Ezra Mannix

Spring finally is arriving in Anatolia – and the travel season begins. But let’s not forget that traveling in Turkey in the winter can be enjoyable, too. Below is an overdue post on traveling in East-Southeast Anatolia in late January. Keep it in mind for next winter — or any time of course. (Also, Palandökken is still open for skiing.)

Hasankeyf (Warning: check it out before it disappears!Read more...)

I sat on a rock. Winter birds were chirping in the vicinity. It had been a chilly and cloudy winter day in the high desert of southeast Anatolia. I jotted some thoughts down while checking out the moutnainscape. Using a point and shoot camera, I tried feebly to capture the essence of the cave dwellings and rock churches in this starkly beautiful landscape – a sort of mini Cappadocia. Suddenly, the sunlight streamed through the clouds, and kissed me and everything around it, a harbinger of spring to come. I quickly attempted to capture the play of shadows and sun with the Nikon. Then the clouds again shrouded the sun and again the desert air turned cold and challenging.

Hasankeyf…Winter can’t spoil you.

The weather, so changeable yet beautiful, mimicked my experience in the region. Southeastern Turkey is alternatively beautiful and frustrating. Its people warm-hearted and willing to bend over backwards, yet innocently nosey, asking how much money I make and what religion I am a mere 5 minutes after making acquaintances.

But if that’s the worse thing I can complain about, we should all be so lucky.

Where ever I went I felt that people were expecting me, just waiting for me to show up. Hospitality is rich all over Turkey, but in the Southeast it’s a regional pastime, a passion. At a certain point you just give up with the demurring and the false modesty and just offer a humble thanks. It’s a bit spoiling, actually. And for Turkey newbies the urge to reciprocate — or to not accept this level of hospitality – is strong, but that slowly melts away the longer you live here. You stop ‘feeling guilty’ and just resign to the locals’ warmth.

View from Palandökken -- white caps, but not enough snow.

Why the East in winter? My winter holiday from my university teaching job provided the ideal time to take this short and inexpensive trip. I flew into Erzurum (about 130 TL one way with Anadolu Jet), a place that I invite any wusses who complain about Istanbul cold to go to, just to walk around for 20 minutes at night in January. Skiing at Palandokken, a mere 7 km from the city center, was refreshing. The quality of the snow was fine. The problem lied in its amount. Despite bountiful snows in the western Anatolian mountains, pebbles and rocks appeared on many meagerly covered runs at Palandokken. About 10 runs were serviceable and 3 were pretty darn good. Still, for one of Turkey’s flagship resorts, it was lacking. After I left, huge storms dropped a meter of snow.

Then it was on to Diyarbakir over snowy mountain passes. A muddy snow was melting when I arrived and the following day in the Turkish capital – this under a pouring rain. This weather accentuated the grittiness of this city of about 1 million people.

Men walking through the alleyways of Diyarbakir old city after dark.

It’s not the usual mosques and kervansarays and hans that make Diyar standout – although the Ulu Camii and Meryam Ana Kilesi (a Syrian Orthodox Church still in use) are must sees. It’s the rambling alleyways where locals slaughter chickens and donkeys are used for transport that make it the sort of city jumps right out of a Middle Eastern stereotype. Walking along the iconic (and railing-less) city walls made of basalt gives one a bird’s eye view of all the lively squalor.

Mardin also offers its own interesting views, though of a more traditionally beautiful than Diyarbakir. Known as Mardin’s ‘sea’ because of its black appearance at night, the Mesopotamian plain stretches out for miles to the south. I made a connection with a Couchsurfer who put me in touch with a friend who was renovating a guesthouse for the summer season. It was located in the center of town in a traditional Mardin sandstone house and it was totally free. I watched movies and we cooked dinner with his 13-year old son (he also runs a quaint café).

The following day, the Sabancı-funded city museum there provides a great starting point for exploring the multi-cultural splendor (including another Syrian orthodox church) of Mardin: the medresses, the tombs and the bazaar, the latter is where famous local scented soaps are sold.

Mardin under rare snow

Dinner of traditional stew at Erzurum Evleri

After Midyat (a kind of flat Mardın with less stunning beauty) that night (I swear the hotel I stayed at was run by the PKK) and the following day – and Hasankeyf the day after – it was back to Diyarbakır and a dinner of ciğer (liver) in the modern section of town with a co-worker who is from there. She and her sisters then took me to the small airport for my Pegasus flight back to Istanbul – Sabiha Gökçen airport, a mere 80 minutes away. It was a perfectly hospitable ending to as perfect a sub-zero trip to the Southeast as one could enjoy.

Every stone and piece of glass in the Presidential Palace is from Romania. The square meterage of the building is second only to the Pentagon.

Like Turkey, Romania seems to dance with its mixed identity in a way that is at once intriguing and not quite sure of itself.

It has warmth and hospitality and many of its people have olive and latte colored skin. But to call it Mediterranean would be like calling Louisiana the Caribbean. It has a hearty, heavy diet that includes a spiceless polenta like substance, lots of potatoes and cabbage, and borscht. But to call it Slavic (or Hugarian) would be like calling Armenia Russia.  Its Transylvanian heartland has Saxon architecture dating from the 14^th century, complete with fortified churches to protect it (against Turkish invasions), but to call it German would be like applying the same label to Norwegians. In short, it’s a satellite orbiting around no one culture, despite lots of occupation in its history.

And yet it feels so damn EUROPEAN, just as Anatolia feels so ORIENTAL. Both regions are crossroads, where rolling, accessible landscapes trampled on by dozens of civilizations over the millennia, and now both are bearing the fruits of recent heavy investment in tourism.

The Black Church in Old Town Brasov at dusk, colors blazing and moon rising.

Located just an hour’s flight from Istanbul, Romania’s accessibility – thanks to budget flights on Pegasus Airlines from Sabiha Gokcen – makes it an ideal regional getaway. It reminds one why Istanbul is such an appropriate base for regional travel into southeast Europe. But Bucharest is not nor should be the end point of any trip to Romania lasting more than a couple days. There is stuff to do and see in Bucharest – the presidential palace and its ridiculous, tragic and opulent legacy of the Ceausescu reign, a building that is only dwarfed by the pentagon in square meters. There is the old town, small and filled with shops that locals actually go to. But Bucharest feels like a working capital not totally awakened (or succumbed to) to being a destination the same way Prague or Budapest are.

Two hours away, though, is Brasov. Brasov is a charming medium-sized Saxon city that – despite a hideous Hollywood-style “Brasov” sign on the mountainside — is a charming fairytale city nestled in a valley. Being there in early November, my traveling companion and I could marvel at the bright reds and yellows of the leaves on the trees of those hillsides.

But Being the kind of travelers we are, my friend and I made it a point to check out the local pub scene, not the foliage. Nights are cold in November and the tourists are largely gone, but we found a couple cozy bars to have a pint of Ursus, Silva, or some other local suds (none of which are exceptional). We bantered with the owner of one bar, a basement type joint owned by a motherly woman who spoke several languages and was about to retire to the countryside on account of high rents. We sampled Romania cuisine at Casa Romaneasca, where I dined on pressed chicken livers wrapped in bacon and covered in a creamy garlic sauce, ample fuel for the body’s furnace on a chilly evening (to avoid carrying a bowling ball in his stomach the rest of the evening, my friend had a hearty chicken soup with a salad of pickled red peppers).

At Rasnov Castle overlooking the Carpathian Plain

Two days in Brasov is probably enough, and more than half of one of those days was spent checking out the famous Bran castle of Dracula lore and the hilltop fort at Rasnov. Perched on a steep Carpathian hill, the last in the range before a breadboard-flat plain, the fort at Rasnov was a pleasant surprise, and it’s easy to see why the fort is so strategically necessary (as is the Bran castle, about 12 km down the road.)

The next day it was on to Sighisoara, another 3 hours by train and in the geographical heart of the country. Sighisoara is Brasov redux but with a more charming (if that’s possible) citadel on top of a hill with a 270-degree view of the surrounding town. The town is brimming with school kids, leading me to believe that people are either really bored or confident in Romania’s future to provide for its people. While staying in a cozy hostel/pension next to the citadel and adjacent Biserica din Deal (church on the Hill) built in the 14^th century, we managed to have a lot of walks past village houses with chickens feeding and mangy dogs barking.

Pedaling into the Transylvanian village of Vulkan (also a Turkish word meaning volcano)

On our second to last day in Romania, we rented bikes from a helpful tourist office in the center of town (after filling out countless forms), and went on a 40 km bike ride through the Transylvanian countryside, stopping at a church in the Gypsy village of Apold. In Apold we turned onto a dirt road and slowly plied our way up a gradual slope – past sheepherders and fields of stubble – through to an isolated hamlet (Volkan). There we went along a farm track barely visible up to a ridge, then down a hill back to the Sighisuara, but not after being chased by surly farm dogs as if we were 11-year old boys in some coming of age film set in the 1960’s rural America (old man Mr. McGoo’s dog is after ya, Nick…faster faster!). At first we bemoaned the gloomy weather of low clouds, but then we realized that it was fitting because we were in Transylvania after all, and warm sunshine and greenery would be too…well…sunny for a landscape with such a macabre reputation.

Some of my 10-year-old "Turtles" after our scavenger hunt on the mountainside.

Teaching English at a Summer Camp at Uludag

(A faint chant starts in Turkish somewhere in the back of the dining area, with its views of the mountains below. It grows slowly louder, until all the dinner tables erupt into the climactic chorus:)

Gel-e-ce-gin

yil-diz-lar!

Yil-diz-lar!

The nostalgic chant reverberates through my head as I rejoin the hot, boring adult world back in Istanbul after spending two weeks with campers at “Camp Future Stars” (Gelecegin Yildizlari) up on Uludag, a sprawling, 2000-meter high ski resort area home to one of the finest kids’ summer camps in Turkey during its lazy summer offseason.

The first term of Future Stars features kids from ages 10 to 13. They are from more well-to-do families in Turkey, but they aren’t spoiled brats that I might have feared. I felt a genuine bond with them upon departure. My first experience teaching at a summer camp was a beautiful one, even if fraught with problems such as lack of supplies and miscommunications that didn’t seem to befit a summer camp of its stature.

Sunsest over the summit

The co-owner, Fahrettin, one of two brothers who started the camp in 1989, told me that there are approximately 100 “official” summer camps in Turkey that are affiliated with global summer camp organizations, but a lot more camps run by municipalities. Most of the 15,000 or so camps in the US seem to have a rustic, Puritanical, get-back-to-the roots mission, eschewing a lot of modern conveniences for outdoor activities, overnight camps and the like. On the other hand, camps in Europe and Russia apparently have more modern conveniences and are more like collective holidays than what we think of summer camps. Life at this Turkish camp is kind of a combination of the two. There were two disco nights and classrooms were in hotel rooms. There was one overnight camping trip, but it was approximately 200 meters up the mountainside next to a ski lift. But the food was a lot healthier than camps I had been to in the US: Lots of salad and yogurt, and classes took turns on “shift” serving meals and clearing dishes. And because of Fahrettin’s love of basketball, there was a lot of roundball action in addition to games like archery.

I was never a camp kid. I went to two summer camps in my youth, once to Camp Kaesta, in the Southern Oregon Cascades, when I was 9 years old, then to B’nai B’rith Camp, a Jewish youth camp on the Oregon Coast, when I was 11. The experience at Ka-esta was a week long, when I had a terrible paranoia about contracting Lyme’s disease, and when there was one torturous night of homesickness when I couldn’t be consoled. My campmates at the Jewish camp, meanwhile, had all been together since they were 8 years old and formed a tight clique which they made clear early on that I wouldn’t be a part of. I was made fun of by these spoiled, Seattle Mercer Island types with few allies to count on except for one overweight boy who was also a new camper that year.

Ski run at night

So it was mainly financial reasons that led me to raise my hand to be a teacher at Camp Future Stars (Gelecegin Yildizlari), but it was one of the best decisions I’ve made this past year. The fresh mountain air, the creativity from the kids in the classroom (space was out theme, so students created things like anthems, flags, aliens, etc). When the kids performed at the end – to show off their planets, flags, aliens, etc. – I felt like a nervous and proud father. And teary goodbye hugs as the kids boarded coach busses back to the city, I too felt pangs of sadness, for what seemed to be a long two weeks at first, turned out to be over in the blink of an eye.

I wasn’t a camp kid. But I am a camp grown up.

(Note: while the weather in Istanbul is sweltering in summer, hitting 30 degrees, and humid,  it never got above 22 while I was there, and often nights dipped down to 12 degrees. Sweaters and long jons are recommended anytime one visits Uludag)

"The Deal" episode

There is a classic Seinfeld episode where Jerry, not knowing what to get Elaine for her birthday, gives her cash.

Elaine: Cash?

Jerry: What do you think?

Elaine: You got me cash?

Jerry: Well this way I figure you can go out and get yourself whatever you want. No good?

Elaine: Who are you, my uncle?

Jerry: Well come on. That’s $182 right there. I don’t think that’s anything to sneeze at.

Elaine is furious. But I tend to side with Jerry — and so does Turkish wedding tradition. And at about 125 TL ($79) for a “ceyrek altin” at today’s exchange prices, that’s nothing to sneeze at if you are going to many weddings (I only went to two this season).

Indeed, gold coins are the main expected wedding gift in Turkey — hands down — or a large cash note if gold can’t be acquired.

I think it saves a lot of hassle, and ultimately yes, through the God-given decision making powers we process, we can skip the registry and get EXACTLY the kind of blender we want. Or perhaps it has something to do with the hospitality-oriented culture that the couple has to buy what they want without the benefit of a registry, and the guests have it easy.

"Solid Gold, baby"

On wedding day, after the nikah (wedding ceremony) the bride and groom stand like the Obamas hosting a state visit and friends and relatives come by in a procession – often quite long – to pin small gold coins on to the bride and groom. These coins are emblazoned with Ataturk on the good luck side and an Ottoman seal in Arabic script on the other. If a gold coin cannot be had, a 100 TL or euro note is perfectly acceptable substitute.

Afterwards, the couple is able to exchange their haul for common cash at one of the many kuyumculuks (jewelers) dotting the central areas of town, which often post set daily gold prices on digital displays, just as currency rates are. The stores’ buying price at last check was 123.03 TL ($77).

According to one student who married recently, despite the lofty price of gold these days, it often doesn’t offset the cost of the wedding, which can be lavish and long running affairs, but which vary greatly depending on the regional identity and level of traditionalism in the family.

The ones I went to were Western by comparison, one taking place at the lapping shores of the Bosphorus under the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, the other in the verdant greenery of Turkey’s finest urban park: Kültür Park in the city of Bursa (once the capital of the Ottoman empire and bearing a striking resemblance to northern California/southern Oregon in its flora and climate).  After the nikah, the party heads over to the düğün (reception) to whoop it up. There, older relatives – covered ladies and mustachioed gentlemen – nod their heads to the beat as the kids bounce to club music, Madonna, Brian Adams and what have you. This is something I love about Turkey, this cultural melding of old and new, and Turks are quite adept at balancing the two. Whether Turkey is “Islam Light” as seen by many in the Arab world, or conservative – this harmony of the generations is a time when I have never felt more proud to be living here.

( here are current gold prices in Turkey)

Pluck a sublime towel.

It’s not always easy to rate the best bathrooms in a city. You usually only get 50 percent of the story, of course – especially in Turkey – and everyone has different criteria. Do you value highly amenities like automatic sinks that allow you to not touch anything except the toilet seat and the door? Are you willing to overlook possible shoddy plumbing in favor of things like Italian marble, bidets, bronze sink knobs, etc?

Lo, I have found what I believe is the best lavatory in Istanbul hands down. It’s located at Zeyrekhane, which is in Unkapani, off Ataturk Blvd., up the hill 100 meters on the right side of the road as you are headed south toward the airport. Built by the Byzantines, the arch-filled dining area of Zeyrekhane and its courtyard were once part of the medrese of the Mulla Zeyrek Mosque. Today it is a refurbished fine dining establishment with amazing deserts. The restoration was carried out in 2007 by the Rahmi Koc Vakfi (foundation) along with the local municipality. I am not sure to what degree he still controls the restaurant, but the restaurant’s website is routed through the foundation.

Anyway, men’s rooms visitors are greeted by a large fez hanging from the door, refreshing in an officially fez-free society. Inside its salmon colored stone walls with abundant pencil and ink illustrations of Ottoman buildings. The flowers by the sink and mirror are comfortably effeminate in a Mediterranean way, as if to say, “Hey I am comfortable enough with my sexuality to proclaim my love of flowers in the bathroom!”

Wall-mounted fez greets the gentlemen

The decorations are not kitsch: it’s all tasteful blend of gentle bathroom decorum, surreal enough to get comfortably distracted from what you are doing, but not so in your face as to be reminded that someone who shouldn’t have been in charge was a bit too liberal or otherwise tasteless. There are ceramic plates with the star and the crescent, a tip to the hat of modern statehood in an otherwise Ottoman/Byzantine place.

Of course, the hane is why you are here, right? Ottoman cuisine is served breakfast and dinner, but the place is recommended as a sort of “high tea” place on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Sip demleme (Turkish) tea and stare at the giant gold-colored samovar, while eating the highly recommended susam sepeti icende bogurtlenli muhallebi (milk pudding cakes with blackberry served in a sesame basket). Fortunately, the place wasn’t converted into another iskender or high-class kebap house, a dime a dozen in the city.

The conversation seems to go like this:

Le pissuer

(Rich conservative restaurateur says: what should we serve at our awesomely renovated new place?)

(Rich buddy: I know! How about Iskender kebap, and maybe some Adana and Urfa kebap, too!)

(Restaurateur: Great idea! What would I do without you?!)

But Rahmi Koc is more worldly and in the billionaire class so he trampolines out of that nouveau-riche discussion, fortunately. The point for you is a pleasant stroll around the garden afterwards, with views of the towering Suleymaniye Mosque in the foreground and the Galata Tower on the other side of the Golden Horn. Enjoy.

And if you know of a “must pee” (bad-a bing!!) bathroom in Istanbul, let me know.