If you've got world enough and time.

Then you'll read on. And if you feel like knowing what inspired the laughter in the above photo, then keep at it. But I suppose most of you won't. And that's OK. I really tried t'be concise, I swear.

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Saturday was “Teacher’s Day” here in Turkey. (I don’t know why they’d have it on a day where the majority of teachers aren’t at work. Istanbul Factoid #3-I rarely know what’s going on here.) Though I’m sure whoever founded this day wanted nothing more than to give lazy folks like us nothing more than simple props for 24 hours. If it were upto me, everyday would celebrate an occupation. And yeah, I don’t really think there’s more than 365 occupations out there anyway. I can think of lots of occupations that don’t deserve a day of recognition anyway; dentists top that list.

Anyway. Saturday was one of those days where you teeter on fence, somewhere between insanity and the remote possibility that what you’re doing is actually worth doing. And that’s important; a good friend of mine laid something down on me the other night. “If it wasn’t this then it’d be something else.” I really dig that. But Saturday was one of those days, when you know, it didn’t seem like anything else was remotely possible. And when you flirt with that knowledge, insanity gets a bit tempting too.

Anyway, I wish I could come up with material this good; but all this shit is entirely too real. I wouldn’t be brazen enough to make this stuff up. So here it is, in as non-descript language as I can give you, the details of my Saturday. I suppose that’s all people are really after in a blog. I hope this is all I really want in a day; if it ain’t, I’m gonna need more sleep.

-

Woke at 6.45 with a raging hungover headache, to the sound of an alarm. I realized then that an alarm early in the morning is as a bad a sound as the good Lord created. My first thought wasn’t of aiding the hangover, but why the fuck my alarm was beeping callously in the first place. And I muttered-

“Oh right. I have a job.”

Somewhere, a vagrant laughed at me, callously of course. But I’d legitimately forgotten all about work. I hit the snooze button three times and finally gave into my conscience. A glass of juice later and I was ready to leave the house. I started the day without my usual dose of CNN, which might have been the reason for the rest of the day’s misfortunes. Libel is just so comforting in the morning.

Before I left, I saw Julian, our new flatmate who doesn’t teeter on the fence but falls of every time on the “Fuckin’ weird” side of things. Man. He’s messed up. Claims he’s British, sounds like he hails from out Cincinnati way. Wears his pants up by his man boobs. And he’s likely 45. But the day before, he’d stolen my key, rendering me settling for the less for the entire day. I asked him not to do that again, and he asked what he thought he should do, without a key.

“You’re 45 Julian, you figure it out.”

I left the house. The fog was gettin’ outta town for good. I put on some Bob Dylan and tried to focus. Left foot, right foot. 70 feet ahead of me was Paul, another English teacher. A real lager-head of a guy from Manchester. Not a soul on the street, in a city of 12 mil, and I see another English teacher. He wasn’t so much walking as he was slouching his way down the street. We’d really been on the piss the night before, but he’d dived in much earlier than I had. Looked like he was feeling it now. I knew if I kept up this pace of mine, I’d catch him in a matter of minutes. I really didn’t want to admit what I’d gotten upto the night before however, so I took the long route.

Cheese-filed Simit for breakfast. I had a little trouble keeping it down. At work, Paul apologized for not picking me up at 5 (As was planned) yesterday. He told me he’d really been on the piss and how he ended up at Aveshan’s Thanksgiving party. I stared blankly at him. We’d put back 5 or 6 pints and said party, and he apologized profusely then, too. What’s more, we had in depth conversations about what it takes to be a man. I felt a kinship, and he doesn’t even remember my presence. This is what you get for trusting a man, or an Englishman I suppose.

My private student wanted nothing more than just conversation, which was a treat at 8.15 on a Saturday morning. A middle aged Turk who couldn’t put together a sentence to save his kebap. And he wants to talk politics, or hockey, or whatever it was. We came to the conclusion that if yer religious, you’ve got yer pants on backwards. I knew that was enough.

Used the powerful toilet in the school. I hear that toilet flush, and everyone else thinks the great Istanbul quake of ’99 is coming back to haunt us. Anyway, good toilet.

I slipped out of the school un-noticed. And that’s a skill, at ESL schools, I tells ya. Outside, I flagged down a taxi and gave him directions to the other school I was working at that day, which I thought was a bit of a feat.

Did another 3 hours at this school. We talked movies for most of the class; these Turks don’t pull any punches. When writing a review of Titantic, one student claimed he didn’t dig it, becos he thought “Leo looks like a gay.” I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised; I had a student on Thursday tell me that “Africa was full of Negros”. If Turkey ever gives in and joins the EU, I reckon these dudes will lock themselves in their closets, out of fear.

Back to the street, and to make my way home. It wasn’t yet 1.30. Big hard sun beating down on me. The weather is still pristine here. I was tight, hungover muscles cramping up. I needed to get loose, t’get limber. Walked the 45 minutes home down Istanbul’s “Hollywood Boulevard”, a place where Turkish traditions beg for air and all things Western reign supreme.

And the newly appointed King of the street was opening up on Saturday, wouldn’t you know it. Drowning out The Stones my ears, two blocks away were speakers the size of normal-sized men, kicking out no jams, only bass. Istanbul has fallen into The Gap. Right in time for Christmas, apparently. Why they’d sell Christmas sweaters in a country that goes to work on the 25th of December is beyond me. But that’s probably why I’ll never work in marketing.

Grabbed a banana from a vendor. Mushy. It was my only meal of the day, in anticipation of the free ‘za and lager at this Teacher’s Party tonight. I don’t know why I capitalized that; I suppose I was making up for the fact that I hadn’t mentioned this party sooner.

Made it home in enough time to shower before it was time to leave. Weirdo Julian was nowhere to be seen, though there were teacher’s manuals from our school littered throughout the lobby of our apartment. If he’s never seen again, at least I’ve got an alibi.

Come 2.15, my only real buddy Ad (No comparison necessary folks) came on time t’get this shit underway. He brought Chad with him, a quiet teacher whom I’d been meaning to share a pint with. He did grow up an hour down the road from me, so I figured it was mildly appropriate. Chad would prove to be entirely appropriate and inappropriate for the rest of the day.

Came to a unilateral decision about what kind of tunes to bring to the party. The Kings Of Leon, The Detroit Cobras, Das Hips and David Bowie, Live At The BBC. Hit the road; my hair was still soaking wet.

Flagged down a mini-bus to take us to Kadikoy. Traffic, and the drivers in Istanbul defy logic. They’re all blessed with the belief that the faster you drive, the safer you’ll be. Found a seat, which was truly a blessing. Chad detailed me on his recent border hop to Bulgaria, to renew his 3 month tourist visa. Three days in Bulgaria for around 80 bucks Canadian. Dinners laced with $1 pints of Stella. I was sold, and my opinion of Chad had never been higher.

I have a decent opinion of the mini-bus, despite the fact that the drivers usually throw caution to the wind. They’re totally convenient, what with the lack of a subway in this city. But today, there was something in the air. A 20 minute ride took 90 minutes, thanks to traffic of epic proportions. But damn him if he still didn’t reach speeds of over 120 km/h on a city street. (Clocked)

In the face of the traffic, this motherfucker took it upon himself to lose to road for a bit, and take to the sidewalk in the hopes of shaving a few seconds off his time. My palms were tense, sweaty. I was rolling in and out of consciousness. He made old ladies in Burkas look like slaloms. He wasn’t brave, he was stupid. His driving left me whimpering in my seat. I’d look out of my window and my eyes told anyone I’d see to ring the big man upstairs and tell him to warm up a seat for me.

We all kissed the ground when he finally let us off by the sea. That was likely becos our legs had become jelly-like, and we would’ve crumbled anyway. We had just enough time to board a ferry bound for the European side of the ‘bul.

There wasn’t a spot on this ferry which apparently seats 450. Waited for the ship to depart, and when it did they threw up a new fence for us to lean against and call our own. I lit up a smoke in celebration. Cause for celebration was only amplified when Adam told us of a new, forward thinking Prime Minister being elected in Australia. He told us it was a new day for the country, and maybe a new day for all of us. I don’t know about any of that but I sure did feel good for him. He told us he’s damn concerned about the environment, which made us all smile a little.

Our smiles disappeared when we looked out onto the European side of the city. From a distance, a thick black haze is visible above the city. It’s a fucking disgrace folks, this city’s disregard for the Earth it’s built on. I snuffed my cig out on wooden floorboards and kept looking down. Looked into the sea, saw thousands of jellyfish. No dolphins today.

And minutes later, we were in Europe. Sultanahment, the place where tourists drop their cash, hard earned or not. We were off to find Ad’s gal who’d been entertaining a friend from Prague the entire day. We were told that the party began early in the afternoon. But the consensus was that there was time for a pint beforehand.

Found Meg and Martin on the third floor of a pub, eating (Drinking?) soup and watching Besiktas on the big screen. I told Martin that the coolest record store I’ve ever entered was in Prague. He asked me to describe how I got there. Truth be told, my sister and I smelled dope and we followed the trace. We ended up in an alleyway, sifting through punk on vinyl. He told me that I could have just described every street in Prague. That’s how it rolls, I suppose.

Finished off our pints. They set us back around $2.50 Canadian, if you care about things like that. It had gotten cold on the streets. (Istanbul Factoid #4-It’s always colder on the European side. Always, man, always.) I only slightly regretted wearing flip flops.

At this point there was so debate as to what time the party actually started at. It seems we’d all received emails with different start times on them. I thought Chad’s declaration of a 4 pm start time was a little outlandish, but he was the only one who knew how to get there too. To get to the bus to take us there, we had to board a tram. After the doors closed, a Turk was heard shouting in the back. Everyone looked back at him, but no one could understand the problem. Us asshead foreigners all offered up our take on the shit. It slowly turned into derogatory humour. Mine rolled a little like this-

“Stop the tram! My fucking moustache is caught in the door!”

An obvious joke, sure. But I was only one pint in. I was saving my best stuff for mid-set.

Off the tram four stops later. Chad thought he could find the bus stop. But first, we had to go through an underpass below the Earth. This was a real treat for Martin. This particular underpass is littered with gunshops. Naturally, they come stocked with bullets. Of course, what kind of gun kiosk in Turkey be if didn’t allow kids to play with the goddamn things. We stood in awe while Martin flirted with all kinds of danger by snapping photo after photo.

Back above ground, Chad seemed to think he’d found the bus. Good on ya, Chad. Our hunger had nearly reached capacity. While we stood at the bus stop, three of us discovered we all share a palpable affinity for Swingers. We all agreed after the first time watching it, there wasn’t a funnier movie to be seen. We even dropped some of our favourite lines.

“You don’t know what it’s like around here. I grew up in LA.”

“Anaheim.”

“Whatever.”

Laughter assuaged hunger, and around that time the bus pulled up. The line-up of folks looking to head to the center of town had multiplied and we were beginning to wonder if this was indeed the bus, if there were even any seats to be had.

An elderly Asian couple behind us seemed to wonder if this was the bus. I was feeling bold, so I told them that this was indeed the bus to Taksim, “The center”. They shot back, in better English than mine:

“Yes, we know. We were just wondering if we’d get seats or not.”

“Oh, awesome. Where are you guys from?”

“Kuala Lumpur.”

“Righteous. What d’you guys think of Istanbul?”

-Why I decided it was time to but my ambassador mask on is beyond me. But naturally, my ego got the best of me.-

“It’s our city. We’ve lived here for 18 years.”

Now I know it doesn’t take much for me t’look all foolish, but this was exceptionally embarrassing. I guess it was just becos neither of them had moustachios.

There were seats on the bus. Then there was standing room. Then there was room enough to feel someone beside you breath in and out. Then there might have been room for an ant to squeeze on the bus. And yet they still decided to cram people onto the bus. I was stuck in one singular position for the 12 minute drive. The bus chugged up a hill, and I repeatedly felt us slipping back downwards. Of course when that happen, I ate a little more of some dude’s love handles beside me.

After we stumbled off the bus, gasping for air no less, we took to the streets. The bus had let us off at the bottom of Istiklal Caddesi, the main pedestrian drag in the ‘bul. Thousands walk the street everyday. Today was no different; the street was packed and it’s never unlikely to turn around and find yourself lost with no sign of yer crew.

We kept a close eye on each other and weaved our way through the street. The biggest obstacle is not ashing yer ciggie on any innocent bystanders. We tossed doubt back and forth as to whether or not this Chad guy was on the mark as far as the start time of the party. 4 pm just didn’t seem right. But he’d done well so far, and he was leading the pack right now anyway. Our options were limited.

We found the downtown Istanbul (If you can call it that) branch and made our way upstairs. On the way, I shared a secret with Meg, a teacher from Oz.

“If there’s ever a time where I’ve wanted a joint, this was it.”

There was solemn agreement in that. But still, the five of us crammed into a tiny elevator and made our way upto the fifth floor. When the door opened, we fell out, sick of being treated like sardines for the entire day.

We nearly stumbled into a cause for concern. Standing outside of the fifth floor elevator was our dictator of a boss. I could describe him, but you’d only get as scared as we all are, everyday. I’d assume he was part of the mafia, but he wears his pants too high. I know the mafia has a dress code. But damnit if he ain’t a scary motherfucker.

He told us the party was actually up on the 7th floor. So we got a little more acquainted and piled back into the elevator.

Up on the 7th floor, there was no party to be seen. There were promises of free beer and ‘za, and there wasn’t a trace of either. In fact, the school was a goddamn ghost town. While our elder statesman tried to make time with the head secretary to get the scoops, I made for the can. I had to piss my last beer out.

In the can, I realized that if the school was falling apart at the seams that promises of free beer and ‘za would be a good way to lure all of us into one room at once. Were we due for a mass firing? Maybe. Either way, it could’ve been a good idea. I resounded to write that idea down and use it later, just as I was shaking up.

I came out to find that elder statesmen of ours being questioned as to why all of us didn’t bring our “Documents” with us, as if we needed work permits to the party. Everyone looked confused, so we got the fuck out.

On that crammed elevator ride downstairs, someone revealed that the party didn’t start ‘til 8. But everyone was concerned about this whole “Documents” business.

“Why do they want our documents? Don’t they know we’re all working here illegally?”

Which is totally true. Which is why, at that moment I felt it necessary to break into song.

“I’m an alien. I’m an illegal alien. I’m a Canadian in Is-Tan-Buuuul.”

I got some laughs out of that one. But I got utmost sincerity when I suggested that because we had at least 2 and a half hours ‘til partytime, we oughta find a bar soon enough.

On the streets, I recommended my services as tour guide. I’d had a few pints at this bar that served 2 lira beers and I reckoned I could still find the joint. Our crew was easily swayed, and I set out trying to find said joint.

Of course, I couldn’t. But instead, we stumbled across a pub that served 0.7 litres of beer for 5 lira, which is a fuck of a deal no matter how strong or weak the Canadian dollar is. The pub was upstairs, and all cobblestone. Real timeless shit. We found a seat near the back, looking onto a stage full of rock gear that was just begging to be used. As we were gawking, a real Turkish looking motherfucker walked by, and grumbled “Hello” at us.

The sound of his voice made me snuff out my ciggie. It sounded terrible and nearly desperate. I’m sure he’d just finished his soundcheck, but he still seemed conscious of any fan he had. That’s assuming he was even anyone.

We tried to order beers, but it seems that by walking upstairs, we’d found ourselves in a different bar. A bar that didn’t serve beers at the screaming deal that was offered downstairs. We made our way downstairs, but could barely contain our laughter as we did.

There was a life size poster of that terrible sounding dude that we must have missed. It proclaimed him as the “Father Of Turkish Rock” or something equally as gratuitous.

We had a laugh at what we’d snubbed and found the bar with the cheap pints.

The joke was on us however. The bar itself was decorated by Austin Powers, complete with thick purple couches and seat that lit up as you sat on ‘em. But damnit if that cheap Carlsberg didn’t go down easy. We had a big pint, and felt good.

We started talking TV. For some reason, everyone except Chad and I had never seen an episode of Arrested Development. My only conclusion from this entire night is that Arrested Development is the most difficult piece of art to describe, ever. We were beginning to grow frustrated with each other’s lack of poeticness and tried to move on.

I went for a piss downstairs first and found another section of the bar that I couldn’t have imagined to be any more perfect. Tiny, brick interior with lighting dim enough to hide all the blemishes on each of our souls.

I nearly pissed all over my pants in an effort to grab our crew before they wanted to make their way for the door.

“Our gig’s downstairs” I proclaimed.

Not eight seconds later and we were all seated comfortable in this brick bar. But it wasn’t meant to be. We were sitting pretty, waiting for someone to take our drink orders. When he appeared, he seemed hesitant. What I got out of his broken English-

“This bar is under police surveillance as many a dope deal have gone down here in the past.”

We looked at each other with boatloads of hope.

“And?” I said.

But his weary glance told me it wasn’t meant to be. We left with loads of time and the drunk in each of us approaching.

We found a pub soon enough. Everyone felt good, except Chad who appeared a little agitated. It wasn’t yet 7.00 and he was keen on the party. I don’t know why, but that’s beyond me. A spokesman for the bar lured us inside with promises of beers for 4 lira, despite promises being made elsewhere. We found a table near the big screen.

I went to pull my seat out and felt a little weight. Sure enough, there was a little cat sitting on the seat. Even with a little shaking, he (Or she) wouldn’t move. The barman got a kick out of that. He told us they called the cat “Katty”. I think it was all lost in translation.

We began to speak with ease for the next two pints, the five of us. We tried at least. There was Turkish footie on the big screen. Things seemed alright. We told jokes. Mine-

“A Rabbi and a Priest are on a boat. They’re fishing. They can’t catch shit. So the Priest says to the Rabbi-“Man, I wish we brought a young boy on board.” And the Rabbi says, “Why?” The Priest says, “Well, we could’ve fucked him.”

And the Rabbi says, “Fucked him out of what?”

Laughs ensued. Everyone felt good. And things rolled on. It could’ve been brilliant, just then and there. But then the conversation turned to hockey. I should’ve seen this coming. Chad was growing extremely more agitated as the night wore on, and here was his chance to lash out.

Me and Martin the Czech had really bonded over hockey talk and Chad piped in, asking which team I bared allegiance to. I told him if a gun was pointed to my head, I’d tell the terrorist I was a Leafs fan. Not because I actually am, but because I like drinking beer and watching Leafs games with Al Gregory. But it turns out this guy is a Habs fan. And when he declared this, our collective opinion of him fell by the wayside. He lauded me with insecurities about why The Leafs don’t deserve to slap a puck and why all Leafs fans don’t deserve to wake up in the morning.

I told him I was a fan of the frozen game first and foremost but that didn’t matter to him, ultimately. He asked me if I remembered that time when I was a child, and the Leafs hoisted the cup. I could see where this was headed. The Habs hoisted the cup in ’93, when I would’ve truly enjoyed it. But instead, he wanted to gloat. Meeting righteous Canadians abroad is harder than you think.

That night, I saw a nice guy get entirely too defensive and staple his back to the wall. I remembered why I didn’t choose sides in the first place.

I mean really Chad, as if the collective efforts of overpaid meatheads on any given Saturday night is really going to alter the course of my day anyway. You just did that yerself, I reckon.

Things were growing increasingly tense, and a better man would’ve reckoned it time to move. But in the absence of mind-altering substances, we had to rely on alcohol to get us through the night. So we ordered more pints, and those were the pints that did it. Those were them. And that’s how it rolls.

We paid our dues, and we were back at party headquarters soon enough. Little time existed from leaving the bar to the top floor. We heard music as we exited the elevator. Things smelt languid but willing. And that was alright.

One thing no teacher tells you about the evils of alcohol: Don’t look in a mirror if you get the chance. I did. And I knew I could give up all hope of making a decent first impression. I looked like hell, and I only vaguely remember walking into the party. I remember things swelling, but that’s about it.

The party was going down in an open room, big enough to hold 100 skinny people. In one corner were boxes and boxes of ‘za and a bunch of teachers I knew. In the other corner were cans and cans of beer and folks I didn’t know. I stood frozen, not knowing which way to turn. The word is a funny place like that.

I made for the women first, instead. They were standing there, astonished by our state of mind, our state being. I cradled three women at once, and they knew why. Only then, in those fluorescent lights, I knew I was fucked up.

The girls were curious where we’d been, seeing as how they’d arrived a little earlier than we had. But I didn’t have time for conversation. I made for the beer first, and spared those “Others” of conversation.

Everyone has something to say and those dudes by the beer probably said noble things, but I wasn’t interested in making time with other teachers. I stumbled back and forth between free beer and ‘za before it was time for a ciggie. I took the long way around and found a balcony where a few folks were indulging as I was. I stood on the windowsill and smoked effortlessly.

I thought I was throwing out good vibes. But no one seemed to notice, as they were all smoking inside. How had I missed this? This is about the time I realized the dots weren’t really connecting. I leaned inside to fetch someone’s attention. It seems as if the “Director” had given permission to smoke inside just half an hour ago. That might have been as long as I’d been there. But the Director was nowhere to be seen. Everybody was loosening up. So I hopped through the window. It was as grand an entrance as I’ve ever made. Someone commented on my agility, as I hadn’t dropped my beer or my ciggie. “That’s just youth is all” I told ‘em.

Feeling groovy, I tried to make time with a slightly elderly teacher in a pink get-up. She called herself Judy from England. If anyone’s seen that Curb Yer Enthusiasm in which Larry gives that doll a haircut, you’ll know why I jumped all over here.

“Juuudeeeeeee. Juuuuuddddeeeeeeyyyyyy.”

But she hadn’t seen it, and our conversation ended rather abruptly. I realized that’s the difference between me and Larry. I look for trouble by emulating him, and finds it naturally. I made for more beer and ‘za.

By this point most of my crew was out on the rooftop patio. There wasn’t much a view, but there was ample opportunity to drop things on the folks down below. Off in the distance there was a pixilated image on a massive television. It was maybe 10 blocks away, so we couldn’t make out the image exactly. It was a solemn, androgynous face. We started hazarding guesses as to who it was and soon enough, we had the entire patio taking bets. I heard Sinead O’Connor, or maybe Michael Stipe. But the bone structure was incredibly defined, so I suggested Henry Rollins. I remember everyone being satisfied and moving on.

I moved in and out of the patio and that room with the beer, throwing on the tunes as I saw fit. I put on the Detroit Cobras just to garner a few smiles, and I played a few Hip tunes, just to see everyone bob their heads to Poets.

But in all respects, this party was likely pretty boring. That’s why I kept moving from room to room, or trying to at least. I’d try to sneak into every photo I could. I mean, every fucking photo. There wasn’t much to do, I suppose. So in the absence of entertainment, most folks opt for the excess. Which is exactly what we did. We tried to out eat and out drink each other, as it was all free. Use it up, or so they say. And in that respect, we probably began to like each other more than we originally had. That usually happens when you act like children. But it worked, and no one vomited. Someone even snapped a few group photos.

Sometime before anyone began to ask “What time is it?” (The moment that makes or breaks a party) someone began to flicker the lights on and off. Apparently the cleaners were coming in. Most of us froze; we expected the party to end early, but our hosts had outdone themselves in terms of free beer. There were still 2 full cases. And they were cold.

In an effort to help the cleaners, we all grabbed as much beer as we could. Women were stuffing their bras with cans of lager. Fervently devout Muslims were taking what they could, foregoing the rules of religion to preserve alcohol for their mates. It was a beautiful sight.

But it got better. Under the table of beer, there were boxes upon boxes of ‘za. I assumed fool heartedly that they were empty boxes. Out of curiosity, I gave one of the bags a yank and found 5 boxes full of ‘za. They were still warm. The amount of raw beauty in this room was beginning to get a little overwhelming.

Whereas everyone had no trouble snagging a few cans of beer, there seemed to be some serious reservations about stealing ‘za. But I was just drunk enough to still have the courage of my conviction. Though I would’ve appreciated some wits about me too, but you can’t have it all, I suppose.

To me, there was no use for that bag. I took three boxes of ‘za and made a dash for the door, amidst unabashed laughter. Everyone followed suit. We left the party in a mess of stolen goods and laughter. Actually, that’s how most children leave parties.

On the street, we felt benevolent. We were handing out slices to whoever wanted one, and maybe two slices to the beggars. It only made sense. But even benevolence has it’s intentions. We were seeking a bit of karma in the hopes that it would pay off ten-fold. We were after a pub that also had giant water pipes. But most water pipes joints are merely cafes, probably for the same reason most coffeeshops in Amsterdam don’t serve beer.

The whole thing was proving to be harder than we thought. Shit, just sticking together was impossible. Our posse of a dozen was soon cut in half. I thought those were good odds, but truth be told I didn’t really give a shit. Walking down the busiest street in a city of 12 million, with boxes of ‘za in one hand a can of beer in the other, I had achieved transcendence. Faces weren’t blurred so much as they were slurred. Earlier in the night I’d tried to get a rise out of some of the secretaries at the party by asking them where I could find any number of hard drugs. Man did they ever get excited. But it didn’t matter now. It seemed as if I’d found my own high.

Everywhere I stepped, I heard Lou Reed’s “Waiting For The Man”. Groovy. We moved slowly through the crowds, sending representatives into each bar, one by one. Tiny alleys and side streets fell off the map and we tried to hold on for dear life. No one stopping laughing.

It became impossible to contain our desires. Which is probably why we freaked out when we found a Narghile café (Narghile, water pipe, hubbly bubbly, hookah, call it what you will…) that offered pipes for only 5 lira. We sat on couches and they took our orders. We all brought out cans of beer and raised them to the death of recovery. We swore to think nothing after that.

We’d have to, however. The timid dude from the café told us that no beer was allowed in the joint, despite advertisements to the contrary. I wasn’t so concerned though; I was more eager to get back out onto the streets. I still had an entire box of ‘za left.

Back on the street, we were armed with our cans of beer. Our desire hadn’t waned in the slightest. But eagerness and desire are emotions best left concealed. No sooner had we left the café and we were greeted by a row of cops. It was a goddamned standoff. I doubted their authenticity, as they were all wearing normal police hats. (Istanbul Factoid #4.5-Cops in Istanbul wear meshbacks.)

We stared each other down. It was just like all that Wild West shit you’ve seen. No one knew who to draw first. A goddamned standoff, but our weapons were exposed. What would you do?

But Martin knew, apparently. He doubted their authenticity to, and effectively blew our cover. He started snapping photos ‘til no end. We turned and bolted in the opposite direction in a hail of paparazzi-like flashes. I lost my cool and dropped the box of ‘za.

“Man down!” I screamed.

“Leave it! Leave the motherfucker!”

Around a corner, we felt safe. Or, safe enough. We had to seek refuge in a bar as soon as we could. I think we were beginning to become desperate. We found another café again soon enough and begged the owner to let us drink beer. Well, someone did.

Through awkward translation, he told us that he’d take us to a pub and he’d then bring some Narghile in for us. Seemed feasible. We arrived at his chosen pub soon enough. Fuck me, I thought.

It was that same damn pub we’d began this whole trip at, with the Austin Powers décor and all. But this time, fate was on our side. The dude gave the doorman a sly smile and led us downstairs into the bar we were refused entrance to earlier.

Beers came cheap and plentiful. The hookahs came in due time. My choice of grape was voted out soon enough. These were the strongest hookahs I’d ever indulged in. I should think this was aided by all other indulgences. This bar seemed to beg such behaviour out of all of us.

As the pints took their toll and the Narghile dulled our senses, things began to get a little messy. Martin abruptly ended a conversation we were having about Cesky Krumlov, the most picturesque town in the Czech Republic to go snap photos of everyone in the bar. This dude Kirk who had latched onto our party began hitting on Adam. My eyes began to squint; I thought t gave me superpowers of perception. But I didn’t realize he was gay. I guess his John Deere hat was meant to be ironic.

At one point after the second round of Narghile, our conversation died on the table. Just like that. There was nothing left to say. That was that. We made for the door. Sometimes the end of the bar doesn’t exactly have to be monumental. It just happened, and that was OK. The fact that it had happened gave me enough reason to stumble. Out on the street, traces of daylight were beginning to rear their ugly head. But there were still dudes selling gigantic bags of pop corn. My partner in debauchery grabbed a bag, and we must have spilled half the corn on the floor of the mini-bus we took home.

Somewhere on the bridge that crosses into Asia, I passed out on Martin’s shoulder. We awoke in Bostanci, a 10 minute walk from our neighbourhood. The driver refused to take us foreigners any further. We walked home, crossing over Bagdat Caddesi, that Hollywood Blvd. of a joint. Martin and I went over the pros and cons of Western influence on an Eastern town. I doubt we came to any kind of conclusion.

We made it home, the five of us. We live next to each other, so wishing each other a good night was just that.

“Have a good night” they said under the fading moonlight.

“So what’s been so far then?” I asked.

We chuckled a little when we realized we really had no idea what exactly all that was.

I awoke to an alarm again the next morning. Told the sun that she looks better than when I saw her last. Lit a ciggie and resounded to write all this down, and not do it all again that day.

It really felt like a high school dance, the whole thing.

Hookah brother up. Yeah.

I think it moved...

I’ve been told I have a low pain tolerance. But I also believe that I also have a rather high threshold for the unforeseen. Which is why my first trip to a Turkish Hamam had the potential to bring some spontaneity my way.

It took a lot of convincing for me to overcome the trepidation I felt towards the idea of a Hamam in general, let alone a visit. I’d tried everything authentic within my first few weeks in Istanbul; be it amongst fervent fans at the Besiktas Inonu, or at the bottom of a bottle of Raki draped on a chair in a smoke-filled bar. None of these brought any physical pain to me however. But knowing that I’d spent the majority of my early weeks here drinking Efes alone in my pad, I knew it was time to move.

You might want to blame my trepidation on my crew (Consisting of two well-travelled Aussies...."It's Melbuuurn you fool, not MelbORNE!" Right.) They’d warned me that while females find Hamams to be a therapeutic and wholly uplifting experience, most men must fight through pain and embarrassment to achieve physical transcendence the first time around. That didn’t seem so bad; transcendence usually comes at a cost. But often it’s at the result of a few lost brain cells. And I tried to remain totally lucid as I entered the Hamam.

Upon entering, you’re forced to swallow your pride and wear nothing more than a towel that’s better suited to clean your dirty dishes. We wished the females luck as they went their way. They could barely contain their laughter as if to say “It’s you who’s going to need it, chump.”

I immediately found comfort in a painting hung beside my dressing room. There the bodies of three naked females lazed casually around a dude who seemed to have the run of the joint. It wasn’t my first look inside the Hamam which disavowed this notion; it was the first thing I heard. I was led into the marble dome amidst howls of restrained horror.

You barely have time to feel humbled by the aesthetics of the room before you’re doused with buckets of warm water. “Shit!” I screamed. It was honest, but for my cursing I was banished into the “Hot room”. My companion and I didn’t feel relaxed; we were sedated. Our muscles lost all feeling and our minds lost all pretense. It didn’t seem to matter that we were surrounded by bigger men than us. They were used to the Hamam, and we were not. I had my place in the corner and that’s where I wanted to stay. Adam wasn’t able to feel the same fortune I did; he was called out into the lion’s den early on.

A damn shame too; he missed some genuine hospitality. A fully-clothed dude begged our drink orders out of us. While others stuck to local tea, I figured a beer might be the only thing to assuage my bemusement at this point. That can of Efes felt good, though I could barely hold onto the thing. I was sweating out the hangover I’d battled with for the past three weeks.

Halfway into the beer and it was going straight to my head. I was beginning to get a little paranoid. It seemed like all the men around me had begun to laugh uncontrollably. I began to suffer terrible flashbacks from high school. Back then, I was the butt of jokes because I lacked facial hair of any kind. It was kind of the same gig now; though they seemed to get a kick out of the fact that I was the only one without any back hair this time around. I figured my time in the hot room was all but finished.

I slipped into the marble dome and found Adam hunched over. His entire body was beat red. I froze. The exit didn’t seem so far away, but I didn’t trust my ability to make a run for it with those plastic slippers.

Sensing my hesitation, my masseuse grabbed me by the shoulder and beckoned me to my grave. As he did, I saw Adam heading back to the hot room. He didn’t smile; his body was lifeless.

The masseuse went to work on my calves, shooting me sly grins the entire time. As he cracked life into my elbows, he asked me where I was from. This is no time for small talk I thought. I won’t even talk to my barber, let alone a man who’s paid to bruise. As he turned me around and kneaded his fists into my back, I bit the pillow and felt bad for any injustices I’d committed in the past. Maybe that’s the feeling you’re supposed to attain. It certainly wasn’t the sensation of having your toes brought to the back of your neck.

He then pulled me over to a tiny fountain in the corner of the dome. It’s the place where skin cells go to die. He began to scrub furiously, peeling sins of the past from me. And just when I thought I could look around and feel good about myself, he went to work on my face. What he did to my eyes would be grounds for disqualification in any respectable wrestling affiliation.

So I felt blind now and thinking only my most primitive desires. This is probably why I yelped for the first time during this entire ordeal when he threw more hot water at me, endangering the can of beer beside me. I looked at him without any guile, trying to come across as a simple man. But I’m sure I looked sadistic; my contacts had since rolled into the back of my head.

Thinking about it now, I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d paid for originally. I can only hope that by taking responsibility for dousing my beer, he decided to give me more than I’d paid for. He soaped me down and mumbled impatiently about a “Tip”. I was ready to throw my month’s wages at him if he’d leave me with any skin whatsoever.

But like all transcendence, it ends before you’ve got a moment to take stock of it all. He “Finished me off” with a hearty slap to the chest. I doubt that any massage parlours in my native country would still be in business if they finished their customers off in the same fashion.

I don’t remember making my way back to the hot room, though I was told later I sat motionless for minutes on end. When I finally mustered up the strength to leave, I was surprised to discover that they don’t exactly allow you to leave without one last moment of shame. But I’ll let you experience that loss of pride yourself. I still can’t do it much justice anyway.

Endless cans of beer afterwards brought us back to reality. We didn’t say much, but I know whatever we said was totally benign in nature. The Hamam had humbled me, and that felt good. You could argue that any man who goes into a Hamam deserves as much.

Our female counterparts emerged over an hour later, looking like a gift from above. Apparently their experience wasn’t as painful. Though I still wonder if it was nearly as enlightening.

Describing the pain.

Though they're still too relaxed to give a shit.

I just logged onto ICQ. Where was everyone?

Aladdin was always my favourite Disney flick anyway.

Anytime you plan to go anywhere, yer usually bombarded with the thoughts and opinions of the common man. Be it what they thought when they were there, or what they’ve heard about said place. And that’s respectable. Usually people just want to help, or something equally as heartfelt. (Though I particularly enjoy it when folks give you a negative opinion, or an opinion meant to instill worry or fear in you. We’ve all heard it. “Oh, you better be careful in _______. My second cousin’s dry cleaner, he stubbed his toe on a plane which was set to layover in _______.” I mean, shit, what are you supposed to do? “Oh dang, you know what, yer right! Screw all my plans to up and alter my life for the next year. I won’t go to ______ after all. I like my toes entirely too much.” Imagine the look on their face if you actually bought into what they said. Assheads.)

Anyway. As you can imagine, I was fed a wealth of this before leaving for Istanbul. And again, respectable. One bit of genuine “Insight” I was offered actually came from Gord Sinclair’s wife, somewhere outside of the Astoria in London. “Oh, that’ll be awesome, Istanbul. I’d love to go, just to see the markets.”

So naturally, I got a little excited about the markets too. Partly because the idea of paying some grizzled old dude for better produce that you’d find at some chain grocery store is one that got me excited. But until you step into an actual Turkish market (Istanbul Faction #2-A market in Turkish is called a “Pazaar”. And now I know where the word “Bazaar” originated from. Connecting the dots; sublime.) you won’t realize that it’s the experience and the atmosphere that’s the real hook.

It rolls a little like this. In every neighbourhood (Of which there are hundreds in the city of 12 million) one day is dedicated to a local market. The streets are closed off and tents are set up at the break of dawn, and remain there well into dusk. They’re taken down rather promptly, but traipsing through a market area around midnight will make you feel like yer traipsing through a war-torn neighbourhood, assuming the war was fought with oranges and pistachios.

Each dude hawks his shit as if his shit didn’t stink in the slightest. You could walk through street upon narrow street of dudes selling nothing but bananas, but damn those dudes if they don’t INSIST that their bananas come from a better region of Columbia, or whatever. And it ain’t price that’s the issue; the prices are fairly consistent, which is to say they’re dirt cheap across the board.

But do they ever try. If one dude gives you a sample, the next will give you an entire banana. And if you dude shouts at the top of his lungs (Re: ALL of them shout) then the next dude stands on a table and shouts. Just like Alladin, folks.

And to say these markets are crowded is an understatement. I rarely bring my photo gear to the market, as I can rarely keep my balance otherwise. If I see something I dig, I swim to shore and hang onto the table for dear life. And that’s where the fun really begins.

Let me say this; the markets in Turkey are an entirely legit and trying experience. You tell them you want three tomatoes (Complete with three fingers) those motherfuckers pack away three kilos of tomatoes faster than you can scream “Infidel!” So then you gotta talk ‘em out of their original plan. And that’s just as tough, but if yer hangover ain’t too persistent, it’s a fun gig. Haggling is all part of the charm. One of my favourite markets features a dude with the sweetest hoodies West 49 wishes they could get their hands on. I finally gave in and tried to grab this brown piece of warmth. He wanted 30 lira. (A fair price, but I was feeling daring.) I started low, and offered 15. He scoffed at me, and was ready to move on. But I encouraged a little small talk, and after teaching him the word for brother’s son (Apparently his nephew lives in Toronto) I was able to get him down to 20 lira. But I wasn’t finished. “How about 15 lira for a nice yabanci?”

Oh man. Imagine the look on his face when he realized I knew just one word in Turkish; the word for “Strange foreigner.” He was sold. He was 15 lira richer of a likely stolen hoody and I was just a little warmer.

If any you make it out t’Turkey, bring yer coins and be prepared to eat for days. On the way home the other day, I stopped into a market after dark, knowing the crowds wouldn’t be as overbearing. I had plans of cooking an arrabiatta pasta. I snagged a dozen tomatoes, 2 potatoes, a head of lettuce and a few bananas for a little over 2 bucks Canadian. And I managed to snag a few photos too. Not much, but whatever. If I go back tomorrow, I could find some dude throwing socks at me from a table top, stolen Nike sneakers priced less than those socks, knives that would make Crocodile Dundee shiver and the kind of fruit that makes you want to go vegetarian all together.

But apparently my work’s nowhere near done. I just got word of a market 10 minutes down the road which sells the most righteous hash and dope on Thursdays. Apparently I’ve just got to look for the guy with the moustache.

Don’t laugh at me if I come back with a block of mushy coal and a dime bag of oregano. There’s just too many moustaches here.

No moustache, so no grass. But man was this guy proud of his pommes de terre.

Does that cabbage look fucking gigantic t'you? It should. I don't know what they feed their cabbages, but the one to the left is double the size of normal cabbage. That's how big the middle one is. I thought I saw enough goddamned cabbage in Poland.

The result.

Plus, it's another way for them t'make you a walking advertisement...

No photos this time dudes. But maybe a little insight into the differences between Canada etc. and Istanbul, right? Everyone always appreciates those, right?

I suppose I'm kind of offering those, this time around. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that what I'm ragging on probably rings true for anyone that isn't living in Belgium or Holland. (And not becos yer sober and they're probably not.)

What I mean is that, according to popular myths, Belgium and Holland (So who are the Dutch?) have banned plastic bags. You know, those crutches of ours which we don't even bat an eye at. If you're unlike me, you eat truckloads and bring home truckloads of groceries every week. And my guess is that you bring 'em home in the plastic bags they provide for you. There's no shame in that folks, they just make it so easy for you.

But temptation ain't much 'til you recognize it. It dawned on me awhile back that plastic bags are fucking useless. This might be becos I picked up a righteous hipster sidebag somewhere near 45th street in New York City, which I could easily hold my camera, notebook and as many cans of beer as I could afford on any given day.

And if that's not the reason, then I'm a happy dude. Go look under yer kitchen sink right now; you'll probably find dozens of plastic bags. (Please allow me t'preach for the next little bit. This might be the only cause I'll ever champion) And what's the need? I was never big on physics or logic or whatever, but I'd bet that those bags don't break down in a particularily environmentally-friendly fashion.

And I realize that being environmentally-friendly is the new getting thin and getting in shape. But the latter is an entirely selfish cause; but even I would be happy living in a world with McDonald's and Taco Bell's, as long as there was actually a planet to support them.

We only get the BBC and CNN over here; today's it's news of oil spills deep into the seas and temperatures flucuating like the moods of those aforementioned women during their time of the month. My point is, if you're anything like me, you respect what all those dudes who dedicate their lives to preserving this planet of ours, but yer seat on the couch is just too comfortable.

The next time you get hungry and bolt down to yer local IGA or Tekel or whatever, just refuse a plastic bag. They're so goddamned useless. And what's it going to take for people to clue into this? Either bring your own, or get something re-useable. I dig what the Dutch are doing (For obvious reasons too) cos they've just banned them. It's simple cause and effect. Make something illegal, people will adapt.

I reckon one of the reasons most of the western world doesn't "Go green" is becos it ain't beneficial, finally speaking. Getting behind Bullfrog (Wind-powered energy) will cost you a few extra bucks a month. Buying local produce puts an extra 20 cents on yer kilo of tomatoes, r whatever. But here's an oppurtunity for you to just play it cool (Environmentally speaking, of course) and keep this planet of ours cooler for just a day or two. We don't need these damn bags. Amd hey, if you feel like it, when that motherfucker immediately offers to wrap yer Snickers bar in a bag, give him a look like he's just insulted yer sister. Maybe he'll get the point too. That's the beauty of a grassroots movement; you can be as drastic as you want during the embryonic stages.

It's just like having a salad instead of fries, which seems to be the only way everyone I know rocks the diet craze these days. It ain't much, admittedly. I guess you just have to ask yerself if you want to be that type of dude who lives in excess and isn't looking out for yer common man or if you feel like smiling at another just because yer both breathing in and out. If that sounds idealistic, it is. But maybe that's what'll save us, right?

Don't go green cos it's cool t'go green. But don't go stupid becos it's easy t'do so.

But we all need food, right? And we're all accustomed to those plastic bags, right? We need one, and we can laugh at the other.

And what's better than eating yer favourite meal and smiling afterwards, right?

I suppose it doesn't matter if they're Marlboro light...

Bryan Rancier. To many of you, it's just a name. But to those in the know, you'll recall that in his prime, he promoted the greatest catch phrase (And equally, the greatest philosophy) of all time. "Follow the signs" he claimed. Just follow the signs. Show upto a party and there's no food t'be found anywhere? We should probably leave the joint. Yer girl starts talking long term? It's time t'leave that joint.

God gives you a hint; you'd be foolish not t'listen. I think that's what 'ol Rance was after, wherever he is now.

And Bryan Rancier, that man without compromise is probably the reason I'm typing away as furiously as I am. It's Friday night in East Istanbul, nearly quarter t'9. Today was my day off, and I spent it as I should...Drinking local brew and putting words down.

I had just opened the fourth or fifth of the day and opened a new pack of Marlies. (Allow me t'apologize to my dear mother. She confronted me in a completely diplomatic fashion today. Though she understood the perils of a son growing old and how a mother must relinquish responsibility, she still implored me to "Not start smoking like a Turk". I apologize Mom. But like I said, I'd have t'grow a moustache t'start smoking like a Turk. And if I take after my father and start up a moustache, then you know we'll really have reason t'worry)

Anyway, apparently mothers work in mysterious ways. I didn't think I was doing anything unfortunate tonight; in fact, I've been grooving away rather righteously. (Hmmmm....Can anybody else hear David Bowie in the background?) But admittedly, I've been drinking and smoking. Nothing new, nothing perverse.

But no sooner had I cracked that fourth or fifth can of Efes did I let out a gasp, and curl back into my seat. I don't believe in a God, but I believe in mothers. And apparently, my mother had chanelled all her motherly energy tonight into giving me a sign that I was doing something detrimental t'my health.

I didn't doctor this photo in any way. (Ok. I moved the TV flicker out of the way. Cos TV's a worse habit than smoke and drink combined) But it speaks volumes, I think.

So will I listen to my mother, and give it all up? Probably not. Mothers, you'll find, usually value freedom of expression in the highest regard.

I've just cracked another. Don't be sad. Send happiness through a mental telegram, and maybe it'll turn that frown on my table upside down.

Looking for a place t'happen, making stops along the way...

Eleven years ago today, Das Hips set out on their most extensive tour of their career. This tour produced their opus, Live Between Us. They were arguably in their prime during this tour, back in '96. Though they rock now with the rarest quality in rock and roll these days (That being honesty, of course) they seemed a little possessed back then. Magical...Though I'm wincing as I type this.

Which is the opposite for anyone my age, I suppose. Eleven years ago, all we had was honesty. We beared no shame in trying helplessly to try and cop a feel from our partner. And now, when we try t'do it all slyly, we think we're creating magic. But much like the band, we're still learning, still plying our craft.

I guess what I've just gotten down is a pathetic excuse t'post a few of my favourite photos from the four night stand at the Phoenix, October '06.

This is one clever dude. Unless you re-stock that kebap ring with more fatty fat though my man, yer doomed t'start taking English lessons with poor saps like me as you'll be forced t'find a real gig.

Naturally, this one was a serious shock, as it would be to anyone who arrives in Istanbul from Southern Ontario. Imagine my surpise when I saw this place from afar. And imagine their surprise when I told them there were Pizza Pizza's in Canada which beared the exact same logo. And imagine my surprise when my order was ready, and upon the box claimed Pizza Pizza to be "Proudly Turk". Something is askew here. If this here photo is used in some sort of lawsuit brought against the Turkish Pizza Pizza, I know who's side I'll be on. I apologize in advance t'you "Proud Turks". You know I dig supporting the underdog. But you've served me bologna on 'za after calling it "Pepperoni" one too many times.

At least they didn't try to pass this stuff off as Smoked Salmon.

I figured there must have been some opium around here somewhere. So did she.

And she only takes it out on me some of the time...

Aesthetically, Istanbul reminds me a little bit of a woman experiencing womanly issues during that time of the month. So many highs and so many lows, and obvious confusion about which was t'go.

The city seems t'be heavily influenced by all things Western in some regard (Europe's biggest mall...as many Starbucks as kebap shops) but in some regards, the city likes t'kick it old school (Mosques that tower above the malls and thin, winding roads).

But anyway, I came up with that analogy on the bus the other day and I think I just wanted t'try it out on you guys, and share my favourite photo from this gig so far.

A thing of eye drops filled with explosives.

Much in the same way that many, many countries claim to be the best "drinkers" in the world, lots of nations also to have the most passionate football fans in the world. (Istanbul faction #2-They call it football, and I've always secretly wanted t'call soccer "football". So from here on in, that's how it's gonna roll.)

So Turkey claims football as part past-time and part passion, all parts awesomeness. Istanbul alone has two teams in the Champions League of Europe right now, so I'd be inclined to agree. There's three huge teams in Istanbul. Needless t'say, checking out one of them was on my list of things t'do, very early on.

Third weekend in, we crossed the river in Europe and went out seeking live Istanbul football, Besiktas style. (Besiktas being a neighbourhood in Istanbul. You get the drift.) I asked around as much as I could, and though the Besiktas stadium only held around 30,000 (Righteous by any hockey arena standards) I was told that these fans made up for their relatively small size with passion that one might mildly label as "fervent".

Me and lady luck braved the hellacious Istanbul traffic (Re: Two hours t'get from one end of the city to the other) by getting into an un-marked mini-bus. He took us for a spin, but it was well worth the 1.50 lira.

Arrived at the stadium around 1 with hopes of scoring tickets for a 4 o'clock kick-off. The ticket window wasn't so much a window as an oppurtunity t'get robbed. Dodgy looking dudes lurked about, eyeing us up in a completely menacing manner. The actual ticket window was at waist-level. I had to kneel on the ground, and speak through a window that may have been 3 square centimetres.

The next thing I knew, a group of five dirty and equally dodging looking kids came tugging at our coattails, for whatever reason. Naturally, I made the mistake of saying "No", which brought a sick looking smile to their faces. "Yabanci! Yabanci!" they cried. Yabanci means foreigner, which means heeps of cash, which means defenseless against yer ancient thieving skills.

I brought entirely too much cash out of my pocket, shoved it through the wicket with one hand, used my other arm t'keep lady luck close t'me, while wiggling my knees back and forth t'keep these kids at bay. I grabbed the five tickets just as the dodgy looking dudes approached t'give these dodgy looking kids re-inforcement.

Now, with three hours t'kill before game-time and wait for our own yabanci re-inforcements t'arrive, there seemed like only one thing t'do. We greased around in te hopes of finding a watering hole to get this thing underway. But naturally, this was like searching for a black marker stain in a black burka.

After a few minutes on the seaside (And the much-needed purchase of a Besiktas scarf to blend in) I clued into how the locals got all jazzed for Besiktas. There was an open park with lots of benchs facing each other. And there, at the feet of each and evy local was a few cans of brew. It seemed appropriate, so I popped into a gas station and emerged with the drink. I didn't have a paper bag. Drag.

I've heard that when yer travelling, all you have t'do is "Look the part" in order t'avoid trouble. This we did. Soon enough the rest of our crew had arrived. It was 15 minutes to kick off and the entire neighbourhood was swelling. Black and white everywhere, man.

But first, security. The security at this stadium makes many modern airports look like a joke. First, a row of armed guards with smokes dangling from their mouths. Imagine my surprise. Next, the first pat down. Or, the first groping.

You couldn't bring in anything that could be turned into a projectile. Water bottles, lighters, coins. Yeah, f'ing coins. Between the four of us, I think we were robbed of 30 lira, which is more than enough for a healthy night of alcohol.

Next, the old-school rotating doors which only a paper-thin model might have found comfortable. Next, the metal detector worked by another armed guard. And finally the last grope. By this point I think I was offering t'buy someone dinner or at the very least, promising t'call them the next day.

They found a small thing of eye drops in my pocket (Found-they went into my pocket themselves) and questioned me. What the shit could I tell them? What could really be in there? I dragged down the rest of the group when this security had t'confer with all his colleagues. I suppose I shouldn't have minded, but the river was low and the air in the stadium was dry as hell. (Istanbul faction #3-This stadium is the only stadium in the world that can be viewed from two continents. Pele once called it "One of the most beautiful stadiums in Europe" Clearly he only brings bills around in his wallet)

Kick-off came soon enough and already these rabid fans were in full swing. Sections of the stadium would call on other sections for a chant-off. I suppose we hindered our section's chances of dominating.

These fans would have made a great jam band. There was no set-list, but they worked their way front chant to chant with all kinds of ease. They bounced and clawed their way through the first half, likely paying little attention to the game. I can't really blame 'em though. After a surprise upset of Liverpool in the Champions League only a few days earlier, Besiktas appeared drained unable to mount any sort of momentum.

We certainly did our part though; no one sat once for all 95 minutes. We did run though, when cops in full riot gear began to line the sidelines minutes before the final whistle.

I still can't figure out if these dudes came for the football or just for the oppurtunity t'get mental in public. Whatever. It was fun. A brief glimpse into the psyche of a young, unbalanced Turkish dude. Rock.

I'd like t'make it to all three stadiums this season. I'll just have t'bring a midget, who's loaded with thick Turkish bills, can hide cans of beer in his jacket and who isn't nearly as terrified of Turkish children as I am.
This is what I look like when I try to blend in. Most people who already lıve in Istanbul take don't take photos of themselves in front of water, but whatever.

This is what I look like when I try t'blend in again. I was tugging hard on that scarf as I was genuinely terrified.
I heard foreign females have lots of reasons t'be terrified in Turkey. Clearly this was not the case for lady luck over there.

Shit yer pants, dive in and swim.

I suppose I waited too long t'get this started. Which means there'll be an excess of posts for the next few days and then serious lulls from time t'time. But I guess that's the way it goes. I'm only learning here.

If Ash and D can set up something like this, I reckon I can do it too. They're cool dudes, but they can't split the atom or anything.

And already I've realized one pitfall about this: it looks t'be as if it's an online diary, but everyone you secretly loathe or love will have access to these feelings of yers. Dangerous. Maybe it'll make me a better person in the long run.

"What, you think you're more bombable than me?"

"Hey, there's a few people I know who wouldn't mind rubbing me out."

"More than a few."

10 points to anyone who gets that reference. No wait, 8 points; it's an easy one.

Fucking off t'Turey to pervade the world a little more by teaching an easy language (Coming from someone who only speaks one language) might have been a drawn-out process, but it sure came about rather rashly (Is that a word?) An incredible summer laden with 'za and bike rides turned into a trip to London to see Das Hips (Which from here on in I shall refer to simply as "the band". I think they've earned it. Robbie Robertson might disagree, however.) turned into a 5 am flight from London t'Istanbul.

We landed on the Asian side (Istanbul faction #1-It's the only city in the world the straddles two continents) and our pick up at the airport was nowhere t'be found. Wait; I forgot t'mention that upon landing in Istanbul, we had no Turkish liras. That's fair, right? We had very little currency at all actually; 5 days in London will do that t'you. So you'd assume that becos the first thing you've gotta do is buy a VISA, there'd be an ATM conveniently located, right? Seeing my partner in crime being taken throughout the airport looking for an ATM by an armed guard was one hell of an omen. But so it goes.

My employer, despite being one of the largest chains of English-language schools in the world turned out t'be an administrative mess and jerked me around for a good two weeks. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed having a two-week muck about period, but I'm broke now. I guess that's payback for selling yer soul to the man.

So, the first few weeks here were a bit shit. It wasn't the normal "Moving away from home" bs; I've done that, and drowned my nervousnessnessness in local brew. But oh, t'find a local pub or anything besides "Efes" beer was taxing. That's why it was a bit shit.

But like what's his face in Swingers said, "Why do all of the best bars in Hollywood have t'be hidden?" That's how it rolls here. A city of 12 million makes you work for the brew, and I'm alright with that. If I'm not, I'm learning.

So five weeks later, and it's still rolling. I'd like t'hope I've done some traditional Turkish things so far; riding shotgun in a mini-bus and join in with the driver while he curses at fellow maniac drivers out the window (You want global warming, baby? A city of 12 million and no real subway. Angels cough everytime they fly over Istanbul, man.)

I've checked out live Turkish football, stood for 90 minutes for fear of being labelled as unpassionate by rabid Turkish fans, and then the fear escalted when the riot squad lined the pitch 5 minutes before the final whistle.

I've talked shit about the PKK, the rebel group out Turkey way who kills Turkish soldiers.

These are just a few reminders that I'm hanging out in the Middle East. That and all the damn moustaches. But it's alright; it's how it rolls. Catch me a few beers in and I'll likely be smiling about all of it.

I doubt yer still reading, but if you are thank you. I'm gonna go ahead and go for now, but I'll leave with a photo of a woman which stopped me dead in my tracks. If I had said this a year ago in Poland, it would have been routine. But there's no leggy blondes here. There are however, women like this. That's growing out her head; no optical illusion there, folks.

Check back soon for more stories from the past five weeks, and after those are done, don't check back so often.