Saying Goodbye

June 17, 2012 by · 39 Comments

You might say my mind has been made up since last August. For the first time in my six flights from America to Spain, I cried boarding.

Normally, I’m equipped with a travel magazine, a bottle of water and a nervous stomach at going back to a place that I love so much, but this trip was different. Spain no longer held the same excitement and romanticism for me as it did during my first few years there, and I wasn’t looking forward to going back.

It was clear what the problem was: My work situation.

I thought about how many mornings I’d trekked to the foreigner’s office or to the unemployment office or to job interviews during the hot summer months. I remember I told my friend Izzy that I was about to throw in the towel and just go back to America, defeated. Then Refu called back, asking me for an interview. Seven hours, a 13-paged written interview and two classroom try outs later, I was officially given the job at SM’s.

And two school years later, I’m bowing out. Official reason? I don’t want to be a teacher forever. I want to blog. To not have to turn down weekend trips because I have too much to do. To live my sevillano life, lest lose it forever.

Next year will be a transition year: master’s in Public Relations at the Universidad Autònoma de Barcelona, 26-hours-a-week teaching gig at a language academy (working in the pm again…weird!) and toying around with this blog. I’ll still be teaching, though I’ve made up my mind that it’s not the career I want forever. At least, not in Spain.

The thing is, my situation – long hours, poor pay, no chance at moving up  – will be the same forever unless I do a master’s in teaching. My school threatened to have to complete a five-year teaching program (as a master’s for primary school teacher does not exist) or to lose our jobs. I did them one better and gave official notice about a month ago, citing that I wasn’t willing to pay for five or more years of schooling for something I can’t see myself doing forever.

Of course, there’s more to the story that isn’t fair to share. No one in my school has been overly abusing of anything else but my time and my self-worth. Sure, I’ll miss my co-workers and the staff at the bar across the street, who never need to ask me how I want my breakfast. I’ll miss the parents, full of compliments and funny stories about the 45 kids I’ve grown to adore after being their tutora for 10 months.

That’s the thing – I’ll miss my kids with locura. Absolute, unending locura.

If I make the count, I’ve taught at least 700 kids in some form – between my five years and three summers teaching. I’ve had kids that make my nerves snap, kids who are mini-mes (and tell me they want to teach English like me), kids who understand where I’m coming from, kids who give me hell. As a director of studies, I’ve put up with fist fights, calls home sobbing to parents, crazy moms who yell at me over the phone…vamos, all in a day’s work. Between the test-giving, the long nights preparing theatres and parties, the endless hours of programming and grading, I’ve found that this is and isn’t where I want to be.

I think about just how far me and the babies have come since September. Having been their English teacher in Five years’ preschool, I already had the confianza of knowing them – and having them know me. They were excited, and I had unhappy preschool parents asking to know why I’d been changed to primary. But I was elated. Finally, my own classroom, a manageable number of kids and a feeling of actually being on the team.

It wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies – there were kids who I needed to win over, motivation to keep up and a lot of work to be done. Since my coworker and I have 45 kids, that’s twice the work when it comes to grading and report cards, and an extra class of parents to see. But I enjoyed watching their Aha! moments, rewarding them for using their English blocks of speech (even if just a few words here and there) and how they smiled when we’d play a game (roll the ball in the bucket as a math game? I deserve some kind of award) or take a field trip or make a breakthrough. They, as well as I, have matured and come into their own in these ten months, and I’ll take a piece of them with me when I have to say goodbye next Friday.

The plan, before I gave notice, was for me to continue onto second grade with my minions. Multiplication tables, reflexive verbs and the solar system were all on the docket, and I had many anxious six-year-olds asking, ¿Serás nuestra seño en segundo? Since my move up to first grade was so unexpected, I didn’t have to lie and say I didn’t know who their teacher would be next year, because it’s all up to the boss anyway. But as I take down their adorable drawings, send home their corrected and completed workbooks, I find myself giving more hugs and kisses, pinching more cheeks and wishing that things could somehow be different.

Teaching and I have a love-hate relationship: I hate the work, but love the reward. I find pleasure in creating a challenging lesson and giving it, like standing up and acting goofy in front of a crowd and crave the daily satisfaction that a young learner’s progress garners. It’s all of the extras at my school that was slowing me down, and it all came to a head with the theatre last week. I cried in front of the kids for the first time all year.

My decision to leave is the right one for me.

Maybe some of my kids who finally started getting results will get blocked with a new teacher. Or maybe they’ll like him more. But I’m confident that the right foundation has been laid for them to be successful.

Now that exams, grades and everything else is done, it’s time to enjoy with the kids who taught me that school can be fun and hands-on, with the ones who read my emotions even better than I do, the ones who say ” I want the holidays to Chicago con Miss Cat!” Boogers and all, they’re still really special kids, and I will miss them dearly.

Filed Under: ESL, expat, goodbyes, guiri atope, health, kids, la vida loca, preschool woes, Seville, teach abroad, teaching, TEFL · Tagged: , , ,

Death in the Afternoon

May 24, 2012 by · 15 Comments

Like it or not, bullfighting is intrinsic in sevillano culture. Hemingway’s favorite pastime is both hemmed and hawed and considered a great art form, but this piece of southern folklore is alive and well in Seville’s Maestranza bullring, which hosts some of the most revered festejos and brings in the biggest names in bullfighting.

Aside from the gory part of bullfighting, I personally love the image of a bullfighter. Slight body, slicked, jet-black hair, traje de luces glimmering in the afternoon sun. What’s more, the plaza de toros in Seville is de leyenda – the mustard yellow and white colonnades offset the bluest of skies and the yellow albero dirt that lines the elliptical plaza. The pomp and circumstance of the whole thing is as breathtaking as a Virgin passing silently over the Guadalquivir River during Holy Week, alit with candles. And, really, I just wanted to bring Camarón along to get closer.

We enter the gates of the Maestranza by way of a narrow, uphill alley, the same the bullfighters take past snapping camera flashes. The toreros are celebrities in their own right – rich, often handsome and ready to face death by way of a 500-kilo animals with two piercing horns and plenty of mala ostia. Our seats are in the sol – sunny – section, but the cloud cover in the late afternoon means we’re pleasantly comfortable and have paid 20€ less for the event. People surround us on all sides – old men in caps with their grandchildren next to them munching on sunflower seeds, wealthy sevillanos with sideburns and fancy seat covers, guiris like us with cameras poised.

The clip clop of horses sounds in the inner bowels of the arena below me. Pages with long plumes enter the ring as the band plays from high in the sombra section. They present their hats and the bullfighters enter gallantly, a cluster of photographers crouching as the toreros gaze at the crowd before them.

We’ve come to a novillada, where young bullfighters gain experience on smaller bulls and often in bullrings of a lesser division. But here, in the Maestranza of Seville, the bulls are agile, strong and weigh in at almost 500 kilos. We’ll see each – Conchi Ríos, Emilio Huertas and Álvaro Sanlúcar – fight two bulls. One of the opponents will die, and the other survive.

At 7pm sharp, the Puerta Gayola opens and the sounding of two cornets pierce the silent arena. Out comes Medialuna, and his statistics are announced on a placard over the door. Despite his size, he seems a bit flojillo as Conchi measures him up. Bullfighting is traditionally a male sport, but Conchi is treated equally, her cuadrilla or band of picadores, banderilleros and mozo de espada as grand as any. Using a heavy pink and yellow cape, called a capote, they measure the bull’s strength though a series of passes known as a verónica during the first third of the act. Conchi has a matador’s body and only the lavender colored ribbon in her hair gives away her gender.

The clip-clopping commences and the picaderos enter the ring through a gate adjacent to our seats. Fully armored, the horses are blindfolded and I cringe as the whole weight of the animal nearly knocks over the horse. A long rod with a hook on the end is driven between Medialuna’s shoulder blades. Conchi’s banderilleros, the three men designated to put the small flags into the bull’s mighty back take wing. The second act of the tragedy comes at a price – the bull is weakened due to the loss of blood, and it seems certain that he will meet his end. The small banderillas are fashioned after the Spanish, Andalusian and Murcian flags, paying homage to Conchi and her cuadrilla (from the region of Murcia) and the plaza.

Once the banderillas have been fixed, making the bull look as if it had won ribbons at a state fair, Conchi takes off her montera hat, saluting to the crowd. Now comes the final faena of the fight, where she manuevers the muleta, a small red cape, around the bull, using short grunts and movement to make the animal barge towards her. Though the animal passes far away from her, I’m intrigued by her foray into the sport.

Her first attempt to drive the sword between the shoulder blades, thus severing the main artery and killing the bull as cleanly as possible, is unsuccessful. Before the day is out, we’ll see five more bulls from the novilleros all hoping to present themselves as full matadors in the coming years. Álvaro Sanlúcar has a baby face and seems unsure of himself at times, while Emilio Huertas is so convincing in his second faena of the day, the band finally starts playing a paso doble as he puffs out his chest and taunts the creature.

“Oh, he’s going places,” says Cait, our resident toro aficionado. His faena is flawless (well, to me) and his efforts earn a standing ovation from the crowd. I take a kleenex out of my purse and wave it in the air, a petition to the judges to award him a special prize – an ear for his bravery and artistry. The ear is cut, and Emilio humbly takes it. Patting backs and hugging commences as he holds it triumphantly in the air and walks slowly around the ring. Fans throw flowers, hats and even painted fans at the young torero.

Placing his montera back on his head, he catapults himself out of the ring and leaves the last bull of the evening to Álvaro. He’s a fierce one who charges as soon as he catches movement. By this point, I’m already thinking about dinner (and I love bull tail, for the record). The trio walk slowly back out of the gate designated for them when it’s all over, symbolizing their triumph over death.

Not to add fuel to the fire, but have you been to a bullfight? What are your impressions of it? If you’re not into the gory stuff, please vote for me on Kaplan’s How to Teach English blog competion. My entry appeared on this blog last week, and your vote here with my name and blog URL could mean a free iPod for you, too!

Filed Under: Andalucia, culture shock, guiri atope, photo post, religion, Sevilla Center, Seville, Seville Shots, Spain, Spain Travel, Spanish Traditions, Things to do in Sevilla, toros, travel photography, typical Spanish · Tagged: , ,

How Oxford Changed my Mind About England

May 21, 2012 by · 28 Comments

I dislike England. Phew, feels good to admit it.

I’ve now been to the British Isles four times – three to England, and once to Scotland (which, for the record, I loved). But England I just do not like. Too impersonal, too similar to my home country, too expensive and sub-par food. Add that to airport hassles each time, and it takes an awful lot of convincing to get me to England.

Audrey convinced me. A Facebook invite to an event called Tough Mudder, coupled with a cheap Ryan Air flight meant I’d be spending a weekend is cheery old London, and a little race on Sunday.

I grumpily boarded the plane on Friday evening, knowing full well I’d be missing the Feria de Jérez and the Romería of San Nicolás, my adopted pueblo. I wanted to spend the weekend in Spain. Two hours, turbulence and a long customs line meant I’d missed my bus into the city center, and in the end I arrived at my hostel near the British Museum around 3am. I hate England.

Upon seeing my friends the following morning, we were faced with a decision: where to go to get the hell out of London. Audrey got in on the wrong side of the car as we narrowed it down to two destinations: either Oxford or Cambridge. Any guesses as to how the four of us earn money??

Sunglasses on (yes, we got a sunny weekend!), map route to Oxford highlighted and Audrey finally on the right side of the road, we drove the 60 miles northwest to England’s poshest university town, admiring the vast yellow fields of rapeseed and low-hanging clouds.

Oxford was full of two things: bicycles and people wearing commencement robes. We happened to be there on the weekend that young hopefuls were packing up their rooms and heading into the Real World, while three of the four of us are on our fifth years in Spain. I’ll drink (a delicious local beer) to that.

While having pints at White Horse, a small underground pub near the heart of the village, we squeezed into a table with six older men and women. They’d come down for the weekend from the Northern end of the country, taking advantage of the postcard-perfect weather. The happily handed over a map and encouraged us to see any one of the university’s 80+ colleges.

After living in America and Spain all my life, I assumed the colleges were the different university buildings for the different areas of study. Instead, the colleges at British universities are residence halls with vast, grassy lawns and towering turrets. It was like jumping right into Hogwarts as we peered into the doors and saw graduates in their long, black robes playing cricket on the lawns.

A glimpse into the 80+ colleges that surround the Oxford campus. No beer pong here, just cricket!

Nearly all of the colleges were closed that day due to the commencement activities, so we troved the bustling center, full of shops and quaint pubs. I was immediately transported back to my trip to Ireland with my parens in 2010 and the number of roadside joints we popped into for a quick pint or some grubby pub food. A trip to the Sainsbury’s meant we were well stocked with gourmet crackers, humus and some veggies, and we did as the locals – found a soft, emerald lawn to stretch our legs and fill our bellies.

Around us, graduates snapped up pictures in front of their well-loved grounds and I likened Oxford to Galway – walkable, a bit quirky (if posh can be that at all) and inviting. The warm weather did well to lift our spirits as we talked about our own graduations: Lauren is heading to China to teach, Audrey back to Texas to start field work for a business she’s creating, and Annie to school in Colorado. That leaves me, not yet ready to walk down the commencement road and leave Spain behind for a different future.

Our time meter was not quite up on the rental car, so we ducked into a pub as the evening weather was turning cool. Tomorrow we’d be up at the crack of dawn to run the Tough Mudder, but who could really think of tomorrow when we’re all just living for today?

Have you ever been to Oxford? What were your impressions? Is there a city in a country you’re not fond of that you’ve come to enjoy?

Filed Under: ESL, guiri atope, international travel, spring, The UK, travel photography · Tagged: , ,

¡A Vivir, que son (seis) días (de Feria)!

May 3, 2012 by · 21 Comments

I’ve written for Backpacking Matt and The Spain Scoop about my favorite fiesta of the year: the Feria de Sevilla. Curve-hugging dresses, horse carriages and thousands of bottles of manzanilla sherry characterize the fiesta más alegre of the South just weeks after the gold-laden pasos are stored in their temples.

While in my surrogate caseta, Los Sanotes, my friend Susana’s cousin came to look for me. Yanking my beer out of my hand, she introduced me to a 60-something couple who were standing, dumbfounded, against the wall of the temporary tent. Introducing myself, they fired a million questions at me (whereas I asked just one: Would you like anything to drink?) about the history of the Feria, what it costs to be a member of a caseta and how to best go about enjoying themselves. For as much as I know about Feria – pescaíto etiquette, the names of the streets and how much a jar of rebujito costs – Feria is all about viviéndola. Being with friends, having a buen rato while wearing an enormous flower on yourself and admiring the trajes de gitana are all just a part of the week at the Recinto Ferial.

If the Feria is all about living it up, I’m all lived out. Three rides in horse carriages, two broken shoes and having to wash my flamenco dress three times to get all of the dirt out must mean that this ferianta did more than her fair share of dancing sevillanas and capturing the essence of the fair in pictures. Below each picture is a line from a sevillanas song (a four-part flamenco lite that’s heard emanating from each of the 1000+ casetas) with a link to the song on youtube. As the popular sevillana, A bailar por Sevillanas says, Si Ud. no ha visto la Feria, se la voy a enseñar (If you’ve never seen the Feria, I’m going to show it to you):

Ya huele a Feria, y olé, ya huele a feria

Once the somber processions and palios-encased Virgins are safely back at their churches, the construction of the main gate, called La Portada, is nearing completion, dry cleaners are working overtime to press volantes (ruffles), and the talk of Feria is imminent. Ya huele a Feria, it smells like Feria, and ¡olé!

La Feria se ilumina con su belleza

While the carnival rides and casetas are open, the fair doesn’t officially begin until midnight on Monday, after the traditional pescaíto fried fish dinner. The mayor waits until precisely the right moment to flip the switch that lights up the main gate, called the portada, and the thousands of paper lanterns, farolillos, that illuminate the street. Almost immediately after this moment, called the alumbrado, the bands start up and everyone starts dancing. ¡Olé, esa feria!

Vámanos pa la Feria, cariño mío

I’ve worked out a math equation: the less days that remain until the alumbrado, the more antsy I am. This year, as in years past, we’ve gone to have a few drinks before dinner on Sunday and enjoy the fairgrounds without people or horse carriages. The Calle del Infierno, with its circus tents and carnival rides, is the only really lively part, which means we get special treatment in the caseta. This year, I decided to skip out on the alumbrado and get a good night sleep, only to be restless and not fall asleep until 3am. I wanted to shake Kike awake and say, ¡Vámanos a la Feria, cariño mío!

Debajo de la portada, se la voy a enseñar

Imagine this: a maze of more than 20 streets, all named after bullfighters, more than 1000 red-and-white-and-green-striped tents, and a mess of people wearing brightly colored dresses. Add in all of those pesky horse carriages that clog the streets until 8pm, and there’s simply just one place to meet: under the main gate. There’s a whole lot of public casetas clumped nearby (PSOE, Garbanzo Negro, San Gonzalo), so this is a good place to begin your afternoon if you’re waiting to meet friends.

Me gusta el mosto en noviembre, y mirar al cielo azul

Feria is about as propio to Seville as the Taste of Chicago might be to my native Chicago. It’s a whole big gathering of people admiring beautiful Andalusian women, Jerezano stallions and drinking local wine. One of my favorite sevillanas is Los Amigos de Gines’s Yo Soy del Sur, I’m from the south, which pays homage to all of the best things about Andalucía – the bullfights, the crops, the never-ending blue sky, the pilgrimages. I get chills listening to its slow compás, these are my customs, and I never want to lose them. Ojalá…

Se enamoró mi caballo de una yegua de Castilla

If I could bring two people to vivir la Feria, I’d have my dad chugging beers with Kike by night and my mom riding in Leonor’s horse carriage by day. From the early morning hours until the last call of 8pm, the streets jingle with cascabeles as hundreds of horse carriages parade around the Real. It’s not cheap – the little licence plate needed for circulating on the streets costs 86€ an hour!! I love living the feria by day to admire the stately Andalusian stallions which carry manzanilla-wielding men and gorgeous gitanas on their backs, and am lucky enough to have friends who bring carriages! Now if only I’d spot the Duquesa de Alba!

Me gustan los toros serios y los toreros con arte

Apart from the horses, the toros de lidia bravely stare down toreros six times a day during the week’s corridas. Nothing says Feria like a stroll around the fair in the morning, mantilla firmly on your head, with an afternoon at the Maestranza. From this point in the year, the Sunday afternoon bullfights officially start. While I’ve been just once to a bullfight in Seville, we do get to enjoy a mini session at my school: the preschoolers dress up as the toros and bullfighters, and we all chant, ¡Torero, torero! as the jury decides to award the valiant baby bullfighters with an oreja or two. Arte, pero arte.

Me metí en una caseta que estaba llena de pijos, todo el mundo en traje y hablando de su cortijo

As I’ve talked about the casetas before, it’s important to note that they’re private and guarded by door guys. I once invited my friend Lindsay to Susana’s, and she told the portero that she was friends with the guiri inside. He shook his head and said, no foreigners here! Most of the tents are owned by businesses, political organizations, the armed forces and big groups of friends, but there’s no denying it – most of the people who own the tents are rich enough to pay for them. It’s not cheap – Kike and I pay 75€ for the year, but we’re just two of the hundreds of socios . Whenever I am invited to a new caseta, I like to take in the ambience of the people who are talking about their horses, wearing nice suits, and have obviously come from money. I’ve been to some of the bigger and nicer tents in Feria, but prefer the less pretentious ones (and this hilarious sevillana – I went in to a tent full of preppy people, everyone wearing a suit and talking about their horse farm).

Mírala cara a cara, que es la primera

Once night falls and all of the socios have had dinner, the flamenquito bands arrive for live music and two lines of dancers form to dance sevillanas. This four-part dance is like a coqueteous encounter between two lovers: each step, they seem to get closer and more sensual. You can dance with up to four people, either boy-girl or girl-girl (but who care if you dance boy-boy!) and the music doesn’t stop until 5am. My favorite memories have been dancing – with friends, with socios, with my partner, with my students – and each year I feel more confident in my dancing. In Los Sanotes, I’m often invited to dance, and I swear it’s the least American I feel during the entire year.

Esa gita, esa gitana, se conquista bailando por sevillanas

When Susana first took me to try on my very first flamenco dress, I knew not to expect anything else but a lot of drinking and feeling very awkward in my tight dress. I was a hot gitana mess, but each year I feel just a bit more flamenca and love that the Novio has some amazing moves when it comes to dancing sevillanas (even if I have to drag him onto the dancefloor!).

Pasa la vida, pasa la vida y no has notado que no has vivido

Before you know it, the tents are coming down and the fairground is vacant. Seven days pass by in a blur of sherry and polka dots, but some of my most treasured times in Seville have been had at the fairgrounds. The famous sevillana Pasa la Vida by Albahaca talks about how life moves by so quickly and often we forget to live it, but the opposite happens to me during Feria. I can sleep four hours a night and stand dancing for 14. I feel sexier shaking my culo in my dress. I feel confident in calling everyone I know and finding them somewhere in the Real to have a drink.

When it’s all over and life goes back to normal, some little spark inside me seems to kind of flicker out, like my Amigos de Gines sing in my absolute favorite, Algo se muere en el alma. I’ve got to wait 51 excruciating long week to pin the flower back atop my head and my espartos to my feet. Something, indeed, does die in your soul.

Ever been to the Feria de Sevilla? Any good stories to share? Celebrity sightings?

Filed Under: A Few of My Favorite Things, andalú, Andalucia, culture shock, dance, Feria, flamenco, guiri atope, holidays, la vida loca, Seville, Spain, toros, travel photography, Triana, typical Spanish · Tagged: , , ,

92 Reasons to visit Seville

April 21, 2012 by · 7 Comments

In working on an article for The Spain Scoop, I paid a visit to the Seville Tourism Board’s website. On the main page, to coincide with the World’s Fair in Seville’s 20th anniversary, the board proposes 92 reasons to visit Seville.

Among my favorites are things I enjoy about living here, like 88 (eat a montaíto de pringá), 74 (buy a flamenco dress),  55 (eat el jamón bueno bueno) and 58 (sleep a siesta). Then I remember the insane amount that I still have before me to do, like visit Doñana National Park, spot the Duquesa de Alba, see the Derbi between Mi Betí and Sevilla FC, walk el Rocío to Almonte.

I do think they gave up towards the end, as the last reason is, because you feel like it. So, so sevillano of you, VisitaSevilla. But who really needs to list 92 things to do in and around this glorious city whose history stretches back over 2000 years, whose sunsets are breathtaking and whose cuisine is tó lo bueno. Seville is more about feeling it and living it than seeing it.

Take a look, and tell me what’s on your Seville itinerary, or the reasons you’ve been here before. The Tourism Office hooked me up with this year’s Fiestas de la Primavera poster, and it can be yours if you’re chosen!

Filed Under: andalú, Andalucia, coming home, contests, expat, flamenco, futbol, gastronomy, guiri atope, la vida loca, Lists, living abroad, Sevilla Center, Seville, Spain, Things to do in Sevilla, toros, tourism · Tagged: ,

Turkey Story

April 18, 2012 by · 20 Comments

They say a cup of Turkish coffee is worth 40 years of friendship.

Between the seven of us, we barely had seven years of friendship, but we suddenly found ourselves in Istanbul, straddling two mighty continents and our own expectations for Turkey.  We laughed, we scowled, we ate a lot of baklava. This is our Turkey Story.

Our first day was rainy, so we spent the morning ducking in and out of mosques, listening to muezzin calls in stocking feet, relishing in feeling the carpet beneath them. After the trek downhill from Taksim and crossing the Galata Bridge, the two peninsulas that make up the European part of Istanbul, we found ourselves at the feet of the New Mosque. Our shoes came off, and the scarves went on.

Wandering the back streets of the neighborhood, we ducked inside of a brightly lit coffee house and enjoying our first cup of Turkish java. The first sip was bitter, even while we stared out at a soft rain and men playing backgammon in stumpy stools. As the cups were drained, we looked for signs of the future in the grinds. No Hogwarts-like fortune telling here, though.

The Hagia Sofia, a momentous Byzantine structure marked as a “museum” left us in awe. Low-hanging chandeliers and larger-than-life mosaics and script adorned the cavernous space.

Lunch was on everyone’s minds, so we hunted down a cheap chicken kebab and washed it down with freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. I remembered being warned about fresh juice in Morocco – the juice stung my gums and left my teeth purple, but I didn’t fall victim to bad water.

The Blue Mosque was on the docket for the evening, and we traipsed through Sultanahmet Square as the wind howled. Just as we passed under the gate, the call to prayer began, and tourists were barred from entering. We were forced to contemplate its size and greyish hue from the outside. Truth be told, we were over mosques and all of that effort it took to take off our shoes, wrap our heads up, and then undo it all upon exiting. We decided baklava was a good alternative.

The rain beat on, and Julie slipped into a bar. We ordered beers for us and one for Katerina, but our friends didn’t follow us in. when we left the bar, the waiter just replied, “There is the door, go away.” So much for Turkish hospitality. Since we’d pay for a dinner and music show at Agememnon’s (we think that’s what he wrote on the receipt…kind of), all of us chickens watched as the dervishes bowed before the altar and set to whirling around, soft-footed, as we ate our sausage kebabs. I was entranced and set my ISO to 3200, just to get the swirling effect.

The next day awoke us, sunny and warmer, which was a treat after arriving to the hostel with wet boots and a broken umbrella. Craving a view of the Bosphorous and Marmara Sea, we paused at the Galata Tower, an ancient lighthouse and fire department building, to marvel in the boats zigzagging their way through the harbor and the sparkle of the sun on the river.

Our attraction of the day center around the Topkapi palace, a fortified wall sitting on the end of the Eminönu peninsula. The imposing main gate, men dressed like old sultans and views of the channel were nice, but I left unimpressed and uninspired by the grounds and the prostitute bay, even after turning my camera’s color filter to bold.

Our hungry bellies lead us to a kebab shop off of the main strip, where I was bursting to pee. We had our first lentil soup there, called çorba, which we ate with fluffy white bread. As we chowed down our kebabs, one of the girls with a headscarf at the table adjacent to ours leaned over and began talking to Katerina. I was on the other end of the table, so I ate happily, interrupted. When I asked the waiter where the toilet was (non-verbally of course, just be jumping around like a little kid about to pee his pants), he pulled me outside into a hallway and encouraged me to play a game of tag with him up the stairs, around a few corners and directly into a squatty potty. International toilets – 6 (China, of course); Cat – 0.

As it turned out, she and the girl who accompanied her were executives at a publishing house, and they happened to be dining with an author whose books were being translated into English. She invited us to tea at their company office, a few doors down. Remembering a friend’s insistence that Islamic faithful are encouraged to share what they have, we had some tea with the girls, who rewarded us with free pins and books from the author.

Outside, the day was quickly turning to night, so I suggested we visit a place a student’s mother had recommended to me. Lover of all things macabre, I’d been talking up the cemetery that had been converted into an outdoor garden to smoke water pipes and have a tea for the duration of the trip.

Çorulu Ali Pasa was my favorite part of the trip. Through a narrow alleyway, we walked by stoves cooking hot coals in thin tin pots, and the men-to-woman-ratio was 10:1. Small groups of men sat on fraying woven blankets around pipes, with beautiful tiled lanterns overhead. It was twilight; the lanterns sparkled with the sun’s last daily effort as we ordered apple tea and a strawberry flavor for the pipe. I can’t say I’m a big shisha consumer, but we all relaxed as the men around us attended to businesses affairs or sat alone and smoked.

We retired to Taksim, nibbling at street food along the way. As we watched the sun cast an eery, moonlit glow on the mosque towers and Byzantine temples, I finally got the feeling: we were in an Islamic country. Only one thing left to do, then: head to Asia.

The following morning, which dawned bright and blue, we took a passenger ferry from the Eminönu side of the Galata Bridge to the Üsküdar neighborhood. The tokens cost a little under one euro, and the trip was barely ten minutes, and suddenly, we were traversing another continent. While the Asian side doesn’t have many monuments, the views of the Maiden Tower and business districts of the European peninsulas are breathtaking.

We had tickets for the archaeological museum, thanks to our MUZE pass, so we spent hours traipsing through sarcophagi on the warm day and split off from Julie and Tilly, also making a stop off at the Basilica Cisterns, an overly touristic underground cave. There were even animatronics, if you can believe it.

Our dinner was a quick cafeteria-like place, frequented by young students in the Taksim district and policemen. Live music pulsated in the nearby bars, but I found all of the walking and eating was slowly turning me into a sloth. We decided to ask the staff of our hostel (who spoke very little English) for some recommendations for hamams, the traditional Turkish baths, and found one right near our hostel. It would wait until after the Gran Bazaar, though.

Though overly touristy, this enclosed maze of 61 streets is home to vendors of everything from Turkish football jerseys to pashminas to antiques. We split up to cover more ground and browse the stalls under arches painted in ochre, dandelion and celestial hues. Fountains and tea stands punctuated every small street and the antique pipe vendors had hidden gems. But I had an agenda: evil eye jewelry, a few spice grinders and an engraved dagger for the Novio.

After having bargained in China and Morocco, I knew the drill: start below the price you’re willing to pay. Listen to the vendor rant about feeding his children (I didn’t see a single woman selling). Raise your price by a few lira. Continue repeating this step until you think you’ve exhausted the topic. Try adding a few more lira to get two. If this doesn’t work, walk away until they call you back. Lie about another vendor offering it for a cheaper price, if necessary.

In the end, I got three spice grinders for 5€ each, the dagger for 13€ instead of 20€ and two evil eye glass bracelets for 2€. Satisfied and exhausted, we awarded ourselves with MORE baklava in oozing pistachio and walnut varieties before finding the others.

We had agreed to meet at the hostel at 5pm, but we were on the other side of time, so we took the tram. Being late in the day, our group got split up, so Kristen, Katerina and I had to wait on the platform for the others for six minutes. As the second train pulled into the station, we looked frantically for the other two when I was approached. Clutching my bag, I realized it was my friend from Sevilla, Alberto, also enjoying his Semana Santa. First my alumnos in Santiago, and now Alberto in one of the largest cities in Europe. Surprised as always, we caught up while the funicular climbed the steep hill, stopping to take picture proof in front of the square.

As we relaxed in the hamam (moe about THAT later), we knew our trip was coming to an end. Tilly and Julie back to Coruña, Kristen to Málaga, me to Zaragoza and the other three to Sevilla for the Madrugá. I thought back on all of the baklava, the people and the six towering spires of the Blue Mosque. My four days in Zaragoza were certainly nothing to write home about (except to Ashlee, winner of my passport contest, obviously), but I was happy to have pushed my travel limits (hello, the toilets still get me!!) and finally see the last country on my must-see list.

Have you been to Turkey? What did you like, or not? Favorite food? This is definitely a city I connected with and would love to travel back to! For great articles on the country, check out Hecktic Travels, as the Canadian pair is there house sitting and exploring beyond Istanbul.

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Filed Under: A Few of My Favorite Things, culture shock, gastronomy, guiri atope, holidays, Holy Week, international travel, travel photography, Turkiye · Tagged: , ,
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