In the Kyrgyz mountains

Earlier this week our camp group took an environmental science field trip into the mountains north of Lake Issyk-Kul. The Kyrgyzstan we visited is more typical and representative of the entire country than the urban capital city of Bishkek in which I've been living.  This is the Kyrgyzstan of the herder and the yurt. I will be moving in a few weeks to a place that much more closely resembles this rural and mountainous slice of Kyrgyzstan.  I wonder what vistas will await?

In the meadow where we had our picnic lunch 

A Kyrgyz beekeeper and his mobile colony selling honey along the roadside

The roadside teahouse where I had tea with the Kyrgyz drivers of our vans along with the yurt where the family operating the makeshift teahouse lives.

Our students coming down the typical Kyrgyz mountain road to meet the vans after completing their environmental studies 

Sentences I never thought I would utter during my lifetime

"I'm living in a former colony of the Soviet Union."

"Right now this poor, former colony seems more politically stable than the United States."

"Donald Trump is the Republican nominee for President."
(I've actually said this sentence many times. And still my head spins every time I say it.)

"There's a frighteningly good chance the U.S. will elect a neo-fascist for its leader."

"72% of Evangelical Christians in the U.S. support the use of torture by our government."
(That partly explains why we might elect the neo-fascist. And I'm sure Christ was beaming with pride in heaven when He heard this little factoid.)

"I thought for sure we were going to hit that cement truck."
(An observation I made during the van ride from the Astana Airport to the Diplomat Hotel.)

"I'm not trying to frighten all of you, but, yes, the U.S. could elect Trump."
(An excerpt from a recent discussion with my Canadian co-workers.)

"Yes, I actually enjoyed the horse meat."
(Something I said in a Kyrgyz restaurant.)

"I am working for a secular Islamic-based organization."

"This Islamic-based organization represents the secular, American ideals of Madison and Jefferson more closely than many of the organizations I've worked for in the United States."

"Простите, где туалет?"
(Russian for "Excuse me, where's the toilet?" I never thought I'd utter any sentences in Russian during my lifetime.)

"So there really won't be any hot water for a month?"
(Technically, it's a sentence I texted to my Kyrgyz landlord.)

"He kind of makes George W. Bush look like Abraham Lincoln."
(A statement made in reference to Donald J. Trump. I admit I might have had a bit of a fever at the time I said it.)

"Watch out for the herd of goats!"
(Shouted to the driver of the car taking us to Naryn.)

"No, I've never had a cold slice of pickle pizza for breakfast before."
(My response to a question posed by my fellow diners at summer camp this week. And, yes, that truly was the breakfast entree.)

"I think we all would be f***ing doomed."
(My assessment of what would what happen if Trump were elected President, when asked by a Canadian co-worker. It was at a social gathering and I admit I might have had a bit of a fever at the time I said it.)

Faces of Issyk-Kul

I am currently at Lake Issyk-Kul managing a summer camp. While camp has been an interesting and reasonably pleasant experience, what I have enjoyed most is the lake--Issyk-Kul itself. Whether it is supervising participants swimming in the lake or sitting on the dock at night gazing at the shimmering reflection of the moon off the water, it is my daily process of learning to recognize the various faces of Issyk-Kul that has provided me a pleasant diversion from the work at hand.

One face of Issyk-Kul is its dimensions, how it is classified. This face is much like the face we display on our driver's licenses, accompanied by our height and weight and eye color. This face of Issyk-Kul tells a remarkable story. Issyk-Kul is the tenth largest lake in the world by volume.  It is 180 kilometers long and up to 60 km. wide in places. The lake averages 650 meters in depth and is the second largest saline lake in the world behind the Caspian Sea. Despite being surrounded by mountains, lashed by bitter cold in winter, and situated at 1600 meters above sea level, Issyk-Kul, because of its mild salinity, never freezes. That's why the ancient Kyrgyz named the lake Issyk-Kul, which means "warm lake."

Issyk-Kul has another face, but this face is actually a reflection of humans and their interactions with the lake. It is what we see when we look deeply into Issyk-Kul and this reflection is a mirror of our hopes and desires and dreams--it is a mirror of our lives. This face of Issyk-Kul is like the face of a mother providing sustenance and life to her family or a father bringing home the daily meal. When we see this face it is the reflection of the fisherman pulling his net from the lake, the tourist gathering rest and entertainment along the shore, the shopkeeper making her living from those who visit. I realize this human face of Issyk-Kul is also my own as I stare at the water, catching my reflection. Even the reflection of the darkest side of our humanness is present in this face of Issyk-Kul. This human darkness is contained in the lake's deepest parts where submarines of the Russian Navy practice the firing of torpedoes in order to improve their lethal efficiency.

The face that has captivated me the most is the face of Issyk-Kul as it really is, its physical presence as I encounter it each day. This face has many moods and shapes and seems to transform itself almost with each passing second. Sometimes it is a smooth, light presence, but in a moment the lake becomes dark and rough, and seems to call out in anger or alarm. Sometimes it is silent, and at other times the waves lapping against the shore create a deep, rhythmic chant that I can imagine Issyk-Kul has sung for almost an eternity. On some days the sky is clear and azure, but on certain afternoons Issyk-Kul calls to the heavens and an army of white and gray clouds descend upon the lake; lightning strikes, the rain pours down, and Issyk-Kul is no longer alone. I am gladdened by every subtle glance directed my way--it is almost like those rare days when you can feel an acquaintance gradually becoming a warm friend.

I know that I have only witnessed precious few of the countless faces that Issyk-Kul possesses. It is reassuring to know I have more days to discover other expressions, happy that I have been able to escape, if only for a moment, my regular existence away from Issyk-Kul, where in the ceaseless rush of life, it seems I barely stop to take the time to recognize any faces at all.

Off to Summer Camp

When I was a kid, I went to two different summer camps.  One was 4-H camp.  It was a camp that relied heavily on arts and crafts, an activity which I dislike, mainly because I have no skill or aptitude in these areas.  Endless days of leatherwork, macrame, drawing, and worst of all "pasta art" (literally, making paintings out of paint and wet noodles) made me associate the word camp with drudgery. And we did lots of singing.  Lots and lots of singing.  Of very nonsensical songs. "If you're happy and you know it stomp your feet. If you're happy and you know it stomp your feet.  If you're happy and you know it, then your face will really show it, if you're happy and you know it stomp your feet."  ("But, I don't stomp my feet when I'm happy," I told my camp counselor.) "The bear climbed over the mountain, the bear climbed over the mountain, the bear climbed over the mountain.....to see what he could he could see...to see what he could see, to see what he could see, the bear climbed over the mountain, the bear climbed over the mountain, the bear climbed over the mountain... to see what he could see."  ("Why won't the bear just hibernate already?" I wondered after the fourth stanza of this.)  "The mighty Duke of York he had 10,000 men, he marched them up the hill, then he marched them down again, and when they're up they're up and when they're down, they're down, and when they're only halfway up, they're neither up nor down." (No wonder the Duke of York lost so many battles, exhausting his soldiers with the constant climbing up and down of hills, the 10-year-old Erik thought to himself as he and his fellow campers had to physically replicate the up and down of the Duke of York's soldiers while singing this mindless ditty.) Endlessly, we sang these songs that made no sense. Endlessly.

Then there was Camp Lutherhaven.  Now that sounds particularly painful and medieval, a camp named after Martin Luther, but Lutherhaven was actually pretty pleasant. Most important was the fact that participation in all arts and crafts was optional.  Additionally, the staff and counselors gave us a great deal of freedom and we spent much of our days on the beach of Lake Coeur d' Alene swamping canoes and splashing about in the water, although we did sing Kumbaya a few dozen times more than I would personally choose to during an ordinary week.

Now, I am off to camp again, decades after my most-recent camping experience.  Instead of the role of camper, I am now one of the people responsible for providing an intensive academic camp experience to 77 high school students from Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Kazakhstan. Sounds like great fun.

You won't be hearing much from me during the next 24 days.  The Wifi at our camp site isn't too spectacular.  And the designer of the camp has activities planned from 7 am until 10 pm.  And if my ancient, dusty memories are accurate, some of the most vivid memories I have of camping are the various troubles and difficulties possessed by my fellow campers: acute homesickness bordering on clinical depression, inappropriate or nonexistent bathing habits, propensity toward the bullying of one another, mischievous tendencies, pranksterism, bouts of spontaneous crying, intestinal troubles, an almost magnetic attraction to poison ivy, poison sumac, poison oak and any other plant causing severe skin irritation, general whining and complaining, and generous doses of either mania or hysteria depending on the phase of the moon.

Yes, you won't be hearing much from me in the next 24 days.  At least there won't be pasta art.

Додо Пицца!

Пицца is the Russian word for pizza. And just by looking at it, you can kind of see that Додо is the word for dodo. So, you must have figured out, by now, that I finally gave into the pizza craving I've been having for a couple of months now and ended up at Додо Пицца or, for those of you who prefer the Latin alphabet, Dodo Pizza.

When you live abroad for extended periods, you sometimes get food cravings.  Bishkek is fairly cosmopolitan in its offerings of international cuisine and I enjoy Central Asian food, so I really haven't had any food cravings, except pizza. I am not sure why it is, but pizza is the one food, perhaps other than chocolate, that I sometimes crave, and sadly it is also a food that, at times, has trouble traveling successfully between cultures.  I mean in its basic form, it's only bread, tomato sauce and cheese, so it shouldn't be too difficult, but many countries have real troubles making a pizza that satisfies an American's cravings.

I think Japan might have been the place where I experienced my most severe case of "Pizza Culture Shock."  I remember getting a pizza there topped with only these five ingredients: cheese, tuna, squid, corn, and mayonnaise. When I think about it, I don't believe there ever was a pizza I consumed in Japan that didn't have corn on it. I still don't know why.

I think the problem with pizza outside of Italy is one of "over-translation." Pizza is such a simple, yet versatile, food that it lends itself to cultural translation. So, when they do the translating, the Japanese cook puts corn and squid on the pizza or the Turkish chef adds the lamb shawarma--a style of pizza I had a slice of in Istanbul. We, Americans, are also very guilty of this over-translation, taking a simple masterpiece and distorting it in the process.  My favorite American pizza is the Hawaiian Pizza smothered in Canadian bacon and pineapple. Whenever I describe my favorite American pizza to Italians, their faces turn red and they raise their voices, almost to the point of rage, angry at the heathen savage who would dare do something as offensive as adding sweet pineapple to a pizza. This over-translation of simple pizza borders on sacrilegious, to an Italian, so if you ever have an Italian houseguest who has stayed in your home for too long a period, serve him a Hawaiian Pizza, and he'll have his bags packed and will be out of your house before sunset.

Because the slice of shawarma pizza I had in Istanbul, while possessing a certain exotic appeal, did not have the effect of satisfying my pizza craving, I finally decided to trek over to Dodo Pizza, because I had heard they actually served a good version of a Hawaiian Pizza. Was I as "dumb as a dodo" for going to a Kyrgyz pizzeria with this peculiar name? It turns out, no, I was not.  My Hawaiian Pizza was an excellent Kyrgyz translation of an American translation of Italian pizza. And, this particular exercise in translation, that Berlitz himself would have appreciated, will satisfy my pizza craving for the next few months at least.

The interior of Dodo Pizza

The display screen indicates when a person's order is ready.  Order #22, for Erik.  I kind of like the way my name looks in the Cyrillic alphabet.  

There's my pizza ready to be unveiled. I would love to talk to the person who decided to name the place Dodo Pizza. Why the dodo?  It's so odd, I like it.

Here it is, in all its glory, my Hawaiian Pizza.  The Dodo provides some barbecue sauce on the side for those who would indulge in this unnecessary condiment.  

Fatalism on a Sunday in Kyrgyzstan

Today, being Sunday, it's laundry day.  I got a load finished and then went to take a shower, when suddenly the water disappeared.  I've been in Kyrgyzstan long enough to realize that a sudden loss of water is about as unusual and noteworthy an event as the morning sunrise.  About the only response I could make was to get dressed, add tons of extra deodorant, and put a baseball cap on my head as I left my apartment to run my errands.

I walked down the six flight of stairs to leave my building.  Yes, Babushka, our building's feeble old elevator is down again. When she'll be up and running is anyone's guess.  When I finally reached the ground floor and left the building, this is the scene I encountered.

Clearly, the problem with water was a bit more severe than the usual troubles, it appeared. As I walked toward the grocery store, I encountered a co-worker who lives a block away from me.  It turned out he had water, but none of it was hot.  He also told me he didn't have any electricity either.  We stood on the sidewalk, chatting, trying to decide which of our two situations was preferable.  I voted for my situation: no water, full electricity.  Finally, he agreed that my situation was better than his cold water, no electricity difficulties. After reaching our consensus we wandered off to accomplish whatever we could on this day of partials.

There's an elderly man who lives in my building.  As I left my apartment this morning, he was sitting on a bench watching the two men struggling to repair our water problem.  He sat quietly, intently, almost as if he were watching a baseball game. He wasn't angry at all about his lack of water; he seemed to actually enjoy the spectacle, as if observing Kyrgyz messes was a pleasant diversion, a hobby even.  Who knows how much Soviet-era and post-Soviet mayhem this man has watched in his day?  His serene gaze, completely devoid of anger or frustration, clued me into his general state.  The elderly man was in a state of fatalistic bliss.  Fatalism.  It's the state of knowing there's nothing anyone can do, all that happens in the universe is inevitable, beyond the scope of our control.  Once you become a fatalist, then you can sit on a bench and enjoy, whatever comes your way.

Fatalism is something most Americans can't stand.  Folks in the U.S. are definitely indeterminists: they believe that people are in control of their own destinies and can shape events to create their individual fates. "If only you work hard enough, you can become whatever you want." That's why so many in the U.S. are attracted to Donald Trump. Although their confidence in the ability to control one's fate has been tested, they haven't yet reached the stage of fatalism and believe that Trump, the self-proclaimed king of shaping one's own destiny, will be able to take over America and through force of will and brilliance, change the fate of our nation for the best.  I find it ironic that these Americans think that a man like Trump, who inherited his fortune and station in life (talk about fate), somehow has the knowledge and ability to positively transform the destiny of an entire nation. I do believe, however, he does possess the capacity of the self-absorbed and arrogant narcissist to destroy much of what he comes in contact with, so perhaps I haven't become a complete fatalist after all.

As I sit writing this, I hear my hot water heater churning and bubbling and making assertive noises, so I know my water is back, much more quickly than I had anticipated. And as I write, I realize I am torn: living in Kyrgyzstan has reinforced my fatalistic tendencies as sometimes living here feels like riding on a raft without oars down an angry, rushing river.  Yet, I am also involved in an endeavor that is trying to transform Kyrgyzstan, and an entire region, through higher education by empowering youth to take hold of their fate and change it for the good.  This is an indeterminist cause that I embrace enthusiastically. I guess, more than anything, life is a paradox, where fatalism and indeterminism both rule simultaneously, in varying degrees, depending on the day. All we can do is dig a few holes, fix what leaky pipes we can, and try our best to move forward along the path we believe is right and good.

Flying SCAT Airlines

When I received my itinerary for my visit to Kazakhstan to meet with admitted UCA students, I noticed that my flight from Taraz to Astana would be on SCAT Airlines. I am generally a brave airline passenger who has successfully endured a nightmarish flight from Amsterdam to JFK on Royal Jordanian that ended up taking almost two days, made it through a flight on long-defunct Cascade Airlines (nicknamed "Crashcade") in an old 16-seat prop plane where I spent most of the journey cleaning vomit off the speechless six-year-old stranger sitting next to me who had had pancakes for his breakfast and was traveling alone, no flight attendants on the old 16-seater mind you, survived an approach to the Copenhagen Airport where a sudden wind shear almost slammed us abruptly into the Baltic Sea just short of the runway, and managed to remain serene during the three times I landed at the Tegucigalpa, Honduras Airport where you dive-bomb onto the runway, threading your way through mountains, astonishingly close, at least from my perspective, to houses and utility poles.

Despite my general bravery, I was slightly skeptical of an airlines named SCAT.  While the word scat means "to hurry quickly" it also means "a pile of animal poop."  When I received my ticket I fervently hoped that the inspiration for the airline's name came from the first definition of the word scat and not the second.  This was a concern, as I have flown on a few airlines where they really do treat you like scat, perhaps this airline was simply being honest and up front about it.

In researching SCAT Airlines before my departure, I found out that they are not allowed into European airspace because their practices do not meet European air safety standards.  While this was not the most encouraging news, I didn't become too alarmed; besides only once had a SCAT flight failed to make it to its destination.  And, on the brighter side, that one mishap was attributed to weather and the forecast for my flight was blue skies and only a moderate chance of deadly wind shear at the Astana Airport.

When we arrived at the Taraz Airport, I asked my Kazakh colleagues about SCAT airlines.  "What does SCAT stand for?" I wondered.  "It's an acronym," one of them said.  "It stands for Seldom Crashes After Twelve," said the other.  I learned on my trip that Kazakhs have a delightful sense of humor.

Walking out to our SCAT flight on the tarmac of the Taraz Airport

Finally, we boarded our flight, and took off for Astana. It was a very dull and uneventful trip.  The plane was relatively new and modern, and very clean.  Much to my surprise, SCAT Magazine had a few interesting tidbits.  We even received a small snack and refreshment.  The flight attendants were pleasant and helpful and didn't snarl at the passengers when they pressed their flight attendant call buttons for trivial reasons like asking for an extra napkin or to inquire what the exact time was--actions that would have launched U.S. flight attendants into fits of hostility. And in about 90 minutes we landed in Astana safely and as gently as I place my head on my pillow at bedtime.

It turns out to have been another case of an American and his poor sense of reality when it comes to assessing risk. It was the transfer from the Astana Airport to our hotel that should have been the focus of my concern; my only charitable explanation of our driver's behavior was that we were his last pick-up of the day before he had to rush to the hospital to visit his wife who was scheduled to give birth in less than 30 minutes, because he zoomed toward our hotel at 120 kilometers per hour through the streets of Astana, narrowly missing a cement truck, three pedestrians, a scraggly old dog scavenging the streets for food, and a barely-moving Lada that surely had been manufactured during Stalin's rule.  My other explanation for our driver's behavior was pure, unadulterated madness.

When we arrived with a screech at the hotel, after catching my breath and pulling my fingernails out of the upholstery of the seat directly in front of me, I asked my Kazakh colleagues if SCAT (which actually stands for Special Cargo Air Transport) had a taxi service we could take to the airport for our flight the following day instead of the hotel "courtesy" van. We all chuckled nervously and proceeded with the next stage of our journey, remembering, in that moment, that not a single centimeter of any journey can be known in advance or taken for granted.

Safe arrival at Astana International

Happy 4th of July!

I almost forgot that today was the 4th of July. Without adolescents igniting fireworks around my neighborhood in Bishkek days in advance of the 4th like they do in the U.S. and without my television advertising 4th of July blowout super sales for products like mattresses and RVs, I hadn't remembered that Independence Day was here.

When living abroad, I really haven't celebrated the holidays of my culture. For example, when teaching in Japan, December 25th was just another working day like any other. It's the same for me this year with Independence Day.  I spent it driving across Kazakhstan to the city of Shymkent on a work-related trip. As far as I know, Shymkent isn't putting on a fireworks display this evening, nor have I found any picnics or outdoor barbecues.

But it really isn't the lack of festivities in Shymkent that has me discouraged about celebrating my nation's birthday.  I think Independence Day isn't resonating with me this year, because of what's currently happening in the U.S.  The Donald Trump phenomenon has taken any excitement I might have had for celebration and turned it into naked fear of what my country has become.

As I think about Donald Trump, I realize he reminds me of one of the gigantic balloons from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, except in my imagination the Trump Balloon, a giant replica of the man including a flopping mop of orangish hair on top, is ten times the size of any balloon previously constructed--it's Huuuge!  To make matters worse the Trump Balloon, filled with noxious gas, has become unmoored and is hurtling erratically across the sky.  Roughly half the people in America are rushing toward the Trump Balloon trying to grab hold of the ropes dangling from the Balloon that had unsuccessfully kept it tethered to the ground.  They somehow think that if they manage to take hold of the giant Trump airship by grasping one of the ropes, they will be transported to the land of "America Great Again," which is located, I've been told, somewhere between Oz and Shangri-La.

The other half of the country, myself included, see the untethered Trump Zeppelin spinning madly across the American sky and are running for our lives in the opposite direction, visions of past explosions of massive gas-bags like the Hindenburg engraved in our memories.  We don't wish to be consumed by the fiery inferno and are heading for any shelter we can find. A bit unmoored myself, I ended up finding sanctuary 15,000 kilometers from the potential blast zone.  But somehow, I worry that none of us will be safe if the Trump Zeppelin becomes the Ship of State and catapults itself into a fiery cataclysm. 

That's why I'm not celebrating the 4th of July in Shymkent. Instead I am sitting outside my hotel on a patio, gazing up at the empty night sky, hoping that the day will never come when we will all have to be scanning the heavens for unstable zeppelins on a course to crash and burn on top of us.  In lieu of celebration may I wish you a Happy 4th and may we all figure out what contributions each of us can make toward keeping the skies safe and uncluttered.

Miniature slide show of Istanbul

I first learned photography when I was six-years-old; my father was my tutor and he provided me with an old TLR (twin lens reflex) camera that looked a lot like this one.

Back in those ancient days almost all the pictures we took were slides.  I am guessing that most people who are reading this blog have never even seen a slide and probably haven't seen a slide show either, although, if you think about it, PowerPoint is really nothing more than a fancy, modernized version of the old-fashioned slide show.  The three pictures below are slides.  You would put them in a projector and the images would be projected onto a screen, or maybe even a wall that was painted white.

When I was a kid, we would go to people's houses for dinner and after we finished our meals, as a "reward" for stopping by to visit, our hosts would put on slide shows for our "entertainment." Maybe we might see images of their recent vacation to Yellowstone Park, or their visit to the Central Oregon fossil beds, or worst of all their recent family reunion of relatives we had never even met. I can remember the agony of sitting in the dark through lengthy 400-slide productions of uninteresting images that elicited approximately the same intensity of pain as getting one's teeth pulled except, sadly, our hosts never furnished laughing gas or Novocaine. Now that old memories have been reawakened, I suddenly remember it wasn't the images that were the most painful, but the narration:  "That's Uncle Bud when he was a kid.  Do you remember him?  I think that slide is when he killed the gopher out behind the utility shed. Uncle Bud tried killing that gopher for three months, you know. His first wife, Aunt Alice, was one of the Haasenfelders from Southern Idaho.  Her family, they were the farmers, not the Haasenfelders who were the butchers......"  I think you get the excruciating idea.

My dear reader, I have approximately 150 images of Istanbul that I haven't posted anywhere that I wanted to post for your enjoyment.  Then I remembered my personal history of photography, particularly the slide show. That's when I decided that I would err on the side of empathy and kindness and force myself to choose only six images, which I have uploaded below. That is one advantage to the Digital Era of Photography. It has rendered the slide show extinct and has transferred the control of viewing options from the creator of the image to the consumer.  I will no longer lure you to my home with the promise of dinner only to hold you hostage in order to force you to see my images; instead you can now choose to view them, or not, whenever you please. Sometimes we think the world is on a rapid, downward descent toward Armageddon, but this more-humane way of taking in images just proves that there are actually many things that have been improving over time.  Therefore, in the happy spirit of progress and advancement enjoy this miniature, digital slide show of Istanbul.

Sharpening knives on a Monday morning, near Hagia Sophia

Tourists inside the Blue Mosque.  Most tourists in the summer come ill-prepared to visit the mosque, in their shorts and uncovered arms, as they are oblivious to the customs of modesty in holy places valued by their hosts.  This picture shows tourists struggling about in the skirt-like coverings that the mosque has provided for them.  Men have a particularly difficult time walking, as they really don't know how to move gracefully in this attire.  It seemed a perfect symbol of the failure of Western civilization to learn about others and how to properly approach peoples and religions that are unfamiliar.  

The obelisk of Theodosius was originally the ancient obelisk of Pharaoh Thutmose III.  It was re-erected in the Hippodrome of Constantinople by the Roman Emperor Theodosius I in the 4th Century AD.



The Lighthouse of Ahirkapi, built in 1755 and renovated in 1857, is located on John F. Kennedy Avenue.

This room is situated inside Topkapi Palace, the palace of the Ottoman sultans.  This is the room where princes were circumcised.  I would make a cutting remark, but I don't think that would be appropriate.  Notice the Delft tiles on the walls. It proves that the Dutch are a pragmatic people, who even 400 years ago, did not let a little thing like religious difference hamper their trade.



This is the interior of the church of St. Irene.  Actually this was the first church ever built in Istanbul, construction ordered by Constantine I in the 4th Century.  The original church was destroyed, but this version remains largely intact from its 8th Century renovations.  This is the only Christian church of the Byzantine era that wasn't converted to a mosque, because it happened to be located inside the walls of the Topkapi Palace grounds controlled by the sultans.  St. Irene spent the next several hundred years as an armory and a royal military museum.  That's why the Christian iconography you see here has remained intact for over a millennium.

Istanbul Ambiance

When I lived in Arkansas, my studio apartment didn't have a dining room, so I never purchased a dining room table.  When I cooked at home, I usually just sat in a chair and ate my meals off of a folding TV tray that I had purchased for ten bucks at Walmart.  I'm not a bad cook, and most of what I made was probably fairly tasty, but when you eat your meals in an unappealing setting, the act of eating isn't particularly special, even if you're consuming Lobster Thermidor.

This past week in Istanbul, not only did I cook a delicious meal with a Turkish chef in a posh restaurant specializing in Ottoman Palace Cuisine, but I also had three delightful meals in unique settings which proves that ambiance is one of the most important ingredients you can add to a dish. 

The first interesting venue that I experienced was the historic Galata Tower.  In the U.S., restaurants in famous landmarks are often overpriced places that serve mediocre food, but the restaurant at the top of the tower was excellent and not more expensive than the run-of-the-mill kebob house I had eaten at the night before.  The Galata Tower was built of wood as a lighthouse in 528 by Byzantine Emperor Anastasius Oilosuz and rebuilt of stone in 1348 by craftsmen from Genoa.  The meal I had was delicious and the view across the Golden Horn to the Old City was unsurpassed.

Galata Tower

Interior of the restaurant

The view from my table of the Old City

The grilled sea bass and salad with walnuts and cheese were both outstanding

The second amazing place I had a meal was the outdoor cafe at the National Archeological Museum. It's a wonderful place to sit and relax among the ancient relics...no I'm not talking about the tour group of British retirees who walked by while I was eating.  Rather, the cafe is situated in a garden cluttered with old columns and other assorted stonework up to 2500 years old. And, for a little entertainment, your meal is accompanied by a small clowder of cats hoping stray crumbs land on the ground for their benefit.

The cafe at the National Archeological Museum

The final restaurant with wonderful ambiance was an outdoor place near my hotel in the Old City.  The Green Corner doesn't have the best food in Istanbul, but you'll get a good meal. The most-wonderful feature of the Green Corner is that it sits almost hidden in a jungle of trees across the street from Hagia Sophia. It is isn't every day that you have a 1500-year-old architectural and historical wonder staring down upon you while you eat.  That extra dose of ambiance makes the kebobs a little more tasty and represents a bit of an upgrade from eating one's meal off a Walmart TV tray.

The Green Corner Cafe

The view from my table: in the background, bleached by the sun, is the dome of Hagia Sophia 

The perspective from underneath

Most of us, when we encounter a bridge, travel over it without much consideration.  However, when I was in Istanbul taking a boat ride along the Bosporus, I traveled underneath two magnificent, gigantic bridges, The Bosphorus Bridge and the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, and this journey underneath did cause me to pause for a moment.

When gazing up at the two bridges, I realized it had been close to 20 years since I had traveled under a bridge. It was in Amsterdam, back in the previous millennium, seemingly several lifetimes ago.  Going under bridges in the Dutch city of canals, was quite a different experience than on the Bosphorus.  The bridges in Amsterdam are very low and the boats aren't really as tall as the average person.  We were riding on one of these long and not-at-all-tall canal boats and I can remember the captain warning us to lower our heads so that we wouldn't bash them against the bottom of a particularly low bridge. I felt as though when crossing under the bridges of Amsterdam it was almost like we were dancing the Limbo, each bridge representing one more bar we had to struggle our way under.

On the Bosphorus though, the two bridges we traveled under seemed bigger than all the hundreds of bridges in Amsterdam combined. When you drive over a bridge, even one as long as the Bosphorus bridges, you can still see the end point where you will arrive back on land.  But when you travel under one of these mammoth structures, they seem to extend almost into infinity, the end point indiscernible.

The expression "it's water under the bridge" is a piece of advice we give someone to tell them to stop dwelling on a particular event in the past, because that event is gone the instant after it takes place, departing much like water that flows toward the sea. The perspective I had from underneath the bridges of the Bosphorus caused me to re-think the metaphor and turn it upside down to, "it's a bridge over water."  Perhaps it's the piece of advice I can give when I need to tell myself to stop dwelling on a particular event in the future, because that event will be arrived at (or not) regardless of one's worry, much like a bridge eventually reaches land, even though the end point might be, in that moment, indiscernible.

View of the Bosphorus Bridge, looking toward Asia

The perspective from underneath the Bosphorus bridge

The perspective from underneath the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, looking toward Europe.

A more-traditional view of the Bosphorus Bridge