Turkey

Ankara, Turkey

Ankara, Turkey...kind of

I've seen a gazillion airports these past few years, the best and the worst...this one in Ankara was by far among the prettiest...

Been there, done that

Someone asked me recently why I didn't bother to write more about our trip to Turkey. Truth is, there wasn't much to say. While the surrounding areas of Ankara had much to offer in the way of ancient cities and beautiful mosques we were, unfortunately, relegated to Ankara for the extent of our stay simply because 1) Hamid wasn't feeling well; likely with a nervous affliction that understandably invades the body of anyone waiting on line for a visa to the States for months on end and 2) Once we knew we had the visa, we had to wait around in our hotel room for it's delivery.
By the time all was said and done there just wasn't any time to go anywhere - so we experienced downtown Ankara to the fullest and I will say of all the cities I've ever been in in the world it was the most boring, but was still a worthy adventure.

The people of Ankara were some of the sweetest I've ever met; shopkeepers and fruit-stall owners alike plumped us up on our daily visits to the huge local market with tidbits of fresh cherries, strawberries, Turkish delight, and nuts. The taxi drivers were not only honest, when they gave us our change it was always tipped in our favor, rather than that of their meter - the only city in the world I've ever witnessed such a phenomenon.

And there *were* some interesting moments, aside from our now historic visit to the U.S. Embassy. Like the first afternoon we were there, after settling into our hotel room, we'd gone out into the street for a walk. As we were passing one local restaurant a quick movement from across the busy road caught my eye and I turned to see three men holding a large goat down on the sidewalk. The goat struggled and kicked but to no avail, within seconds a sharp knife slid across his throat and blood was whooshing out of his exposed flesh into the gutter as his body convulsed in death throes. Another goat, already dead, lay beside him, still leaking the red stuff onto the street.
I was the only person who seemed shocked by this; everyone else just walked by as if it was the most normal thing in the world to see two animals bleed to death in a busy downtown neighborhood.

Or the time we stepped into the toy store to find that blonde babydolls dressed up like militia, complete with little plastic AK 47 and tiny Turkish flag, are as popular a holiday gift as stuffed teddy bears and leggy Barbie dolls.

There was the endless hunt for vegetarian food; a non-existent concept in Ankara where just about everything comes chock full of either meat or eggs fried, grilled, steamed, or otherwise. Hamid, always a happy carnivore, was content with kebabs of lamb or chicken. We would inquire as to the vegetable dishes at each new establishment and I was fooled the first few times, choosing steamed green beans or tomato and barley soup. "Yes, yes, vegetable..." we were assured with each order only to be presented with a huge steaming pile of meatstuff soaked in an otherwise lovely vegetable medley. I ate toasted pita bread with eggs and cheese for ten days and felt as if I could baste an entire turkey with a touch for all the oil my meals had contained. The word 'tofu' is apprently not part of the local venacular.

On another afternoon we found ourselves caught up in the middle of a large funeral procession, on foot, for a young boy who'd been killed at the border of Turkey in the war with Kurdish rebels in Iraq. His body, elevated by pairs of hairy, stout male arms, was laid out in an open coffin, covered with flowers and surrounded by framed photographs of important moments in his life. His procession was followed by an endless river of loudly wailing women and girls, all clutching desperately at their scarves and breasts with such an intense sadness it brought tears to my own eyes just to see them in such a state.

We realized soon after that the numerous framed pictures of soldiers in nearly every shop window and bus stop were victims of this same war. Some of the faces were of adult men, while others looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen years old. The word 'martyr' was embossed in large, red, Turkish script on every image.

And every morning, the view from our fourth floor balcony onto a nearby highschool provided a glimpse of what it's like to be a teenager in Ankara. Girls arriving early, stepping from their parents' cars only to dart behind a squat nearby building to remove scarves and uniform jackets, then apply makeup and smoke cigarettes. Boys offering their smokes to any female form within hearing range and standing in the attitude of cool with shirts freshly untucked and baseball caps added to the ensemble for good measure.

Ankara was interesting in other ways too; as a Muslim nation not ruled by Islamic law the standards of socially acceptable attire ranged from punk rock funk to the standard hijab and manteau and everything in between. What was most interesting to me though, was the way the girls (who were obviously choosing to dress in whatever way they wanted) combined a sense of their Islamic devotion with a penchant for modern fashion. There were short plaid skirts with white knee socks all topped off with a very proper, but colorful, scarf. Or capri jeans with a deliberately unbuttoned manteau and stilettos, hair flowing wildly. It was like a mashup of Iran and Milan - fascinating to say the least. I spent hours with Hamid having tea outdoors just watching these creatures who live suspended between what was and what will be and making the best of it. Their own sense of style and self peeking through, with or without a scarf.
After my time in Iran I always wondered why anyone would choose to wear a headcovering when it wasn't mandated by law, but after getting a glimpse of what a little bit of freedom brings to the lives of girls and women, even within an Islamic country, I could again see a scarf, casually wrapped over the head and back across the shoulders, as something stylish, almost glamorous.

Truthfully though, as we flew out of Turkey via Istanbul we peered out the window wistfully at the short white and blue houses, looking something like Greece, and were oh so jealous we hadn't had an opportunity to discover more of Turkey.

Ankara is now one of those been-there-done-that destinations, but Turkey as a whole is most definitely still on the list.

Jitterbug

He sat next to us at one end of a row of three connected chairs, at the American Embassy in Ankara; a kid of maybe 20 waiting solo for his chance to charm a visa out of the consular officer. He wasn't particularly notable aside from tiny beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead in the air conditioned room, the stubby fingernails he'd apparently eaten in anticipation of his visit that day, and his near comic inability to keep any one part of his body still.
Exuding enough anxiety for all three of us, his constant nervous tics and jitterbugging in the seat gave me a sideways kind of permission to relax - we'd been through this once before after all - and I slung my arm over my darling's black-clad shoulder (posing as Johnny Cash in honor of an American hero, Hamid had opted for a crisp fitted black dress shirt, untucked, and faded blue jeans) and planted a kiss on his gorgeous cheek.

We waited patiently, alternately holding hands and taking turns triple checking our paperwork as we kept the seats in place for our fidgety neighbor and listened intently to the conversations at the interview stations before us; we were amazed to hear that the Embassy seemed to be handing out visas left and right that day as the very cheerful people behind the counter smiled and twittered sweetly at their applicants over the fabulous plans each had for their arrival and respective lives in the United States.

One wanted to work on a cruise ship, another - a pretty blonde Turkish orthodontist, planned to open offices in New York. There were students transferring to stateside universities, grandparents wishing to visit family with a new baby, and a married couple hoping to emigrate. There was only one girl who was denied entry for lying on her forms about having successfully completed her courses that year. Even though she'd been dishonest I still felt truly sorry for her when she got the news and her shoulders slumped; her previously optimistic posture reduced to nothing short of devastation with the defeat of her purpose.

We watched as each approached their designated window and shuffled their paperwork through the slot, every single one leaning forward on tip-toes while they waited to answer their own series of questions as if it was an assigned part of the process. [Step 1: Please press the fingers of the right hand firmly onto the digital fingerprinting-thing. Step 2: Repeat with left hand. Step 3: Press your nose against the window and stand in a demi pointe with aplomb. Plie is optional.]

When it was our own turn to be interviewed we must have shocked the still-twitching young man out of quite a worrisome reverie because he nearly fell out of his seat with the sudden imbalance caused by our absence; I could hear him collecting himself and resume foot tapping behind us as we settled ourselves in at the window. [You are number 202 - this ticket does not necessarily represent the order in which you will be called. Please do not approach the window until you see your number is signaled above one of the interview stations.]

We answered a total of five questions, each of which was put to us in a friendly manner and without even the slightest twinge of grinch we'd experienced at the consulate in Chennai, and were told without pause or ceremony that Hamid's passport containing an immigrant visa would be delivered to us at our local hotel within the next three days.

When we turned to leave, wrapping ourselves around eachother in astonished silence, I glanced at where we'd been sitting and our dancing queen was nowhere to be found - he'd gone already and I've no idea if he received that much coveted visa, but for the sake of what was left of his fingernails I certainly hope so.

Until further notice

Or at least until I get some sleep....I just can't seem to get the chicken scratch I penned while we were in Turkey these past two weeks from paper to keyboard.

However, at the risk of wrecking the anticipation I'll jump ahead a bit for now and report that we *did* in fact receive Hamid's visa to the States during our visit with the Embassy in Ankara. It took all of five minutes in the end and I had to check the bottoms of my new stilettos after we had left the interview and were seated, stunned and happy, in the back of a yellow Turkish 'taksi' - I wasn't at all convinced I'd actually walked out of there; it was really something more like ethereal floating. Sure enough, that famous Loubitin red was still patently shiny and completely intact.

The view from where I sit

Be here now

Awake at six a.m.!? and I'm wondering what has happened to the natural order of things?
Daily now, I keep the schedule of a farmer - awake at hours I've not seen since the glowing red eyes of a much-hated digital alarm would snarl me out of my eighth grade Catholic schoolgirl sleep, and in bed at a time normally reserved for the seven-to-ten year old crowd serving time grounded [my own parents always called it 'restriction' which sounded worse; relatively causing more suffering simply for the name of it.]

For two weeks now I've been privy to the sunrise, a spectacle to be sure; especially from our rooftop balcony four floors up. On one side lives a very tall and verdant forest and on the other three sit small, fat cousins of the Himalayas endlessly piled up on eachother. The view is no small work of art and I am reminded of the friendly bearded man broadcast on Seattle's Channel 9 public programming, painting his heart out every afternoon and quipping all the while about brush strokes or shadowing as he manifested 'happy little trees' and 'cheerful mountains'.

The view also reminds me a bit of the spectacle from our rooftop in Tehran and were it not for odd whims of the universe I imagine I'd be waking up there now instead of Nepal. If that were the case we'd have a flight of just a few hours to look forward to today - instead we've got something like 24 hours travel time in front of us with most of it spent in the transit lounge in Delhi, India. In any other circumstance we'd just exit the airport and take a room for the time being but because securing a transit visa for my darling would be nothing short of an exercise in frustration (dealing with Indian customs officials is now and forever will be way down on my list of pleasureable activities) we're going to spend the twelve or so hours between flights practicing our skills at living in a terminal.

Once, I washed my hair in Bangalore's airport bathroom on a trip to Goa, and I've slept in more than a few airports in my life; most recently in Thailand and Sri Lanka. With my luggage serving as a kind of pillow I'd self-consciously doze in and out, waking up to find some small child peering down at me or a group of maintenance people giggling together as they swept past me with a pile of rubbish in tow. It's not the most comfortable way to get from point A to point B but it is what it is and at least it's somewhere in between this early morning anxiety of 'how will this all pan out?' and actually knowing the answer.

I'm not nervous about the fliying, although I absolutely cringe at takeoffs and landings. It's the reason behind our trip that settles in my stomach like a heavy stone. Obtaining a United States immigrant visa for my Iranian husband has proven to be one of the most challenging and complicated games I've ever played. With yet another interview on the horizon and memories of a much failed interaction with the Consul in Chennai we're both filled with that same excitement of possibility but it's now tinged with a little fear. These people literally hold the keys to one of our possible futures and I've heard some intimidating stories about interviews turned interrogation that leave me feeling the slightest bit wary. Apparently, they are just as interested in seeing me as they are Hamid - curious to learn if I've been converted to a hard-core Islamic tradition (ie - will I be in hajib or scarf?) or if we're a more 'socially appropriate' mix of modernity and faith. I'll be wearing stilettos and a sundress - no sense leaving any question which axis we take our fashion queues from now is there?

Anyway, as much as I'd sincerely love to continue to wake up in Kathmandu indefinitely, Nepal just isn't the place we've worked so hard to get to. We've paid taxes to the United States government since the inception of our business, we've shopped for houses in our American neighborhood of choice, we've researched the process for acquiring Hamid's coveted PhD in CS as well as extending my own university studies (I'm thinking a switch from Philosophy to Theology is in order), we've even gone so far as to research birthing centers and midwives - all with the idea that America is 'the best place on earth' (regardless of the inherent political issues, it's still a belief I hold as truth after living abroad so many years). At the very least America has the best internet connections and sidewalks (yes, sidewalks) on the planet...two things I've added to the list of "I miss..."

With all the packing done and arrangements made there's nothing left for me to do at this point other than wait. Wait for it to be time to go, wait for boarding, wait for the sweet business class crew to bring me something wonderful to eat, wait for the bloody mary I am destined to imbibe en-route, wait to see if our hotel is all it's meant to be, wait to be interviewed about how much I love my husband.

Fortunately I'm much more practiced these days at the art of handling the strange imbalances that exist in my intercontinental life, and sit on the roof surrounded by the happy little trees and cheerful mountains as the sun comes up, typing all of my anxst and worry onto the page so I can, at least for the time being, leave it there and be here now.

Once again, for good measure - and a salad on the side

It's just about time for us to head to Ankara, Turkey to meet with the U.S. Embassy there for yet another interview regarding Hamid's visa. I'm hoping it goes better than the meeting we had at the Consulate in Chennai, India - at least we know now that we're applying through the right country.
Too bad they can't just see us at the Embassy here in Kathmandu - it's right up the street from our house...but no, that would be too easy.
As I said before, it's really fine with us either way - we're more than happy to have an excuse to go adventure around in Turkey, it's just kind of a pain to realize that we'll likely have to return to Ankara months from now if the visa is approved because they refuse to send the documents anywhere but inside Turkey itself.
So it will be another round of flights and hotel bookings and packing of suitcases.
I love travel for any reason and working toward that visa for my beloved is no exception, but after being in our amazing peaceful house these past few days have really started to get comfortable with the idea of just staying put for a while. And it will be nice when we can return and experience more of all that Nepal has to offer.

Speaking of which, last night over tuna sushi rolls and cold rice wine at Kotetsu our friend Sacha recounted the story of his recent death defying bungee plunge from a 160 meter bridge at a place called The Last Resort - this resort, the bridge, and it's promise of pee-your-pants adrenaline/fear are now on our immediate to-do list upon our return to Kathmandu. There are any number of ways to reach The Last Resort, but we're opting for the two-day whitewater rafting expedition as our transportation of choice.

But there are places to go and people to see so in the meantime we go about business as usual; shopping for fresh vegetables, eggs, and bread at the local evening farmer's market that spontaneously appears every day a few streets up at about six o'clock. Kneeling with the locals to inspect the day's take of spinach, eggplant, tomatoes, green onions, potatoes, lemons, and any manner of salad-making fare is so much fun I find myself doing my level best to eat the green stuff often so we have an excuse to return just for the experience of interacting with the smiling agricults and their earthy wares. There's something about buying produce and preparing it at home - an art I'd long forgotten while living in Bangalore - that feels homey and solid; takes some of the edge off our seemingly endless spate of hotel-living and rushing around between airports. Who'd have guessed something as simple as a salad eaten on the balcony during sunset could be so very therapeutic.

But I don't know how to play chess!

"Ah, so you enjoy travel planning and the ultimate in time management challenges?" it seems the universe is saying.

Point of fact, I do.
I like that we've been able to grow our little business to six times it's birth weight in just over a year - all while living in the third world, managing the United States visa application process for my Iranian husband and enjoying regular holidays to exotic places.

"Ha, ha!" the universe replies, "Try this on for size..."

We've just received word that we are wanted in Ankara, Turkey on June 7 for yet another round of truth or dare with the American Consul. I'm hoping this go-round is less um, mean and more...shall we say, on the positive side of the possibilities coin. This is great news, we're excited, we're ready...but we're also leaving tomorrow for a holiday/house-hunting and fact-finding trip to Kathmandu, Nepal only to return to Bangalore on the 9th for just under two weeks of crazy office hours, managing the donation and distribution of our household goods, booking flights, posting three massive packages to the States for storage (ironically full of darling traditional Indian clothes not for ME but for our children who as yet, do not exist) closing our lease and fighting for the deposit with a landlord who leans more toward 'thief' than property owner, and securing Mooshy's required travel documents. All of this absolutely must be accomplished by the 22nd-ish when we will then leave India altogether to move into a hopefully-already-found house in one of Kathmandu's better neighborhoods. That leaves us approximately ten days to get the new house in order, find a didi (Nepali for 'maid') and a driver, find a five-star doggy hotel, set up what I'm told is fabulously reliable wi-fi, catch up on a bit of work, book our tickets to Ankara, get packed, and go.

Phew.

I do firmly believe in the notion that the universe isn't going to dish out something I just can't handle - so even the most impossible of tasks really isn't all that complicated however frantic it might make me feel. And I've been looking forward to seeing Istanbul and the island of Antalia, not to mention the fact that Turkey is at the top of the shopping destinations list for the Middle East, running a close second to Dubai.

First things first: we sojourn to Nepal for a holiday. We breathe, we rest, we toodle around, we drink the bottle of Bailey's Miss Jess has told me Pujan hid behind the hotel bar just for moi, and we find a house.
As to the rest of it, I'm thinking we'll just amp up that good old fashioned multi-tasking talent to full speed ahead and hopefully land on our feet.

Just put up a map and throw a dart...

Well, I'm doing my very best to pretend that it doesn't freak me out at all that we're leaving India permanently in less than two months and we still don't really know where we're going...but I do believe in the power of imagination, and I've successfully 'faked' my way through many difficult life transitions and am comforted by the fact that eventually whatever it was I simply believed I was experiencing settled itself in nicely as reality.
There are plenty of people who will say that that just doesn't make sense. That a person can't just fake their way through the bad parts until the bad parts are as convinced as you that they just don't exist - but let me tell you I can, I do, and I will.

We may or may not be going to Iran after all, and for reasons better left undisclosed at this point so it's not really worth getting into at all except to say that it essentially leaves us drifting along in the global scheme of things with no real direction. Until recently, it was to be the next stop after Nepal, and a nice locae in relation to our needing to be in Turkey at some point (the when of which I still have no idea as we wait to hear from someone at the U.S. Embassy in Ankara) but for now at least, it's looking less like an option. A shame really; I'd quite gotten myself geared up for it by ordering loads of capri pants and wedges from the States in anticipation of making due with the dress code. I even decided to sample a pair of ballet flats...something I'd not ordinarily be caught dead in but is so insanely popular in Tehran I decided to at least attempt them. Fortunately, Coach makes a lovely version called 'Joy'.

In any case, I'll cart my stuff along to wherever...and Nepal is looking likely at this point as they allow foreigners five months (150 days in any visa year) in the country without any major hassle, and of course Miss Jess is there now; complete with hotel=bathtub and connections through her darling to help us find a house, set up WiFi and all the other things one needs to stay in business in the virtual world.

And then, there's Turkey - a certainty at some point, and allowing foreigners a three month visa at the port of entry. I'm not sure of the possibility of a visa extension there, but assuming they are reasonable I'd say we can eke out at least another thirty days beyond that. So, we're covered for approximately nine months past the end of May (and both countries will allow us to bring Mooshy in with proper papers...yet another piece of the puzzle).

If we've not been awarded Hamid's visa to the States at that point we'll be looking at another round of applications from scratch as his original forms, doctor's reports, and affidavits are only valid for 365 days after they are initially submitted.

We watch the news, understanding something of how the U.S. is working with Iranian visas these days: not issuing them in time for the President of Iran to arrive for a meeting at the U.N. I mean, if they can't get it together to issue him a visa in time for a meeting of international world leaders we're concerned that we're now facing the gloomier side of our expectations as surely we are much farther down on their list of what and who is important.

I'm now scrutinizing the paperwork that was sent to me when we were first asked to come to the Consulate here in Chennai, India as well as the way the case was handled once we arrived for the interview and realizing that we kind of got played.
First they made a big deal about my income, but according to their little chart I make three times what is required for a family of two to return to the States with the better half on an entry visa. My 12 months worth of freshly printed PDF bank statements were of no importance though.
Then they suggested that I no longer have ties to the United States, having been in India so long - but when I offered a letter signed by both of my parents essentially imploring the Consul to issue the visa so we could come home already the girl looked at me from behind her wire rim glasses and mustache and said "Yeah, I have a mom too..." as if I had some elaborate plan to convince her that my parents love me and know exactly where I am when, as far as she was concerned, I don't have and never did have any parents at all.
Only after I returned three hours later, frustrated and confused, did they announce that we would have to go to one of five other countries to complete the application.
In response to my flustered demeanor the Consul asked me if I'd like him to 'expatriate me, right here, right now' - as if that was the solution to all my troubles. Yes, they are sensitive folks those government employees.

Sad...really...I was initially so impressed with everyone else we'd met with and talked to throughout the process.

Anyway, since my own country is in no big hurry to make it easy for me to come home with my husband (anything else is out of the question, so don't even suggest it) I'm scanning Embassy and Immigration websites for as many countries as I can dream up, calculating where we can get the most tourist visa leeway and how many days we can stay, etc. etc.

Kind of fun, really...having nowhere to go and so many amazing options in the meantime.