Odds and Ends

I must end this blog and re-enter my life here. Last night I was eating some of Jim's spicy spaghetti,yearning for a glass of the Turks' Ayran to quench the flames on my tongue. I'll track down some decent Eastern yoghurt and make it.

The name of that bakery on the Jerusalem-Hebron Road in Bethlehem is Fawanees. See my prior post for directions, and savor the delectably difficult challenge of choosing honey-drenched sweets from huge pans that continually emerge from the kitchen. Patrons buy by the box-full.

I feel like I am peering through a haze at US culture, trying to mesh lingering travel impressions with life on the ground here. I have teased and scoffed my Middle Eastern friends many times at their zealous conspiracy theories, and now I find myself wondering where the truth (?) does lie.

Gershon Baskin of IPCRI, http://www.ipcri.org/ talked about his hopes for peace in Israel and how the ingredients of a two-state solution are known, (like 22% of the land to Palestine, water agreements, right of return agreements, a shared Jerusalem, etc.). But also how the cake must be baked by some third party (the US) because neither side trusts standing in the kitchen with the other. I left thinking…US-backed Israel holds the power. What if they symbolized peace with generosity and gave the Palestinians 30% of the land?! There is plenty of land: they would never miss it. What if they defined and normalized the borders, and invited all of that vibrant Palestinian human capital to partake in a flourishing economy? What if they bent over backwards with munificence? I believe, after some hiccups, as protectors of the status quo fought back, both sides would self-eradicate violence. I can see how it could happen, or how it most easily might not.

To anyone planning a trip to Israel, do not miss Bethlehem or other towns in the West Bank. The Israeli government isn’t keen on foreigners seeing the other half of the situation, so they will inconvenience and intimidate. While Bethlehem has been given the “reputation” of being “dangerous”, we did not even slightly experience it that way. It is a beautiful, calm town, a lovely respite after crowded, chaotic, and stimulating Jerusalem. The people have easy smiles and big hearts, there is culture, a lot to do -- just check out This Week in Palestine, http://www.thisweekinpalestine.com/ -- and the food is exquisite.

Dr. Maria Khoury of the Palestinian village Taybeh – where her husband founded the Taybeh micro brewery http://www.taybehbeer.com/, was instrumental in setting up the International Academy of Art, Palestine in Ramallah, in cooperation with the Norwegian Government and Oslo National Academy of the Arts. http://www.artacademy.ps/english/index.html It will graduate its first class in 2011. Addresses in Ramallah look like this: Aref Al-Aref Building, behind Arab Bank Al-Bireh, before the boys’ school. We drove in circles for an hour to find the place, but our guide Mahmoud wasn’t willing to give up because the directions were so specific. It was a Sunday, and it looked closed --- but banging on the doors yielded entry into artist’s studios and a tour of the whole place. One of the artists proudly posed in front of her painting of her own nude torso. She was wearing jeans, a long sleeved shirt and hijab, so I commented on the incongruity (mainly that she divulged the identity of the torso’s model) – of her real appearance and the disrobed subject of her painting. She laughed without irony. She gave me an empty sketch book with the school’s name on the cover. When Jim was leaving Ben Gurion airport, they sifted through his plastic shopping bag of travel guides, maps, receipts, and all the pocket trash I keep after a trip to remember where I’ve been. It was obvious that there was no threat in that bag when it went through the security x-ray, but they pulled the blank perfect-bound (adhesive binding, no metal) sketch book out and demanded to know why Jim had it. Intimidation. At least they didn’t confiscate it.

After a luscious lunch in Ramallah, Jim and I paused on the street, waiting for others in our group. I was casually holding my camera and two women approached, indicating they didn’t want their picture taken. They stopped and we chatted, animatedly, like long lost friends – and then Jim took my picture with them. The delightful level of engagement lingers...

Nike is in Ramallah, but are no Starbucks in the West Bank. (I read six stores closed elsewhere in Israel because they weren’t popular.) Ramallah and Bethlehem, though, have Stars and Bucks Cafés. I brought home a mug and a T-shirt– with their amusing logo and pun-ronic name.

Every morning I still wake up recalling snippets of the sensual delights of my trip. If I were a nargile smoker I could head over to Waterfront Pizza (and Mediterranean Restaurant)in Foster City for a falafel and puff.

My task now is to build the infrastructure to support making art in pursuit of cultural dialogue between the East and the West. I have some ideas; they will probably form a new blog, and will lead to more travels, insha’Allah.

Thanks for joining me on this ride.

Foodprints

My taste buds are still in the Middle East.  Many meals were simple meze.  My mind's-eye sees Hummous, presented wreath-like on a plate, its spoon-dredged circular moat drizzled with olive oil, and sprinkled with pine nuts.  I tear fresh pita bread – much thinner and lighter than the dense soggy bagged breads found at markets here – into a little triangle to scoop it, or its sisters, Baba Ghanoush,  Tahini and Tabouli, into my mouth.  On the corner of Manger Square in Bethlehem is a falafel stand, Efteem.  Eight shekels buys two sandwiches, which we load with yogurt sauce and crawl inside out of the blinding heat to dribblingly savor, along with a fresh squeezed orange juice.

For lunch, we wanted “sha-wherma” (the Arabic version of the Turkish doner kebab sandwich).  Up the street from our Bethlehem hosts, we were ushered upstairs to the family area (because I was one of the few women in the place at that hour) of their recommended shawarma spot.  We each tackled a huge “burrito” of chicken, various salads, French fries, and sauces crammed into lavash bread.  While we realized one would have suited the two of us, we both cleaned our plates.  While our waiter was away placing the order, the kitchen helper shook us down for a tip.  He kept polishing the frosted glass of the family enclosure and pestering us until we produced adequate baksheesh.  The waiter was surprised and delighted when we tipped him the same amount his colleague had demanded.  I didn't really begrudge the bus boy  that “price of admission”, although we thought the creativity of his request could use some work.

I cannot remember the name of the bakery on the Hebron Road in Bethlehem.  It was something like Swannees, or Fawnees – some American-South sounding Arabic transliteration, but Google isn’t any help.  I had to grip sugar-addicted Jim’s wrist to keep him from floating straight up into sucrose heaven.  We went there twice, with the excuse of bringing our hosts a gift.  If you are looking for it – there is a known bakery called Dana along Hebron Road. This one is a little further on the road traveling towards Jerusalem, across, on the left side of the street.  All over the Middle East the baklava is to die for. 

Breakfast was included at each of our lodgings.  With the exception of the hotel in Suleymaniyah, Iraq, each repast was more than adequate, and some were exceptional.  The standouts:  fresh warm pita bread, za’taar and olive oil or feta cheese, with fresh cucumbers and tomatoes in Bethlehem; watermelon at many of them; an exquisite French pastry I can still taste at the Art + Hotel in Tel Aviv; the sour cherry (visne) preserves in Turkey; and even… Nescafe. Over the years, I have come to associate Nescafe with vacation – especially boat trips.  The blue cruise we took in 2004 down the Mediterranean coast of Turkey proffered exceptional Nescafe.  The way to make it great is:  put 4 spoons of those freeze-dried crystals in a small coffee cup, add hot water, milk, and honey.  Remember you are in a location you want to be in, and the coffee tastes just perfect.  I do draw the line at powdered creamer – not even Santa Margarita Ligure can make that taste OK.  The luscious cup of home-brewed Peet’s I’ve been drinking while sitting outside under a blanket in this August-masquerading-as-early May California summer, so far hasn’t tasted better than the Nescafe in Jerusalem and Bethlehem.

Mint.  I may adopt the Arabian habit of adding fresh leaves to everything. It makes tea exotic, and lemonade, crushed mint leaves and ice muddled together in the middle of the afternoon, renews the day.

Reviewing our gastronomical footprints, we ate in few real, formal restaurants.  Partly it was too hot to eat much, and the meze and other casual and street food was highly satisfying.  Two restaurants in Tel Aviv stand out.  Sweet potato latkes are a specialty at the neighborhood restaurant of Orna and Ella  Here’s the recipe offered by another blogger: http://savvysavorer.blogspot.com/2007/08/orna-and-ella-pancakes.html .  At Alma Beach heading back from Jaffa we ate at Manta Ray, which -- including the armed guard at the door – might just be quintessential Tel Aviv.  Friday, pre-Sabbath,  at about 2pm, the dining room and sand-side terrace included families, lovers, dogs, BFFs revitalizing themselves from shopping expeditions, and a wry waitress with a great sense of humor.  The place did seem a bit full of itself, but I loved how the traces of the onetime beach-shack jibed with its edgily contemporary vibe.

On the Turkish side of dessert – I miss traditional dondurma – a thick, chewy ice cream that the fez-topped handler keeps churning with a long paddle.  I don’t think the intent of this video is to mock the tourist -- and I enjoyed a similar aesthetically striped result of chocolate and pistachio while taking a break from roaming the Grand Bazaar. http://www.safeshare.tv/v/fvUQQF5S4Dg

Bon Appetit,   Afiyet olsun!,     (bil hana wish shifa'!)  بالهنا و الشفاء!   ,(b'tayavon) בתיאב

Hungry?

This blog is not complete -- I will keep writing it until I've purged my need to relive the memories of the trip.  I will label the last post -- whenever it occurs.

Also, please forgive me for not laboriously searching for the appropriate letters of the Turkish alphabet for all of the names I am including here.  I've included links, so if you want to see actually spellings, please click there.

I’ve been home a few days, and need to discuss food.  At this moment, in foggy cold mid-afternoon weather (the Bay Area forgot to have summer), I am missing the steamily cloying thundershowers of Istanbul, where like domed jelly fish under transparent umbrellas we streamed along the Istiklal Caddesi…Please put a Gül böreği ("rose börek")  and a glass of Ayran in front of me, now!   

Here’s how you make Ayran:

1 1/2 cup plain yogurt
1 1/2 cup water
1 tsp salt

I don’t know if Dannon will be an acceptable substitute for Turkish yogurt. 

In Istanbul, don’t be offended by the bright plastic McDonaldesque signage – many fast-food-looking restaurants offer a limited menu of real and good food.  A borek franchise will offer many variations of this fried or baked stuffed pastry staple– both sweet and savory.  Originally invented by Central Asian Nomadic Turks, it retains the popularity it gained in Ottoman times.  Stuffed with cheese, meat, spinach, etc. the pastry may resemble phyllo or lasagna noodles.  Look critically at a shop selling borek – you may see comfortable seating and wait service, even though its menu garishly pictures the items it offers.  This, by the way, is very helpful to a mute tourist peering up at a hovering Turkish waiter.

For a wonderful terrace overlooking the Bosphorus, next to the picturesque Galata Tower, climb to the fifth floor of the Galata Konak Café, http://www.galatakonakcafe.com/about.html .  Ottoman-style multi-story residences are called konaks.  We were there in the middle of the afternoon, so although Istanbul was crawling with tourists, it was calm and quiet. 

For luscious food, and a stimulating trek to reach it, from the Taksim Square end of Istiklal, walk a few blocks and turn left in front of the McDonald’s onto Kucukparmakkapi Sok.  If you don’t get distracted by beer and backgammon at the bottom of the hill, or linger under the cooling mist in the middle, at the top, on the right, you will find Medi Sark Sofrasi (No. 46A). Yum.  They don’t serve alcohol, so eat there and then drink on the way back down. Do order Ayran, they serve it foamy,  in a small copper bowl with a ladle.

On the Anatolian side of Istanbul, two wonderful restaurants…Ciya  Sofrasi http://www.ciya.com.tr/index_en.php in Kadikoy specializes in home-cooked traditional foods.  We were a big group with many non-Turkish speakers, so to preserve their waiter’s sanity, they noted our choices as we looked and pointed at the food as it was being prepared,   I had sour cherry kebab among other things.  

A tall glass of visne suyu set in front of me right now would make me so grateful. Visne--the sour cherry, suyu--the juice, is ubiquitous in Turkey.  Frequently a glass would suffice for my dessert – not that there weren’t boatloads of other exquisite options.   Visne will always remind me of Turkey.  During our meetings in Ankara, juice boxes were placed twice a day at each of our seats in the conference room.  Their hospitality was such that it took one day to notice that all of us drank the visne, and left the mango alone.  The next morning and afternoon, two juice boxes, of you guessed it, were at each seat.  The conference room table was about twice as big as we needed, so at the end of each day, we raced to collect the left-over visne suyu for overnight consumption.

Looking at the brightly changing multi-colored hues of the lights on the Bosphorus Bridge, a suspension bridge with a resemblance to the Golden Gate, I was treated to dinner by Burcu and her parents Aysa and Baha at Deniz Yildizi. http://www.villadenizyildizi.com/  The seafood was delicious, the service was impeccable, and the setting was unforgettable.  The sloping shores of the Bosphorus remind me of the Italian Lake district north of Milan, with its romantic old world timelessness.  To get to either of these Asian continent restaurants you have to cross the Bosphorus – and I recommend doing it by ferry – don’t get lazy and drive over.

Security, a State of Mind

I’m wondering if the tracks in my passport are tripping alarms.  When I head home on Friday, I will leave ample time to get through airport security.  My suspicion that US airport security since the fall of the towers has been a means of controlling us by fear, rather than actually protecting us has been confirmed when I see what real security is. Israel, which knows something about security only required that my computer go through separately -- belts, shoes, all else were no issue.  No surprise there.  To allow me to board a flight from Slemani (Suleymaniye) in Iraqi Kurdistan to Istanbul, every single item in each of my bags was checked at least 3 times.  I had to dismiss my dismay at the mauling of my carefully folded clothing, the upending of my system for keeping track of things to easily move into the next hotel, the loss of my camera batteries.  Had I known that my “pharmacia”, full of remedies for every malady I could imagine might occur over 5 weeks, would have to be approved by a doctor, I would not have had it in hand luggage.  The “doctor” (whom I didn’t see, because I was in a closet being intimately frisked for the 3rd time) decided he didn’t like my chewable Vitamin C and the Pepto Bismol tablets.  I think it was because they were not in their original packaging.  The worst part, besides the worry of missing my plane, was that in order to check the pharmacia after I’d already checked my bag earlier,  I had to go backwards through passport control.  That really caused a flurry.  They let me go, but kept my passport -- violating my preeminent rule of umbilical attachment to that document.

I can see how maybe my passport is a little suspicious -- they minutely inspected it with a loupe-- distrusting their computer's approval of me… and being a lone traveler is also a check in the wrong box.  Last year in Lebanon and Egypt, this year in Israel, Turkey and then Kurdistan, and traveling to Istanbul.  Turkey has a big Kurdish issue…yup -- I need to give myself a lot of time on Friday.  Since I am an American, returning on an American carrier, maybe I’ll sail through.  It might be time to get a new passport.  If I go to Syria next year as I hope, they won’t let me in with an Israeli stamp anyway.

This is not to discourage those of you who are thinking of traveling.  These kind of experiences are illuminating -- they give that snow globe a shake and  I wouldn’t trade them.  Like trying to leave Bethlehem.  It seems that it is pretty easy to get in controversial places, but you run a gauntlet getting out.  We hired an Israeli driver to take us from Bethlehem to Akko, with the intention of making a 10am meeting at a think tank maybe five miles from our lodging in Bethlehem.  Checkpoint 300 -- an ugly maze that crosses the “security” wall -- lay in the middle. Everyone has to walk across, with the taxi doing a long loop around to pick us up on the other side.  Our driver, with our comfort in mind, took us 15 minutes in the other direction to Beit Sahour, where he hoped we could just drive through.  Because we are Americans, they turned us back, and we walked through 300.  It was a great lesson in the irrational and politicized challenges the Palestinians face everyday.  It had nothing to do with security -- at 300 they smiled as they waved us through -- and it had nothing to do with the credentials of our driver who is an Israeli citizen…it had to do with the government’s desire to challenge foreigners’ travel in the West Bank.  It worked in our favor, we gained a first hand experience, and were 40 minutes late to our meeting with Gershon Baskin.  If you are interested in a pro Israel, pro peace perspective on Israel, you can Google and read his blogs.

I’m back in Istanbul. I am happy to be gradually heading west, and visiting Iraq was worth it.  I never felt in danger, but there were ten minutes on the drive between Erbil and Suly, where we were in Iraq proper -- on the outskirts of Kirkuk.  I have a photo of the open flames still burning from the 1st Gulf War. Americans are not safe in Iraq, they get kidnapped for ransom.  Iraqi Kurdistan is safe enough to visit, but it is still a conflict zone, or close to it.

Today, to initiate the reverse culture shock I face over the next couple of weeks, I am getting ready to hit the Grand Bazaar --  a good dose of consumerism should start the process.   Then I'll visit the Cistern, the subject of  my painting in 2006 (from someone else’s photo) which now hangs on the wall at The Garden Court Hotel in Palo Alto. http://www.virginiauhl.com/paintings/overshoulder13.html

Hotel Room Philosophy

The more I know, the less I know. I can also see this is just a reconnaissance trip.  I would love to be able to tell peoples' stories from this side of the world.  I have collected a few, but they only scratch the surface.  I can see that I need to spend some concentrated time in one of these locations.

I am also guilty of being an Orientalist, although hopefully in the pre-Edward Said sense of the word.  The artists of the 19th and early 20th century -- Delacroix and Matisse for example, were seduced by the exotic beauty and tantalizing sensations of Morocco, Algiers and other places.  They understood themselves through contact with these cultures.  Of course they were outsiders, imposing the Western gaze on the East -- but I think they were genuinely transmitting their curiosity and delight in the treasures of texture, color, costume, smells of the marketplace, and mellifluous languages that flowed around their ears, through the art they produced. In that sense, I’m willing to accept that label.  Edward Said might call me naïve, and maybe I am…but I truly mean no harm, my desire is to celebrate what I see to my American audience.

One of the things I love about Sulymaniye in Iraqi Kurdistan is the collapse of cultures.  It was less evident in Istanbul or Israel or Palestine -- they were, in spite of themselves, much more Westernized, hijab notwithstanding.  Here, the traditional dress of the men, desert neutral in color,  very baggy trousers, fitted jacket over shirt, with a patterned cummerbund, and fitted hat or wrapped scarf is worn by every 4th man.   Sulymaniye is surrounded by mountains, with lovely green parks in the center of the city.  This time of year, like in California, the hills are brown.  They tell me that in March and April, the green hills are exquisite.  So the centuries conflate here -- there is a lot of 21st century building -- of first world quality, satellite dishes abound, and of course everyone is carrying a at least one cell phone.  Then,  some of the traditionally clad men are carrying prayer beads.  You want espresso coffee?  Check.  Skin tight jeans and tank tops?  Check.  Hijabs? Check. Niqabs?  Check.  Pushcarts? Check.  Mercedes?  Check.

I am visiting with my Baghdadi friend Sarwa and her friends here.  Here in the north we have water and power.  In Baghdad, municipal power is available one hour out of every 5, and the temperature ranges between 50-55 C this time of year -- you can do the math.  So, each neighborhood has its own generator, but citizens are hijacked into paying inflated rates or sitting in the stifling dark.

Many of Sarwa’s professional class friends have fled.  Here in Suly sits a mechanical engineer and his well-known Baghdadi attorney wife.  It is safer here, but they have to remake their lives in their mid-40s, and while this area is booming -- it has decades to go before it approaches the 21st century sophistication they left in Baghdad.  They see the US as the land of opportunity -- Turks do too.  They don’t want to come to the US, they love their countries, but they wish they had the level of personal opportunity they see Americans as having.  This is also true for the Palestinians.

I joke with them that my work is to show Americans that these people - Arabs, Turks, etc, do not have the same nature as the violent extremists (I neglect to use the “t“ word -- it blocks the blog from people‘s access) -- that they don’t mean Americans harm.  Quite the contrary, they say, (Iraqis and Palestinians alike) they hate the t-rists more than we do.  It’s too bad CNN and Fox, even MSNBC and NPR don’t make that fact clear.  Everyone I’ve ever met or spoken to, and indeed the vast majority of everyone in all of these cultures just wants to live in peace, raise their families, enjoy their lives.  Their blood is red, their tears wet, their stomachs hurt, their teeth are unfriendly, there hearts are broken--- just like mine.

Being a minority English speaker with only one language, I frequently sit in a swirl of words I don’t understand - Arabic, Turkish…  I enjoy it -- I relax into the cadences, watch the speakers’ faces, gesticulating hands, moving mouths…and I wish I could understand them.  In Istanbul the Turkish speakers asked me what their language sounded like to me.  Did it sound like Arabic?  No, I told them -- angry Arabic sounds like a long series of hash-marks (this is mainly the Arabic shown on Western television)…regularly spoken, conversational Arabic sounds like a flowing, bubbling river, and Turkish sounds like a mix between Japanese and Eastern European -- it is syncopated, lyrical, and complexly layered.

I also frequently sit in a swirl of cigarette smoke.  Back to the memory soup -- it reminds me of when I used to travel on business in the 70s.  My boss (and my first husband) were smokers so I had to sit in ""smoking" on the plane.  I carried stale smoke into my home from any evening out, and there was no such thing as a non-smoking hotel room-- so every room, like most of them here, was encrusted with layers of nicotine.  Last night, deja vu,  I had to drape my clothes over the chairs to air them out.  And, in my 20s I didn’t have the allergies I do now.  The smoke isn’t so fun for me -- but the lives of the people here are so stressful, I actually empathize with their habit.

So, yes, my heart is cracked, because I see the problems here (and at home)  in terms of the brokenness of the human being.  We can’t seem to prevent ourselves from allowing corrupt, greedy, arrogant power from taking us into war.  Even on an individual level, it is hard to prevent ourselves from dehumanizing some group of “others”, from acting out our prejudices in order to make ourselves feel safer or less afraid.  Some of the Turks I met speak disparagingly of Arabs, some of the Christian Palestinians I met, criticize the Palestinian Muslims....and so it goes.

As I repeated at each meeting in the Istanbul/Ankara Exchange...my interest and work is in cultural dialogue between the East and the West.  I guess I'd better get used to the heartbreak.