tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-311524252024-03-13T10:58:54.565-07:00Cold CoffeeWell then. Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-4133750260119549842013-02-26T12:17:00.000-08:002013-02-26T12:17:32.342-08:00Random Photos <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-50404394306290075892011-08-05T00:50:00.001-07:002011-08-05T01:43:49.545-07:00Jack's birth storySo. In slightly less than 36 hours, Jack will be two. This just kills me -- first that my itty bitty newborn is growing up so fast, second that we've kept him alive so long and third... that I'm still questioning the ways and means of his delivery.<br />
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So. Our birth story. I was pretty sure of his date of conception, which would have made his due date the 26th or so of July. On a 12 week ultrasound, the sonographer estimated August 1 or so his due date. It seemed pretty close, so I wasn't fussed.<br />
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I had a lovely pregnancy. Other than a fall off a community bus (yes, I fell off a short bus) at the beginning of my moderately hellish second trimester/working full time/taking full time classes at SFU which caused some serious back pain, and a few episodes of serious heartburn, I felt good. Pretty much no morning sickness, no spots, no waddling -- I was good. I only gained 26lbs, which made my midwives happy, and my main cravings were milk (I was buying and drinking 10+ litres a week) and a $50/week strawberry and mango habit. It could have been worse.<br />
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There were a few stressful things towards the end. I was in disagreement with my employer over the amount of holidays I was entitled to, and my auntie Joan was in hospice care having lost her battle with cancer. These things are related: I wanted a week to go visit her as I was too far along to fly and couldn't make the drive in a weekend in my state. I didn't get to see her, which still pretty much makes me want to cry. There were some good stresses too: we moved to a housing co-op in Mt. Pleasant out of our craptastic little apartment in the ugliest corner of New Westminster (a good move, but moving at 7 months pregnant with an incompetent and belligerent mover was not overall positive). My sister moved to the UK in the middle of June and I was both happy for her and sad that she wouldn't be meeting our little guy for at least a year or two.<br />
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The last two weeks of July were some of the hottest on record and the only thing that saved me is that I had gone off work a little early due to being HUGE and needing daily NST (non stress tests) in the first week of July to make sure the small fry was still going great (which he was). So, from July 6 onwards, I was off work and in the lake. Sasamat Lake in Port Moody saved my overheated bacon in a big way :)<br />
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July 26 came and went. My aunt passed away, surrounded by loved ones who weren't me. I was definitely big by my standards, and the only thing of any concern to my midwives was that I was apparently measuring 'big'. I wasn't really stressed by this: my weight gain was awesome, considering I started very overweight and sure I felt huge, but I didn't have anything to compare it to. I still wasn't waddling, which meant Jack hadn't started to descent into my pelvis, which again I wasn't super worried about. I had done a LOT of reading about natural birth and labour. I had midwives and an awesome doula, Sally, and had done the Birthing From Within course in order to learn techniques of getting out of my overly-clinical head during the birthing process. I knew that with the onset of labour, he could move into position very quickly, and I had faith that my body just wasn't ready to go into labour. I believed in the 'due month' and was willing to be patient and go past my due date if necessary.<br />
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We took long walks and short hikes, did lots of beluga-inspired swimming at Sasamat Lake and waited.<br />
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On a Tuesday, though, the 4th of August, my midwives checked in. I said I was still great, still not waddling, but I had noticed a very few less movements that day than the rambunctious tenant I was used to. They told me to go to St. Paul's for an NST, which was reassuringly fine. I was asked to come back the next day for an ultrasound, which I happily attended on the Wednesday afternoon.<br />
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Once I had my clothes all back on, June, who was one of my favourite midwives, came in for a chat. Apparently my fluid was measuring low (something I now know is pretty meaningless as a) fluid measurement is irrelevant to fetal outcome and b) it is pretty much impossible to measure properly by ultrasound or any other means). June didn't seem too concerned, though that may have been her unflappable demeanor, and I wasn't too worried until she said that Jack needed to be delivered. That meant an induction. And a go home, pack a bag, and drive to the hospital where she would be waiting kind of induction. Furthermore, a drive to Royal Columbian (in New Westminster!), since they wouldn't induce me at St. Paul's since they didn't have enough surgical staff on hand in case I needed a c-section. It was the first I had even considered a c-section as being something that could happen to me.<br />
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Back a few months earlier, when we were doing the hippie-dippy prenatal classes (which I loved, by the way, birth art and all), we were given the assignment of drawing our worst case birthing scenario. I drew the aftermath of a dead baby. Every single other couple drew a c-section. Funny, huh?<br />
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Gayle and John picked us up at home and drove us to Royal Columbian. We checked in and were given a tiny room off the nurse's station, where June fussed over us for a few minutes and left. At around 8pm, Cervadil (prostaglandin gel)was inserted by my cervix to try and get things started, but my cervix was still relatively closed (1cm) and high up. We were on our own for the night and told to rest while we could, and June was going home to do the same thing. <br />
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I felt strongly that laying there was not going to accomplish anything. If I was going to manage to have this baby, I needed to get him DOWN and I could only do that with gravity. I was up and walking for most of the night. I did feel contractions which I could walk and talk through to start with, but eventually had to pause and breathe through. Hours later, when I was found by a nurse to basically not have progressed, they started the Pitocin IV. The only complication of this was that I was told I had to lie in bed wearing the fetal heartrate monitor for 20 minutes. Those 20 minutes were unpleasant, but when I went to get up, I was told by the nurse not to. I had known about this possibility and demanded the 'telemetry' FHM which was wireless and which I could walk around while wearing. I was told the nursing staff weren't prepared to find it for me and if I wanted it, it would have to be my midwife who put it on. We called Commercial Drive Midwives, and Corrine was on call. This was a little disheartening. We had met all three midwives: Grace, June and Corrine, as is standard, and had decided that we hoped to get anyone but Corrine. She was nice enough, but a little blank/unresponsive/unengaged and she was the only one who had never had her own baby.<br />
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When Corrine arrived, sometime around 6am, she was MAD. Mad to be there early, mad the nurses wouldn't arrange the telemetry machine, just plain mad. We were a little taken aback, but frankly were more concerned with other things. Sally had also arrived (before our midwife) and was fantastic -- a calm and reasoned presence. We felt more confident standing up for ourselves while she was there, and in fact I eventually ignored the FHM nurse and just got out of bed to walk some more. Once the telemetry machine was in place (a stupid little webbing belt with several large plastic monitors attached to it), I went back to walking. I don't know how much I walked that night, but I still never waddled.<br />
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Eventually, the doctors on staff changed shift. Instead of the dark-haired female OB, it was a man. At 10am, he decided to check my progression and I was maybe at 3cm and still far back. He offered to break my water in order to get things going. Even knowing how one intervention can lead to another, I agreed. The thought of the past 14-16 hours resulting in a whole 2cm change was daunting. He actually offered to do a csection right then and I must have looked at him like he grew a second head. He backpedaled a little and basically said he was fine with me trying labour. He broke my waters which hurt like a motherfucker. I thought being checked for dilation was painful (I'm pretty sure I begged him to stop in the middle) -- I had no idea. I immediately asked if the fluid was clear and... no. No, they weren't. Now I was even more anxious. I knew that meconium in the water would limit the amount of time they would let me labour even more than the clock that started ticking when the induction started. I felt immense pressure to get this baby moving, so I was back on my feet, wearing horrible plastic mesh panties and a giant pad to hold the green liquid I was oozing. Ugh.<br />
<br />
I stormed up and down the halls for what seemed like hours. Every so often a nurse or Sally or Corrine would mention that the nurse was getting a little frantic when I went to the bottom of the hallway as I would get out of range of the telemetry machine and it would go all crazy. I felt like I was slowly being corralled, my leash was being tightened closer and closer to that little room where I didn't want to be. Eventually some lucky mother had her baby and a bigger room opened up, one with a big tile tub, which they wouldn't let me into because of that IV in my hand. I think I asked at one point what would happen if I just went over to the bathtub and filled it and got in, and no-one answered me. Sally might have wished I would try, I suspect, but my midwife didn't encourage it.<br />
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Oh yes -- through this time, we also had a student midwife. I forget her name; I suspect I've blocked it from my mind. She was trained as a midwife overseas (the Phillipines? I forget) and was going through a program to become certified in Canada. She was horrible. She called me fat to the doctors at St. Pauls (telling them that my belly measurements, while large, were off because of the fat on my stomach). She was rude to Sally. She spent most of the time at the nurses station chatting them up. She was useless, or worse than useless. She was surprised when I said no to the c-section. I'm not sure she understood that mothers in Canada go to midwives to *avoid* scalpel-happy OB/surgeons and all those interventions. <br />
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In the middle of those interventions I had been so determined to escape, I remember asking the nurse in charge of the IV if I could have a break before she increased the dosage again. Every 15 minutes, they would turn up the drip, and the contractions were coming fast and furious, like I had no break at all between them. With infinite sympathy, she kept me at the same level for another fifteen before reluctantly stabbing the machine with a perfect fingernail. The nurses were wonderful.<br />
<br />
I laboured on the toilet at lot. I leaked green stuff and the tiny corner of rational mind I had was completely grossed out by this. I wore a tank top and a pair of grey shorts that I thought would never come clean (but which I still have and wear). I tried the shower and hated it. I stood, I sat, I squatted, I swayed. I ignored the fussing of the nurses trying to adjust the telemetry machine. I was too hot, and too cold, and they brought me warm blankets to drape around my shoulders. Sally and Steve took turns applying pressure to my SI joints, which were on fire the entire time. Steve had brought my laptop and put on Jesse Cook, and I listened to flamenco music, every album, over and over again. *Early on Tuesday...* I got loud, and louder. I breathed, I may have swore a little, or a lot. No-one offered me any pain medication. I might have punched them if they had. <br />
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When I was checked again, sometime around 9:30pm, I was no more than 4 centimetres. Maybe five. Jack's head hadn't descended any further. In fact, his head was starting to swell from being slammed against my pelvic bone for 26 hours. A section was necessary. Corrine and the doctor agreed. Steve agreed. I agreed. I asked Sally if she could turn off the Pitocin, since being slammed by artificially charged contractions is one thing when you believe the pain will accomplish something and entirely another when you know it will not. I remember so clearly the compassion in her voice when she told me she could not, her throat choked with disappointment and concern. <br />
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Sally also did the unthinkable -- with the decision made, she asked the doctor and Corrine, who were chatting in the back of the room, to leave so she could talk to Steve and I alone to make sure we (ok, I) was truly on board with this. She was worried that I would be devasted by failure. Really, by that point, any regret I had was tempered by relief that the ordeal would soon be over. However, the doctor was offended at being 'ordered around by a doula', Corrine was shocked, and that useless student midwife told her off. Steve told Corrine that the student nurse had to go, full stop, and to her credit, Corrine sent her away. I took out my contacts, still wracked by contractions, and waited with Sally and Steve for the surgery. <br />
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In short order, I was wheeled to the operating room. The anesthesiologist was marvelous -- skilled, compassionate and funny. Now that I was back in my head, and almost out of my mind in pain, the rational side came back and I'm pretty sure I was making jokes in the OR as he did the spinal. I consoled myself that a spinal would not affect Jack in the same way as an epidural. I looked up, crucified on the operating table, and saw pretty eyes above a mask behind me. It wasn't until many minutes later when I heard her speak that I realized it was Corrine. Steve was let in as well, and squeezed my hand hard enough to take away the pain in my heart. Eventually I could no longer feel the pricks and the funny man also sat behind the curtain, watching little screens.<br />
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I felt pulling and tugging and the doctor, who may actually have been kind, was calm and deliberate. The anesthesiologist asked Steve if he was squeamish. When told no, he was invited to stand up and look over the curtain to see Jack be born. After short moments, I heard some little mewling and birdlike noises and the doctor exclaimed to my son that he wasn't to be talking before he was even born. My heart washed away, and they held up this little red blur over the curtain for me to see, before he was whisked to the little table to be suctioned due to the meconium. Corrine leaned down and said, "he's big. I think maybe 10 pounds or more." All I could think, laying where I most didn't want to be, was: "well, that explains everything."<br />
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It seemed about a million hours before I heard those first big cries, and Steve and a de-umbilical'd Jack were brought back to me for me to kiss and breath on and in and fall in love with. Jack, at time of birth of 10:20pm, Thursday August 6, 2009, was 10lb 8oz, and 22.5" long. The tape only goes to 24", so I guess he was sizey. Steve was escorted with his child up to the ward, and I was stitched up and sent off to recovery where I would only be reunited with my new family after I could move my legs. Sally had apparently been waiting in the hall where she met with Steve and was able to support him in the first minutes with his son, for which I am grateful. <br />
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I hadn't been in recovery very long when Sally appeared at the door, telling Corrine that the nurses had done a heel-stick test in concerns about his blood sugar as he was so large (even though with a 26lb weight gain, there was no way I was diabetic). His sugar was a hair low, so apparently a nurse was on her way to the room with formula for Jack, even though my intention was to breastfeed. Corrine, annoyed again, milked me of several drops of colostrum into a little container which she gave to Sally to run upstairs and finger-feed to my baby.<br />
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Again, a fantastic nurse came to my rescue. I could barely twitch a leg, but she declared me recovered and sent me up to the ward to join my family, where I put Jack to the breast and he latched like a pro. Sally and the drops of colostrum had saved the day and he hadn't been given any formula. He had lots of dark curly hair, pale eyebrows, ridiculously lush eyelashes, and a serious expression. His eyes were blue as the sky and he seemed a little tanned (normal newborn jaundice which cleared with milk and sunlight after a few months, and now his skin is as porcelain as mine own). After the furor of birth, we took the time to fall in love with our newly outside person. It might have been hours before I could sleep; Sally left and someone brought Steve a cot in our little private room. I eschewed the tiny plastic bucked and settled my son beside me to sleep and nurse and marvel over.<br />
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After a c-section, the nurses have you up the very next day. I insisted they remove the urine catheter ASAP but didn't manage a shower until Saturday when I also shaved my legs (pretty fancy, me!). I changed my first diaper in my life. Steve slept with Jack on his chest to give me a break. We had visitors and midwives, and the doctor came and really was kind after all. I can't blame him for being what he is -- a surgeon. We were released on Saturday and home at last. I was told not to lift anything over 10lbs for six weeks, but I had a 10.5lb baby, so I pretty much ignored all the advice they gave. I went to the mall on Wednesday to buy some nursing clothes (funny how I was so informed and well-read about labour, and knew nothing about nursing) and went to a meeting that night. We went to Bon's on Friday, Jack's first but not last trip to the best breakfast in Vancouver. Now he eats two pancakes on his own -- crazy, huh? His 14th through 17th day earthside were spent at the Princeton Heritage Music Festival, where Steve will play again in two weeks time. I was insane. Now I would know better, but I was drunk on love and milk and fresh baby. In time, we were fine. We are fine. Jack is better than fine: he is robust and hale and blonde and still nursing, at two.<br />
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There is still a part of me, and maybe there always will be, which will wonder if the c-section was necessary. I know so much more now, about the cascade of interventions and how one little dose of cervidil can lead inexorably to a surgery. What would have happened if I had told my midwifes that my body was obviously not ready for labour and I was a poor candidate for induction? What if I had said, fluid schmuid, my NST was fine and I would rather wait a few more days? What if I hadn't let them say "oh, but now you are TEN DAYS overdue", when the ten days was based on my estimation and, according to their infallible science, I was only four days over?<br />
<br />
With waters artificially broken, and with the augmented contractions, and with the swelled head, it is plain he never would have delivered vaginally on that day, after all that. But but but -- what if I had never walked into that hospital, never put on that gown, never knocked over that domino? Maybe three days later, I would have woken feeling a watermelon between my legs and waddled to St. Pauls where I could have experienced normal birth, normal recovery, instead of a bulge and a scar where my abdomen used to be. Or maybe I would have had a NST without a heartbeat, or a baby with an infection from meconium, or maybe I would have experienced the fear I drew.<br />
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But I will never know. Next baby, should we be so blessed, next baby will be born at home.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-48139542289832387442011-07-25T00:19:00.000-07:002011-07-25T00:19:26.500-07:00It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhoodFinally, just past midnight, it's starting to cool down. I'm reluctant to complain about this sudden heat given that we've been so deprived of sun this summer on the Wet Coast. So I won't.<br />
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Instead, I'll share some photos of the small fry having a deliciously wet time with a hose, a trug pool and assorted toys. We all got splashed and splattered and soaked and it was wonderful. Except, perhaps, for the odd passerby. Aaaaah nothing like standing in a pool of cold water to cool your core.<br />
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<br />
Jack had a lovely afternoon with his friend Orien in the lane in front of our home.<br />
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I'm so blessed to live in this beautiful co-op, with a freaking cute kid and a husband who passes me a perfectly cooked grilled cheese sammich out our kitchen window so I can keep watching our small fry. And now I can go to bed without the fan on.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-26674184899361944642011-07-06T18:43:00.000-07:002011-07-06T18:43:20.844-07:00I am INCENSED at the CBCDear CBC,<br />
<br />
As an ardent supporter of the CBC and public broadcasting, I have to let you know that I will no longer be a supporter. <br />
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The incredibly biased news brief which put such a poor light on the millenia-old practice of cosleeping was incorrect, inflammatory and did not even address the real issues. <br />
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Let me ask you -- if SIDS, identified as 'sudden infant death syndrome' and by its very definition is UNEXPLAINED, then how could 'maternal suffocation' be a cause of SIDS? Then the cause of death would be suffocation or accident, not SIDS. The logic is faulty. To force a mother to be up late at night, all night, trying to stay awake in order to put her sleeping baby back in a lonely crib is what leads to unsafe cosleeping situations, like sleeping in a couch or chair. Cosleeping deaths while the mother is intoxicated, under the influence of drugs or in a smoking household are not rightly cosleeping deaths, but cosleeping inevitably gets the bad reputation, something which the CBC had the opportunity to set straight and absolutely failed. <br />
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What no-one seems to talk about are the risks of crib-sleeping. What about the other deaths from SIDS that occur when the child is in a crib? Or those babies in Surrey burned in their crib when a lamp fell in? Or the infant whose fingers were consumed by a ferret... in a crib? Had those babies been safely sleeping in their parents' presence, those tragic accidents would not have occurred. <br />
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All over the world, cosleeping is the norm. It is biologically correct (cavemen did not force their children to sleep separately; had they done so we would have died out as a species). It promotes breastfeeding duration. It promotes maternal and infant rest and health. It has been shown to prevent SIDS (yes, PREVENT!). Safe cosleeping should be encouraged, and parents not be made to feel bad because they 'insist' on an unsafe practice. <br />
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Here is a recent article by the Sunday Times in the UK which talks about the changing reputation of cosleeping, something which the CBC just put back 10 years due to your incorrect reporting: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article1083020.ece<br />
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You may want to pay special attention to this quotation from the article: “In the UK, 500 children a year die of Sids,” Sunderland writes. “In China, where it [co-sleeping] is taken for granted, Sids is so rare it does not have a name.” <br />
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Shame on you CBC. I expected better reporting from you, and now I feel that I must question the quality of your reporting on all subjects. <br />
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Sadly,<br />
Lorien QuattrocchiLorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-55317326616954816182011-05-26T23:02:00.000-07:002011-05-26T23:02:15.173-07:00I suck so hardMy little family took an almighty roadtrip this last week where one of the stops was my little hometown. I saw an old friend there who I hadn't actually saw in person in oh about a million years. We chatted about small fry, old houses and current projects. It came up in conversation that I'm not really making anything these days and it's true.<br />
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On the interminable drive from Kaslo to Whistler (11 hours, delayed by ferry shenanigans in Galena Bay), I contemplated that comment a lot. This is the first stretch of time in my life in which I haven't made stuff. Any stuff. I don't really even cook, certainly not in a creative fashion. Even my food is utilitarian, though every trip to the farmer's market causes creativity to bubble up inside me. Too bad that creativity gets thrown out ten days later, having rotted in the fridge.<br />
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I used to make a lot of things: I took art and shop and home ec. in highschool, and God knows the SCA kept my fingers busy for almost 15 years. Even when I went back to SFU and may not have had a lot of time for sewing or embroidering or pewter casting or painting or woodworking or armour making, at least I was an English major and could channel my creativity there. I spent a lot of time causing my professors late night marking angst with my obscure thesis statements and leaping metaphors. Even at my most scholarly, there was room for creativity. <br />
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So seriously. I have a child. One who loves to play trucks and trains, swing and climb and draw and pour water from one vessel to another, and is a 29lb quickly-moving lump of imaginative play, and I? I am at a loss. He hands me a pen while waiting for food at the restaurant, eager to see what my adult mind and coordinated fingers can create to pass the time before pasta and... I draw an apple. Ok, part of it is to hear his identification of my picture -- "appull!" But what else do I draw? Not a heck of a lot. I used to draw interesting things, pretty things. Now I draw a dinosaur. And another apple, this time green. I add a leaf. Ooooo so creative. I pretty much want to put a fork through my eye.<br />
<br />
All this isn't helped by Steve's unending creativity. His paintings are admired daily at my office; he plays music every day. When I'm asked at musical gatherings what I play, musicality assumed, I respond "taxi driver." Haha. Too bad it's true. <br />
<br />
I can hear the kind voices of my friends, "oh but you did create! You created a beautiful little person! Just look at Jack!" Whatever. It's not like he birthed out of my head. My uterus is awesome; my brilliant mind is what is flagging. My fingers have forgotten the feeling of fabric. My sense of aesthetic almost thought that sentence was ok. Obviously this is a problem. <br />
<br />
So... I need to make. Stuff. Things. Words. Food on plates that didn't meet a jar at any time in its culinary journey. I need to draw things that aren't apples. Or fish. Or "brontosaurus! Look, Jack, a dinosaur! This dinosaur ate leaves and trees. Apple trees. See the APPULL?" I'd like to sew -- I have bins of fabric I couldn't bear to part with. I even have curtain fabric for our <strike>fishbowl</strike> kitchen windows. I still have a box of drawing stuff and beautiful blank white pages to start with. I have casting supplies and pewter in Kaslo, leather working items in a tote, a box of tools I could make a cedar deck box with. I have a more-and-more independent small fry who can be reliably entertained at the park for an hour at a time. I have the <i>want to make things</i> burning inside me. So. <br />
<br />
I'm starting here. I managed to keep the blog ball in the air for quite a few months, even as a monthly update. I can surely spare some of the time I usually spend reading about other people's creativity and make something of my own. <a href="http://www.ohdeedoh.com/">Ohdeedoh</a> and <a href="http://www.younghouselove.com/">Young House Love</a>, I'm thinking of you here. <br />
<br />
Who knows, maybe I'll even sew some curtains, much to the relief of my neighbours :)<br />
<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jack, considering the possibilities of a large puddle. </span></div>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-23294165341229462922010-04-28T19:07:00.000-07:002010-04-28T19:07:40.547-07:00And with people food comes...People poops! <br />
<br />
Jack loves his mama's milk, and I am delighted to provide it to him. <br />
<br />
He was exclusively breastfed until just about six months and, for those that don't know, the poop that comes out of an exclusively breastfed baby is actually not too bad, as poop goes. Kind of yeasty smelling, yellow, runny, washes away, wipes off. <br />
<br />
At six months, we started him on little bits of food -- some yoghurt, some banana, a little avacado. A cheerio or two. He still mostly drinks milk, but his range and volume of solids has increased. And <i>things</i> have changed.<br />
<br />
Oh my, have they ever changed!<br />
<br />
First, he stopped pooping as often. He was a once-a-day guy until about seven months. Then it was every few days. Then he started pooping every four-five, sometimes six days. <br />
<br />
Poor Steve seemed to get the bad luck of the draw in the diaper changing regard (even though I almost never engineered it to be his turn when the poop finally came), and confess that I resented his shouts of horror and begging for help when he was diaper changing. I confess that I rarely helped him, and if I did it was with much resentment. "Drama queen" I would mutter to myself. "Princess." I was really very ungracious. It really didn't seem that bad, even though he has been telling me that for the past few weeks, the poop has been taking on a most unpleasant texture and odour. <br />
<br />
"Whatever you say, Steve. It's only poop." <br />
<br />
You may see where this is going. <br />
<br />
Today my choice was diaper change (which I knew was poopy) or litter box (also a known poop entity). As I abhor changing the litter box, and my sense of social justice finally reared it's ugly head, I opted for the diaper. <br />
<br />
What a terrible mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.<br />
<br />
The first indication something was wrong was the smell. My darling little baby boy smelled... funny. Bad, somehow. Actually kind of gross. He hadn't smelled so bad since his cord stump turned into a putrid swamp of zombie-ness before it fell off. <br />
<br />
Then I took his pants off. <br />
<br />
The green streak up his leg wasn't completely unexpected since he hadn't pooped in two days, even given our <i>awesome</i> cloth diapers, but the smell had intensified. Badly. In preparation, I got two wipes out of the container (I generally pride myself on using one wipe per change) and had them handy. Then I unvelcro'd the top of the diaper. Jack reached for his penis with both hands.<br />
<br />
Within a nanosecond, I had re-velcroed the diaper.<br />
<br />
"STEVE!!!!!!!!" I screamed into the baby monitor. "STEEEEEEEEVE!!! I neeeeed you! HELP!"<br />
<br />
My husband ran up the stairs, laughing. "Hold his arms," I told him. "Stat." Steve grabbed Jack's arms, weak with laughter. "I told you they were bad." "Shut up and hold his arms." <br />
<br />
I wiped the leg first. Then I opened the diaper.<br />
<br />
Ladies and gentlemen, I have never seen anything like it. It was a greyish green putty, smeared in a layer about a centimetre thick all over his penis, testes, buttocks and diaper. It had *chunks* in it. I'm pretty sure I saw peas, watermelon and zucchini. The image is burned into my retina. And the smell. Oh my goodness, the SMELL. <br />
<br />
Have you ever attended a country fair sadly undersupplied in the porta-potty department? Where large, large men with unhealthy colons have voided their bodies of too many corn dogs and Those Little Doughnuts? And it's hot? Very, very hot? And the overused porta-potties are in the middle of the sunniest part of a blacktop parking lot? <br />
<br />
It was like that. Only all over my baby's bum. And it was cold and windy outside. <br />
<br />
I looked at this abomination of diaper-ness, and I looked at my two puny wetwipes. I looked back at the abomination, and grabbed a prefold from the shelf. I started taking big swipes at the bum, and grabbed another prefold. Worse yet, I couldn't even put the used diapers anywhere, since I needed one hand to hold Jack's legs up and out of the detritus and other to wipe.<br />
<br />
In all this, my husband was still laughing. Whenever he had breath to speak, he would gasp out something that sounded like "I told you so." <br />
<br />
Gee, thanks.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, all the laughing got Jack right riled up -- he thought the situation was HI-larious -- so he squirmed and wriggled and twisted his little bum and thighs ALL OVER the dirty diaper. As fast as I wiped him clean, he rolled his bum, back and legs back through the mess. <br />
<br />
Did I mention <strike>the peanut gallery</strike> Steve was still laughing? Yeah. <br />
<br />
Finally I got the worst of it up (which is to say there was now just a film of disgusting smelly poop instead of a spackle of disgusting smelly poop), and, with two premium-sized prefolds AND my two sad little wet wipes now covered in that toxic waste, I told Steve to just hold Jack on the change table and I ran to run the bath. <br />
<br />
One double-dose of bubble bath and two very wrinkled baby feet later, I was pretty confident he's clean. I do, however, still feel like scrubbing my hands with the barbeque brush and I may have to bleach the bath (to say nothing of my sinuses. And my eyes.). I haven't even considered what to do with the diaper (tongs and a bonfire comes to mind), and Steve (who mercifully stopped laughing) tells me this is the <i>new normal</i>.<br />
<br />
Normal? This? And he potty learns WHEN? What did you say? WHEN?<br />
<br />
The heck with starting solids at six months, I'm not giving him another solid until he's THREE YEARS. <br />
<br />
So, to all lovely mothers just champing at the bit to feed your little angel his or her first mouthful of sweet potato at six months and two minutes old -- don't. Just don't. For the love of little apples, wait as LONG AS YOU CAN before introducing solids. I recommend middle school at the earliest. <br />
<br />
Trust me. Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-31959266782842081662010-04-25T22:55:00.003-07:002010-04-26T17:05:40.170-07:00In our eighth month together...In dark hours, I feel you breathe beside me, deep in sleep.<br />
<br />
Pale morning light cools your skin to porcelain, so much like mine. The blue line of your eyelid flicks with a pulse matched by your throat as you nurse. Your cheek flutters -- a hummingbird wing -- you suckle for comfort, and I am comforted at our connection. Soon you will wake and you will exercise your will, assert your independence, and I will celebrate your confidence. But not now. Right now, we are one. <br />
<br />
Afternoons bring staccato feet drumming my thighs and belly as your body's drive to move is slowly stilled by your mind's desire for rest. And milk. And my presence. And you sigh, and still, and sleep.<br />
<br />
This is our respite from a day of activity, your "ah!" and flashing smiles for strangers, your determination and my laughter. This is a time just for us, where you are still <i>my</i> baby, and not the little boy we have dubbed 'our gift to the world'. Jack, I miss you when you belong to everyone. <br />
<br />
When you nurse, though, you are an extension of me, attached to me. I slow my breath to slow yours, calming both of us.<br />
<br />
We slide into sleep together, your hand tracing mine. Your inquisitive finger presses the ball of my thumb, touches my wedding ring, my wrist my breast my face. Your ear. <br />
<br />
You hold my hand with yours, your tiny, perfect hand. You nurse, and sleep, and your hand falls away. <br />
<br />
Your gossamer hair against my arm smells metallic, bright, golden. It stirs and moves with a life of its own, lifted by the cherry-blossom breeze from the open window. It tickles my nose when I bend to kiss your head, damp with sleep. I breathe in how we smell together; milk and honey.<br />
<br />
Hunger sated and with a full measure of comfort, you roll to your back, cheeks flushed and mouth pursed in the memory of nursing. I watch over you, a lioness with loving arms. <br />
<br />
Your mouth reaches for me, blind and needing, as you sleep. A rising panic makes your languid motions urgent! frantic! until you latch -- aaah -- and slip back into the bliss. This is bliss.<br />
<br />
This is more than I could ever have imagined.<br />
<br />
That something so simple -- feed your baby -- could be such a profound expression of intimacy and love is something I could never have expected.<br />
<br />
I would do anything to protect you, and us, and the nursing that helps make us an 'us'. I am fierce with passion for this. I am sabre-toothed in my defense of our need to nurse and be nursed, for us both to be nurtured at my breast. <br />
<br />
You have made me thus: a mother. By nursing you, I am provider and provided for. I am blessed, anointed, baptized in milk. In this bed, I participate in an everyday miracle. I believe. <br />
<br />
And still you sleep beside me, drinking in love. <br />
<br />
Thank you.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobSDVfq7rrhn9KoqssiuCLuWa0JJFSLehMEnby04V_Gf3nzEmT6TxLOw2WZOw1TXg-bqHxIQrrs1-uj9fMHDCz9b-PclgIpHlVIYCD3P5UoPiQZx8HMt2FrO9y21F4MCN4jgM/s1600/Photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobSDVfq7rrhn9KoqssiuCLuWa0JJFSLehMEnby04V_Gf3nzEmT6TxLOw2WZOw1TXg-bqHxIQrrs1-uj9fMHDCz9b-PclgIpHlVIYCD3P5UoPiQZx8HMt2FrO9y21F4MCN4jgM/s400/Photo+11.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-52086499931713924542010-04-03T13:00:00.001-07:002010-04-03T13:08:16.536-07:00In my defence, you are keeping me busy!In fact, as I write, you are wriggling your way over to the dvds on the shelf and look very much like you are going to pull one down for a taste. Or all of them for a taste. Oh, first you are going to taste Daddy's birthday card. Again. <br />
<br />
Which is all my roundabout way of explaining, dear Jackie, why your seven-month letter is coming at <strike>almost exactly at seven-and-one-half months</strike> a few days before you turn eight months old. Bad mama! <br />
<br />
The past <strike>six weeks</strike> two months have been a rollicking adventure of milestones and development, and the ride is not slowing down one whit. As you have now pushed yourself backwards under your swing and will be clamouring shortly for rescue, I will be brief. [Ok, this is not entirely accurate, two weeks later. The swing went on Craigslist and you required rescuing before I could finish this post. Right now you are sleeping on your sleeping daddy on the couch. Seriously, seriously cute.]<br />
<br />
You can push yourself around backwards. This is cute, and not nearly as scary as the next trick -- crawling. You can already get to hands and knees pretty much at will and you rock back and forth in preparation for the next stage, as if you are a little toy car getting revved up to be let go, zooming across the floor. We MUST get a baby gate. Seriously.<br />
<br />
You have two teeth. The first popped above the gum line at Mt. Baker a few weeks ago and the second followed a few days later. They are now readily visible when you smile. I call you 'Sharky' because of your terribly sharp chomping which you do on our fingers at every opportunity.<br />
<br />
You taste EVERYTHING. Every object you come across is lifted (if possible), turned, examined intently (with your little duck lip sticking out in concentration) and tasted. These include and are not limited to: the buttons on my sweater, the cat's tail, daddy's steel guitar (with teeth clicking on the metal), any carpet you are placed on, your coat, the granite countertops at Ikea, my toes, my wallet, my debit card (handily lifted from my wallet), your seat belts and whatever else you grab/we give you in desperation to keep you occupied for another 20 seconds.<br />
<br />
Food has been interesting. I am a <strike>lazy</strike> ardent breastfeeder, so your diet is virtually 100% breastmilk, on tap. This is normal at your age, and since I'm <strike>lazy</strike> prescribing to baby-led weaning, food is for fun and texture at this point, not for nutrition (that's what the boobs are for). No purees for you! And no preparing/spoon feeding/cleaning up puree-covered walls for me! Since we are going for <i>fun</i> foods, you have been eating a range of delicious things. You like raspberry pancakes, scrambled eggs and toast, any kind of cheese is a BIG hit, and you sucked back two slices of spicy Genoese salami at Costco. We actually had to go back to the sample guy for another slice. Awww our little blond, blue-eyed Italian shows his true colours! Sometimes you hide food in your cheeks for later. That's always fun come nursing time.<br />
<br />
"Why is this piece of half-mascerated steamed carrot on my boob?"<br />
<br />
You are talking up a storm. You are speaking fluent 'Babyese', and we don't understand a word of it, but you obviously believe that you are speaking a complete and many-nuanced language and your descriptive powers are amazing. We are actually surprisingly good at translating your Ahs! and Ers! into the mother tongue, or at least you appreciate our efforts.<br />
<br />
For the past few days, your naps have been all over the place. Mostly far, far away. You are working on so many skills -- walking, crawling, communication -- that it wires your brain and you can't sleep even when you are so. very. tired. <br />
<br />
You have also begun to 'request' to be nursed <i>upstairs in bed</i> no matter where we are. It doesn't help to explain to you that London Drugs just doesn't have a bed we can nurse in -- you are insistent! Arching! Take me to bed to nurse! Only nursing in bed + shortage of beds at major retailers = eating less during the day (though that ipod <strike>Touch</strike> Addiction is mighty handy for surfin' and nursin'). In compensation, you are eating about <strike>five</strike> fifty times over the nighttime hours. Thank all the little gods we co-sleep, though your Daddy has on at least one occasion been pushed right out of bed. <br />
<br />
*thump* <br />
<br />
I'm ordering a<a href="http://www.lorisnursingnecklaces.com/"> nursing necklace</a> to try and keep your attention long enough to get some milk in you during the day. Cheerios are fascinating and tasty <strike>and look fine on my boob</strike>, but I'm getting a little tired of the afternoon pump because you can't be bothered to slow down enough to nurse -- or we don't have a bed handy.<br />
<br />
Diapering has also become something of an <strike>ordeal</strike> adventure as you've mastered the whole rolling uphill thing. Daddy and I miss the days when we could leave you on the change table to run and grab something and not worry about a *thump*. Frankly, I miss the days when I could grab a wipe without having to simultaneously pin you with a fancy wrestling hold while trying to keep your hand off your poop-covered privates while keeping your diaper in place with a fourth hand and trying to free the music mobile from your other hand so that it can make the music it needs to TO DISTRACT YOU. Ahh let it go. We do love the All In One <a href="http://www.monkeydoodlez.com/">Monkey Doodlez</a> (I should buy stock) as it is only one layer of diaper to put on and therefore only requires two extra hands instead of four. Made in Canada with super velcro for the win! Go Canada! <br />
<br />
I've been attending a '<a href="http://www.mamarenew.ca/">Mamas Unfolding</a>' group put on by the same people as we did our pre-natal classes (<a href="http://www.dancingstarbirth.ca/">Dancing Star Birth</a>) where one of the mamas did the prenatal class with us. Her little guy, James, is working on walking (so <strike>scary</strike> cute!). You watched him and that night showed us that your mad standing skillz have translated into mad walking skillz! Of course your balance is non-existent, but the leap to one-foot-in-front-of-the-other has been made. Dear god. <br />
<br />
Since I need to start working on eight months ASAP, I will close this one off with a bunch of random photos. Quick, before you wake up. <br />
<br />
You love hiking. When the <a href="http://www.mec.ca/Products/product_detail.jsp?PRODUCT%3C%3Eprd_id=845524441776409&FOLDER%3C%3Efolder_id=2534374302735239">MEC baby backpack</a> comes out, you jump with joy. Which makes hiking even more fun -- nothing like a wiggling 20lb backpack to make daddy grateful for a hiking pole. Here we are at Lynn Creek. Truth be told, you find the label on the Jackpack just as interesting as the scenery. Mmmm... tasty label! <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc1Ar0d9r0Jx3HYKnE_BS9Yv-Pk2GaQBz6CHsbhthSy1r6I8Xq4UvMnsdF9oIJbpNB1YztCooLfdsJe5YsSn_r7oRu2-FhxkJVkD75zde_bHzEM82fzyZlIQ9qjfVKJ6-LviY/s1600/Jack+smiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc1Ar0d9r0Jx3HYKnE_BS9Yv-Pk2GaQBz6CHsbhthSy1r6I8Xq4UvMnsdF9oIJbpNB1YztCooLfdsJe5YsSn_r7oRu2-FhxkJVkD75zde_bHzEM82fzyZlIQ9qjfVKJ6-LviY/s400/Jack+smiling.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBPFiErpxrOtVOMqg4eHEBUnH0PC3YoQXAwke1S17OiqK7ywILYivZqZvzDELMRphmocJcjDe0Lz6VSzLdc-waDfPhOaMiPxUf1yk8RFbFHCWzG_5ekHmdFfQOXEA6Tpn4yfq/s1600/IMG_0243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBPFiErpxrOtVOMqg4eHEBUnH0PC3YoQXAwke1S17OiqK7ywILYivZqZvzDELMRphmocJcjDe0Lz6VSzLdc-waDfPhOaMiPxUf1yk8RFbFHCWzG_5ekHmdFfQOXEA6Tpn4yfq/s400/IMG_0243.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQCR_bjbdan5HOAIik27zSDpsilyLYuO0F7o_iBmpzyfYgOXrH-FRZnbuoVtjq13QRx_MqjVjzAgxQ0eqbEayOpFZ00jxoO4CyYf9jvioSwcjd4mXAqDN71VsRKawPAVwtBRQ/s1600/IMG_0342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQCR_bjbdan5HOAIik27zSDpsilyLYuO0F7o_iBmpzyfYgOXrH-FRZnbuoVtjq13QRx_MqjVjzAgxQ0eqbEayOpFZ00jxoO4CyYf9jvioSwcjd4mXAqDN71VsRKawPAVwtBRQ/s400/IMG_0342.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>We checked out some Olympic venues. Stroller = snowplow if people = snow. Way to get us to the head of the line, baby! The energy downtown was pretty darn cool and you loved it and the people loved you. Beth and I stood in line for over an hour in the Bay Olympic Superstore lineup, where you decided a snack would be nice right about now... so we nursed in the lineup, Beth pushing the stroller and me walking and nursing. Too bad breastfeeding isn't an Olympic sport. Go Canada! <br />
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Hiking at Cypress Falls in West Vancouver. The closest we could get to Cypress Mountain during the Olympics. You loved the rushing falls. <br />
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You do love your daddy's music. Three... two... one... turn and EAT GUITAR!<br />
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Grandpa Rod and Nana Tracy were in town for a few days over Spring Break, which was awesome. I was so relieved that you took to them like you had seen them every day (instead of not since Thanksgiving). We went to a Sledge Hockey Game and you were RAPT. You watched the replay, you cheered at the goals, you ate Greek food afterwards and barely stayed awake on the bus on the way home -- just like the rest of us.<br />
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Go Canada! <br />
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<br />
Go Canada! <br />
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Go raspberry pancakes! <br />
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In a few minutes, we're going to pack up and go to Grandma Gayle and Grandpa John's house for dinner, which will be followed by Easter brunch tomorrow and maybe some birthday cake for mummy and Auntie Lisa. Mmmm... cake. Maybe we'll let you have a little taste... or maybe I'll pick up a little salami for my little Sharky. Go <strike>Italy</strike> Canada! <br />
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I love you, Jackeroo. You are the awesome-est. <br />
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MamaLorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-14148209380464332562010-02-05T12:29:00.001-08:002010-02-05T12:36:02.763-08:00Almost six months...Hi Jackeroo!<br />
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Tomorrow you will be six months old. You are currently napping in your swing, so I'm going to make the most of this respite to write your letter.<br />
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You are generally napping more, so you'd think I'd have more time to write, but no -- you prefer to nap in our bed, with me lying beside you, so you can take a sip whenever your sleepy self decides to have a snack. This is lovely (and man am I well rested some days!) but not so conducive to writing. <br />
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Last night Steve had Simon over for music, and you stood in your exersaucer for over two and a half hours listening to the music. You crowed and sang and played with your sippy cup, and on at least one occasion, you licked your dad's steel guitar. Mmmmm... tasty, tasty guitar! When the evening was winding down, you started shouting at me (also a new development) and when I picked you up, you were <i>soaked</i>. Even your socks were wet! Who knows how long your diaper had been saturated, but Mr. Picky, who usually complains at the first sign of dampness, didn't care a whit so long as the music was playing. <br />
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We've known for a long time (since before you were born) how much you love music. A few weeks ago, I went to move Steve's guitar from the couch and as soon as you saw me pick up the instrument, you started jumping and crowing -- play mummy! play! I had to apologize... sorry, baby -- wait for your daddy to come home. When we arrived at the <a href="http://www.folksongsociety.org/">Vancouver Folk Song Society</a> event last Wednesday, you actually shook with excitement when you realized where we were. I guess time will tell if you decide to play an instrument (as opposed to tasting them), but chances appear good. <br />
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You are now 18lb, 10oz, and are about 29" long. I have started buying 12 month clothes for you. They are a little big, but better that than too-small 6-12 month shirts. Interestingly, you are still in 3-6 month pants, and size small <a href="http://www.bummis.com/ca/en/super-whisper-wrap.php">Bummis</a> diaper covers, which you should have grown out of at 15lbs, but you have your dad's slim hips (certainly not mine!) and long body (mine). <br />
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You have your dad's hands: strong and gentle. I hope this is a sign of the man you will become. You like to stroke my hands while you nurse, or run your hands over my shirt, or reach up your hands for me to kiss. The purpose behind your tiny hands is impressively large: you reach, grab, turn, grapple, lift and constantly explore. Anything small enough to lift is brought to your mouth for a taste and a gum, which is why I was wiping tiny pieces of cardboard from your face, hands and shirt the other day. Mmmm... tasty, tasty cardboard!<br />
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You have also experimented with more... conventional solids. You have had yogurt (your favourite), apples (mostly stolen from me and gnawed during co-op meetings), avocado (which you had in your ears by the time you were done), banana (not such a fan) and raspberry with yogurt (big hit). Oh, and chicken which you mostly shredded and congee which you mostly hated. You would like best to be eating whatever we are eating, whether it be Thai Red <strike>Crack</strike> Curry, Chinese hot pot, Miniwheats or any other thing that approaches our mouths. In time, Jackeroo, in time! For now, my milk is your primary food and All That Other Stuff is just for fun. <br />
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We recently introduced you to the swings in the little park by our house. The first few swings were a little eyebrow-raising for you, but you got the hang of it in about 2.2 seconds, and now you LOVE the swings. Woohoo! you say! Only you don't say "woohoo" but more "aaaaieeeeeeee!!!!!" in tones that could bend metal.<br />
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As much fun as swinging on your own is, you like swinging with your daddy the best:<br />
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"Aaaaieeeeeeee!!!!!"<br />
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You are becoming more communicative by the second. You tell me you want to lie down for a nap by refusing to nurse on the couch or in your chair, and yet you are all smiles and turning over to root when I place you on the bed. You have gone beyond arching your back to be picked up to now stretching out your arms to us. You "mmmumamamummmmmumumumbabamamumummum!" which I usually find excruciatingly cute, and other times excruciatingly exasperating (when I'm standing <i>right there</i>), but I know it is all about you learning to communicate, so that's ok. Also ok is the new shouting, which you do to get my attention, and then you put on whatever signal you use to get whatever it is that you need: if you want to play, you smile and flap; if you're wet, you complain; if you're tired/bored/lonely, you cry out to me. You have started to babble, which is <i>awesome!</i> You talk to your toys, the dog, and us, especially when you are at eye level. <br />
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You love going grocery shopping (and will maybe tolerate Ikea -- note to self to take you to Ikea) now that you can sit up in the baby seat in the buggy, which is great timing, since we had to replace your infant car seat with a convertible seat.<br />
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Oh, and that new carseat? In our new car! My paternal grandmother amazingly and unexpectedly sent us some money -- enough to pay off my student loan. Since your education is already being saved for, this has freed us up to buy the very necessary family car. Even though I've loved my Toyota Echo, the new <a href="http://www.honda.ca/HondaCA2006/Models/Fit/2009/default.asp?L=E">Honda Fit</a> is freaking amazing! We are on track to being completely debt-free inside of two years, if <strike>we</strike> I keep my shopping nose clean. No credit card debt, no student debt, and a new car paid off. Crazy, huh? Someday this will be relevant to you, baby boy, and I hope we are able to teach you the lessons of fiscal responsibility at a cheaper price than I paid for them.<br />
<br />
In short, you are an amazing baby, and I'm loving all the changes even though they are coming so fast it makes my head spin. It's a great ride, this 'mummmummmmaamamamum', and I never want to get off.<br />
<br />
And speaking of a great ride, the sun has appeared, so let's go down to the swings. Hopefully it will be just like this:<br />
<br />
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I love you little man. Don't grow up too fast, 'k?<br />
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Lots of love always from your mummmammmamamumumLorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-78669425372940120042010-01-16T00:51:00.000-08:002010-01-16T00:51:43.546-08:00Five months and countingDear Jackie,<br />
<br />
A week and a bit ago, you turned five months old. I would have written sooner, but you have been keeping me busy! For starters, I had to order a new car seat last week. You are huge -- 18lb, 2oz as of two days ago. You are 28.5" long, which is great except that the car seat limit is 29". Hmmm... hopefully you don't grow the next 1/2" before Sunday, when your Grandpa John will hopefully help me install the new carseat...<br />
<br />
Good lord, little man -- where do I start? You have pulled out all kinds of new tricks since I last wrote. Let's see if I can remember a few of them.<br />
<br />
1. You roll. Seriously, we know you can do it -- rolling was your special gift to us on Christmas morning. Sure you had rolled before (such as off the couch), but those rolls could always be explained away by gravity assist, or by a helping hand to get your arms organized. Christmas rolling was all you -- yay Jack! Incidentally, you have only rolled back to front and show no interest in rolling front to back. AND you haven't rolled a heck of a lot since Christmas... but that's ok. We know you'll get there in good time -- probably sooner than we're banking on. Which reminds me -- time to shop for a baby gate, 'cause I would hate to time that wrong. <br />
<br />
2. You kiss! For the first little while, I thought this was just random baby slimings, but no -- you give open-mouthed cheek-kisses and they are awesome (if sticky). With all the kisses you receive, it should come as no surprise that you have picked up on this trick early. You are a happy, loving little guy and it is a privilege to hang out with you every day. <br />
<br />
3. You jump. You like to stand on our laps and you jump with joy. I felt both feet leave the <strike>ground</strike> lap yesterday! We have an exersaucer from our neighbours and you LOVE it. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be a Jolly Jumper, but you don't let that detail stop you from bouncing away in it. You're a very physical boy: you love to be pulled to a stand and thank goodness you don't have the strength to do this on your own. You can just about sit up on your own though only for a few or ten seconds before you slowly topple onto your face. Fortunately you like this, or any other motion that involves diving forward, preferably onto pointy and/or impossibly hard and/or insecure surfaces. <br />
<br />
4. Speaking of diving, you have started to lunge at things you like. Just like those first few days of breastfeeding, when you would dive onto the boob like a petite animal, grunting and snorting with hunger, you dive onto things you want. You have dove onto your dad's lap, Sophie la Giraffe, my boob, the couch, a book, Sarah, and anything you think we are eating.<br />
<br />
5. Ah, yes -- the eating. I had determined to be a good little <a href="http://www.kellymom.com/">kellymom.com</a> devotee and make you wait until six months before starting solids. I know they have good reasons for this, and I respect their knowledge. However, I read <a href="http://www.drjacknewman.com/">Dr. Jack Newman</a>'s opinion that some babies are developmentally ready for solids before six months, and watch the baby, not the calendar. Since I also have huge respect for Dr. Newman, and Jack was watching me eat yoghurt with a look of wonder like I was performing magic, I offered him a little bit on the spoon - jackpot! You were SO HAPPY and made 'put a worm in HERE' birdie faces frantically, I fed you some more little bits, which you continued to be SO HAPPY with. <br />
<br />
Since then, you have tried plain yoghurt (you liked this a lot), banana (not so happy with) and egg yolk at Bon's Off Broadway (more enthralled with the eggy spoon than actual eggs). I want to do Baby Led Weaning and will be trying to offer more of the finger-style foods than spoon-foods, but I guess I'm just not that organized... well, that and you were wildly uninterested in picking up banana than picking up a spoon. <br />
<br />
This list does not include all the items which you would like to have eaten which I didn't let you, including but not limited to ham, Thai red curry, miniwheats, Steve's homemade bread with honey, tea, lemonade, cow's milk, and chocolate milk. <br />
<br />
Ah yes, the chocolate milk. Every so often (ok pretty often), I buy chocolate milk in those little one litre jugs. I know Jack has seen me drink from one, but not recently (as in, not in the past week or two). I had one last night for a co-op meeting which Jack and I were attending (where I go, my breastfed baby goeth also), and I put it down on the table while I was taking Jack's coat off. As soon as his little arms were free, he launched himself at the table, grabbing the jug handle while making enormous birdie faces. If I hadn't snatched it away, I swear he would have ripped off the lid and started chugging. I felt badly drinking it in front of him, so I didn't get to have any until he fell asleep and I was able to lay him on the couch. In the meantime, however, he had figured out that people were drinking from cans (we don't have many cans in our house) and practically mugged my neighbour for her lemonade. Silly baby! Fortunately you are adorable and nobody minded.<br />
<br />
Speaking of meetings -- thank you! You were so good last night, I suspect people think I drugged you. You played with Sophie, then your moose, then the keys. You stood on my lap and talked happily to my neighbour (trying to convince her to let you have some lemonade), you fussed a tiny bit but then you had a snack and a nap, you woke up happy and then hung out and ate Sophie some more. Amazing! You show more patience in a co-op meeting than many of the Board members do :- )<br />
<br />
You are talking up a storm, by the way. You tell us stories with perfect sincerity and obvious belief that we understand every word. You crow, and laugh, and turn your head when you hear your name. You are amazingly responsive and you love just about everyone. We're still waiting to see you 'make strange' but other than occasionally needing your mama, you seem to be just a happy little person. <br />
<br />
Except for the teeth. While no pearly whites have appeared above the gumline, baby Tylenol and homeopathic teething drops are your friends. It is a testament to your good temper that we are completely surprised when you suddenly burst out crying; on the upside, when this happens we know exactly what the problem is. <br />
<br />
After five months, we finally have the hang of nursing lying down. My back hates it a little, but I love -- seriously, I LOVE -- waking up with you all snuggled up to me. Maybe we are more tired, maybe you are less noisy and flail-y than you were when you were new, but now we all sleep pretty well when I bring you to our bed in the wee hours and nurse us back to sleep in the soft dark of our bedroom. <br />
<br />
Small fry, you are the best baby ever and you are turning into a little boy right before our eyes. You are growing so fast it is crazy! I need to go through your clothes and pack up the six-month sleepers and wash all the nine-month ones, and I need to remember every step of this amazing journey we are traveling as a family. <br />
<br />
Right this minute though, it is late, and I need to go upstairs and check on you as you sleep. In a few hours, I will collect you from the crib and bring you to sleep safely between your father and I, surrounded by love. And the cat.<br />
<br />
With love always,<br />
MumLorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-2897878573749280652009-12-12T23:32:00.000-08:002009-12-12T23:32:43.958-08:00The latest statsJack is enormous. <br />
<br />
He was weighed on Wednesday (at four months and three days) and he is 16lbs, 11oz, which is an increase from 15lb 14oz two weeks previous. He is 27.5" long, which is half an inch larger than two weeks ago. Insane! That makes him in the 97th percentile for height and the 75th or so for weight (he was 95th and 95th at birth). <br />
<br />
I buy nine-month sleepers for him now as all the six-month ones are getting tight around the shoulders. We bought him a snowsuit... 18 months size! Admittedly, it is big on him, but we wanted to make sure it would last to the end of the winter :-) <br />
<br />
He's not even a chubby baby -- just tall and strong and full of beans! I'm working on the 'more to love' principle with him (as I nurse my aching back). <br />
<br />
It's hard to believe he went from this tiny little thing: <br />
<br />
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To this, in four short months...<br />
<br />
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</div>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-12202832359150178042009-12-06T20:56:00.001-08:002009-12-06T23:21:03.504-08:00Four months ago today...Dear Jack,<br />
<br />
Today you turned four months old. You have become such an integral part of our lives that I cannot remember how Steve and I were an us before we were three of us. I cannot even imagine what it was like to be a me before I was your mother. You are such an awesome little human being and I feel so privileged to be a part of your life.<br />
<br />
I can't quite believe how quickly the past four months have gone. It seems like only a few short weeks ago that you were this tiny (ok, tiny-er) little being, with such big intent eyes and little animal noises. I am desperately afraid that I will forget what it was like to hold you as a newborn, to smell your fuzzy baby head, to feel your weight as you fell asleep against my shoulder -- perfectly content and secure.<br />
<br />
In order to aid myself in this, I am compiling a list of those things I want -- need -- to remember. I feel as if forgetting any moment of you would just break my heart.<br />
<br />
1. Your smile. You smiled early, we think. Perhaps you had a lot of gas, but by three weeks, your smiles were aimed at us and clearly seemed to be in response to times when you were happy. I loved your early smiles, but your smiles now are just amazing You grin, you dimple, you give big smiles and then you give these full-face smiles that just light up the room! You give them freely and without reservation, and I can tell when you smile because your eyes crinkle up, so even if I can't see your mouth, I know you're happy. You smile in your sleep, these flickering grins that pass your mouth in an instant. You also smile on the boob sometimes, looking up at me with those big blue eyes, not willing to let go, but too blissed to not respond. Your face is full of love and trust and you are deliriously happy and want to show the world. I love your smiles.<br />
<br />
2. Your tears. Your cries just break my heart, especially when your little lower lip pouts out. When you were new, your whole lower jaw would shake with the passion of your crying; combined with the outstretched fist, we (lovingly) compared you to the overacting of William Shatner (Khan!!). When they did the heel sticks to test your blood sugar levels in the hospital, I cried with you. I can't understand how any parent could ever just listen. to. their. baby. cry. I resolved the moment I met you to try and limit your crying with whatever means available to me, because I love you too much to let you cry. Not that it has always helped, but I have always tried. Over time, the strength of your cries have increased, but their frequency has decreased. We had one midnight visit from the midwife in your first week when we just couldn't figure out why you were still losing your nut at 10pm, when you weren't hungry or dirty -- turns out that's the normal fussy evenings of a newborn. Huh! It makes me wish that I had read more books on parenting, instead of being so focused on the birth. <br />
<br />
3. Your hunger. When you were tiny, your hunger cues were easy: you were breathing, therefor you were hungry! Well, not quite so simple, but that first night I lay with you beside me in the hospital bed, I found your "ah ah ah ah" compelling me to open my shirt and offer you nourishment and comfort. Your breathing would quicken and your mouth would open like a little bird's, and I would feed you. You also came with a cue which is only now starting to diminish: you would bonk your head against the shoulder of whomever was holding you, presumably tenderizing the flesh below for easy suckling. The bird faces were lost within your first few months, sadly, but the "ah ah ah" still makes the occasional appearance, as does the bonking. Lip-licking as a cue came and went, though I still sometimes find you licking my stomach in anticipation. When you're hungry, your breathing still quickens as I come close, and sometimes that is all you need to ask me to bring you to the breast. You now show the proper 'rooting' reflex, where you turn your head to a stroke on your cheek and open your mouth to a hoped-for breast. Even on nights like tonight, when you snacked for two minutes out of every twenty, I am still intensely satisfied with my choice to breastfeed (I say that as if it was a choice rather than surrendering to your right and need for breastmilk). Your cues have changed, but your need and my ability are still dominant factors in our lives.<br />
<br />
4. Your hands. Your tiny little fists when you were first born have unfolded slowly into open palms, creeping starfish which cup my breast as you nurse, wander slowing up my shirt front and flow up to cover your face so you can focus more intently on the task at hand. We were so overcome with pride for you that we remarked to the midwives how you were so focused on having your hands in front of your face, as if this were a mark of some infant genius. No, we were informed, all babies do that. It's how they were in the womb and they're not yet used to having all this space. Ah, we said. Ok. I remember when you held onto our fingers with your deathgrip, and how you learned to guide our finger to your mouth for drooling and chewing (instead of guiding it carefully into your cheek!). Now you can get a toy right into your mouth, along with a washcloth, your shirt, many fingers, sometimes your thumb, your seatbelt or any other thing that is placed remotely near your mouth. You are very dexterous. Your fingernails are your fathers, as are your long fingers and elegant wrist. Perhaps you will play the guitar. Or the drums, if your father is lucky :-)<br />
<br />
5. Your ears. Your ears were one of the first things I noticed when the doctor held you up to my view, flat on the operating table: they are perfectly formed and pinned close to your head. They are lovely ears, Jack, ears you can be proud of. The other amazing thing about those ears is how much music they have listened to, for all your life. Besides all the music you danced to in my womb, when you were just two weeks old we took you to the Heritage Music Festival in Princeton. You heard sea shanties at top volume not two feet from your head, tuba on the front porch, and banjo all over the place. When you were not quite a month, you realized at the Duttons show on Gibsons pier that the people you saw and the sounds you heard were related: you watched the show from my lap, rapt. You crow with joy and make your bouncy chair rock hard when your daddy plays music to you in your shared early mornings. You were transfixed by the native drumming at Daryl's birthday party (though the dancers scared you a little). Sometimes your unhappiness in the car seat can be put off a little by Steve and I singing along to loud, upbeat music. Or "Ain't No More Cane", which concerns your father a little. You are already an aficionado, and we can't wait to see and hear how your musical taste develops. <br />
<br />
6. Your hair. You have the craziest baby hair I have ever seen! You were born with a full head of fine, dark hair, with a little curl and blond tips. It was surfer hair, or little 'duck feathers' as Pixie put it. Everyone said it would fall out and you would be bald, but they were only half right: you have worn the hair off the edges of your head, and that part has grown in silver-blond. However, the top part is still dark, and long, and curly, and has ended up as a little baby faux hawk. It is adorable, and many people comment on it. I have to declare that we did not do anything to your hair to make it look like this, and I'm not sure everyone believes me.<br />
<br />
7. Your nose. You were born with a little strawberry nose: pink with little white dots from where the pores were not developed. It disappeared slowly, so slow that I didn't mark the loss of the little dots. Your eye also cleared up: the goopy eye from an undeveloped or blocked tear duct that they told us would resolve on its own did so, sometime last week. Your eyes, by the way, are still blue. They may yet change, but the clarity and intensity of the blueness make us hopefully that you will be our blue eyed boy for the rest of your life. Your eyelashes are crazy long and dark, though your eyebrows have always been light (I guess to match the blondness of your new hair).<br />
<br />
8. Your noises. Right now, living with you is like living with a strange and exotic bird. Most of the time, your laugh is an inhalation that results in a boisterous "eeeeeee". Sometimes, more recently, your dad can get you laughing so hard that you make all these proper chuckles, but they are less often. You also chat, and tell all kind of stories with perfect sincerity, so much that we wonder what you think you are telling us. It's quite fantastic, really. Did you know you were born talking? The doctor had only your head out of the incision and you were already chatting away. He told you: "Stop it! You aren't supposed to be talking yet!"<br />
<br />
9. Your demeanor. You were always an engaged baby, with lots of eye contact and a serious expression. You could hold your head up from when you were born, which made life a lot easier for me as I was less worried about breaking you. Your favourite position has always been up looking over the shoulder, preferably the left. Your dad used to burp you folded in half over his shoulder, and you seemed to like it just fine. You hardly ever spit up (yay!) and you hit your nose when you are stuffed up. You have always loved to stand, even from being weeks old, you have stood with all your weight on your legs, relying on us only for balance. You love your shiatsu chair now, though it seemed like a waste of real estate for the first few weeks. You give so much to us, and I'm not just talking drool: you laugh, you smile, you fuss generally only when there is a very good reason, and you are so very <i>present</i> in our lives. You seem so much more person-like than we expected such a new baby to be. <br />
<br />
10. Your father. I would be totally remiss if I didn't mention that your father has blossomed in a way that I didn't know he would. I always knew Steve would be an amazing father -- he is caring, dedicated, compassionate, patient, fun and he has some amazing talents to teach you. However, he is so perfectly in love with you, it just breaks my heart. The first days in hospital, he roomed in on a narrow cot, and he slept with you on his chest while I napped. From the beginning, your bond was apparent; you knew his voice and trusted him completely. It kills me that Steve never expected to be a father, because he is the best of fathers. His confidence and humour have increased exponentially from the first days, even though he was never as scared of hurting you as I was. He changes your diapers, rocks you to sleep, entertains you in the morning, and loves you beyond all imagining. His love for you makes me love you both all the more, if that were possible. <br />
<br />
I know how fleeting some of your phases and characteristics are, and I am trying to document them as much as possible. To that end, I am going to enjoy the last of your crazy baby hair until you move on to some new 'do. I love you, Jack.<br />
<br />
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</div>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-60548128129424957192009-11-11T23:34:00.000-08:002009-11-11T23:34:43.743-08:00It's always the planes that get meWe left the house late, of course. We have a baby. Walking through weak sun to the bus stop, it felt like a gift -- sun in November in Vancouver. <br />
<br />
The crowd was enormous, spilling up the streets and sidewalks. We could just hear the choir sing, high and sweet and pure, anonymous of words. The mutter from the sky grew louder, more insistent, and a moment later, a bomber flew low overhead. So low I thought I could reach up and touch it, feel the rivets under my fingertips. Then the tears started.<br />
<br />
I don't often think about my grandfather. I don't need to, I suppose. He was a good man, large and larger than life -- growing peas (oh such sweet peas) in his tiny backyard in a brick suburb in middle-class England. He played the pipes in a band. He marched onscreen for a nanosecond of a movie with his pipe band, and his friends made him an Oscar. He was an airplane mechanic in the RAF in World War II, stationed in India. It took some forty years before he could set foot in a plane again, before he could come to Canada to visit his only child, my father. I know his name. <br />
<br />
That is pretty much all I know -- I met him a half-dozen times, on trips to England, his visits here when I was a teenager, unaware of the importance of family connections. His life did not affect mine, nor mine his, I imagine. His death after a slow mental decline four years ago did not seem to affect me much either, and I understood that was the normal feelings of no real personal relationship. It was fine. <br />
Until I heard the planes. Three years ago, I attended Remembrance Day services in Gibsons. It was another fine fall day, another gift of no rain and rustling leaves scuffed underfoot. There, the planes came from the south, low over Keats Island and the harbour, and the noise of them preceded the formation by a minute or more. When I heard them in the distance, and caught sight of them over the glinting water, I was choked by loss. The loss of a grandfather I never knew, the loss of a grandfather I would have known, had he not been so damaged by that goddamn war that his fear was more intense than his desire to be a part of our lives. Of my life. The loss of lives, of a generation, of quiet despair and 'keep strong and carry on'. <br />
<br />
When I heard the planes -- those four lone bombers, flying in a tight formation -- I imagined what it would have been like to huddle in the darkness of London, hearing hundreds of bombers streaming through the skies with their impossibly inhumane payload. <br />
<br />
Every year, I hear that rumble, and I remember my grandfather, and what wasn't to be, and I cry. <br />
<br />
This year, I nursed my infant son on the curb of a street next to the cenotaph, and my tears landed on the blanket that kept him warm and safe. I cannot imagine a world which would send their precious little boys to war, to be killed, or damaged, or suffer wounds that their granddaughters bleed generations later. <br />
<br />
What do we tell Jack about war? That it is cruel and horrible, but there are times when you have to take a stand against great evil? That he should never be a soldier? That he should be a soldier if he thinks the cause is right? Certainly, we will tell him that he should always use worlds instead of fists, or guns. <br />
<br />
And I will tell him about his great-grandfather, who would have loved him. I know it. <br />
<br />
<br />
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</div>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-40371535798437771952009-11-09T17:18:00.000-08:002009-11-09T17:18:34.201-08:00His father's son<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUKFZ-q19R8WPj8I4bV80qvSChLqsglO0neZXbfYWgfKu4iPqxYisI8nkblXnXEO22q2wkLgUEk8Nf4M8Rfw1sX2ArQInfYrEj0iUKLxjcH_y6TkfIH8Jy9_PqIrFTL2QYfFu/s1600-h/trimOctober+08,+200932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUKFZ-q19R8WPj8I4bV80qvSChLqsglO0neZXbfYWgfKu4iPqxYisI8nkblXnXEO22q2wkLgUEk8Nf4M8Rfw1sX2ArQInfYrEj0iUKLxjcH_y6TkfIH8Jy9_PqIrFTL2QYfFu/s320/trimOctober+08,+200932.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
Jack is his father's son. <br />
<br />
On reflection, what a stupid, stupid phrase: of course he's his father's son! By definition of the word... never mind. Jack is obviously Steve's son. My case in point: shopping. Instead of our usual 'pajama Monday', I decided today to spend the day out. We drove Steve to work (ok, I drove), pooped (Jack, I swear), ate (Jack again) and went to Ikea (Jack and I). Jack was fine at the co-op, fine in the car, and began to complain as soon as I sat down in the cafe with my $1 breakfast. He complained the entire shopping trip, at least until I sat down with him on the as-is white leather couch (boy I bet those as-is staff were nervous until we got up and left their couch unstained!) after which it was close enough to home, only with a better, cleaner unstained couch. <br />
<br />
We enjoyed as-is couch snacks (Jack, again) and some flailing time (mostly Jack) and, in the middle of breastfeeding, were asked by a woman if "we would be long" -- I gathered my righteous indignation for an anti-breastfeeding conflict -- only to be asked if she could leave her shopping cart under my watchful (and immobile) eye while she ran to the bathroom. I was almost disappointed -- more on my unsuspected lactivism later. The boobysnacks and couch time mollified Jack for a minute or two, and he was fine in the return car trip... right up until we entered Costco. Suffice it to say, I ended up carrying an unhappy Jack through to the checkouts while simultaneously steering a Costco-sized shopping cart through a wave of oncoming people who were apparently incapable of veering from their immediate trajectory. Hmmm. Note to self: do not attempt Costco alone again. <br />
<br />
Speaking of couches, Jack destroyed ours last week. Well not DESTROYED, but definitely de-couch-I-want-to-sit-on-ified. The sad reality is that sometimes 'diaper' would be better replaced by 'bucket', except that 'bucket' would not fit in the car seat. Jack hadn't pooped in almost 20 hours. I should have known. Honestly, watching the creeping stain up Jack's back seemed alarming enough, only surpassed by the alarmingness of the wetness on my leg I noticed when I stood to take him upstairs to change him. With everyone changed and a load of laundry on, I was just about to sit back down on the couch when I saw the acid-yellow smear on the side of the couch and the puddle on the floor. Yuck. I washed the crap out of that couch, literally and figuratively, and at least the smell was gone after it dried. <br />
<br />
We're shopping for another couch on craigslist. <br />
<br />
Preferably free. <br />
<br />
Why pay perfectly good money for another couch that will be *ahem* in the line of fire?<br />
<br />
That said, we're going to keep the old, poopified couch as well. Does that make us unhygenic or just new parents? Both, perhaps? The reality is that with a family of three, our lone two-seater just isn't cutting it any more, which reflects another reality: a 15lb baby takes up more room than a 200lb adult. SERIOUSLY. Especially on a couch. Therefore, we get a new couch so there is somewhere cushy for someone else to surf the internet on her laptop (we're not mentioning names here) and keep the old couch so that someone else (Jack and Steve) always has a place to nap. I'm not telling which is which, just in case you visit and refuse to sit on the old one. Hint: one of them will definitely smell faintly of vinegar. <br />
<br />
Jack is just over three months old -- his 1/4 birthday was November 6, 2009 -- and as of two days pre-1/4 day, he weighed in at a solid 15lb 7oz and measured 26" long. In other words, he's huge. Enormous. Only not in a huge way -- he's a long, tall drink of water (ok, milk, obviously of the boob variety) -- just like his father. Which is why I was at Costco: buying size NINE MONTH sleepers for the little man. And just like his father, he hated every minute of the shopping trip. <br />
<br />
At least we got some spare Stoatys at Ikea.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-84866530292571930542009-10-31T20:18:00.002-07:002009-10-31T22:00:18.699-07:00The next chapter in my frabjous lifeSo. We met, fell in love, got married and went on a honeymoon. It's been a hell of a lot of fun, but nothing compares to what happened next: we had a baby.<br /><br />Our Jack was born on August 6, 2009 at 10:22pm, weighing in a ginormous 10lb 8oz, which translates to 10.5 pounds or 4770 grams. Insane! He was 22.5" long. <br /><br />John Ryan Quattrocchi, to be known henceforth as 'Jack'. I still look at him sometimes and can't believe he's mine to keep, even though he'll be three months in less than a week. Un-freaking-believable. I can't believe he's only been here less than 90 days; it feels like I have had him forever and can't imagine life before Jack. It also, simultaneously and contradictorily, feels as though he must still only be days old, with years left to smell his tiny head and look at his tiny fingernails and gaze in awe at his tiny, perfect sleeping face.<br /><br />Who the hell am I kidding? There is nothing 'tiny' about this baby. <br /><br />When I was pregnant, I read every book, blog and article I could find on pregnancy and delivery. I lined up a midwife and a doula. I chose a pre-natal class run out of a midwife office that was the most holistic, all-natural, fuzzy, birth-art making class I could find. I wrote a birth plan. I took vitamins and D supplements. I gained the ideal 26 pounds, and I knew exactly how my labour and delivery could (should?) go. Too bad Jack never engaged, too bad I was induced at 11 days late due to low fluid, and too bad I ended up on the operating table after 28 hours failed induction, still at 4 cm dilation with Jack's head swelling from being beaten against my pelvis for ten hours. When the midwife looked over at where Jack was being suctioned as Steve prepared to cut the cord, and said: "He's big, ten pounds at least. Maybe more!" all I could think was "that explains everything." That, I suppose is a different story. <br /><br />I seem to have a lot of untold stories from the past few years: the story of how we decided to move back to the Raincity of Vancouver, how we finally hiked the West Coast Trail last summer, how we applied for almost every co-op in East Vancouver and decided to start trying for a baby a little early since it might take six months to conceive (yeah, not so much six months!), how I thought it would be a good idea to go through my second trimester while taking full-time classes and working 40 hours a week, how I fell off a short bus... lots of stories. I gave notice at a job in a Sharpie written note. Steve started running the art co-op he was a part of setting up over ten years ago. We moved into a fabulous two-bedroom co-op with a view of the world when I was seven months pregnant. I got my first A+ in post-secondary education, and walked across the stage to get my BA in English during convocation, only to leave my row three minutes later to go nurse my infant son. <br /><br />I had a son. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRlI-thl4WCJTDXJHF1zRhUkOi9IDywC33EUOwYN6yNu0a1TO2VBJA8zhUrYtPG3-8Ic5zQ89AP6KH8NLoZdSy_7AgSTo-vS5iVJkZi1LL4bjV0zjTkbhfS5-eCo6b3HaTTUw/s1600-h/jack+bassinette.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRlI-thl4WCJTDXJHF1zRhUkOi9IDywC33EUOwYN6yNu0a1TO2VBJA8zhUrYtPG3-8Ic5zQ89AP6KH8NLoZdSy_7AgSTo-vS5iVJkZi1LL4bjV0zjTkbhfS5-eCo6b3HaTTUw/s320/jack+bassinette.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398995493664780786" /></a>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-29301761771883818732009-07-23T22:47:00.000-07:002020-09-15T21:31:04.655-07:00Skunk walks and other miscellenyJuly 23, 2009. Thursday. Maybe. Jack is happy and healthy. And inside, the little bugger. D-minus six days to due date. <br /><br />Today was a lovely day, if not restful. Have I had a truly restful day since going on maternity leave? Maybe two? But I have gotten a heck of a lot done. We went to a midwife appointment at 10:00 am... too bad it was actually for 2:30pm today. Oh well. Steve and I wandered down to Chinatown and took advantage of our annual Dr. Sun Yat Sen Garden passes to admire the blooming lily pads and calico carp and drink many tiny paper cups of green tea. It was very relaxing. I would like keep the image of the blooming lotus in mind during labour... we'll see how that goes. <br /><br />A quick trip around Home Depot later plus one large fight with a local furniture store (they did not make what I wanted and they took their sweet time about it, but it appears I won the battle) later, Steve's parents met us at our house in time to put up the last shelf in Jack's room which, BTW, looks freaking awesome, especially with the cow hide on the floor. They also put together the (organic cotton) bouncy chair which made me a tiny but more relaxed. <br /><br />We then hit up the new downtown Costco where, among other things, I bought a Costco-sized multi-pack of wet wipes. Now I REALLY feel prepared :-) Andie came by after all that and refolded Jack's clothes in the change table/dresser she refinished for us. She used to work for Gap, so the girl sure knows how to fold a onesie. We packed a few outfits in the diaper bag along with one of the receiving blankets Gayle made and now Jack is packed. Steve and I just need to get our crap together and we'll be all ready for labour... well, as much as you can be ready for labour, anyway. <br /><br />Somewhere in there I made it to the midwife appointment where I saw Grace, who I like a great deal. Well, I like all the midwives, but I like the Kootenay connection with Grace especially. She poked Jack a bunch and reassured me that he was actually probably not huge, but I have lots of amniotic fluid. Whew! <br /><br />I had previously been told by the midwife student from Iran (cool, huh?) that I was having a "big boy." I said that was fine, so long as he was tall and thin. The student looked at me and said in a deadpan tone, "he's not thin." Did I mention whew? Yeah. <br /><br />Anyway, Grace is a tiny bit concerned over where the heartbeat was found, in that they've had a run on breach and semi-breach babies this July, and his heart location indicates a slight chance that he has moved to be head up... which would suck. She figures it's a 10% chance of breach since she thought she could still feel his head lower down in the pelvis. In any case, I have a quick ultrasound tomorrow to check his position and then we'll know for sure. Grace also reassured me that some women just aren't waddlers, and my lack of duck-walk does not indicate that I'm miles away from giving birth. Not that I'm anxious or anything... <br /><br />We finally took the dog for her evening walk just after nine. Initially my back was quite sore, so we took the flat walk along 5th, or at least until I saw a small black-and-white striped creature stomping across a lawn in our direction -- skunk! We backtracked pretty rapidly (especially for a pregnant woman) and decided to go up and around the block instead. Steve hesitated as he thought that we'd be heading right past where we last saw the skunk, but I told him that the skunk was in the bushes on the other side of the street from where we could walk. No problem, right? <br /><br />Yeah, right until we almost literally ran into skunk #2 around the end of the block. Fortunately Angel was on leash at that point, since she seemed mighty interested in investigating the little black 'kitty'. We tried to get ahead of the skunk in order to walk down the street without running up behind him and getting sprayed, but that little guy could move! After a few tense moments (being within ten feet of an urban skunk makes me nervous), we passed the little stinker and hustled up the sidewalk to home.<br /><br />That makes two skunks and a coyote that we/Steve have seen in our neighbourhood so far this week. We like the urban wildlife, so this is a good thing. During the full moon in June, when we had just moved in, I heard coyotes laughing and howling down on the empty lots near the train yard. It seemed auspicious. So far the portents have proven true -- we love our neighbourhood, and can't wait to bring our baby home. I'm looking forward to sitting in the comfy chair in Jack's sunroom during full moon nights and listening to coyotes, and to having dusk walks where we run away from skunks with our stroller, and watching sunsets where we can stand on the north balcony and see the crows swoop right past our home on their way to their mysterious crow moot over in Burnaby. <br /><br />So come soon, 'k? We're waiting for you.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-10599749686539498922009-07-22T22:57:00.000-07:002020-09-15T21:31:05.196-07:00Week two? three? Wow, do Saturdays ever fly by...July 22, 2009. We have a Leo. I turned 39 weeks on Tuesday, and still no Jack in sight. I'm not even sure he'll be here by his due date, if the distinct lack of waddling on my part is any indication. Sucky. Maybe the midwife can give me a hint tomorrow. <br /><br /><br />I really can't complain, but I will anyway. I have had a ridiculously easy pregnancy so far -- no morning sickness a cupcake couldn't shift, no frightening weight gain, and very little of that terrible malaise some pregnant women seem to feel after about week 32. You know the kind -- the GET IT OUT women -- I have not been one of those. Until Monday, when all of a sudden I realized I was a little bored of being pregnant. Not sick, not cankle'd (or worse yet, thigh-kled), not crampy, discharge-y or any other nasty thing. Just bored. Bored of taking two or more minutes to get off the couch, bored of not being able to pick stuff off the floor, bored of my limited wardrobe. <br /><br />The time has come to meet this baby, so come on out any time now, 'k Jack? Please?<br /><br />Today I took advantage of my last few baby-free days to go to SFU and hand in the paperwork necessary to maybe, possibly, potentially graduate in October. What a trip that would be! It took what, eight years? but I finally completed my BA course requirements in April. Mind you, had I known exactly how difficult it would be to take full-time courses, work full time AND grow a baby, I might have made a different decision back in November when registering in three courses seemed like a peachy-keen idea. The perspective is different on the other side of two pink lines, I assure you. That said, it was hard, but not quite too hard, as I managed to complete all three courses AND nailed the first A+ of my university career. <br /><br />See, I told you I can't complain. <br /><br />Jack's room is almost done. One more shelf to put up, and the art, and a portable package of baby wipes for my (new, shiny red Columbia TM) diaper bag! Oh, and I need to pack him some outfits to come home in, plus mine and Steve's hospital bag, and THEN he can come. Please? <br /><br />I'm ready to meet my little man. I'm ready to see Steve become the amazing father he is going to be. I'm ready to see Angel wag her heart out when we finally bring home her very own baby to love. <br /><br />I am <span style="font-style:italic;">damn</span> ready to drink that glass of wine in early labour. <br /><br />So, please come soon. Please?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BF4jWO4mON6oyauWw5FQ3Iv39nJ_GraPXQUa1olj5oFClNO-gb4Z1CQNosrFbJr53Vr_f4RSjtjhMT6sQS2y21lqbu4q2CZs6V1M3PGtOT8lABo6iEunPAl7nA9v9xBUDfnb/s1600-h/July+19,+2009-013.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BF4jWO4mON6oyauWw5FQ3Iv39nJ_GraPXQUa1olj5oFClNO-gb4Z1CQNosrFbJr53Vr_f4RSjtjhMT6sQS2y21lqbu4q2CZs6V1M3PGtOT8lABo6iEunPAl7nA9v9xBUDfnb/s320/July+19,+2009-013.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361536677174443378" /></a>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-89735400678157737292009-07-14T13:29:00.000-07:002020-09-15T21:31:05.555-07:00First week of SaturdaysJuly 14, 2009. I think it's a Tuesday. Baby Jack (John Ryan Quattrocchi) has been reassuringly active and I feel great, as usual. D-minus 15 days until due date. <br /><br /><br />So. Last Monday was my last day of work, as I started Maternity Leave a few weeks earlier than expected. I commented to my husband, Steve, that it felt like the first Friday of an entire year of Saturdays. Since then, he has nagged me unmercifully to spend some of my pre-baby time blogging my 'holiday' experience. So fine -- I will. I'm not entirely sure this will end up being a holiday. All things considered, no sleep and being at the complete beck and call of an eight pound, hungry, non-verbal tyrant doesn't seem very restful, but I sure am enjoying this first, feet-up part of my year off.<br /><br />I am deeply grateful to live in Canada, where, with maternity and parental benefits together, I can be off work for 365 days in order to give our son the best start in life. I'm also grateful to Steve for letting me take the full year, instead of splitting the parental leave up between us (though he works part time, so he'll be at home with us lots of time with us anyway). <br /><br />In any case, the laptop is getting sleepy, and I should probably not laze about on the couch ALL day, so this will be a short first post. I'm off to look for a diaper bag as I've been told babies poop a lot and I'll need one of those.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-5151907866875239702008-09-23T22:47:00.005-07:002008-09-23T23:49:31.776-07:00The aftermathIt's so strange that dinner out and a few idle hours of blogging can be so overwhelming. <br /><br />And... welcome to my not-so-subtle segue about how eleven months wasn't actually eleven months and tonight was very strange. <br /><br />So... you may have noticed that I finished the Turkey portion of the blog back in November, just after we got back from our trip. Only, it wasn't actually November -- what with our move back to the Vancouver area on January 1, 2008, my new job, my next new job and all the other chaos that came with our subsequent lives, I only finished the Turkey parts in June. Or so. <br /><br />Then we went on the West Coast Trail, which was much, MUCH harder than I expected, and Steve sprained his ankle, which wasn't in retrospect as traumatic as Kathy breaking her wrist, but they both finished the trail anyway. I suppose that's a story for another night. I guess that's the problem -- life has been full of stories to tell but no time to write them down. <br /><br />I don't even know exactly what to write about the weirdness of today. Suffice it to say that I accidentally found reference to a Turkish restaurant while looking for information on another restaurant that might have been vaguely Turkish, and was so excited I called up Steve and demanded he stop whatever dinner he might have been making as we Had To Go to this place. Dinner was ok -- like food in Istanbul, which is to say that it was adequate and Turkish, but not amazing and Turkish like the food in the smaller towns we went to. It did, however, put the official stamp on my overwhelming desire to go back... see how I almost wrote 'home'? I am madly in love with That Place, and as much as other people who ought to know, having actually traveled to multiple places in the world, that other places will be as wonderful and profound as That Place, all I can think is that I want to go back to Turkey. <br /><br />I would never leave my husband for another man. I hate to think of what would happen if he didn't want to go back to Turkey with me.<br /><br />So. Already feeling a little strange, though happily full of lamb and eggplant salad, I decided to do a little blog surfing while Steve was teaching a lesson and then out at a show. For me, I follow a certain number of blogs which I catch up on every few days. There are others which I have noted as potentially interesting, bookmarked, and then have largely forgotten about. Since I'm pretty caught up on the regulars, I decided to take a quick look at my giant messy pile of bloggy bookmarks and see what links I followed and where they led me. They led me to a site, and then another site, and then I saw what happens when a lovely, happy family has an unbelievable tragedy: <a href="http://www.nieniedialogues.blogspot.com/">Nie Nie</a>. <br /><br />In a nutshell, this Stephanie and Christian Nielson, parents of four kids, were in a small plane crash in August, 2008 and are still in hospital recovering (we hope, and I include me in that 'we') from very severe burns. Tonight, I've read Stephanie's (Nie Nie) blog, her sister's blog (<a href="http://blog.cjanerun.com/"> c jane</a>), the bloggers who have made etsy garage sales to raise money and all kinds of online support for these lovely people and their million-dollar medical bills. <br /><br />Even though idealogically, geographically, constitutionally, we're very different -- I've read their words. Words are powerful things, and I've felt very strongly for them tonight. I think that I'd have liked them --the whole family -- if we'd had the opportunity to meet. I've never wanted so much to reach through a computer screen and two time zones to pat a stranger on the back. I look at my own life through the lens of contingency and I know (perhaps more than most, but that, too, is another story) that sometimes that viciously impartial contingency can rear up and smack you in the face just as well as it can stroke your hair gently in the night. <br /><br />Good people can get in car crashes; bad, bad people can be the President of the USA. <br /><br />When my beloved husband came home tonight, I almost didn't know what to do with myself. Do I pragmatically finish my entry, so long coming? Do I fall on him with kisses? Do I fall to my knees with gratitude that he made it home safely?<br /><br />Maybe all of the above. Just give me a minute.<br /><br />Honestly, I was hoping my first post back in such a long time would be decisive, witty -- maybe even succinct. Instead, I am rambly and maybe a little maudlin. I miss Turkey. I missed Steve. I hope to everything that everyone comes home safe to their loved ones.<br /><br />I'm overwhelmed with love for my husband, and fear of not having a long, happy and unscarred life with him, and if he doesn't want to go with me to Turkey, I won't go either. <br /><br />Besides, I'm in no big hurry to get on an airplane right now...Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-81711884115260824012007-11-02T13:20:00.007-07:002008-06-16T23:56:00.343-07:00Turkey -- Day Twenty-nine -- Istanbul to VancouverMonday, November 5, 2008<br /><br />Our day started way too early. WAY too early. We were up and had our suitcases at the front door in the darky-dark-dark, waiting for the shuttle bus to pick us up. Sabo was asleep behind the counter in a chair, his legs laid over another chair and a blanket spread over all. It was very sweet, and we didn't wake him. <br /><br />It had rained in the night, and the cobbles were shiny and black, hypnotizing for two very tired people. <br /><br />The shuttle came on time and our giant suitcase and two duffle bags were thrown into the back with great haste, and we were bundled in. The first passengers of the day, I guess, which didn't bode well. No -- it didn't. We made a quick and disorienting tour of the major hotels of Sultanahmet, picking up people and piles and piles of luggage. <br /><br />It seemed like we might have been late for our airplane, since we were still collecting passengers as of six am, and we needed to be at the airport for six-thirty to give us time to check in for an international flight at eight-thirty. I was forgetting the first rule of driving in Istanbul, though: go as fast as you can all the time. We sped along the waterfront road, Kennedy Caddesi, all the way to the airport and got in just in time. Of course we had to wait until every other passenger and their crap was lifted off of our squashed suitcases before we got to join the lineup at the entrance door -- can you tell I was cranky? <br /><br />The lineup at the entrance door seemed a little strange, until we realized that the customs -- complete with x-rays and suspicious looking uniformed people -- were right at the entrance. You didn't get to go anywhere in the Ataturk Airport without being fully x-rayed. I put my bags on the conveyer belt and walked to the other side, where the lady with the wand gave me a once over, not even pausing at my ankle, not even tsk-ing at my flipflops. The guy on the other side of the x-ray machine was a little excited, though, and not in a happy-fun-birthday-party kind of way.<br /><br />Taking several steps back, and keeping her hand on her hip, the lady customs official told me to open my backpack in a very serious tone. Eeek! The Turkish jail seemed suddenly, uncomfortably close. Finally, my personal lightbulb lit up, and I knew exactly what the problem was: I opened my pack and unwrapped... my tap! My beloved solid-brass hamam tap, which I wasn't about to trust to the vagrancies of luggage-sorters, was carefully wrapped and stowed in an inner pocket of my carry-on luggage. I pulled it out and showed it to the lady, who took it over to the nervous guy beside the x-ray machine. I was very afraid they would confiscate it, if not for my stupidity of bringing a gun-shaped object onto a plane, then because it was a cultural treasure. The Turks are very close about such things, I've heard. <br /><br />The x-ray man spent several minutes with my tap, consulting with someone on the phone, before bringing it back to the lady who wrote something on a list (the stupid tourist list?) and gave me back my tap, telling me with a few eyerolls to stow it in my checked luggage. Ok!<br /><br />Steve came though without incident.<br /><br />Getting on the plane was a usual cacophony of lines and more lines, checking luggage and finding a duty-free. We tried to buy some raki to bring back to Canada, but we weren't allowed to buy alcohol because we weren't on a trans-Atlantic flight! It didn't matter that we were spending all of 20 minutes in Frankfurt, we couldn't buy. We consoled ourselves with about a million boxes of the previously-elusive lokum and some jam. We even bought a bunch of little chocolate-covered Turkish delights to make sure we used up every last kuruş.<br /><br />Breakfast on the plane, which was running late, was passable. We remembered how good the food had seemed on our previous experience with Turkish Air -- little had we known at the time! Not that it wasn't still good, by airplane standards, but we already missed the food. <br /><br />WARNING: rant ahead!<br /><br />We got off the airplane in Frankfurt and were met by a woman from Lufthansa, who looked at our tickets and told us to make haste downstairs to the gate. At the gate, we joined the very long line. Finally at the front, watch-checking all the while, the lady at the gate looked at our tickets, rolled her eyes and sneered, and told us we needed a boarding pass -- from two flights upstairs. We tried to tell her the lady had told us to come straight here, and we'd already been in line ten minutes, and we really wanted to get seats together. She basically told us "run, then". We ran.<br /><br />Upstairs, out of breath and irritated, we told a man at the Lufthansa information kiosk that we needed boarding passes. He also looked at our tickets and told us, very excitedly, that our plane was leaving very shortly, and we should have just been boarded. We told him that we were told in No Uncertain Terms to come up here for boarding passes. He looked at us incredulously and got on the phone, yelling at the other end in German, while waving us back downstairs. We ran again. The <s>bitch</s> woman at the counter, now looking both snotty <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> like she'd just had a strip taken off her, looked at our tickets, looked at our luggage stickers (complete with barcodes) and typed some information into the computer, and waved us through to the waiting room. <br /><br />At the counter, most of the travelers were being herded onto a bus to go out on the tarmac to board. I explained to the nice young woman what had happened, that we were Very Irritated and we wanted seats together... and that it was our honeymoon. She looked completely crestfallen and advised that the flight was actually oversold and she wasn't sure we'd even make it on the airplane, let alone with seats together. <br /><br />I cried. I was so frustrated, so anxious, and in mourning for leaving the most amazing city I had ever seen. I was bereft, and it showed. That poor girl! She told us to just wait, and she'd see what she could do. After waiting more than half an hour, she waved us onto the bus, the last people on the plane. To her credit, and I don't know how she did it, she arranged for us to have three seats together so we could have some room. <br /><br />On the plane, tired and stressed beyond reason, we waited. And waited and waited and waited. Finally the captain came on and announced there was a delay because there was a problem with some luggage that was being offloaded from the airplane. Steve and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing: that woman at the gate was so horrible, could she have screwed up our luggage on purpose? No, we thought -- we were being paranoid. <br /><br />/rant<br /><br />The flight was long and uneventful, the flight crew gracious and kind, the food passable and the Simpsons movie a sad disappointment. Deplaned in Vancouver, aching and tired, we waited at the luggage carousel. And waited. And waited. Notice a pattern? Eventually we were paged to the Lufthansa counter, where we were told that in fact the <s>bitch</s> woman HAD typed one number wrong on BOTH our checked pieces (one I could see as accidental, but two? yeah). Our luggage was still in Frankfurt. It wouldn't be arriving in Canada until the next day, and would be put on the bus to the Coast after that. At least Lufthansa was going to pay for the bus. Still. Crap! <br /><br />We left the luggage area, still shaking our heads. What crap! We had wanted to show John and Gayle our carpets, and my tap! My precious tap! That bitch! I knew we should have stayed in Turkey.<br /><br />Of course, there was still the matter of customs. Steve had his oud and backpack in hand, and I had my backpack and purse. Even estimating low on our YTL conversions (and who doesn't do that?), we were still a few hundred over our duty-free limit. We dutifully showed the customs guy our slips. When asked about the rest of our luggage, out poured our tale of woe and Lufthansa. He gave each of us a close look, shook his head, and carefully changed an '8' into a '5' on our form and waved us through. Finally, something good happened! <br /><br />We were met by John and Gayle and taken back to Tsawwassen for a very sweet reunion with Angel, who was so overcome with emotion that she leapt into my arms for cuddles and couldn't stop yipping and whimpering. Poor doggie! <br /><br />After a brief rest, we piled our rather sparse luggage and overjoyed dog into the little blue car (she jumped in as soon as the door opened and refused to get out) and took off for the Coast and bed. Ah, sweet bed.<br /><br />The next day, I received an apologetic phone call from Lufthansa advising the luggage was in and on the bus, which unfortunately got in after the depot was closed. Unwilling to go another day without my tap, I met the bus. The driver said there wasn't anything for me and I'm afraid I lost it a little bit on him, falling just short of grabbing his lapels and demanding my RSFH at once! Not surprisingly, he found the suitcase and duffle bags, and they were in my possession once again. Thank goodness!<br /><br />At home, I noticed a round burnt hole in the bottom of the duffle bag that held our big carpet. I was angry all over again, though I couldn't quite imagine the Lufthansa woman finding our luggage and putting out a cigarette on it... well, maybe I could. Fortunately the carpet was undamaged, or there would have been hell to pay. That said, the RSFH was damaged beyond repair: missing one handle, most of one wheel, and a plastic thing that previously covered up a pointy piece of metal. There was also a broken glass or two, which I guess could even have been squashed in the dolmuş on the way to the airport. Still -- not impressed. <br /><br />It was a sad way to end what was in every other way an ideal first backpacking trip. I cannot say enough good things about Turkey: the food, the people, the easy transportation, the food... go to Turkey, at least once in your life, go. It is a wondrous, wondrous place. Steve says I had such a good time because the Turks liked me, that I fit in well with them. I think I was open to the experience, the language, the humour... I could live in Turkey. Not that I'm not grateful to be Canadian, because that sure opens a lot of doors (ah, Kanada!), but I love Turkey.<br /><br />I love Turkey.<br /><br /><br /><br />"Come, come again, whoever you are, come!<br />Heathen, fire worshipper or idolatrous, come!<br />Come even if you broke your penitence a hundred times,<br />Ours is the portal of hope, come as you are."<br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi</span>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-35311577498923309462007-11-02T13:19:00.005-07:002008-06-16T23:58:41.805-07:00Turkey -- Day Twenty-eight -- IstanbulSunday, November 4, 2007<br /><br />Our last day in Istanbul. Steve woke before dawn. <br /><br />Our first evening at the Med Cezir, Steve had scouted around and had found a rooftop terrace just at the end of the hallway and up some stairs: it was closed for the winter, or at least all the tables and chairs were stacked up, but it still gave an astonishingly good view. The Hagia Sophia glowed to the right, the Baths Of Lady Hürrem and the Mavi Ev Hotel at immediately in front, and the elegant minarets of the Blue Mosque reached for the sky on his left. Having been on the go from morning until night, I hadn’t even tried to look at it, taking his word that the view would be spectacular. Given the weather, he hadn’t lingered up there either. <br /><br />On this day, though, our last, much-cherished last day in Turkey, we woke to clear blue sky and glorious sunrise, unexpected given the previous clouds and impending winterness. For once I couldn’t resist getting up early myself, and I joined Steve before seven for sunlight on the golden spires of the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia. It was amazing. It was indescribable. It was a washed clean sky backdropping the faded red arch of the Hagia Sophia, set like a fire-hearted ruby against tuquoise, lit by the golden sun. We stood in the long morning rays, both feeling as if you could see the warmth in the air, could reach out into the sunshine and your hand would come back with a powder of gold clinging to the surface. A half turn left brought the eye to the spires of the Blue Mosque, each crescent moon on the tip of each minaret a glittering treasure and the white gleaming so perfectly…<br /><br />After an hour or more, we tore ourselves away from the spectacle and, after a nice warm shower, went down for breakfast with Sabo, who was very chatty and entertaining. He teased Steve unmercifully and Steve gave as good as he got. We liked Sabo very much. <br /><br />The Ottowonians hadn’t called, so we decided to head off into Kumkapi ourselves. We stopped by the Arasta Bazaar to see if we could find Jedi’s owner and get an address to send the photos Steve had taken our first meeting, but he wasn’t there. <br /><br />Wandering through the streets, south and east and down the hill to the Sea of Marmara, we followed our map to the ‘Küçük Aya Sofia’, or ‘little Hagia Sophia’ – a beautiful little church in the Kumkapi neighbourhood. While we could have found it quite handily ourselves, a young boy walking by decided to escort us to the gate… and then held out his hand for coins for the privilege of having guided us. Not wanting to cause a scene, and chagrined that we hadn’t told him no thanks at the outset, we gave him a few kuruş, even though we were sure it wasn’t what we were supposed to do. <br /><br />It had only taken some twenty minutes or so of gentle strolling through cobbled streets to reach the Küçük – little – Hagia Sophia from our hotel in the heart of Sultanahmet. We were surprised to see very few tourists at this lovely and spiritual church which was begun five years before the Büyük (?) Hagia Sophia. Just as old, and almost as uplifting, as its larger step-sister (Justinian was father to them both), the little one was a wonderful thing to see. The very kind Imam (as the little ‘un is now a mosque) led us up the circular stairs to what was once perhaps a pulpit – it gave a splendid view of the whitewashed domes and cobalt blue medallions. It was lovely. He mentioned on our way out not to <s>feed the animals</s> pay the children for guiding us there. Oops! <br /><br />On our way back up the street, we stopped to admire some cats. Ah, Istanbul! Full of kedi!<br /><br />We decided our next stop would be the St. Saviour of Chora – once church, then mosque, and now the Kariye Müzesi. The frescos and mosaics were reputed as being truly incredible and we were keen to go. From my eBay-purchased Istanbul street map, it looked like we should be able to walk there in an hour or so…<br /><br />The rest of Kumkapi that we saw was lovely, in a run down sort of way, which is actually how we found most of Istanbul that we saw. There were these great old wooden buildings with wooden-framed bay windows on the upper floors. Some had been carefully restored, and the wood gleamed against the subtle white of the stucco. Others looked like they had had a bomb go off inside them some hundred years ago, and their windows drooped and hung and clung to the walls. Sometimes these were right beside each other. In that moment, I would have given almost anything to buy and repair that old house, and live the rest of my days in Istanbul. <br /><br />The streets were bright with Turkish banners – a leftover from National Day or general pride? <br /><br />After a while, we turned right and headed straight uphill, aiming for the Divan Yolu where we could walk down to the old walls of the city and turn up to the St. Saviour Museum. Passing numerous stalls on the streets that gave me the secret hope that perhaps the reported closing of the Grand Bazaar was not so – unfounded, as it turned out – we came up onto the Divan Yolu almost right at the entrance of the Grand Bazaar. Turning left, we followed the tram line down to just past the university, stopped to admire a mosque under restoration, and turned right a street before Ataturk Boulevard, thinking the Museum was <span style="font-style:italic;">just down there</span>. <br /><br />We got <span style="font-style:italic;">just down there</span> to the Fevzi Paşa Caddesi and I, in a fit of brilliance, realized I had missed an entire fold of the map. The St. Saviour was further away than all the distance we had already walked that morning, and it was rising noon. We sat in a little park attached to a mosque and considered our options: sit and watch the kedi gambol on the grass all day (very appealing, as it didn’t involve walking any more that day), take a taxi to the Museum (which would break our perfect record of taxi-avoidance) or walk a little further down to where we might be able to catch a bus (of limited appeal, as it involved applying feet to pavement). <br /><br />After a little whining, and a little resting, and a little watching kedi play, I mustered my blistered toes to walk over to the bus stop where the bus was blessedly not too far behind. The Lonely Bastard had given clear directions as to which bus to catch and the driver obligingly confirmed his destination. Standing in the crush, we barely had a chance to register the sights we sped by: a kedi on a stone wall, a knot of black-clad young women with brightly coloured handbags, a football stadium with a tank parked in front.<br /><br />Disgorged from the dolmuş, we popped out onto some very working class streets. The bus ride was surprisingly short: no more than fifteen minutes for what would have taken more than an hour to walk. We picked a random twisty street that looked as if it would lead in the general direction of the Museum. <br /><br />The twisty street was picturesque and teeming with kedi. Feral cats sat in lumps on every wall, curled their tails around their delicate feet on every doorstep and one – just one – shot across the road on three legs, the other curled underneath, its front leg a shattered mess of blood and shocking white bone. Tired and overwhelmed with the last day of Istanbul, I nearly burst into tears on the spot. The broken cat was gone in a flash, and if I could have caught it, if in a million years, what could I have done? Rushed it to the veterinarian? Given it a shot of Phenobarbital? Swung its head into a wall or broken its neck, quickly, giving it an easy death? I was devastated. <br /><br />With me not exactly in the best mental space to admire a bunch of dead rocks, we decided to stop for a quick lunch before we ventured into the museum proper. First we checked out Asitane, a recommended restaurant, which is a few short metres from the museum and its accompanying souvenier stalls. Asitane looked lovely, being in the basement of a graceful old house, but there was literally no-one in there for lunch and the wait staff looked quite disgruntled at our arrival. The menu looked appetizing but expensive by our standards, and I felt a little dusty for crisp white napkins and uniformed staff, so we headed back out and got a quick tavuk döner and urfa şiş at the café right across from the museum. It was certainly adequate, and it was a bit of a relief to be able to throw bits of chicken at the waiting kedi. This was definitely a tourist place, though, like almost everywhere we had been in Istanbul. <br /><br />Slightly more heartened, we walked around the gate and bought our ticket. The approach to St. Saviour is really neat: instead of walking straight in, they wind you around the back of the building across a lawn, give you time to admire the architecture and striped brick exterior and in through the side… to come straight at a hall of the most splendid frescos. <br /><br />After the Ottoman invasion, this little church in the country (Chora: country, from it being a ways out of the city proper, right up against the city walls) was repurposed into a mosque. Instead of destroying the mosaics and frescoes, the clerics plastered over them, unwittingly preserving them for the next 500 years. Now the plaster has been removed and the paints and tesserae glow almost as brightly as they did when first made in the 11th century. <br /><br />We were overwhelmed. We were awestruck. We were… lying on the marble floor taking pictures of the glorious ceiling. Well, Steve was. Good for Steve. The other patrons looked at him like he was crazy, but we caught several of them flat on their backs in the same spot. <br /><br />A large Spanish tour group crowed the place when we arrived, but they left after not too long and we had the place – well, not to ourselves, but relatively sparse. The tourists who were in attendance were rapt and respectful, which you cannot help but be in such a place. <br /><br />It’s so hard to know what to say about the St. Saviour at Chora except “go there” – at once, or as soon as you can, or at some point in your lifetime – it is not to be missed. It’s not just the frescoes and mosaics, as amazing as those are. It’s the carved angels above the door, the green marble flagstones, the little Byzantine heads carved of stone peeking out from corners (all but one with the faces gouged out; I almost killed myself trying to get a clear photo of the one that remained), the vaulted domes (oh! the domes!) and every single surface is decorated with some lovely thing. What an amazing, amazing thing to see. <br /><br />I almost cried all over again the beauty and the sadness of so much lost, including one poor little kitty with a shattered leg. I did look out the door into the garden one time to see a young man scooping kibble out of a backpack onto the grass in front of a few cats – he told me that he came around to feed the strays and look for any injuries. I told him about the broken one and he had seen her too; he hadn’t been able to get a hand on her, but he said he’d look out for her. I couldn’t have been more relieved and I almost cried some more. <br /><br />In better spirits, we left the St. Saviour and thought we’d head back to Eminönü to check out the Kahve Dunyasi and get some cups and chocolates and chocolate spoons. Mmm… spoons! Fortunately the bus going back down the road dropped us off at the bus loop across the street from the spice market in Eminönü. We moved like eels in the crowd in the underpass, walked briskly across the Eminönü Square in front of Hamdi and practically ran the rest of the way to the coffee shop… which was closed. Yes, closed. On Sunday. The prime-est coffee drinking day of the week in Vancouver, and it was closed. I was very sad. Very, very sad. Steve was sad too – sad that he hadn’t let me buy the <s>crack</s> coffee yesterday, though he couldn’t have known. <br /><br />Desolate, we walked back across the square to the underpass and through to the Galata Bridge. Well, maybe only I was <span style="font-style:italic;">desolate</span>. Fortunately, it’s impossible to stay desolate on the Galata Bridge: the fishermen are so happy when they pull up a shiny wriggling <s>fish</s> comma-quote-comma, and so happy when they don’t. I guess it’s true that a bad day fishing is still better than a good day working, and the men we saw were living proof. Some had buckets full of living proof that they were having a good days fishing as well. The pale sun and weak blue sky were a gift on a Sunday afternoon in November and they knew it as well as we. <br /><br />We thought we’d experience the Tünel, which is the 19th century funicular that carries passengers up the hill to the end of Istiklal Caddesi. It is a phenomenally short train ride, lasting something in the area of a single minute. We weren’t to find out in person, as the signs at the entrance advised it was closed for repairs. Standing around trying to figure out an alternative to walking up the hill, a dolmuş pulled up and the driver advised he was there to take people up the hill. For free. Yay! We climbed aboard and got the first seats. We thought we had been the only confused tourists stymied by the lack of Tünel, but apparently not. People of all shapes and sizes squished onto the bus. It was the most dolmuş-ed dolmuş we had been in in Turkey. The Tire bus was palatial in comparison. <br /><br />After a very quick (I think I’ve mentioned Istanbullus drivers) and scary ride up the hill, we were disgorged in the same square we had bought the prints and cards in – just up from the street of musical instruments. <br /><br />Feeling peckish, we stopped for a panini in a coffee shop called ‘Gloria Jean’s Coffee’ which loomed over the eastern side of the square. Wow, what a disappointment. It was easily the worst panini either of us had ever had, which was even more shocking given that the food in Turkey was so superlative. All I can say is ‘yuck’ – overpriced, overrated, and the coffee was crap too. It was rising 4pm and there might have been a sunset, so we walked a few blocks down Galip Dede Caddesi to the Galata Tower, paid our 10YTL each at the entrance and joined the queue at the elevator. <br /><br />Let me point something out to the uninitiated, as there were many uninitiated on the Galata Tower that day: the signs indicate that you should turn to your right upon exiting onto the rather narrow deck that rings the tower top. You should then continue to your right, in a clockwise fashion, until you return to your starting point and exit. Turn to your RIGHT, people! Since we were not the only people having thought to enjoy the sunset from the vantage of the lovely Genoese tower that peered right out over Beyoglu, the Galata Bridge and Sultanahmet to the Sea of Marmara lost to the haze beyond… not really a surprise, I suppose – the deck was crowded with eager faces and a silver fortress of digital cameras and cell phones all raised to the view and taking pictures as fast as ever they could. The few individuals who had, inexplicably, decided to turn LEFT made life very much difficult for the rest of the people on the deck. Clockwise! Come on!<br /><br />Fortunately Steve could tell that the sunset wasn’t going to be very much of anything, and we hastily (and irritated-ly, in my case) made our retreat to the stairs that led back down to the very cool bathroom and the elevator landing and emerged, flushed and triumphant, back onto the cobbles surrounding the tower. <br /><br />Back up Galip Dede to the square, we found ourselves next to a little cd store. Having a few hundred YTL burning holes in our pockets, we thought we’d load up on some Turkish music to bring home. We picked out a half-dozen cds and asked the total less than 65YTL! Most of the cds were 11 lira or less – incredibly cheap by Canadian standards. Steve and I took one look at each other and picked out another six cds. <br /><br />Our feet not feeling quite battered enough, we decided to walk up the Istiklal Caddesi to find the orginal lokum shop of ‘Ali Muhiddin Hacı Bekir’ who, according to the Time Out Istanbul, invented the now-ubiquitous Turkish delight in the 18th century. <br /><br />What a bad idea. We knew we wouldn’t have considered walking along Robson Street on a warm Sunday night. It just isn't our kind of place. Istiklal Caddesi was not our kind of place. It was very crowded, and the people were rather terminally hip. In some ways it was very interesting: certainly a side of Turkey we hadn’t seen. Most of the people we saw in Sultanahmet were dressed quite conservatively, as were most of the people in the countryside. This was our first look at that modern Turkey that sits with one foot in the Ottoman past and the other firmly stepping into cutting-edge Europe. The girls and boys were fashionable and fine, and very, very conscious of that fact. Like I said, not our kind of place, in our grubby pants and fake shoes!<br /><br />All was not lost – I picked up an ‘Istanbul’ cup from Starbucks and we found a neat little bookstore where we bought some cookbooks of Turkish cooking – in English, even! We never found the lokum store… we found where it was supposed to be, at 129 Istaklal Caddesi, and scouted around a bit, but never found it. <br /><br />It was full dark when we gave up on the lokum hunt and turned around. We were tired, a little hungry and exceedingly footsore, and we wanted off the Istaklal Caddesi train so badly it hurt. We took a random street to the left, back down to the Bosphorus and walked down to Kemeraltı Caddesi, which is the street the streetcars run on; the street which spills onto the Galata Bridge and home. The walk downhill was reasonably pleasant, except that it involved being upright. <br /><br />We were pleased to arrive almost exactly at Tophane tram station, bought our tokens and settled with great relief onto the benches of the tram. It was about quarter to seven when we crossed the Galata Bridge to Eminönü, and we took a quick look at each other and decided to subject our poor feet to another indignity: we exited at Sirkeci station, walked across the street to the Sirkeci Istasyonu, and joined the lineup for the Dervish sema - the sufi ritual that puts the 'whirling' in 'whirling dervish' - that is held Sunday nights in the former waiting room for the Orient Express. We thought the performance – I hesitate to call it a ‘show’ – began at seven, but apparently it was seven-thirty. Had we known it would involve that much standing, we might have skipped it. We didn’t know, and we couldn’t quite bear to have our last night in Turkey whining away in our hotel room. So we stood. And stood. And shuffled, and whined a little bit, and made friends with the other tourists in line, and stood some more. <br /><br />When we finally reached the front of the line, I found myself frantically learning some new Turkish words: flipping through my phrasebook, I explained, while pointing at Steve, göz (eye) and ön (front). The young man who was acting as usher figured it out, and told us in limited English that there were reserved seats in front for us. <br /><br />Other than telling the car rental people that I would be the only driver and a few curious stares, this was the only mention we had to make of Steve’s eyesight on the entire trip. <br /><br />We were so very happy to sink onto our chairs in the front row: there were chairs arranged in rows on three sides around a roped-off area in the centre of the room. We were dead in front, in the centre of the row, facing the chairs where the musicians were to sit against the windows of the old train station. Amazing! It seemed quite remarkable that we would just be able to show up for a performance which we hadn’t booked for, hadn’t planned on, hadn’t bought tickets – just show up, and get the best seats in the house. <br /><br />Precisely on time (not Turkish time!), the musicians filed in and began to play. It was exquisite – we were unprepared for how lovely it was. Steve noted that they didn’t seem to be as tight as a band that played together often would be, but they still did an excellent job. The room collectively held its breath as the… dancers? whirlers? derviş? dervi? entered the room, carrying rolled up sheepskins. They entered reverently, with grace, and their long white skirts swept the floor. They unrolled their sheepskins, made their obeisance, were gathered into a little knot by the head derviş, and, as the music grew, each took – in their own time and manner – to spinning. <br /><br />They sema unfolded with a billow of white skirts; they spun around open space; we watched, each caught out of our mortal coil. It was heart-breakingly beautiful. It was a poem, a painting on air, a prayer so deep and moving that I almost cried. As we watched, we got a sense of each of the derviş: the head man, whose face bore an expression of profound serenity, and whose feet made barely a whisper on the stone floor; the older man who whirled with a strong and focused energy – we wondered if he had come late to the Sufi, and what he had done before; two youngsters whose long limbs floated like spiders on the wind and a third young man, burning with desire to do it all <span style="font-style:italic;">so perfectly</span> as he whirled, and thought, and strove for communion. “He’ll get it someday,” I thought. “He’s so young still.”<br /><br />Within the sema, the dancer, holding up one hand to gather blessings and dispersing them to the crowd with the downturned hand, with a thousand shades of meaning and faith in every movement, the audience is to feel more blessed, closer to God. We felt closer. <br /><br />When the derviş rolled up their sheepskins and left, followed by the musicians, there was a pause before the applause. For something that was put on for tourists, it had a sense of authenticity which I think was felt by virtually everyone in the <s>audience</s> privileged company of watchers.<br /><br />Feeling replete with the day, we bought more tokens (our last tokens) and got back aboard the tram up the hill to Sultanahmet (our last tram!) and walked past the glorious Hagia Sophia, all lit up for the night (our last night!). Ah, we were going to miss Istanbul. <br /><br />At the Med Cezir, we ordered a plate of mixed mezes and chatted with Sabo and Erol. Before dinner was served, I ran down to the little corner store for cookies and Nescafe sticks and a few little souvenirs. Steve got a little antsy when I was gone for too long; back at the hotel and with food in front of us, Steve regained his good humour enough to give Sabo advise on married life; Erol commented on the spending habits of wives. I was wise enough to not make a fuss. We shared some of our snacks and chocolate with the hotel staff before creeping back up the stairs to pack. <br /><br />Packing was a painful and traumatic experience, even more so than our poor toes (recalling that before Istanbul, we hadn’t worn proper shoes in almost a month). Exhausted and sad, we rolled into bed later than we should, knowing we had to be up at oh-dark-thirty for our pickup at five in the morning.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-53918548337035251392007-11-02T13:18:00.004-07:002008-05-12T23:36:46.621-07:00Turkey -- Day Twenty-seven -- IstanbulSaturday, November 3, 2007.<br /><br />Saturday morning we were up fairly early, and had a lovely breakfast – Istanbul style Turkish breakfast was a bit of a surprise, which is itself a surprise given the consistency of the ubiquitous Turkish breakfast. Breakfast in Istanbul usually has a boiled egg, rather than the scramble we’d gotten used to. It also has that piece of salami and the cheese was in a container – not bad, certainly, but not quite as good as the pots of apricot jam and fresh fruit and cheese we were getting in the south.<br /><br />First thing, we headed over to the little PTT (post office) kiosk outside the Baths Of Lady Hürrum to get some stamps to send out our sadly-overdue postcards. At least we were sending them from Turkey, and not Vancouver, which had seemed more and more likely.<br /><br />After obtaining stampage, we wandered back to the southern side of the Aya Sofia and up the very short road that leads to Topkapi Palace. We weren’t quite early enough to beat the crowds, but the place is big enough so that it didn’t matter much. <br /><br />We walked through the first huge gate and into a beautiful, lushly grassed park, dotted with enormous trees and peppered with kitties! We watched some cats carefully eyeing a little girl who was eager to pet them, and then running away when she got too close.<br /><br />There was also an armed guard who good-naturedly allowed us to take pictures of him, AK47 and all. <br /><br />You would think you’d buy your tickets at the next gate, or at the lovely gift shop set into the wall, and many tourists (including us) were confused. However, the tickets are purchased at a few openings in the wall right beside the Dosim, or government gift shop, in the next gate down. There were also tons of tour guides, complete with authorized guide cards, offering their services. We opted not to take the tour, but instead bought ourselves the Topkapi Palace book at the museum bookstore just inside the main gate. We were once again confronted with having our bags and ourselves x-rayed before entry, which makes sense given the value of the objects contained in the museum. <br /><br />Upon entry, we made a beeline for the Harem, as we wanted to see it before the real hordes arrived. It really was an amazing structure, with halls and courts and dormitories for both the concubines and their eunuch guards. The tile work, mother-of-pearl inlaid doors and the marble floors were amazing, as was the strong sense of history: this is where emperors were born, where palace intrigues and so many closely cloistered lives were drawn out. We liked the Harem very much and were pleasantly surprised at how many rooms were on display, as we were under the impression that only a few rooms were visible. <br /><br />After the Harem, we found ourselves in the First Court, where there were lots of lovely Ottoman salons and a small café. The views over the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara were spectacular. Many of the buildings in this area were closed for restoration, which is actually reassuring: we liked it that laurels are not being rested on. One of our favourite buildings had ornate tiles from the 15th century on the exterior. Amazing!<br /><br />We wandered back up to the Third Court, which is where the treasury is located. We were able to walk right into one of the galleries and joined the queue shuffling around the room, looking at all the sparkly things. The sheer quantity of diamonds sent Steve into small-glittery-object-overload, but we I managed to join the line of people stringing around the walls to look at the Spoonmaker’s Diamond and the Topkapi Dagger (which would be much more impressive if not for the cheesy enamelled basket of flowers on the hilt, which looks like a some kid stuck a crappy sticker on an otherwise stunning object). Some of the items were on loan to a display in Japan but the quantity did not seem diminished.<br /><br />Even though there are signs EVERYWHERE stating that photographs or video of any kind are NOT allowed in the Treasury, there was a woman who kept taking photos. You’d think when the Man With The Really Big Gun told her to stop it, repeatedly, she might have opted to follow the rules. When we saw her surreptitiously taking photos with her camera phone, we decided to leave rather than be present for the (seemingly) inevitable takedown of her and her phone. <br /><br />By this time, our feet were getting sore, and we were way overwhelmed by the sheer size of the complex. It is some 700,000 square meters, about half the size of the country of Monaco. We were ready to go, and drifted back towards the entrance with the Hagia Sophia looming redly overhead.<br /><br />We popped briefly into the armoury to take some photos of weapons and armour: lots of chain mail and nasty-looking axes. The reception room was a little underwhelming as it is mostly a display of textiles, but the council chambers were overwhelming in their opulence. It was interesting, because we usually think of ornateness as being somehow tacky or decadent. Topkapi was certainly ornate, but because everything seemed themed with repeating motifs and colours: grey marble, blue tiles, stars and arabesques of stone and shell made the whole quite cohesive… except for the council chambers. They were pretty tricked out. Someone should have lost their gold leaf license for that room.<br /><br />I took a photo of a Turkish family and found myself counting them down in Turkish: üç, iki, bir, *snap*. <br /><br />We wandered… ok, limped back through the park and back to our hotel, for a little lay-down before joining the fray of Istanbul. This was my second day in ‘real’ shoes, given that I had abandoned my faithful Tevas in Selçuk and we were doing way too much walking for flipflops. I was in the 20YTL Puma-esque runners I had bought back in Fethiye and was developing some blisters. One of the security guards in Topkapi had ‘tsk-tsked’ Steve for wearing sandals, so he was thinking it was time to bow to the fact that it was, in fact, November – especially as it was starting to look like rain.<br /><br />It was funny, actually. We had arrived in Istanbul a month earlier for 20C weather, and were unbearably hot. Now, back in Istanbul for 12C weather (which would be balmy for November in Canada), we were bundled in every sweater we’d brought – I guess we acclimatized!<br /><br />After our nap, we were raring to hit the road and lit out for the tram station yet again. We had one umbrella between us, which we had purchased for just a few lira at the Tire market. In the Sultanahmet Park, we were approached by a tout carrying umbrellas for sale. When I asked “kaça?” he replied “on-beş” – fifteen lira. I offered beş lira, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head – maybe at my lowball offer? or that I was making it in Turkish? His surprise must have thrown him off his bargaining game, because I bought it for seven lira… though he recovered his composure enough to tell me he only had two lira change for my ten-note. Ah, touts! <br /><br />Just after the umbrella purchasing, we were delighted to randomly run into our Canadian friends – they had had some splendid adventures: Sharon (or Barb?) was exploring her Armenian heritage and they had met some people in Kumpkapi who might be able to give her more information about her family, so they were off to meet with those people again. We discussed meeting on Sunday for a hamam, which none of us had tried – having given them the Med Cezir’s phone number, we parted company. <br /><br />We popped into the Tur-ista office to see Davut and thank him for his excellent advice and let him know the travel was seamless and the tours of Cappadocia enjoyable. He was surprised and happy to see us, and we were brought more cups of tea. During our conversation, we mentioned that we were leaving Istanbul dark and early Monday morning: turns out Davut was able to arrange our shuttle bus to get us to the airport in time to make our flight – yet another potential taxi ride avoided! The shuttle was cheap: less than 10YTL each, and it would pick us up right from the hotel. Yay! With that part of our journey arranged, we walked out onto the street and up the twenty or so steps to the Sultanahmet tram stop. Tur-ista: helpful and convenient!<br /><br />After tramming down to Eminönü again, we joined the crush in the underpass heading towards the Spice Market. So this was Saturday in Istanbul! Good lord. We recognized that we were getting a little snappy at each other and decided that lunch was in order. We were right in front of the restaurant we had eaten at the on our second day in Istanbul: Hamdi. At our previous visit, it had been the best food we’d eaten in Istanbul and we wondered if it would stand the test of time. <br /><br />Actually, Steve wasn’t super happy about eating at Hamdi again – he would rather have tried somewhere else. On the one hand, I could understand that. On the other, I knew that we really only got snappy when we were hungry or tired, and I wanted us to have food in our faces before we started spatting. I guess I ‘won’ that one, but it wasn’t a victory… at least from the panoramic balcony at Hamdi, we could see the roof of our next destination, the Rüstem Paşa Camii, as well as the river of Istanbullus walking across the square to the Spice Bazaar. It was a little chilly for the balcony, but the wait staff brought out blankets to wrap around us. The food was adequate. Well, that’s a little harsh: it was nice, and it was tasty, but we’d certainly had better outside Istanbul… at Dibek, at the Canada Hotel, at the Park Café, at the Hotel Bella… this wasn’t anything special, and I regretted for both Steve and I. It was also expensive: almost 50YTL for an un-extravagant lunch without any alcohol. Note to self: bring snacks so you can hold out for a new experience. <br /><br />Turning left out of main entrance of Hamdi, we walked down the street towards the Rüstem Paşa Camii – the Rüstem Paşa is a little, notoriously hard-to-find mosque that dated from the 16th century. Steve had heard that the tiles were just about as spectacular as those in the Blue Mosque, but with way less tourists. <br /><br />About halfway down the block, we passed on the left a little coffee shop called <s>Café</s> Kahve Dunyasi that looked just like the kind of modern Vancouver-style coffee-shop I know and love, perfect down to the jumble of crowded patio tables sprawled all over the sidewalk. I veered into the doorway, as if pulled by caffeinated magnets. Inside, I realized how much I had missed the smells and sounds of coffee: after a month of (albeit delicious) tea and the occasional watery Nescafé (the general term for instant coffee), I was jonesing for some java in the worst possible way. Steve is familiar with my affliction… addiction, and patiently joined me at the counter. The Kahve Dunyasi beat the pants of any Starbucks I’ve ever been to, with stacks of boxes and jars of chocolates on the counter and shelves full of coffees and beautiful coffee cups all bearing the Dunyasi logo, to say nothing of the smell of rich coffee and chocolate which actually made me drool. When asked our order by the barista, Steve went the safe route and opted for hot chocolate. While my usual tipple is a latte, I decided to resist the urge for normal and ordered a Türk kahvesi. Two nice ladies at the bar in the corner got up and let us have their spot. We perched ourselves on two tall stools and watched the coffee parade. <br /><br />Again, Starbucks this was not. The cacophony of tables outside had actual waiters heading out to service a cheerful clientele, rather than the snakey line of snarky customers waiting to be served their early-morning hit at the counter of every Starbucks I’ve been in. We were delighted to see every cup heading out the door with a little chocolate on the saucer: some had chocolate spoons, some a little bonbon, and others had a little dish of chocolate covered espresso beans. We were fascinated to see what kind of chocolate came with our orders and soon enough it was revealed. Steve had a chocolate spoon – not chocolate-covered, mind you, but an actual spoon made of chocolate. I received an exquisite little chocolate-covered lokum which was unbelievably delicious. By looking pitiful, batting my sparse eyelashes and looking up (and repeating about twenty times) the Turkish word for spoon (kaşık), I got one of the baristas to hand me over a chocolate spoon as well. I was very pleased, and wanted to buy a bunch of cups and boxes of chocolates to take home. Steve was anxious to get going and convinced me to come back the next day to buy all that stuff; otherwise we’d have to haul it around the rest of the afternoon. <br /><br />Empty-handed but full-bellied, we exited to our left and walked straight into the maze of streets that circle and spiral around the Rüstem Paşa Camii. Unlike the last time we were here, when we visited accidentally while looking for the aforementioned Hamdi restaurant, we had a purpose, and this time purpose bred achievement. Achievement and a half-dozen stone and fragrant wood prayer beads bought from an old, old man who spoke exactly zero English, but we were able to communicate enough to exchange a handful of lira for a handful of beads and a meaningful glance as I thanked him. It was a lovely crystal moment and every time the wood of the prayer beads warms and breathes in my hands, I am taken back to that alley, facing that old man with those ancient eyes gazing into my own. <br /><br />A left at the next alley and a duck down into a passageway and up some stairs, we arrived on the terrace of the Rüstem Paşa Camii. At the far end of the terrace was the turist entrance: I flipped my headscarf over my head and slipped off my sneakers. When we entered, I knew immediately that this was completely unlike the Blue Mosque. Here there was a reverence and a serenity that other structure simply couldn’t know. Perhaps it’s the constant string of tourists stomping through the Blue Mosque, or that the few competitive drops fouled the gallons of sanctity (the maker wanted it to rival the Hagia Sophia in grandeur), or just that the blessed intimacy of the Rüstem Paşa could not be recreated by acres of mosque and the huge, clumsy domes. <br /><br />As we stood and gazed at the dome full of light (where did that sunlight come from?), Turks from the street came in to pray, unselfconsciously. The fluidity of the movements brought tears to my eyes. Even the tourists were reverent: I suspect that if a tourist went to all the trouble to get to this particular, secretive mosque, then they knew the drill. That may sound a little snarky, and I don’t mean it to, but it was nice to see people with their shoes off and headscarves on, making donations at the exit. <br /><br />Needing to use the washroom, I headed down the ‘near’ set of stairs: the ones meant for tourists (I couldn’t have found that entrance if my life depended on it; we came up the believer’s stairs). Knowing that every mosque I’d been to had a reasonably clean tuvalet available for a few kuruş, I found the room where the ablutions would occur and walked up to a man in a little booth by the entrance to the tuvalet… he looked a little surprised to see me, which I understood when I, surprised, found myself looking at a line of Turkish male bums using a 16th century urinal. Huh. I backed quickly out of the line of sight and waited what I hoped was a decent amount of time before ducking back to the booth. When I asked the man for the bayanlar (lady’s), he gave me an UTS and indicated one of the stalls with a door, located right beside the (exquisite marble) urinal. Huh. As the need was pressing, I handed over my coins and dashed into the stall, where I found the floor wet and I suspected NOT with recent mopping. It was altogether a disgusting little incident and I determined not to let the terrible tuvalet ruin my fond memories of the Rüstem Paşa.<br /><br />Steve and I headed uphill and slightly to the left, hoping we’d run into one of the many entrances to the Grand Bazaar. The streets were a little twistier here, which is saying quite a bit as they weren’t exactly die-straight up from the Spice Bazaar. Keeping the approximate location of our destination in mind, we found it with surprisingly little trouble. The Istanbul map we had was detailed but frankly unhelpful as the street names did not seem to correspond to what was actually on the signs – when there were signs. We had been warned of this and were unfazed. Walking through the back streets of Istanbul was just as interesting as any destination we could find, which was good; without a useful map, it was either sheer luck or the will of Allah that led us to the alley of knockoff t-shirts that led to the Grand Bazaar. <br /><br />Ah, Grand Bazaar, how I love you. The riotous colours, the chaos and cacophony and chorus of touts offering everything under the sun, or under the glowing jewelled lamps, as the case may be. Still on the lookout for şiş çatal, I asked a man with a stall full of fancy-schmancy pottery and cooking utensils if he had any. Without looking away from my face, he pointed at a crock on the floor full of skewers with decorative tops. I spent a happy few minutes making sets (oh, too many fish in that one) and bought a number for what seemed like a very reasonable price. One mission done, and we hadn’t even walked 100 feet! <br /><br />We drifted around the corner, and perhaps another corner or two, when we saw a shop full of shoes. I went to take a look at their stock of <s>almost certainly fake</s> Pumas, and pointed out a few pairs of sneakers to Steve, who was still in sandals. The shopkeeper leapt on us like a hyena on a three-legged gazelle: “ah, the gentleman has picked up our Pradas – these are genuine antelope leather! These are 300 lira shoes, but you – I give YOU brother-price!” He then proceeded to whip out his lighter and wave it in the general direction of the shoes in order to prove they weren’t made of nylon and therefore going to melt. It continued much in this vein for some twenty minutes and two glasses of apple tea each, until Steve bargained him down to 60YTL and got him to throw in the ‘Puma’ brand socks he was trying the shoes on with. <br /><br />The shoes were nice, and they were (genuine cow) leather, but they sure weren’t Prada. In fact, they lost one of their labels before we left the Grand Bazaar, and the other was gone within two weeks of being back in Canada. <br /><br />We encountered some interesting people as we wended through the streets and squares of the Grand Bazaar – the touts that called to us in every language, starting with German; the old men walking through the bazaar that would grab me by the arm and ask me where I was from: “Canada” “Ah, Kanada!” all big smiles; the greasy young man who hit on every pretty girl who stopped to fondle a cheap pashmina and told Steve while looking at me out of the corner of his eye that he had ‘millions’ of American women in his bed, and had a date with one that night. Huh.<br /><br />We attended a few shops mentioned in the Lonely Bastard as must-see places and, frankly, they were making hay out of the exposure afforded by the L.B. In some cases the items were interesting but in every case, they were shockingly overpriced. We declined to spend our money there… it’s not like there weren’t plenty of other shops to browse in, and a million wonders for sale. <br /><br />The Grand Bazaar is a wonderful blur and remembering all the things we saw is like trying to recall everything you see on the PNE midway when you’re drunk on cotton candy, flashing lights and rollercoasters. I know there were acres of knockoff clothes and the softest, plushiest robes you ever felt; glittering lamps and belly-dance outfits for little girls; forests of nargilehs and deep blue pools of ceramic bowls; walls of diamonds and gold, and, wonderfully, a whole area dedicated to antiques. <br /><br />Most of the antiques I saw were either obviously <s>passed through a goat</s> not antique, were so antique they wouldn’t make it out of the country, or were shockingly overpriced – often at least two of the three. One ring I liked very much was over twelve hundred lira. Eep! By this time Steve was getting a little cranky – his vision tends to get overwhelmed by ‘small object overload’ and lunch was some time ago. I saw the last store before we would be leaving the antique area, heading south, and thought I’d make my last-ditch effort for my last, most improbable mission… <br /><br />Since my first day in Istanbul, I’d been coveting a tap – a brass tap like the kind that turn on the water for the prayerful to wash before they enter the mosque. <br /><br />I had had Erol write down for me the word for ‘faucet’ (musluk) since my phrasebook wasn’t prepared for a leaky tap (among many other things) and I had asked every likely antique seller if they had such a thing. Most of them looked at me like I had two heads or worse, so I had pretty much given up hope. I was kicking myself for not purchasing the one I saw at the Citadel in Ankara; schlepping a pound of brass for 27 days would have been worth it, I told myself. Worse yet, I resented Steve a little for talking me out of buying the one in Ankara, a fact which was not helped by his irritability at my asking countless incredulous shopkeepers if they had a faucet. <br /><br />This last shopkeeper – I wasn’t holding out much hope. After I asked him, and answered his quizzical look with another butchered Turkish request for a faucet, he led me around the corner to a basket on the floor that was… full of taps! Oh my! I couldn’t have been more excited! I pawed through, found one that was ornate but not too ornate and, dreading the response, asked how much it was? He looked me up and down and requested 45YTL – about $35. I offered 40YTL and, not surprisingly, he took it. I was probably overcharged by about 10YTL but for the eight dollars and Steve’s priceless patience, it was worth it. <br /><br />At this point Steve and I had a miscommunication: he wanted to eat something and stop looking at little objects; I thought he meant he wanted to leave the Bazaar and eat a proper meal, when really he would have been happy to sit for a few minutes and have a snack at one of the little cafés in the Bazaar. Instead, we left the Bazaar and walked up the road towards Divan Yolu thinking we’d find a place for dinner. The sound of music stopped us in our tracks and we looked over at a bustling tourist spot called… well, it might be called ‘Safran’ since that is the sign on the wall in my pictures, but really I was so tired that I didn’t pay a heck of a lot of attention. I might have wanted to walk around the Grand Bazaar until my feet were bloody stumps, but it’s not to say that would have been good for me. Sitting on divans on the floor around a low table, listening to what was no doubt cheesy tourist music was very, very good for me. The food was tasty, if not fancy, and reasonably priced – I guess we were just far enough from Sultanahmet to avoid the really exorbitant prices. <br /><br />The band came around and played very entertainingly for each table, collecting tips along the way. During the intermission, Steve went and chatted with the musicians a bit and ended up playing on one of their instruments, a kind of banjo-oud called (Steve thinks) a dhadak. <br /><br />Dinner over and nerves soothed, we walked hand-in-hand down the Divan Yolu towards Sultanahmet and home. Everything seemed right in our world with the possible exception of having to leave Turkey in some 36 hours. As we were humming over our good fortune at being together, in that marvellous place, I saw something I hadn’t seen before in Turkey: an older man, dressed like any other in a dark sports coat and pants, squatted on the sidewalk with his cap in his hand laid upon the sidewalk, begging for coins. His face was turned away from the stream of people, hidden by his other hand. Every line of his body indicated defeat and an almost-unbearable shame. I walked on a few paces, contemplating that this was the first beggar I’d seen in almost a month in Turkey. <br /><br />I was reminded of the drunk in Selçuk, and Marco’s brother explaining that no-one in Turkey would be homeless or hungry because they would have a family to take care of them. Did this man not have a family? Or was this his way of taking care of them? Or was the curl of despair in his fingers an act, shaped just so to draw in the sympathetic tourist? I couldn’t bear it. I stopped and walked back, dropped a few lira in his cap, and moved on. He didn’t move a muscle: didn’t show his face, didn’t lift the veil.<br /><br />Saddened and suddenly dissatisfied, we walked back down to Sultanahmet, where the crowds added to the midway feel, and our spirits lightened again. Back at the Med Cezir, we found Erol sitting in the dining room with Sabo, a friend and a guitar: they wanted Steve to get his oud so that they could play together. Steve obliged and they had an interesting thing going on with Erol on the guitar, Steve picking away on the oud and the friend singing a folk song. I ran up to get the computer to record the spontaneous amazingness, but by the time I got back down, Steve didn’t want to be recorded, so I only was able to capture Erol and his friend. It was still pretty cool, though. We had a great time chatting and hanging out, drinking endless complimentary cups of tea until our eyelids drooped. Steve and I staggered up the stairs to bed, replete with all the wonders of Istanbul.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-40289540381626156342007-11-02T13:16:00.004-07:002008-05-11T00:43:01.868-07:00Turkey -- Day Twenty-six -- Istanbul (oud shopping)Friday, November 2, 2007<br /><br />We woke early to the endless suburbs of Istanbul rolling by. Breakfast was decent enough, though not quite as good as on the Ankara run – ah, back in the land of salami slice on the breakfast plate! We were back in our cabin in time to pack up and watch the blue Marmara sea disappear behind football stadiums and industrial parks.<br /><br />We pulled into the train station and discovered the bad thing about first class: the sleepers had been at the ass end of the train the whole time, keeping away from the noisy engine, but now they were the furthest from the exit, and we felt every inch of the marble-covered platform as we pulled the RSFH the length of the train. Knowing that this was the easy stretch didn’t exactly help. <br /><br />We exited onto the street and went to the same ferry dock that we had arrived at, some twenty-four days earlier. Breakfast was not so decent that we didn’t pick up two simit on the ferry dock. Fifty kuruş each: we must be in Istanbul.<br /><br />Manoeuvring the RSFH through the turnstile along with about one hundred irritable Istanbullus commuters sucked. <br /><br />Launching it and us onto the ferry sucked a little more. We had repacked it to be a little lighter, but that meant we had the RSFH and an equally heavy duffle bag full of carpet. With our packs, that meant that we had two pieces of luggage each, which wouldn’t have been so bad except that the considerable weight of the carpet bag (ha ha) slowly cut off the fingers of the wielder, and the RSFH often required one person at one end and the other person at the other end to lift it over, say, the gap between the dock and the ferry. It was challenging. Did I mention one hundred irritable commuters? Yeah.<br /><br />I’m being overly dramatic – while getting ON the ferry was a challenge, once we were on, people very nicely made room for us and our irritating luggage. <br /><br />Even though I was a little trepidatious about being back in Istanbul, armed with teşekkür ederim and lütfen, even with our RSFH, things seemed easier. Well, except for the lifting part.<br /><br />Rinse and repeat for offloading, with the addition of the gap we had to leap over as it took so long to get the luggage to the door that the ferry was just about pulling away… very exciting! <br /><br />When we got to Karakoy on the European side, we at least knew approximately where we were heading: back to the Galata Bridge, through the underpass (scary), right at the fish market (smelly… ok, not really), right into the gun bazaar (scary… really!) and up the stairs (hernia!) to the Beyoglu tram station, where we purchased two tokens and joined a whole new set of irritated commuters trying to get onto the trams. <br /><br />We just managed to get all the bags off the tram at the Sultanahmet stop and stopped to regroup on the sidewalk. I’m still not sure how we managed it (certainly parts of it have been blocked from my memory), but we lugged all that crap to the hotel over endless miles of cobbled sidewalks. Actually it wasn’t miles – the hotel was just as close as advertised. The Med Cezir is basically opposite the Four Seasons, just down the street from the Baths Of Lady Hürrem and around the corner from one of the ‘Ev’ hotels. It’s in good company!<br /><br />From the outside, the cheerfully-painted Med Cezir looked like it belonged – a pale lemon-yellow building with a cute little café-style restaurant on the left and the hotel entrance on the right.<br /><br />We staggered into the hallway that led to the admissions desks where we were kindly, and amusedly, greeted by Erol, the owner. The kindness seemed very typical of him, the amusement mostly generated by the fact that we now had to carry the luggage up three narrow, spiralling sets of stairs to the third floor where our room was. Yay! The first flight was fairly normal, the second, a little tighter and steeper. The third flight of stairs was just as steep and incredibly narrow at the top, and the light in the hallway was controlled by a motion detector that unexpectedly turned off after there had been no movement for, say, twenty seconds. Pretty much the amount of time required to find one’s key, for instance, or to take a breather after hauling a large and unwieldy suitcase up three flights of stairs. <br /><br />After waving our way down the hallway to get the light on, we made our way into the room, and were pleasantly surprised. There was a double bed, a reading lamp (our first in Turkey), a wardrobe, and a pile of clean towels on the bed. After doing a recon in the hallway, we found two bathrooms to serve three bedrooms: one was possessed of a half-sized bath with shower and the other was a powder room. There were actual little hotel soaps (which we ignored, preferring our Tire olive oil soap during our quick showers) and plenty of spare tp. Everything was spotlessly clean, if not glamorous. <br /><br />This was so worth the 60YTL per night we were paying: the room was good, the stairs were… healthy, and the location was un-freaking-believable, as we realized when we abandoned our luggage, walked back down the stairs and twenty short steps into the park I only know as Sultanahmet Park between the breathtaking Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. <br /><br />Steve wanted to be sure we got to Beyoglu today to check out the street of music shops. We had asked Erol if he knew of anywhere to go and he had told us, being an oud and guitar player himself, which streets to visit. <br /><br />We first headed over to the Divan Yolu where we veered off onto a sidestreet and walked a block to a small music shop. The shopkeeper was nice, but not very interested in us, which was fair, as his ouds were nice but not very interesting.<br /><br />The tram station was close and we had the hang of getting our tokens, so it took no time at all before we were whisking across the Galata Bridge. Just for the sake of entertainment, we decided to deliberately miss the Beyoglu stop and got off at the next one down the line, where we walked back along the street to the bottom of the hill we were to walk up the street of music. We passed storefronts full of Vespas (Alex would have just died) and sidewalks full of astonished Istanbullus (we weren’t in a tourist area) before we found ourselves at the bottom of a fan of streets spreading up the hill above us. <br /><br />We knew we had to walk up Yüksek Kaldırım Caddesi which would turn into Galip Dede Caddesi, which is the street of the musical instruments. Yüksek Kaldırım was easy enough to find, now that I had the hang of finding the street signs high up on the building on the left corner of the street. From my up-since-six-am perspective, however, it didn’t look all that easy to walk up. From sea-level, the streets of Beyoglu head straight up the hill – there is the Tünel that can take you up from near the tram station to the top of the hill at the end of Istiklal Caddesi, but that would have bypassed the entire street of the musical instruments. We needed to walk up. <br /><br />Daunted, we stopped to take a look at the street signs to make sure this was actually the right street and were promptly accosted by a döner seller. We weren’t a hard sell, as the tavuk on the pole looked fantastic and the price was just a few lira. We sat under some trees at little tables with little umbrellas and a very aggressive, skinny little cat. He ended up with quite a bit of my tavuk, but his kitty desperation when the food was gone was heartbreaking. It was hard to reconcile the thousands of starving strays creeping around Istanbul: you just wouldn’t see that in Canada. Instead, they would be rounded up and sent to the SPCA where some of them would be adopted into loving homes, and others would be put to sleep. Which is best? In Istanbul they have a chance, I guess, especially with soft-hearted turists possessed of a liberal hand with the tavuk. <br /><br />Full and fortified, we headed up the caddesi, stopping in what seemed like every musical instrument shop along the way. Now I know how Steve feels when he’s tagging along with my shopping! Only when I’m shopping, we’re not brought constant cups of tea and invitations to sit and visit. Well, not everywhere was that friendly, but most shopkeepers were very pleasant and they all seemed pleasantly surprised that Steve could illicit vaguely appropriate noises from the ouds he tried. Every so often he would also pick up a guitar and blow them away. <br /><br />We finally found a shop where the ouds were better than good and the salespeople were very nice. Since a lot of this trip was paid for by an inheritance from Steve’s grandmother, and she would have wanted him to have a musical keepsake from it and her, we had kept money aside specifically for an oud. The one that Steve liked the best was a little higher than his budget, but I kindly offered to put his Christmas present money towards it! Suitably revenged for his offers regarding the kilim we bought in Selçuk, Steve decided to bite the bullet and get the one he wanted. Purporting to need some time to think on it, we left the shop and decided to head uphill a bit to see what we could see. <br /><br />After what was actually a very short time and an easy hike, we came to an open square which marked the start of the Istiklal Caddesi, a long pedestrian-only street which lead eventually to Taksim Square and which seemed to be Istanbul’s answer to Vancouver’s Robson Street. This was also where the Tünel ended up, so I think the neighbourhood is also known as Tünel.<br /><br />There was a little tram that appeared every so often, carrying the lazy or footsore down Istiklal Caddesi. We didn’t really feel like doing the full-on stroll as dark was coming on and the tram never seemed to be leaving when we weren’t busy looking at something interesting. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the street looked like it was mostly occupied by the young, hip and terminally fashionable. Besides, right in the little square we could see a few little art galleries and went to look for post-cards or other interesting things. <br /><br />We sure did find interesting things – copies of old lithographs of the city, decorated words in Arabic script, sketches of dervishes and a bunch of delicate watercolour Istanbul skylines with pen & ink boats and seagulls in the foreground. Lovely things! We were delighted to find out that the prices were very reasonable for original works: even though they were made very much to a formula, the execution was still quite wonderful. When we told the shopkeeper that the frames (brown) and matts (not white) weren’t to our taste, he offered to have his wife come to the shop and do some custom frames for us. Even with the custom framing, the price were still very reasonable, so we assessed our Christmas gift needs and picked out a half-dozen paintings. <br /><br />By the time our order was framed, wrapped and bagged, it was almost full dark, and we had quite a distance to get back to our pension. On the upside, the walk down Galip Dede Caddesi was much easier than going up, and we passed amazing sights including the Galata Tower and cars attempting to drive down a street full of people. We stopped in at the music shop and purchased the oud, which Steve cradled like a babe for the rest of the night.<br /><br />I couldn’t resist the sight of an open shop manually squeezing fresh orange juice where you could buy a glass for a lira, so we stopped for juice. Steve declined, as his hands were full of oud, but I found it delicious and worth every penny.<br /><br />Back down the hill, back on the tram, back to Sultanahmet – we felt like old hats at this and my enjoyment of Istanbul increased with every step on a marble paving stone I took. I was no longer overwhelmed by touts and trams and every little thing; more comfortable with Turkish and the Turks, I finally felt able to handle and truly enjoy this amazing city.<br /><br />We strolled into the Med Cezir with our purchases in hand. Erol and his assistant, Sabo (which means ‘loyalty’ in… Kurdish? we were proudly advised by the young man in question) were delighted to see us. They fixed us some very passable mezes at a fairly reasonable price (by Sultanahmet standards) and watched Steve explore his oud. <br /><br />It had been a long, long day and we weren’t really up to going out or even visiting that much. We hauled our very sorry rear ends up the stairs, waved at the motion light, got out our keys, waved at the light again and were in our room, soon to bed. It only took a second or two before we realized that the ‘double’ bed was actually two twins pushed together. The foam topper helped a little, but it still wasn’t as perfectly comfortable as it might have been, with a bit of a raised seam where the beds joined. That said, we had no regrets and we felt that we were very lucky to have come across this particular pension; we snuggled across the seam and slept very well.Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-41630910442008334102007-11-02T13:15:00.003-07:002008-04-20T21:12:52.097-07:00Turkey -- Day Twenty-five -- Pamukkale & Night TrainThursday November 1, 2007<br /><br />The morning was a scurry of activity at the hotel: we had more on our plate than just eating yet another delicious breakfast and showering in abundant hot water. We wanted to leave Pamukkale in the evening on the night train – the Pamukkale Expresi – from Denizli to Istanbul that was to leave at 5pm. Since we wanted a sleeper, we asked Karyn if she knew if there was somewhere in town we could reserve our ticket. There wasn’t a travel agent handy, so she had Ibrahim check availability online and there was only one sleeper unit left! Eek!<br /><br />Karyn suggested we buy the ticket online, but of course we didn’t have a credit card. We were intensely grateful when Karyn offered to buy the ticket for us, so long as we also paid her the few extra lira to cover her bank charges for her Australian credit card. Since this beat hollow the prospect of a panicky dolmuş ride into Denizli to buy a ticket that may or may not have still been available when we got there, we gladly accepted. Even with the small charge (which Karyn showed us on her statement – she didn’t take a fee on top of it, even though we would have happily paid one), it was still less than $50 each – I think 49YTL each for the ticket and two or three lira for the service fee.<br /><br />The next order was the hotel we would stay in the next night. As exciting as it was to have arrived in Istanbul that first night and look for our hotel room, we wanted to see if we could get in with the Canadians who would be arriving there that night. We tried to call on Skype, taking advantage of the free wireless, but the connection was a little spotty. Karyn – again, such an awesome hostess – lent us the phone for no charge, even though we were calling long distance. Unfortunately that hotel was full. Karyn then looked online and advised of a few hotels that had space and were reasonable, including one called the ‘Med Cezir’ (pronounced Med Jezeer) which was right in the heart of Sultanahmet. We called, heart in our mouth, and were told by the nice man on the other end of the phone that he was full up for doubles with their own bathroom. We were just about to hang up when he told us he did have a double with a shared bathroom. The price was great, and we wanted this to be done, so we accepted – no deposit, just our names and the advice that we’d be there in the morning. Yay! Now we had somewhere to stay and a way to get there: we could enjoy our day in Pamukkale.<br /><br />It didn’t seem like it would be difficult to get to the famous travertines since we could even catch a glimpse of them from our bedroom window. Indeed, it was a short walk up through the winding streets, past the little lokanta we were in last night, to the pond at the bottom of the road that led to the travertines. The sun intermittently broke through the high cloud and made the upper hillside sparkle. It was interesting from far off; fascinating from up close. We paid our 5YTL and walked (shoes on) up the gravel path until we reached the white… how do you describe the travertines?<br /><br />Technically, they are the result of a natural hot spring which carries a large quantity of calcium dissolved in the water. When the water reaches the surface and spills out over the top of the hill, the calcium precipitates out of the water and is deposited on the natural rock as a new kind of rock called ‘travertine’. Over many thousands of years, layers and layers of calcium have created terraced rock pools that shine white in the sun. Perhaps because of the ability of the white pools to reflect the sky, they are coloured the same bright turquoise that we have seen many times in alpine lakes. From a distance, the white structure on the top of the hill looks like a shining fortress, which gives Pamukkale (pamuk: cotton, kale: castle) its name.<br /><br />We had waffled, as I think many travellers do, if it was worth it to even go to Pamukkale. We had read the reports that the hotels in the area had diverted the mineral water for their own little pools and the reduction in calcium-rich water spilling over the travertines had made them dingy at best, completely ruined at worst. We pro’d and con’d for several days: Denizli was out of the way, but it was on the way to an easy route back to Istanbul. The travertines might not be as spectacular as they were, but it might be our last chance to see even the faded glory of an incredible natural sight. As we took off our sandals and took our first step into the cool white lower pond, we were so glad we came. Up close, you could see that some of the pathways were a little gritty and not all the pools were full. There were some workers digging a ditch of some sort along the edge of the travertines and I was glad to see they are still working on repairing it.<br /><br />The silt in the bottom of the pool was pleasantly squishy between our toes, and it created fun little swirls as we walked through. The water didn’t get past mid-thigh and we hung out in the pond, watching the clouds roll through and hoping for more sunshine. After not too long, a crowd came down the trail and took over our pond, and it was time to move on. It is a requirement that you walk up the trail without shoes on as the dirt from shoes makes the rock grubbier. Most people adhered to it and I glared daggers at those who didn’t. Really, there was no reason not to take off your shoes: the rocks were surprisingly smooth to walk on, even where the surface was patterned into tiny rock ripples. Frankly, if you don’t want to take your shoes off, don’t walk on the travertine! Not that I was irritated or anything.<br /><br />At the top, we were impressed at the quantity of the ruins that cover the plateau: we had read that Heiropolis was darn cool, but this was really neat. We decided to first take a look at the ‘Sacred Pool’ which was located in a very strip-mall looking building. The sacred pool itself looked interesting in that there were indeed mineral waters and actual Roman ruins in the water – broken columns you could swim by and over. The whole thing seemed a little dingy, though, and the prices were obscene, plus there was that whole strip-mall atmosphere. I think that if the ruins in Turkey were more hands-off or somehow less accessible to be touched and leaned on and generally mauled, swimming with ruins would be more attractive. As it was, we felt as though we had had enough of an intimate ruin experience that we didn’t need to get naked with them.<br /><br />Instead of a swim, we bought two wildly overpriced Magnums and went outside to sit on a tomb and eat our icecream. See what I mean? intimate ruins.<br /><br />We walked along the cliff edge over to the left and admired a few tombs that were being very sloooooooowly drowned in a rising sea of travertine, or at least until a tourist policeman (well, maybe a park caretaker, but he looked mighty official) told us to keep back from the edge. <br /><br />Keeping away from the edge wasn’t much of a hardship given the interesting group of ruins, including a colonnaded street, a couple of well-preserved arches, and a hillside just covered in ruined tombs. I think I read on ‘Turkey Travel Planner’ where Tom Brosnahan said that lots of Romans came to Heiropolis to take cures in the spa but many of them died instead. Perhaps it was best we didn’t swim in the sacred pool!<div><br /></div><div>We walked through the triple arches towards the necropolis where we admired the jumble of tombs and tried to decipher the interpretive signs. The tombs were very interesting and some were even open to visitors! The magnitude of the excavation was overwhelming.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tiring of ghosts, we wandered back to the arches and walked up the marble-paved streets, lined with rows of columns and poplars. It was lovely and graceful and we went twenty minutes without seeing another soul. <br /><br />We found stone paths to follow up along the hillside that were paved in huge marble slabs. It took a while to realize that these were city streets that would have served all the now-razed neighbourhoods we were walking through. The streets were laid out in a grid pattern and sometimes we thought we saw the remains of drainage troughs underneath the streets where a slab was broken. I would have liked to follow the street up the hill to more tombs, but we wanted to take a look at the theatre before heading back to the hotel to get packed up for the dolmuş to Denizli. Walking those paths made me feel closer to history than any other place we had been, even Ephesus, and I felt if I could just walk a little further, I could walk right into the past.<br /><br />Instead we slogged up the normal modern road up to the theatre, where you enter from the top. The theatre was apparently restored by Italian craftsmen in the 1970s and it was the first theatre we’d been to where you didn’t have the run of the place. To prevent people from going down onto the stage, there was a wooden barricade set up on the walkway above the first rows of seats. Frankly, we felt a little gypped. Those Italians did a nice job and all, but as I’ve mentioned, we were spoiled by our access to and intimacy with other ruins.<br /><br />By this time it was well into the afternoon and we wanted to be on a 3:30pm dolmuş at the latest. Even though it was only a half hour into Denizli, and the dolmuş went every fifteen minutes or so, we wanted enough time to comfortably wrangle our RSFH to the train station and make our 5pm train. We decided to head down the hill where I would take a quick fifteen minutes in the museum and Steve would go back down to the pool with water in it to take some more photos now that it was a bit sunnier.<br /><br />Fortunately the ticket to the museum was inexpensive, since I certainly didn’t waste any time there: I basically ran through taking photos that I figured I could admire at my leisure. The rooms weren’t well-lit and it’s probably best that Steve didn’t attend, as the detail on the friezes might have eluded him.<br /><br />The guards looked quite entertained as I left with a quick teşekkür ederim: I’m not sure they’d ever seen someone go through so quickly.<br /><br />I found Steve in the lower pool as expected. It felt a little sad to walk off the travertines, put our sandals back on, and turn our backs on Pamukkale. We were very glad we came.<br /><br />Back in town, we found our landmark lokanta and set off in what seemed like the right direction to get back to the Venus Hotel. I’m sure you can see where this is going, though we were unsuspecting… that we were most certainly NOT headed in the right direction. On the upside, we saw back streets of Pamukkale that most tourists do not see. On the downside, we were tired and hungry and anxious about the time, and spatted pretty much the entire 20 minutes we wandered around lost. We did ask a little girl the way to go, but she pointed us in the entirely wrong direction, which really didn’t help the situation. Finally coming back to the travertine entrance from around the far left side of town, we saw Karyn and Ibrahim parked in front of a shop. They offered us a ride back to the hotel and then a ride back to the dolmuş stop with the RSFH, which we gratefully accepted.<br /><br />At the Venus, we hurriedly packed our things and found that we had had a casualty on the trip: my loyal Teva sandals, which had carried me faithfully throughout Turkey, to say nothing of the other adventures, were now officially dead. The sole was separating, they smelled atrocious and they were too heavy to justify carrying back to Canada for interment. I sadly left them on the top of the garbage can in our beautiful room in the Hotel Venus. Farewell, old friends.<br /><br />Downstairs, we said our goodbyes to the dogs, the mum and dad, and were carted back up into town by Ibrahim. What a nice place! We had just enough time to grab snacks: simit, suyu and a few cookies before hopping on the dolmuş. I hadn’t realized how much time had gone by while we were lost, and even though the dolmuş was going relatively quickly by dolmuş standards, we arrived in the Denizli otogar at about 20 minutes to five.<br /><br />Wrestling the RSFH and our packs out of the dolmuş, we were assured by the driver and various passerby that the train station (tren istasyonu in Turkish) was just down and across the road. They didn’t say that the sidewalks were GRAVEL or that our wheelie RSFH wouldn’t wheel very well (ok, at all) on gravel. They also didn’t mention that it was rush hour in Denizli, and that crossing six lanes of road would take our lives into our overly full hands.<br /><br />We were hot and tired and overly-adrenaline’d when we finally ran down the metal mesh stairs (also not very good for the RSFH wheels) onto the platform. Fortunately, we changed our printed confirmation for tickets without incident and got on the train with five minutes to go before five. Needless to say, we were very, very relieved and actually quite pleased with ourselves. It had taken a lot of co-operation, cheerleading and finely choreographed suitcase-lifting to get ourselves to the train on time, and our satisfaction wiped the spat from our minds.<br /><br />One last push of the suitcase onto the train and into our little room, and we were free from suitcase lifting for at least another twelve hours. What a relief! We ate the contents of our little fridge as we watched... the station. Had we known the train would leave some twenty minutes late, we might not have panicked so badly. Insert UTS (ubiquitous Turkish shrug) here. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, the train started off, leaving the city of Denizli. After about twenty minutes, it screeched to a halt. We thought it might have stopped abruptly for a station, but official-looking people were running up and down the track outside the train, shouting at each other. We wondered what all the fuss was about -- did someone get left behind? The conductor eventually told Steve that a passenger's child had pulled the e-brake. Hee hee!</div><div><br /></div><div>After not too long, the train started again and we watched the darkening countryside roll by, before repairing to the dining (cough smoking) car for a well-deserved dinner.<br /><br />There was a little menu card on the table from which we tried to order, but the waiter was either not familiar with English or (bastardised) Turkish, because he kept indicating things were not available or giving us blank stares. We were pretty sure we had ordered some mezes and perhaps a şiş of indeterminate animal by the time he left.<br /><br />When he arrived, proudly bearing plates of food, I realized that this was what menu roulette must really be like. Steve just smiled; he's played this game before. Everything was good, but it was also a surprise: we had two eggplant salads, one of which might have been Imam Bayıldı, a haydari-like dish, a cucumber-yoghurt soup that must have been cacik, and liver. Yes, liver. Now I’m SURE I didn’t point at that item on the menu, but we got it anyway. I have to say the taste was ok, but the texture was… well, it was liver. So it was liver-y. Fortunately Steve likes liver. It was all quite reasonable in both taste and price, though not quite as good as the food on the Istanbul-Ankara train. Finally satisfied, we hung out in the dining car until we were smoked out. There isn’t any smoking allowed in the train carriages themselves, so the smokers hung out either in the gap between cars or in the smoking car, which was fine. Turkish cigarettes are somehow less irritating to my allergies than North American ones.<br /><br />We found ourselves tired out when we got back to our room and sat talking and watching the lights of the countryside go by. I was a bit anxious about going back in Istanbul as I wasn’t sure I had liked it much the first time through. Istanbul is chaotic, noisy and crammed to the gills with people, and I’d felt out of my element. I also wasn’t keen on introducing the RSFH to the cobbled streets of Sultanahmet – or to the ferry gangplanks, either... but Steve reassured me and I reassured him, since he had similar fears, and we cuddled and felt like successful newlyweds after our trying day. Whatever Istanbul was like, we’d manage it together.</div>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31152425.post-58034668966598196412007-11-02T13:11:00.006-07:002008-04-19T23:39:29.094-07:00Turkey -- Day Twenty-four -- Pamukkale (Aphrodesias)Wednesday, October 31, 2007<br /><br />We had a good sleep at the Venus Hotel. Waking up refreshed and a little more aware of our surroundings, we were even more pleased at the bright and fresh nature of our room (yet again a triple for the price of a double, and the extra bed held all our extra crap). Karyn confirmed that they are slowly fixing up all the rooms and common area. Over a delicious breakfast, we had a great chat about the vagrancies of the Lonely Planet. <div><br /></div><div>Karyn explained that when the LP guy had come to their hotel a few years previous (to write for the 2007 edition), he didn't even stay in the hotel, just took a look around and left. Fortunately, he gave them a good write-up, but telling potential travelers that the hotel is pink and romantic doesn't actually give any idea as to the quality of the rooms or food. In addition, because the information is collected literally years before the edition is printed, prices are way out of date, which can give travelers a nasty shock upon arriving at the hotel or attraction. </div><div><br /></div><div>There doesn't seem to be any avoidable way of the L.P. being out of date that isn't prohibitively expensive for them and the consumer (and guide books are expensive enough as it is), and we did get a lot of assistance at least in knowing what to see. Our frustrations regarding its inaccuracies were echoed by Karyn, and we promptly adopted her nomiker of 'Lonely Bastard'. We had a love-hate relationship with our guide book, that's for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is one of the reasons I haven't provided a lot of information about the prices we paid: the information won't be relevant for long, and we were traveling in the off season. What seemed like a good deal to us might not be possible to get in the high season. To say we were there in the 'shoulder season' would be an extreme understatement. In fact, Karyn and Ibrahim were off to Southeast Asia on their 'summer vacation' in just a few days.<br /><br />Karyn also told us our options for getting to Aphrodesias: hire a car and driver for 100YTL or take the bus for 25YTL each. Obviously the bus was the better route, but it would only go if there were a minimum of four people, so we had to cross our fingers that more intrepid people wanted to go see the ruins.<br /><br />We were just finishing up breakfast at 9:30 when the bus came by for us, happily with two other people in it! We gulped our tea and climbed on board, where we met Sharon and Barb, two lovely Ottowa-onians (?) who had spent the bulk of their month’s holiday in the East, near Van, which sounded really spectacular. We all bonded right away and chatted as the bus went and picked up another man, Tatsi from Japan, who hadn’t much English but had a very good attitude.<br /><br />We stopped on the way out of town for some very cheap and delicious simit to take with us. I think the simit were about 10 kuruş each, which was the cheapest we had seen anywhere. Fortunately the taste did not reflect the price, and I bought simit for everyone on board, including a surprised Tatsi. Yum!<br /><br />The bus ride was quite long, but we filled it with hearing and regaling stories about our various adventures in Turkey: Sharon and Barb had met a man by chance who became their driver, guide and fast friend. Their stories cemented our desire to return to Turkey and see ‘the East’ as they did. They, in fact, are currently planning their next trip at which time they will go up into all the little villages Noori, their driver, said he would take them to, plus the Black Sea and all kinds of other adventures which are in store for them.<br /><br />They’ve been doing very well travelling without any real Turkish language at all. Turkey is pretty easy to travel in in that regard, though I still like my Turkish words!<br /><br />We finally arrived at Aphrodesias, or the parking lot for Aphrodesias, and were told to meet our driver at 2pm. Then we all piled into the shuttle… wagon, pulled by a… tractor, which (for free) took us all the way to the gate.<br /><br />After paying our whopping 4L (less than the L.B. said it charges) admission charge, we entered the ruin by way of a cobbled path that passed a field full of amazingly carved sarcophagi. As it was by now about 11, we decided to take pictures on the way back.<br /><br />Aphrodesias was the site of a prehistoric community since 5000 BC or so, and had the shrine to Aphrodite since 600 BC, but only became a real town in the 1st or 2nd century AD. The town reached its peak at about the 3rd century AD and was abandoned in the 12th century AD. The little village of Geyre grew up in its place, which moved after an earthquake in the 1950’s, after which time the excavations began in the 1960s to very recently.<br /><br />The central part of Aphrodesias is actually the village square, and contains a gift shop, rather nice washrooms, a few scruffy cats and the Museum. There are also several options for where to start your explorations. I got left behind a little (taking pictures of the kitties), when I heard shrieks and laughter coming from up the trail. I found my people had discovered that a shrub with very ‘Day of the Triffids’ pods on them. When disturbed by a foot or stick, the little pods shot up into the air and landed sometimes metres away from the original plant. Bizarre!<br /><br />Hearing the high-pitched squealings of a multitude of primary-schoolchildren on the theatre, we decided to approach the ruins from a more circuitous route. We headed on a goat track up to the left, joined by a shaggy dog whom Barb referred to as ‘Monsieur Woof Woof’ to his great delight.<br /><br />The little path led us to some interesting places: we saw a chunk of stone carved like a leaf just stuck in the dirt; we saw a lone section of city wall; we saw a marble wall in the middle of nowhere with beautiful panels of carving, with an old wooden chair propped up against it; we saw huge snails and seed pods that looked like snail shells. We finally ended up following a very dubious-looking trail that led to the rear part of a very complete colonnaded walkway: we weren’t sure if Tatsi thought we were really cool for leaving the beaten path or absolutely crazy Canadians bushwhacking through the back forty of Aphrodesias. From there we looked at the well-preserved baths and the enormously grand theatre, which we had all to ourselves for about ten minutes. Steve and I had really good luck all through with getting spectacular ruins to ourselves.<br /><br />At this point, Tatsi abandoned us to go on ahead, so I guess the verdict must have been ‘crazy’.<br /><br />We went around the back of the theatre to more baths and more ruins, and a particularly charming kitty that followed up for quite a while, pausing to sit picturesque-ly on bits of broken ruin. I pulled a few ticks off his ears, which gave me the bug-induced willies, but it was for a good cause.<br /><br />After more ruin-wandering, at which time Mr. Woof Woof returned and the cat sensibly left, we headed over to the stadium which was incredible: it had seated some 30,000 people to watch sporting events (athletic and gladiatorial) in relative comfort. There were designated seats, and guilds would have areas designated for them to sit as well. Barb and Sharon were politely chatted up by a tour guide who was taking a little break from giving a private tour to some Americans, proving correct their statements about being hit on by Turks of all walks. They had had some interesting experiences to say the least!<br /><br />As we were getting close to time, we took a very quick look at Aphrodesias’ most famous ruin, that of the monumental gateway -- the Tetrapylon of Trajan -- that led pilgrims to the Temple of Aphrodite. It was beautifully restored, though somehow a little small after the Library of Celcus.<br /><br />Passing yet more kitties and friezes, we found ourselves with a whole fifteen minutes in the Museum. Fortunately, that was all you really needed for a quick look at the Statues With Heads, if you passed over the majority of Statues Without Heads. We were able to get the tractor back to the parking lot only a few minutes late. Frankly, after the wonders we had seen, taking pictures of the sarcophagi didn’t seem so interesting.<br /><br />In the parking lot, there were (surprise!) handicraft stalls selling trinkets, among which were some very sweet little whistles shaped like birds, much after the fashion of the whistles in the book ‘Birds Without Wings’ which I received for Christmas last year. We bought two, as they were very cheap and very cute.<br /><br />Back on the bus, we had a little discussion about lunch, which is to say Barb and Sharon tried to explain to our driver (who had very little English) that they wanted to go to a cheap, village restaurant rather than a tourist place. As they had no Turkish, this involved a lot of them speaking clearly and loudly, and a lot of me looking up words in the phrasebook, like ‘inexpensive’ (which is ucuz, pronounced ‘oojooz’) and saying things like ‘lokanta’ which I already knew (restaurant).<br /><br />He seemed to understand, and we drove off in the opposite direction from which we came. After a while, we came to a small town, where we pulled off the main road in front of a greasy spoon. Barb seemed a little dubious, but Sharon explained that the more quaint places were just for tourists, so we went in.<br /><br />We were the only women in there, and definitely the only tourists, but it was full of locals which seemed like a good sign. The menu was a large piece of paper under the glass on the tables, which conveniently had pictures of each dish along with the Turkish name. We all had the special casserole except Tatsi, who had pide.<br /><br />We taught Barb and Sharon the Turkish name for cherry juice, as they had also developed an addiction to vişne suyu. The vişne suyu was an unfamiliar brand (did you know the ubiquitous Cappy is made by Coke?) and came in glass bottles for the first time. It was divine.<br /><br />We were brought fresh, warm bread and the typical salad with lemon juice just before our casseroles arrived, boiling and sizzling in red-hot ceramic pots. After they had cooled enough to touch, we ate them with huge enjoyment – çok nefis indeed!<br /><br />The casserole was followed by a sweet pastry covered in honey and halva – it was delicious too, but way too sweet for me. The driver explained in broken English and charades that the tea was free, from him. How nice! The total bill, each, for drinks, bread, salad, roasted green peppers, casserole, dessert and chai was a whole 10YTL each. We were very impressed with our driver’s lokanta selection, and told him so, as best each of us could.<br /><br />We all paid the driver 30L each instead of the 25L fare, in order to give him a good tip. Back in Pamukkale by just after 4pm, we made arrangements with our newfound Ottowa-onians to meet at 7:30 for a light dinner or drinks, or something of that social sort.<br /><br />Once back in the room, Steve and I settled down for a quick cuddle and chat before seeing the town (which we still hadn’t managed). Unfortunately, we both drifted off, and woke at 7:15, completely groggy and exhausted. We weren’t really in any mood for drinks, or dinner given the size of our lunch, but felt that our current course of action was more fitting for a pair of octenegarians than newlywed thirty-somethings.<br /><br />We dragged ourselves down into the lounge, where Barb and Sharon turned up a few minutes later, and directed us to a small restaurant called ‘Mehmet’s Heaven’ which was certainly nice enough. We had some adequate (and not too filling) mezes, and Steve and I uncharacteristically got a bottle of local red to share between us. It was very drinkable to my palate, but quite dull to Steve’s, which is typical of our shared wine experience.<br /><br />Conversation was very interesting: Barb works for Statscan and Sharon is a museum curator, and both are quite up on Canadian politics. Steve held his own in the discussion, but I was a little at sea, except when complaining about the high cost of real estate. Since our new friends were heading to Istanbul the next day, early, and were also flying out Monday, we tentatively arranged for the girls to go to a hammam (Turkish bath) in Istanbul, as I had been too chicken to go on my own. We also got the name and number of their hotel, as their rates seemed good and we had been waffling over what hotel to try and book at for several days.<br /><br />More than a tiny bit tipsy, we left the restaurant after 11pm, said goodbye, and staggered gracefully down the road and into bed.</div>Lorienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10754384948016954357noreply@blogger.com0