Van is the cat's pjamas

Van has a short list of things it is famous for, in order of appearance: the Van Lake Monster, breakfast, a castle, and white cats with one blue and one yellow eye. No one may believe me, but I could have sworn that in the dawn hours of our overnight bus ride from Mardin to Van, I saw the shifty shape of a sea monster slowly swimming alongside our bus. Van was the only place on our tour to have a Fulbright teacher, which meant we had a local guide who spoke impeccable English. This particular teacher is a tall blonde chap from Arkansas, so needless to say he attracts a lot of attention on the streets of Van. The restaurants, grocery stores, and dolmuş routes he frequents are filled with people who recognize him. He also had such insider knowledge as how to easily to avoid the 3TL entrance fee to the grounds of Van Castle. Van Castle usually has an admission fee, but not if you're a Van insider...

Van Lake at sunset as seen from the castle.

Unsatisfied with only Van, however, again we took the better part of an afternoon after our Van kahvaltı to take a 3 hour jaunt yet further east, to Doğubayazıt. This jaunt was worthwhile for so many reasons: one, Ishak Pasha Palace is beautiful, two, we were able to see Mt. Ararat, that famous mountain of Biblical lore, and three, we were able to marvel at the Turkish military presence near the border of Iran. Many of the mountainsides around the town have Ataturk quotes emblazoned upon them in towering letters, “Ne multu Türküm diyene” being the most common and famous (“What happiness to be a Turk”). We were told that this is to “inspire” the many troops there, but the quote I mentioned especially is often used as a conversational ultimatum by way of answering The Kurdish Question (to simplify: it sometimes is seen as calling out Kurds in their dogged determination to not embrace a Turkish identity). Generally the East is both distressing and beautiful.
The former dining room of Ishak Pasha Palace was one of my favorite parts, but the mosque was also stunning.


The next morning after a rest in Van we headed to the island in Van Lake which boasts an Armenian church and stunning views. Due to happenstance and warmer weather, a large group of Fulbright teachers had descended on Van (9 to be exact), and we had an impromptu picnic of sorts on the island. Usually the ferries don't leave the dock until they have what the captain deems to be a profitable number of people on board, and in this case the sudden presence of 9 Americans and a handful of Turks meant that we didn't have to wait long for departure.


The carvings on the church are remarkable. It was an excellent end to the weekend and a picturesque last glance at Van Lake before the assembled Fulbright crew all headed back to their respective Turkish hometowns.

Sacred Fish

From Kahta it was on to Şanlıurfa, or Urfa for short, famous for aptly named Urfa Kebabs and the “Balıklı Gol”, which literally means “Lake with fish”. Upon arrival at the bus station, my three companions and I were in the midst of deciding what to see first when an elderly couple began beckoning us. “Where are you going?” they asked, not quite waiting for an answer before shuffling us into the backseat of their tiny car. “We want to see the lake with fish!” we replied, earnestly. Before we knew it, we were whisked away in the car with the now-familiar stop-and-start jerkiness of a driver who is still not completely comfortable with the necessary act of changing gears manually. While exchanging pleasantries and being complimented on our Turkish, we learned that our chauffeur and his wife had two daughters who were about our age and that they wished we were staying longer so they could treat us to a home-cooked meal. Ah well, we had other fish to fry.

Urfa has more character than most of the Turkish cities I've seen in my time here. It has charm. It has a lake, with fish. Sacred fish! They are sacred because apparently they are made of the ashes of Abraham (the story behind it is unclear as per usual, and we deduced that it probably comes only from the Koran and is not featured in other holy books, because otherwise one of us might have remembered that one time Abraham was engulfed in flames and then his ashes turned into fish). The lake is more of a pond on the grounds of a mosque, but there is a whole park nearby which unites it with Urfa Castle and a small bazar. The whole area is reminiscent of what one probably imagines when one thinks of Turkey, based on Hollywood notions of “The Orient” and the like. It is beautiful nonetheless.

This trip, much like a Russian nesting doll, also involved an inner jaunt to Mardin, a mere three hour bus ride away from Urfa. Mardin is a tiny, tiny city on a hill, and it is famous for its brilliant panoramas, a former monastery, and I believe the type of stone used in building the majority of its buildings. Here in Mardin the Turkishness of the story continues, since again in our quest for our next bus we were offered a tour of the city from a native. This time the native in question was a cab driver, so he requested a nominal fee. Still, we felt looked after. Our driver was very gentlemanly, patiently smoking by the car while we took pictures and even stopping at an ATM so we could all replenish our cash reserves. He spoke a mixture of Turkish, Kurdish, and Arabic, as most people do in that part of Turkey, which sounded very interesting as he chatted on the phone.
After a whirlwind hour and a half in Mardin, we headed all the way back to Urfa in order to catch our next bus to Van.

Mevlana Land

Konya, the land of Mevlana (also known as Rumi), the land of a thousand mosques (ok so no one actually calls it that, but there are a lot of old famous mosques), Konya, the Citadel of Islam, the land of myth...and the land of legend. Konya is generally considered famous for two things: being the home of Mevlana, and a little something they like to call etli ekmek (literally, “bread with meat”). Anyone is welcome to continue to try and convince me that "etli ekmek" is not the same thing as lahmacun. In any case, I spent a little time in Konya a few weekends ago, along with a brief but comprehensive visit to the nearby Karaman (where two other Fulbright teachers hosted me).

Mevlana is known as "the Persian mystical poet" (pretty great epithet, right?). It was under his tutelage that the Sufi Order of Whirling Dervishes began, with their iconic ritual spinning dance. He is also incredibly well-known, as almost any Turk will point out to you, for having uttered the following regarding his order and by extension Konya:

Come, come, whoever you are,
Wanderer, idolater, worshiper of fire,
Come even though you have broken your vows a thousand times,
Come, and come yet again.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.

So, I did has Mevlana commanded and visited the museum and his tomb (under the green dome you can see in the photo below) in Konya. (Aside: dervishes still perform in Konya, and the dance ceremony is called a sama, but they only do it there once a year, in December. There are a few dervish lodges elsewhere in Turkey where they perform more regularly. All dervish lodges are state funded and controlled.) As I was wandering around the museum, taking in various signs that made vaguely informative insinuations about what I was seeing, a Turkish man approached me and asked “English?” My subsequent nod led to two hours of him showing me the highlights of the museum and of Konya, a discussion of President Obama's potential reelection, and, of course, a new Facebook friendship. To top it all off he actually thanked me for the privilege of my English-speaking company. All I had to do to find a friend in Konya was to stand around and be American.

Berlin ftw*

FUN FACT: That tower is 30,666 Rittersports high.

Recently I had the privilege of visiting Berlin for a Fulbright conference. How can I even begin to describe Berlin to you, dear readers? Let's try a visualization exercise.

First, imagine a sprawling city where none of the buildings are too high and every so often you encounter a narrow river. Then imagine some medieval architecture and some heavily graffiti-ed Soviet-style concrete blocks. Then, add the look, taste and texture of a beautifully frothy beer. Add a lot of hearty meat dishes but also some crazy-good pastries, some ice cream and edible imports like noodles and döner. Now top that all off with a black bear on its hind legs. That's kind of like Berlin in a nutshell.

As I was taking my leave of that fine city, I figured out what so captivated me about Berlin. First, I find the German language adorable (that's right, adorable. As in cute. Seriously listen to someone say “flughafen” and try not to think “awww”). Second, I like Germans. They're known for being shy and punctual and they love a good beer (and I can relate to at least the first and third parts). Third, Berlin has little pieces of other cultures I enjoy (there is a not insignificant amount of Turks there) added to its own vibrancy. Actually, maybe it could just be that I have a thing for geographical places that are notorious for their past or present east-west divisions. Who knows.

Here is a picture of two German dudes enjoying a sunny Sunday in front of a wall covered with graffiti. I don't think there's a beer in this picture (you can drink it wherever you want! and there's sauce on the döner! Is Berlin just bizzaro-Turkey?!) but otherwise it would really encapsulate a lot of the city.

This was a really cool (and famous?) Sunday flea market in the north-ish part of the city. I had my first currywurst at that flea market (basically a brat in special curry-y sauce, pretty good but I think I prefer regular bratwurst).

At the flea market, there was a throng of Japanese people selling rice balls for earthquake relief, calling themselves "Operation Onigiri". I was delighted to give them some of my euros.

Finally, I had a ton of chocolate in my last few days in Berlin. I met up with a U of C alum and we went to the Rittersport "museum" and a famous Berlin chocolatier, Fassbender & Rausch. We did a comparison study of their hot chocolates (the latter shop's offering pictured above), and while Fassbender and Rausch certainly wins for fanciness and did not lack for taste, the Rittersport hot chocolate was not only spot-on, but also had the cutest lil' Rittersport gracing the saucer. It won by a small margin overall. Also you can make your own Rittersport bar at the shop, which is fun and delicious.

Just your neighborhood palace...

In conclusion, Berlin is awesome. Sure, it was a bit of a downer that Knut died basically the day I got there, but as one of our Fulbright panelists, Ingeborg Junge-Reyer (Berlin's "mayor and senator" for urban development and one of my new favorite people) said in response to a question from the audience which I would basically paraphrase as "KNUT IS DEAD WHY WHY WHY?", "We must remember, he was [only] a bear." I look forward to the day when I can go back to Germany and look more Germans in the eye and say "Prost!" over another brew. Happily I will definitely be back in that fine country in May...for Eurovision!


*I'll save you the trouble: I know I'm a bit of a nerd. (And ftw = for the win, so non-nerds don't have to google it.)

Şirince Fruit Flavor Palooza

Last week I went on a day trip to Şirince, a little tourist town near Selcuk and Izmir. Şirince is famous for şarap, or wine, made of almost every kind of fruit you might want. My two traveling companions and I tasted a dizzying array of fruit wines, listed more or less in order of agreed-upon deliciousness, from most to least:

black mulberry (karadut),
melon (kavun),
cherry (vişne),
quince (ayva),
strawberry (çilek),
peach (şeftali),
raspberry (ahududu),
blackberry (böğürtlen),
apple (elma),
pomegranate (nar),
blueberry (yabanmersini).

We really wanted to like blueberry, but it was just sour and strange. A word to the wise- trying the same wines in different places is a good idea, because we hated the first strawberry wine we tasted but the second one was amazing. We tried a little regular wine of the grape (uzum) variety as well but after the myriad sweet fruit flavors our palates could not really taste "real" wine properly. Fruit wine, at 12TL, or 6Euro, or 8-ish dollars a bottle, is the most economical non-Efes (most "popular" Turkish beer) way to get your drank on in Turkey. (Aside: Turkish beer is pretty terrible. Ask any Fulbrighter.)

Being three Fulbrighters, my traveling companions and I have all been in Turkey almost six months to date. This clearly gives us the know-how to gauge the authenticity of Turkish towns, and we decided that Şirince is one of the most genuinely Turkish-feeling towns we visited. Later we learned it is currently populated mostly by immigrants and that a lot of the village's quaint buildings are leftovers from Greek times. Sounds pretty Turkish to me, actually.


Thanks to my Fulbright companion for these pictures, because goodness knows that as per my normal habits I did not even remember to bring my camera.

Makin' Mantı

This weekend I learned how to make one of my favorite Turkish foods, mantı. (OK, technically it's my favorite "Central Asian" food, but I'll just adopt the Turkish norm of referring to its Turkish origins.) The name is often translated as "Turkish ravioli" in English menus, a name which gives a sense of the dish but does not do justice to the particular deliciousness of these tiny meat-filled dumplings.

So that you may learn, and I may not forget, here is the nub and gist of mantı preparation. First off, the dough consists of flour, eggs, and salt water. How much? Oh, enough. Of course these things are only "measured" by the watchful eye of the senior Turkish housewife present, in this case, my coworker's mother. The dough is kneaded and kneaded and kneaded by rolling your fists on it, kind of like slow-motion punches. Then it is separated into smaller chunks, in our case, four. Then more kneading and more flour to keep it from sticking. There is a special low, round, wooden table and long, thin rolling pin used for mantı, gözleme, börek; basically anything that involves rolling out dough. I would give the Turkish names for the table and rolling pin here but a) I forgot them and b) they differ by region.

The smaller hunks of dough are rolled first in the normal fashion of stroking the pin across the dough's surface. After an appropriately thin dough is achieved the whole thing is rolled around the thin rolling pin and pulled outwards by the motion of your hands from the middle to the outside. (That sounds a lot more complicated then it is, and if I had a picture of myself engaged in this pursuit, it would be much clearer.) In any case you stretch and stretch the dough until it is almost as big as the table, and then you do it a few more times, just in case. Then the dough is cut into the tiny squares you see below and filled with a finely chopped mixture of ground beef, onion, parsley, salt, and "spices", which I believe referred to red pepper in this case. You poke a little morsel of the meat mixture onto each square, and then fold the corners together and then press them into the middle to form a little pocket*. This part takes the longest- filling and folding each of the tiny squares took about 3 hours, with four tireless women working together.



After this, the many many finished products are at long last boiled for about 10 minutes, their size making it extremely easy to cook them quickly. Traditionally there are several sauces for them, and sometimes they are also used as dumplings in soup. In our case we put some lightly spiced tomato paste (salça) in butter and added a small amount of this to salted and slightly watered-down yogurt (ayran) by way of sauce. I have also eaten them with nothing but an entirely ill-advised amount of butter and walnuts on top.

(Aside: this picture was taken from Turkish wikipedia, credited to OsManduRdu, but it is almost identical to the scene in my Turkish coworker's kitchen. The spice in the jar is sumac, to be spooned on later if desired.)

A total of about 5 hours of work makes them taste at LEAST five times as good as in any restaurant. When I first began eating I inhaled those little yogurt-covered meat-packets as though I hadn't eaten for days (and by virtue of my being in Turkey we all know that is utterly impossible), and when I finished my last bite it slowly dawned on me that in polite circles the rapidity of my consumption might have been considered a bit rude. But as I looked up from my plate for the first time since the first taste hit my eager taste buds, I saw that I was behind in finishing by two other girls, and they immediately begged me to let them fill my plate anew, a request which I quickly and grateful obliged.

Afiyet olsun!



*In other words, you reunite the meat, which I'll call Numa, with the mantı's core. Sorry, that joke is for the benefit of only one reader of this blog.

Catholicism, Communism, and [hot] Chocolate[...ism?]

My train trip from Prague to the motherland was a near-fiasco, but all's well that ends well. Just note that if you take the train from Prague and have to change trains in Katowice, most likely no one will speak English, and you ought consult the departure schedules yourself (and know the Polish word for departures) instead of waiting for the quaint flap-board to display your train. It's easy to get a ticket from Katowice to Krakow if you make a mistake, however, so I'd recommend the trip if you have a spare day.

The old town of Krakow has a wonderfully medieval feel. I thought I had reached hot chocolate nirvana in Prague, but that was before I went to Wedel and got a cup of their traditional drinking chocolate—heavenly. Big shout-out to Nowa Prowincja for their amazing drinks and beautiful interior. I went there thrice, I couldn't help myself.

Wawel Castle was as beautiful inside as its smok statue was brutals, but I was a bit disappointed that the “dragon's lair” is closed in the winter months. Entry to Wawel Castle Cathedral entitles you to a trip up and down the bell tower, where each of the huge bells has a name and a history. The Cathedral also has some beautiful tapestries inside, as do the castle staterooms. A word to the wise: admission prices and ticket-buying is a bit confusing, but all of it is cool, so you really can't go wrong. I bought tickets first and then tried to figure out what parts of the castle they were for, rather than trying to find tickets for parts I wanted to see. This worked nicely, but you need to be easy-going about it.
These guys were pretty easy-going, just kind of hanging out and crooning to the accordion on the entry ramp to Wawel Castle.

Krakow had more museums than I knew what to do with (which sounds funny after coming from Prague...). I would highly, highly recommend the Cloth Hall museum in the main square: it's only four rooms, but it has hands-down some of the most intricate and masterful paintings (some on 30-ft canvases) that I have ever seen. Also if you don't think you'll miss the 7 zloty (about 3 dollars), the Archeology Museum feels like a well-done 7th grade social studies project, as it makes ample use of dioramas. The big draw is the only Slavic cult god statue ever found.
I also rekindled a little Catholic feeling by going to Mass at St. Mary's Cathedral (pictured in the background above) and visiting the former apartments of Pope John Paul II (before he was a pope, when he was a professor and cardinal, from 1951-1968 or thereabouts).

Of course, everyone knows that a trip to Eastern Europe is just incomplete without some kind of communist history thrown in. Well, my hunt for remnants of communism in Poland took me nearby the Krakow School of Economics to see Skeletor, a Soviet building that was started but never completed and now stands as a skeleton due to the complexity of zoning laws that prohibit its destruction. But I repeat: it shadows the Krakow School of Economics. Best juxtaposition ever?
And speaking of amazing juxtapositions...
Being unsatisfied with this mere taste of the communist legacy, I continued along the tram line to Nowa Huta, or New Steelworks. This is a completely Stalin-planned community on the outskirts of Krakow (now a part of Krakow), apparently built to countermand how beautiful, medieval, and artistic Krakow was through its industrial, worker-championing layout and amenities. It was not nearly as depressing as I expected, but it sure was a lot of nearly identical dilapidated concrete buildings. I would have tried to adhere more to the route on the map, but I was a bit too cold to stay there too long.

On the way back to Prague I took a bus because the timing was more convenient. Please be aware: when you take a bus across the Czech/Polish border, border patrol will board the bus, take your passport, and then GET OFF THE BUS WITH YOUR PASSPORT. This is absolutely terrifying to someone who does not speak Polish and who consequently thought her passport was gone forever as the bus pulled away, but eventually at the dinner stop (20 agonizing minutes later) the border guards pulled up and returned all of the documents. In any case, one of the movies shown on the bus was called Holy Business (I think). It was about two men who supposedly inherit a car owned by Pope John Paul II. It was adorable, it mercifully had English subtitles, and it was a very fitting end to my time in Krakow.

Czech it out!

Prague is an utterly amazing city architecturally and artistically, but one thing struck me above all else: the sheer willingness of the Czech people to speak English. Even in situations that would in no way require a Czech person to go out of their way to speak English to me (such as reaching above me to get a bag, or just passing me in the grocery store), if they overheard English on my lips they would immediately exchange some pleasantry in English with me. I am sure that this is a result of the insane numbers of tourists that flock to Prague regularly. I never thought I would see the plus-side of relentless tourism, but it turns out that the incredibly welcoming Czech people have extended their hospitality to include language (there is also a goodly amount of French, German, and even Russian, to name just a FEW of the languages that clutter up signage in Prague).
"Are you flirting in English? Oh, do go on..."

Of course, I hit the tourist highlights: Charles Bridge, the Astronomical Clock, Prague Castle, Wenceslas Square, the Municipal Building, eating goulash and honey cake, and sampling some delicious beers. It took a lot to distract me from the ubiquitous hot winter drinks, especially hot wine and rich hot chocolate, but Czech beer is famous, after all. I saw a hilarious amount of malformed babies, either Jesus on his mother's knee or cherubs floating in the periphery of the Christian masterworks that litter Prague's museums. I unexpectedly came across some decaying saints in glass coffins in one of the churches I went to, because Christians are rather macabre.
But sometimes you also unexpectedly find peacocks in public gardens, which is cool.

Like many tourists in Prague, I simply could not spend enough time looking at Alfons Mucha collections. There are two museums dedicated to him (that I knew of), and the one that is simply called “The Mucha Museum” is well laid-out and informative, albeit a bit expensive for its small size. I would recommend if, like me, you are a devotee of his art. Another small, expensive, but worthwhile museum is the Museum of Communism, which somewhat passive-aggressively suggests that tourists are intellectual beings that deserve to know more about the Czech people than what can be seen through the bottom of a beer glass (I paraphrase, but the sentiment was the same). Despite this somewhat off-putting introduction, the museum is like reading a short book about how and why communism affected the Czech nation as it did, and it makes the vibrancy of Prague shine all the more, even from behind tacky tourist shops.
I also visited the Museum of the City of Prague (part of the interior photographed above), which is just adorable. Its “claim to fame” is a 3D model of the city made in the mid-nineteenth century, and every half-hour you can see a 3D film where you “fly” through the Prague of yore...a digitization of the model. There is also a beautiful painting of the city in the stairwell dome and far too much minutiae of how districts were divided for tax and municipal purposes throughout history. The temporary exhibit was about Prague denizens traveling to suburban “garden restaurants” for happy summer picnics and the like, which ended in a FUNCTIONING REPLICA of one such restaurants. They recreated a menu and had the foodstuffs on hand, in the museum, served by people in period waitstaff costume. Brilliant.

What is that in the lower-left corner? A dog? A lion? A lion-dog? A cool building near the Astronomical Clock nonetheless.


The only downside to Prague is that so many of the streets are lined with tourist shops, but in winter there are significantly less tourists, so I only really reaped the benefits. A light blanket of snow suits the Gothic spires anyways; I couldn't imagine Prague without a few big snowflakes falling and a cup of hot wine in a cafe.

Brought to you by Fetih Bey

Remember how Atatürk wore whole yachts as neck ornaments?
Fethiye does. Fethiye (formerly Telmessos, renamed after Fetih Bey, a pilot in the Ottoman airfoce, in 1934) is almost a typical Turkish-Mediterranean resort town with one twist: it is a natural harbor, so it feels more like a lake than a seaside getaway. Of course like any resort town it has its charms...the boardwalk stretches on for meters and meters and features cafe after cafe directly on the water's edge and also numerous illuminated pictures of Ataturk (see above). I had lunch at Cafe Mavi in the old town, where the owner asked me a few questions about myself and then gave me a free delicious piece of homemade carrot cake. Not everyone gets such generous handouts, as I was to learn...
(That box says "Help the Pelicans...For Fish, For Money".)

The best part of the town is the old amphitheater in the hillsides.
The director of Fethiye's adorable museum lived on the slope overlooking the harbor and decided one day that some work needed to be done on his house. In the course of some construction-related digging they happened upon the ruins, and then with the help of a sizable group of local volunteers they uncovered the well-preserved 6,000-seat Roman theater pictured above. The patrons of said theater would have had a miraculous view of the harbor. This is all simply in situ, as are a few scattered Lycian tombs (such as the one fenced in next to the post office, but also there are some in the hillside), and the aforementioned adorable museum has a lovely relic-filled garden to peruse. Fethiye is certainly more interesting than a typical resort town; it's not a must-see, but it's definitely not a bad place to spend a warm day.

Amasya: Fact or Fiction?

I think the Black Sea is my favorite region of Turkey so far. I have not been to the East yet, because I generally fear the snow and cold, but something about the hilly, misty, verdant Black Sea coast really appeals to me.

As that intro may have suggested, Amasya is more or less in the Black Sea region of Turkey. It is one of those places that has been inhabited for years and years, so its local ethnography museum has some great artifacts (and TERRIFYING mostly-exposed mummies of sultans in glass cases, shudder). It also has not one but TWO museums filled with historically informative wax mannequins in two Ottoman-style buildings along the river which are only mildly frightening but overall pretty awesome.

This is what Amasya looks like at night.

The below photo was taken from the bus stop outside of the Education Sciences faculty of Amasya University. Can you spot the reason that I took a picture of the side of a hill?

That's right, our favorite statesman's face is hewn into the living rock...of Amasya.

The below photo is of a statue on the side of the Yeşilırmak river. The river basically anchors the downtown area and makes Amasya seem larger than it really is. As an aside, one of the best breakfasts in recent memory was eaten along the banks of the Yeşilırmak river at a restaurant called Strabon, which I think deserves some kind of plaque for feeding as many Fulbright guests as it has, because if a Fulbrighter visits the Amasya ETA duo, they will probably eat at this restaurant. The gözleme (like a Turkish crepe, usually with cheese inside), which is available only on Sundays, is worth the trip.

So, the legend the statue is based on has uncertain origins, and obviously the Turks claimed it as their own. The nearby mountain Ferhat is named for the hero of the legend, who for love of the princess Şirin tried to win her father's favour and permission to marry her by tunneling through the mountain to bring spring water to his palace. While he was doing this, someone informed him that the princess had died and so he threw himself onto the rocks post-haste. It turns out the princess was not dead, but after hearing the news of her lover's death she also died. Turkish authorities put a fence and a sign by a small channel in the side of the mountain which basically reads "This is definitely the channel from that legend, although historians really don't know if the story is true or where it actually happened." That's how Turkey rolls.

Türk Kahvesi

You know what they say...you can take the barista out of the coffee shop, but you can't actually take the coffee out of the barista (for both health-related and legal reasons).

Due to my love for (some might call it an addiction to) coffee, I learned how to make it a la Turka. Here's what you'll need.

The metal pot is called a cezve. There are different sizes to make different amounts, and there are older and newer shapes and styles. Essentially it is a small stove-top pot with a handle and a spout. You also need incredibly finely ground coffee (I got mine fresh from Tuğba, the local kuruyemiş, or dried foods store), water, and sugar. Turkish fincanlar (coffee cups) and a spoon are part of the necessary equipment. The two pictured were a gift from a coworker's mother, who, upon learning that I was only two fincan away from learning this important skill, immediately went to a cupboard and chose those two to gift me. They are thus even more beautiful than they look.

First, measure the amount of water by filling your fincan with cold water and pouring it into the cezve. This means you will get exactly the right amount of coffee when you finish. It's important to use cold water because the longer it takes to boil, the better the coffee will taste. Then, use about one and a half heaping teaspoonfuls of coffee per fincan and just heap the grounds on top of the water (don't stir). Next sugar- there are four ways to order coffee in a cafe- az şekerli (a little sugar), çok şekerli (a lot of sugar), orta (middle), or sade (plain). These definitions of course functionally mean nothing, as every cafe you go to gives you a slightly different interpretation, so I used 3 sugar cubes for two fincan and called it "orta".

Next, the fun part. Put the cezve on a burner with the heat turned up moderately high but not so high as you burn yourself reaching for the handle. Wait until the coffee boils and foams up, taking the cezve off the heat just when the foam is about to overflow. Skim the foam off the top with your spoon and put equal amounts into each fincan. Put the cezve back on the flame until it foams again, take it off the heat and turn off the stove. Carefully pour the remaining coffee slowly into each fincan, trying not to disturb the foam so it rises to the top. And that's all!

The Ottoman way to enjoy this, I was told, is to have water with it, drinking a little first to cleanse and prepare your palette, and a little afterward, probably to clean the bit of grounds out of your teeth from your last sip.

ADDENDUM: Another method dictates that you put the sugar in first, stirring it into the water as it begins to heat up until the sugar dissolves, and then adding the coffee and not stirring anymore so the foam forms. I find this method produces slightly better foam, but if you're lazy or forget, the above-described no-stir method works perfectly fine.

Tiptoeing in the Travertines

This weekend my ev arkadaş and I went to a coworker's family's house in a nearby town, Denizli. It is famous for its textiles and perhaps moreso, for Pamukkale. Pamukkale ("cotton castle/fortress") is a geological formation with natural hot springs and travertines, or terraces of carbonate minerals left by the flowing water. Our English pamphlet (yours for the "low" entry price of 20TL) gave us, helpfully, the chemical formula for the reaction that forms the carbonate travertines. ("The reaction is Ca(HCO3) + O2 --> CaCO+CO2+CO+H20, chemically".) In any case, Pamukkale is also the cite of a sizable ruined Roman city, and the ruins are well-reconstructed and mostly in situ.

There are many tombs like the below surrounding the ruined city, which I believe I read somewhere is due to the supposed healing properties of the mineral hot springs being a last-ditch effort for the near-dead, and thus when they were not cured by the waters they died and were buried outside. So it goes.

These are travertines that you are NOT allowed to walk in. The water is actually pumped in- the hot springs do not produce water continuously, but the travertines look most beautiful with water in them. Solution? Pipes.

However there are other ones that you are allowed to wade in to your heart's content, and most people do. There is also a bath or pool area, but it costs extra.

This is a picture of two of the four pomegranate trees in my host's backyard. Her family gave me many pomegranates during the course of my three day stay and a small sack of them before I went home. I was a happy house guest.

My coworker's family was, predictably, impressed with my roommate's and my Turkish skills (for knowing no Turkish, she has improved greatly, but also it only takes a "Merhaba" to get complimented on your Turkish skills in most situations). They also predictably commented on how I look foreign but she looks Turkish (I have had one family tell me, "I can tell you are foreign from your face. Like Hilary Clinton," which I hope was likening me in foreignness to Hilary Clinton and not in facial resemblance). I bought a jezve, or Turkish coffee pot, and practiced making Türk kahvesi in their mutfak (kitchen). My coworker's mother was quite happy with me after this (even though my coffee was not the best), and would ask me to pour tea and assess my ability (or lack thereof) to carry a tray of beverages without spilling. Clearly she was grooming me to be an excellent Turkish housewife.