winter wonderland

I had forgotten how cold New England winters are.

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america bound

My sister Natasha and I just underwent what felt like the longest journey we've taken in ages— a 5:55 am flight out of Istanbul to Amsterdam with a six hour layover, then a seven and a half hour flight to Boston, and a two and a half hour bus ride to New Hampshire. The past week has been an absolute whirlwind of work, art, travel and nerves, that I forgot to mention I was going to the States.

With the flight to Amsterdam being so early, we only had about two hours of sleep and were barely awake when we boarded our flight. When I peeked into the pocket of the seat in front of me, I caught a glimpse of that familiar yellow spine— someone had left behind a National Geographic! Having been a subscriber for about nine years, I was ecstatic. I pulled it out with the excitement of a five year old, and discovered it was in Norwegian. This made Natasha burst out laughing, for I've had this long-standing joke about finding and marrying a Norwegian polar explorer.

"It's fate." She yawned, between giggles.

The main article was about Angkor Wat— a place I've always dreamed of visiting, and oddly enough, was just discussing yesterday with a friend of mine. It's funny how life can toss in these little coincidences.

When the breakfast cart came around, I decided to order a tomato juice for the first time in my life, in hopes of understanding why people order tomato juice on flights. I've never seen anyone sipping on a glass of tomato juice in a restaurant, but time after time, I've watched flight attendants handing small plastic cups of it to passengers with hospitable smiles. Looking at the thick red liquid at six something in the morning, my stomach churned, but I drank it anyway. It wasn't bad. I still don't get it.


Six hours in Schiphol Airport is not very exciting or interesting. We walked up and down the length of the airport for the sake of exercise and exploration, then settled down in a Starbucks for some coffee and a shared BLT. Natasha passed out and I decided to draw.

Our flight to Boston was supposed to be a Northwest flight, so I was horrified to see a Delta logo out the window as we were boarding. Delta and I have not been friends— I've never had anything but nightmarish voyages on their flights. The flight attendants were generally rude— and once, while I was sitting next to the exit door, my pant leg was mysteriously stuck to the cabin wall. Confused and suddenly freezing, I looked down at my leg to discover that the entire cabin wall beside me was covered in ice. There was a leak in the exit door seal! Seconds later, the guy sitting in front of me yelped in shock, having realised he too, was stuck to the icy wall. When everyone surrounding us grew concerned, we called over a flight attendant who told us this was normal and not her problem. Normal?! And this is just one of my Delta flight stories.

So when I sat down in my comfortable seat and found it had its own video screen and remote control— in economy— I was pleasantly surprised. When the crew were nice to me and offered my sister and I huge glasses of wine, I was shocked. The food was decent and everything was functioning properly. How was this Delta? While I was hanging out by the galley to do some stretching, I felt compelled to ask one of the flight attendants what was up.

"You've all been so nice, and this flight has been really great so far— not my usual experience with Delta."

He listened with a thoughtful expression and a sympathetic smile as I began to tell him brief versions of my collection of horror stories.

"Hmm... I've heard this sort of thing before and I'm very sorry. But you want to know what the secret is?" He leans in close, and with a hushed voice and a grin, whispers "This is a Northwest flight in a Delta painted plane. We're the Northwest crew."

So there you have it.


I'll be in New Hampshire for the next ten days— sitting by a fire, drinking tea and drawing, spending time with relatives, and stocking up on the things I can't find in Turkey. I'll be back in Istanbul in time for a fun New Year's.

san francisco in sketches

boston afternoon

Boston is one of America's oldest cities— by Istanbul standards it's practically newborn. Boston is a gem of a city; tree-lined streets with old brick houses, glass and steel skyscrapers next to stone churches, shady parks, the Charles river. When I was in art school in Providence, I used to take the bus up to Boston quite often to visit museums, walk around and just hang out. Last Tuesday I spent the afternoon hanging out in this pretty city with my good friend, Rebecca. We really didn't do too much— shared two pots of tea at Tealuxe on Newbury Street, chatted and walked around. The best kind of afternoon.

unexpected gems

Yesterday afternoon I stepped onto the tarmac of Istanbul's Atatürk International Airport. I deeply miss San Francisco, but I am thrilled to be back home. I have loads of unpacking and settling in to do, so the next few posts will be a kind of a continuation of my American Holiday.

On Wednesday, I explored a forest with Rebecca in New Hampshire. What I love about most about forests are all the hidden gems, easily missed when not paying attention. I am drawn to the colours and shapes of lichen and fungus, the near-perfect symmetry of a fern, the delicate structures of the little creatures that scurry around the fallen and rotting leaves.

lobsta!

You just cannot visit New England without having some seafood, and you cannot have seafood without getting it from a roadside shack, and when you are in the Lake Winnipesaukee area in New Hampshire, it's lobster rolls from Tamarack. The beauty of a Tamarack lobster roll is that the good people of the shack respect the lobster (or "lobsta" as it is pronounced in the region); you get a toasted bun crammed full of the juiciest and and most delicately flavoured meat without a ton of mayo and celery and whatnot. Other lobster rolls have a fraction of the meat and will taste no different than a tuna salad sandwich. Well let me just show you the glory:


And it tastes even better than it looks. Every time I find myself in New Hampshire, I run over to Tamarack as often as I can to get my lobsta fix satisfied for the year.

Tamarack is on Route 3, about a mile north of Weir's Beach in Laconia.

into the woods

I am now in New Hampshire for a week of lobster rolls, fireflies, trees, and staring at lakes before I head back to the hustle and bustle of Istanbul. It's so peaceful here; the silence is broken by birdsong, cricket chirps and the shushing of wind finding its way through leaves. This is the perfect place for drinking tea and reading books on porches, which I am off to do right now.

so long

It's funny how seven months can just fly by and feel like they never happened. Walking these foggy streets, Istanbul feels like a dream; just about everything is right were I left it. There are naturally, a few noticeable differences. The sales tax may have risen a percent, bus fares may now be two bucks, cafés and shops may have shut down with new ones in their place, and there may be far more "for rent" signs than when I left— but still, this is a city I can call mine.

I love sitting down with a friend and realising that time doesn't really mean much; you still laugh at each other's jokes, have that ability to confide, "get" those incomprehensible things about each other— even though much has happened in life, the friendship has remained a constant. The funny thing is, I feel that I have learned more about each friend since I have moved and come back. I didn't think it was possible, but I appreciate them even more now. I had a wonderful, bitter-sweet time in San Francisco, and even though I am looking forward to going home to Istanbul, I can't wait to return to SF.

friends behind glass / dreaming in trapeze

I had to return to the de Young one more time before I left and fortunately, yesterday was the first Tuesday of the month— a free admission day. It felt like I was saying goodbye to old friends; I have come to know the museum and its inhabitants well over the past four years. I recognise and am familiar with many brushstrokes, chisel marks and cracks. Here are some images of my most favourite pieces, cropped in and close-up. I would have included more African, Mayan and Oceanic art pieces, but they are all behind glass and the reflections were too distracting on camera.


I took a walk through the park to Circus Center, where I was learning static trapeze, for a visit with my teacher, to whom I owe a lot. I have always dreamt of becoming a trapeze artist, ever since I went to the circus as a little girl; the ladies that flew like birds above my head so enchanted me that I longed to join them. I hung upside-down on monkey bars in playgrounds, swinging from my knees to emulate them, and still to this day maintain an attraction to sequins and glitter.


I discovered Circus Center about a year after I moved to SF, but constantly came up with excuses not to join (as we do when we get older)— it's too expensive, I'm too busy, etc. Then one day I realised there was no point in not doing it, and signed up. It was one of the best decisions I have ever made— there's nothing like fulfilling a dream, even a tiny bit of it. My only regret is that I had to stop to move to Istanbul, and I have yet to find a place to continue in. I miss trapezing terribly, and dream about swinging and twirling around just about every other night.

This is me last year at Circus Center.