there) to stay with my friend Ryan and celebrate Thanksgiving. I have about 3 more weeks here, and I am lookin to take some long distance buses to some coastal beaches, and trade in my tea glass for a wine glass, and perhaps work on another farm.
This ginger is lovin Istanbul, chaos and all, and she wishes you a very happy and healthy thanksgiving, wherever you may be. Gobble Gobble from Turkey!
Friday, November 19, 2010
One Night In Warsaw
I am writing this from the 3rd floor apartment of my friend Ian's apartment in Beyoglu, Istanbul, a neighborhood which he says is a rough spot home to Kurds and transvestites. Though I have been advised not to wander around too much, I feel quite comfortable here. Ian and I attended high school together, though I'd wager we have not seen one another in ten years. He is a fabulous host and I greatly enjoy his company, his Turkish lessons, and his killer sense of humor.
For those of you with the time and inclination to read everything I have shared, I felt it only right that I bid adieu to my 5 weeks in Poland with a few final stories and ruminations.
In Torun, after being nursed back to health by my friend Kasia with lots of tea, soup, potatoes, and sleep, I roamed around her hometown with her and her crew of friends, visiting her favorite bars and arriving home by bus around 6:30 am two nights in a row. She was such a great tour guide, and I was tickled at the thought that my guidebook said nothing about her favorite bar, the infamous punk rock bar Pilon under the Torun bridge, behind the wrought iron door you need a secret knock to be admitted into. Torun has a rough underbelly that I saw a few times, though felt quite safe with her tall, sweet natured, at times hard-drinking male friends. It also has cobblestone streets, castles, beautiful fields near her apartment on the edge of town, and bright city lights shining over the dark and swift moving Wisla river.
After a teary goodbye to Kasia, I borded the train to Warsaw on monday afternoon, small gifts from a few of her friends tucked safely into my pack, who will be remembered fondly.
I found my hostel easily, as it was very close to the train station, ate my last Polish dinner of pork with mushroom sauce, rice, and roast vegetables, and then had a beer at the hostel bar. It was here that I had a nice conversation with some fellows travelers, and in swapping notes of where we were from I received the funniest response I have heard so far. As a side note, when I say I from Seattle most people respond in one of two ways:
"Grunge rock!"
or
"Seattle Supersonics!"
For those broken-hearted Sonics fan, know that the fame of our beloved team is known throughout Poland. However, back to the story! When I told this British guy I was from Seattle, he looked at me with a shit eating grin and basically yelled, "OH MY GOD! Dale Chihuly!" I tried to explain, nicely, that yes, I know who he is, though nowadays some folks consider him to be a bit of a hack.
My 10 hour train ride from Warsaw to Frankfurt began at 6:30am the next morning, and as I attempted to sleep I listened to the sounds of Warsaw and reminisced on my time in Poland. Despite the history, and underlying sadness, and the difficulty of transport, I was moved by the beauty of the landscape, the realness of the people, and the hope held by many for the country to continue to grow and thrive. I will miss eating beets, pastries, coffee on the farm, playing music, hearing the language, and wandering the streets. I feel like there is something unfinished here, and I hope to return again in the next few years. I never did tell the whole story of my Bubby's immigration and the subsequent annihilation of the rest of my relatives, so instead I will leave you with this bit of coincidence, that may have far reaching effects.
While on the farm I was asked to talk with a group of high school students and play "Paradise" for them, which I did happily. Upon finishing the song the history teacher with them asked why I had come to Poland, and I mentioned that my grandmother was from a town in Belarus called Ivenets. Her eyes lit up and she said, "Ivenets . . . I've been there many times."
With help from Ewa as translator she shared the following: the village does indeed exist, about 80 km west of Minsk. It continues to be a hard place to live, especially for Polish people, who have trouble finding work. The village looks as if time stopped about 50 years ago. Before the war, Jews lived fairly peacefully with other residents, and during the war, the local cemetery was spared destruction. Many people were killed, not only during the war but following it, when the Russians took control. She said that it is a beautiful place, and in the forests on the outskirts of town there are many unmarked graves. Locals, in a show of respect, would tie cloth to the trees to mark where people were buried. She offered to take me with her high school students this spring, as she is going back for a visit. Though I am planning to be in the states at that time, she also offered to do a little research for me if I can find the name of my great grandmother, to see if there is any information in the local archives. She had tears in her eyes as she told me much of this, and said for her it was a very moving place. A part of me feels incredulous that these pieces actually line up, but the fortuitousness of meeting a woman who has been to this tiny village in Belarus while working on a farm in Poland speaks for itself. There is truth that in looking for the answer to a question we find out much more (usually about ourselves) then we may have thought possible.
This thoughts drifted in and out as I slept my way back into the rain and dreariness of central Germany, but after a lovely two nights with my friends Aya and Rodney, I was ready to move.
So, friends, here we are. The sun is out in Istanbul, I have already eaten ridiculously good food, walked steep, bustling city streets, and dropped deeper into my travel experience. I look forward to what the next four weeks hold, and to sharing whatever might be in store with the likes of you.
For those of you with the time and inclination to read everything I have shared, I felt it only right that I bid adieu to my 5 weeks in Poland with a few final stories and ruminations.
In Torun, after being nursed back to health by my friend Kasia with lots of tea, soup, potatoes, and sleep, I roamed around her hometown with her and her crew of friends, visiting her favorite bars and arriving home by bus around 6:30 am two nights in a row. She was such a great tour guide, and I was tickled at the thought that my guidebook said nothing about her favorite bar, the infamous punk rock bar Pilon under the Torun bridge, behind the wrought iron door you need a secret knock to be admitted into. Torun has a rough underbelly that I saw a few times, though felt quite safe with her tall, sweet natured, at times hard-drinking male friends. It also has cobblestone streets, castles, beautiful fields near her apartment on the edge of town, and bright city lights shining over the dark and swift moving Wisla river.
After a teary goodbye to Kasia, I borded the train to Warsaw on monday afternoon, small gifts from a few of her friends tucked safely into my pack, who will be remembered fondly.
I found my hostel easily, as it was very close to the train station, ate my last Polish dinner of pork with mushroom sauce, rice, and roast vegetables, and then had a beer at the hostel bar. It was here that I had a nice conversation with some fellows travelers, and in swapping notes of where we were from I received the funniest response I have heard so far. As a side note, when I say I from Seattle most people respond in one of two ways:
"Grunge rock!"
or
"Seattle Supersonics!"
For those broken-hearted Sonics fan, know that the fame of our beloved team is known throughout Poland. However, back to the story! When I told this British guy I was from Seattle, he looked at me with a shit eating grin and basically yelled, "OH MY GOD! Dale Chihuly!" I tried to explain, nicely, that yes, I know who he is, though nowadays some folks consider him to be a bit of a hack.
My 10 hour train ride from Warsaw to Frankfurt began at 6:30am the next morning, and as I attempted to sleep I listened to the sounds of Warsaw and reminisced on my time in Poland. Despite the history, and underlying sadness, and the difficulty of transport, I was moved by the beauty of the landscape, the realness of the people, and the hope held by many for the country to continue to grow and thrive. I will miss eating beets, pastries, coffee on the farm, playing music, hearing the language, and wandering the streets. I feel like there is something unfinished here, and I hope to return again in the next few years. I never did tell the whole story of my Bubby's immigration and the subsequent annihilation of the rest of my relatives, so instead I will leave you with this bit of coincidence, that may have far reaching effects.
While on the farm I was asked to talk with a group of high school students and play "Paradise" for them, which I did happily. Upon finishing the song the history teacher with them asked why I had come to Poland, and I mentioned that my grandmother was from a town in Belarus called Ivenets. Her eyes lit up and she said, "Ivenets . . . I've been there many times."
With help from Ewa as translator she shared the following: the village does indeed exist, about 80 km west of Minsk. It continues to be a hard place to live, especially for Polish people, who have trouble finding work. The village looks as if time stopped about 50 years ago. Before the war, Jews lived fairly peacefully with other residents, and during the war, the local cemetery was spared destruction. Many people were killed, not only during the war but following it, when the Russians took control. She said that it is a beautiful place, and in the forests on the outskirts of town there are many unmarked graves. Locals, in a show of respect, would tie cloth to the trees to mark where people were buried. She offered to take me with her high school students this spring, as she is going back for a visit. Though I am planning to be in the states at that time, she also offered to do a little research for me if I can find the name of my great grandmother, to see if there is any information in the local archives. She had tears in her eyes as she told me much of this, and said for her it was a very moving place. A part of me feels incredulous that these pieces actually line up, but the fortuitousness of meeting a woman who has been to this tiny village in Belarus while working on a farm in Poland speaks for itself. There is truth that in looking for the answer to a question we find out much more (usually about ourselves) then we may have thought possible.
This thoughts drifted in and out as I slept my way back into the rain and dreariness of central Germany, but after a lovely two nights with my friends Aya and Rodney, I was ready to move.
So, friends, here we are. The sun is out in Istanbul, I have already eaten ridiculously good food, walked steep, bustling city streets, and dropped deeper into my travel experience. I look forward to what the next four weeks hold, and to sharing whatever might be in store with the likes of you.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Torun, Poland
Greetings from beautiful red Torun, the home of Copernicus! I am here staying with my fried Kathe who I met while on the farm, and sadly I am in bed with an achy body and a brutal sore throat. I am watching my chest for signs of a rash, at which point I will venture into the Polish medical system for Strep throat drugs. Thank you mom, for the consistently sound medical advice, and for making faces at me while on skype video chat.
Things I have learned about Torun so far is that is has 120,00 inhabitants, cathedrals with original frescos that are thousands of years old, and lots of statues, including one of frogs. Speaking of frogs, Kathe told me there was a story on the radio a few months ago about a large vat of vodka that broke during transport, seeped into a lake, where frogs drank it and then ATTACKED A COW! Amazing. Also a great premise for a children's book. So far I have a series in mind, about dancing goats and drunk frogs. Maybe I should call it, 'Animals on Drugs, and other Fables.'
Last saturday I bid a teary and fond farewell to Ewa, Peter, Granny, and Anna at Gryzbow farm. After 3 weeks there, I was surprised at how deeply I'd connected with my experience. I think the best experiences many times sneak upon us like bed bugs in the night, and we are left with an experience that covers us completely, and has caught us unaware. I hugged the kittens, tried in vain to milk the cows one more time, pet some goats and looked into their large, wide set eyes, ate my last dinner of soup, meat, and bread with cheese and beets mixed with horseradish, and I boarded the village bus for Warsaw. That evening I arrived by train in Krakow, to spend a few more days wandering around the spires and cobblestone squares and walk along the river. I found the Jewish Quarter, Kazimierz, as dark was falling. I walked up to the old synagogue right as a car drove by blaring Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah," at which point I though I might fall over from the beauty of the damn moment.
I wandered into a bookstore and read a very interesting chapter of a book which was written following a conference on the Urban Regeneration of Jewish Quarters in Eastern European cities. It brought up some weighty questions about real versus imagined space that is created in what some believe to be a sort of 'Disneyland' themed experience which now invites tourists to experience what Jewish life was really like. Of course, in reality so much of it was destroyed, but preserving historic sites has become a priority in the last 15 years or so. Food for thought.
While in Krakow I had a perfect cup of tea at a quaint bar in the old town square, bought some schwag for my sisters, and met some lovely folks in the hostel in which I was staying. There were 2 very friendly Australian couples, some other young Aussies who LOVED their beer, and 3 very attractive Brazilians, one of whom I got along quite well with. Feel free to infer a little bit there, folks.
The day before I left I made the decision to visit the concentration camps Auschwitz and Birkenau. I had been reluctant to visit, and scared of what I might see, but now I am glad that I chose to go. Our guide was a gracious, very grounded woman who has been leading tours for many years, and grew up in a neighbouring town. Her grandparents were part of the Polish resistance movement during the war, and she said one day her grandmother took her mother outside, where they could smell and see the smoke from the crematorium, and told her what it was, so that she would know. I don't want to trivialize or try to explain too much about the experience- I think it is better left sorted through on one's own if you have the opportunity to visit. There were a few things that made me want to break into pieces, and times when the enormity of it was very difficult to truly take in.
I will be here for the next few days, hopefully on a quick mend back to health, and then headed to Warsaw for at least a day or two before making the long trek back to Frankfurt. From there I will be flying to Turkey for the last 4 weeks of my face melting, challenging, all around incredible journey.
I will leave you with this description of character of the week: In the hostel, the Polish guy working night shift told me about a local musical legend, a piano player who is in his early eighties. He wears sunglasses and thinks he is Ray Charles, though he is not blind. He did lose both of his legs though, but despite amputations continues to ride his self made, 5 wheeled bicycle to gigs. He lives with his 97 year old mother, and sings songs at a local bar every week. Generally his songs consist of the following topics: alcohol, women, and asses that have teeth in them and can attack you. A great sadness of my life is that I was not in Krakow on a Friday to witness this myself. However, we all need a reason to go back to a place, and this is mine.
with love,
Lindsey
Things I have learned about Torun so far is that is has 120,00 inhabitants, cathedrals with original frescos that are thousands of years old, and lots of statues, including one of frogs. Speaking of frogs, Kathe told me there was a story on the radio a few months ago about a large vat of vodka that broke during transport, seeped into a lake, where frogs drank it and then ATTACKED A COW! Amazing. Also a great premise for a children's book. So far I have a series in mind, about dancing goats and drunk frogs. Maybe I should call it, 'Animals on Drugs, and other Fables.'
Last saturday I bid a teary and fond farewell to Ewa, Peter, Granny, and Anna at Gryzbow farm. After 3 weeks there, I was surprised at how deeply I'd connected with my experience. I think the best experiences many times sneak upon us like bed bugs in the night, and we are left with an experience that covers us completely, and has caught us unaware. I hugged the kittens, tried in vain to milk the cows one more time, pet some goats and looked into their large, wide set eyes, ate my last dinner of soup, meat, and bread with cheese and beets mixed with horseradish, and I boarded the village bus for Warsaw. That evening I arrived by train in Krakow, to spend a few more days wandering around the spires and cobblestone squares and walk along the river. I found the Jewish Quarter, Kazimierz, as dark was falling. I walked up to the old synagogue right as a car drove by blaring Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah," at which point I though I might fall over from the beauty of the damn moment.
I wandered into a bookstore and read a very interesting chapter of a book which was written following a conference on the Urban Regeneration of Jewish Quarters in Eastern European cities. It brought up some weighty questions about real versus imagined space that is created in what some believe to be a sort of 'Disneyland' themed experience which now invites tourists to experience what Jewish life was really like. Of course, in reality so much of it was destroyed, but preserving historic sites has become a priority in the last 15 years or so. Food for thought.
While in Krakow I had a perfect cup of tea at a quaint bar in the old town square, bought some schwag for my sisters, and met some lovely folks in the hostel in which I was staying. There were 2 very friendly Australian couples, some other young Aussies who LOVED their beer, and 3 very attractive Brazilians, one of whom I got along quite well with. Feel free to infer a little bit there, folks.
The day before I left I made the decision to visit the concentration camps Auschwitz and Birkenau. I had been reluctant to visit, and scared of what I might see, but now I am glad that I chose to go. Our guide was a gracious, very grounded woman who has been leading tours for many years, and grew up in a neighbouring town. Her grandparents were part of the Polish resistance movement during the war, and she said one day her grandmother took her mother outside, where they could smell and see the smoke from the crematorium, and told her what it was, so that she would know. I don't want to trivialize or try to explain too much about the experience- I think it is better left sorted through on one's own if you have the opportunity to visit. There were a few things that made me want to break into pieces, and times when the enormity of it was very difficult to truly take in.
I will be here for the next few days, hopefully on a quick mend back to health, and then headed to Warsaw for at least a day or two before making the long trek back to Frankfurt. From there I will be flying to Turkey for the last 4 weeks of my face melting, challenging, all around incredible journey.
I will leave you with this description of character of the week: In the hostel, the Polish guy working night shift told me about a local musical legend, a piano player who is in his early eighties. He wears sunglasses and thinks he is Ray Charles, though he is not blind. He did lose both of his legs though, but despite amputations continues to ride his self made, 5 wheeled bicycle to gigs. He lives with his 97 year old mother, and sings songs at a local bar every week. Generally his songs consist of the following topics: alcohol, women, and asses that have teeth in them and can attack you. A great sadness of my life is that I was not in Krakow on a Friday to witness this myself. However, we all need a reason to go back to a place, and this is mine.
with love,
Lindsey
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Grzybow Farm- Week in Review
Last night I sat around a campfire, eating kielbasa and drinking beer with a taxi cab driver from Warsaw and a self described "Far-Right-Christian-Libertarian" who loves the Grateful Dead and translates movies from the 90's from English into Polish. They know Eva and Peter and moonlight as apple farmers on a farm near where I am staying The apples were just off the tree, sweet and ripe for the picking.
Earlier that day I had visited a school with Eva that had been damaged in the fairly recent flood. When the Wisla river rose, approx. 2,000 people were displaced, and are still in the process of restoring their homes and attempting to revitalize their fields. This particular school received a lot of aid, and is now renovated and very beautiful, and had an open, welcoming feel to it. With Eva as translator we had a Q&A with a fairly small group of 10-12 year olds who were there for an after school program, then I played guitar and led some drama games. A group of Polish children can now stumble through the chorus of "I'll Fly Away.".
Earlier in the week I went with Peter to pick up grain from another local farmer who lives about half and hour away. He greeted us warmly and showed us his young goat, who Peter gave him a few months ago, and said she was doing very well. In fact, she sometimes jumps up on her hind legs and dances, and has been seen performing this trick on the roof of the shed which she can climb up to by way of hay bales! Does anyone else hear the start of a great children's story here? It was very cold that day, and when I was invited into the house I entered to find a lovely, modest home and a Grandma who was ready to feed me. I had noodle soup, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and tender pork. Then a cup of tea and a chocolate covered gingerbread cake that resembled a donut. The farmer came in, we chatted via Peter, and he wasted little time in telling me that his son recently "lost" his girlfriend, and if I were to marry him he has a lot of vodka ready for the wedding! He then showed me a giant jug of vodka, and we had a shot of Krupnik, Polish honey liqeur. It was all in good fun, and I said perhaps I would learn Polish and come back.
Grandma, who fed me the delicious meal and sent me away with another piece of cake for the road, was the only member of her family to survive the Holacaust. A Catholic Polish family, her parents had been hiding resistance fighters in their barn. When the Gestapo found out, they killed the family, but her mother managed to hide her under pillows and blankets in the bed, and she survived, and was raised in an orphanage.
There is an old man who lives near Peter who is considered handicapped. I asked about it, Peter said he was beat on the head by a Nazi solider and suffered brain damage when he was 9 years old.
After the war, they converted the Synagogue into a cinema because there were no Jews left to worship there.
I mention this because as I hear bits and pieces I realize that just below the surface there are so many stories that tell of what happened here. I had a dream the other night that my Bubby was alive, and living in Poland, and I couldn't believe I hadn't thought to visit her, until I finally remembered that she passed many years ago.
That said, there is what I like to call a direct line to the spirits here, and it is not all full of tragedy and pain. There have been moments where I feel something get plugged in, like I get some strange and lovely metaphysical goosebumps while looking at the crazy full moon or staring at a tree.
In happier news there are so many kittens here! Holy hell! A pair of black kittens that were left in the ditch by the side of the road got moved to the cow stable, where they are happy little guys drinking warm milk, and there are 4 more kittens in the house. With so many cats running around I have seen 4 mice get eaten in the last week. Whoa, buddy. Snack time.
This evening we watched a fire show on the lawn near the driveway, performed by a group of at-risk youth who are here doing a weekend retreat. The spun fire and played drums, and it was fabulous. They really want to milk the cows and make bread, too.
My evening ended by swapping songs on the guitar with Peter. I am teaching him Paradise, the old John Prine tune, and he is teaching me Wrobelki, a Polish song about two little gray birds that rub their wings together and fall in love. It's very beautiful, but Eva says its kind of dirty. I think it's hysterical, made better by the fact that Peter still has a pronounced Swiss-German accent, so I may sing the song a little funny.
Lastly, on the subject of language. I have decided that only speaking one language in this day and age is kind of like wearing a unitard- it fits great, but then you go outside and realize how ridiculous you look because you have nothing else to wear! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, and let me know what y'all come up with.
Til' next time . . .
yours truly,
Pippi Longstocking
Earlier that day I had visited a school with Eva that had been damaged in the fairly recent flood. When the Wisla river rose, approx. 2,000 people were displaced, and are still in the process of restoring their homes and attempting to revitalize their fields. This particular school received a lot of aid, and is now renovated and very beautiful, and had an open, welcoming feel to it. With Eva as translator we had a Q&A with a fairly small group of 10-12 year olds who were there for an after school program, then I played guitar and led some drama games. A group of Polish children can now stumble through the chorus of "I'll Fly Away.".
Earlier in the week I went with Peter to pick up grain from another local farmer who lives about half and hour away. He greeted us warmly and showed us his young goat, who Peter gave him a few months ago, and said she was doing very well. In fact, she sometimes jumps up on her hind legs and dances, and has been seen performing this trick on the roof of the shed which she can climb up to by way of hay bales! Does anyone else hear the start of a great children's story here? It was very cold that day, and when I was invited into the house I entered to find a lovely, modest home and a Grandma who was ready to feed me. I had noodle soup, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and tender pork. Then a cup of tea and a chocolate covered gingerbread cake that resembled a donut. The farmer came in, we chatted via Peter, and he wasted little time in telling me that his son recently "lost" his girlfriend, and if I were to marry him he has a lot of vodka ready for the wedding! He then showed me a giant jug of vodka, and we had a shot of Krupnik, Polish honey liqeur. It was all in good fun, and I said perhaps I would learn Polish and come back.
Grandma, who fed me the delicious meal and sent me away with another piece of cake for the road, was the only member of her family to survive the Holacaust. A Catholic Polish family, her parents had been hiding resistance fighters in their barn. When the Gestapo found out, they killed the family, but her mother managed to hide her under pillows and blankets in the bed, and she survived, and was raised in an orphanage.
There is an old man who lives near Peter who is considered handicapped. I asked about it, Peter said he was beat on the head by a Nazi solider and suffered brain damage when he was 9 years old.
After the war, they converted the Synagogue into a cinema because there were no Jews left to worship there.
I mention this because as I hear bits and pieces I realize that just below the surface there are so many stories that tell of what happened here. I had a dream the other night that my Bubby was alive, and living in Poland, and I couldn't believe I hadn't thought to visit her, until I finally remembered that she passed many years ago.
That said, there is what I like to call a direct line to the spirits here, and it is not all full of tragedy and pain. There have been moments where I feel something get plugged in, like I get some strange and lovely metaphysical goosebumps while looking at the crazy full moon or staring at a tree.
In happier news there are so many kittens here! Holy hell! A pair of black kittens that were left in the ditch by the side of the road got moved to the cow stable, where they are happy little guys drinking warm milk, and there are 4 more kittens in the house. With so many cats running around I have seen 4 mice get eaten in the last week. Whoa, buddy. Snack time.
This evening we watched a fire show on the lawn near the driveway, performed by a group of at-risk youth who are here doing a weekend retreat. The spun fire and played drums, and it was fabulous. They really want to milk the cows and make bread, too.
My evening ended by swapping songs on the guitar with Peter. I am teaching him Paradise, the old John Prine tune, and he is teaching me Wrobelki, a Polish song about two little gray birds that rub their wings together and fall in love. It's very beautiful, but Eva says its kind of dirty. I think it's hysterical, made better by the fact that Peter still has a pronounced Swiss-German accent, so I may sing the song a little funny.
Lastly, on the subject of language. I have decided that only speaking one language in this day and age is kind of like wearing a unitard- it fits great, but then you go outside and realize how ridiculous you look because you have nothing else to wear! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, and let me know what y'all come up with.
Til' next time . . .
yours truly,
Pippi Longstocking
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