east meets west, meets star wars

Among the palms and sweet orange trees of the Parque de María Luisa, stretches the Plaza de España, a stunning complex built for the 1929 Ibero-American Exposition. Star Wars fans might recognize this beauty, as it played a role in Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace and Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones— neither of which I have seen. I was brought up with the original trilogy; with Han and Leia and Luke, Chewbacca, C3PO and little R2D2, and could never bring myself to see the newer movies. They don't remind me of my grandma.

I know that sounds odd, but my grandma is an avid fan of all things Sci-fi and fantastical, and when I visited her as a little girl, we would watch Star Wars and her beloved Star Trek while Grandpap grumbled something profane under his breath and disappeared into his shed, a cloud of pipe smoke trailing behind him. She loved Star Trek so much, that the various spaceships of the series dangled from branches of her Christmas tree each year. She even attended conventions in costume— something I was deeply proud of, as most of my friends' grannies merely baked and knitted (though Grandma did that too).

Anyhow, I've digressed.



(These fish are for you, Mom)



In places the architecture, woodwork, and colourful tiles feel very Middle-Eastern. The particular style of the plaza building is called Neo-Mudéjar, which is a revival of the older Mudéjar style; a wonderful collision of East and West as Muslim and Christian aesthetics came together in 12th century southern Spain.



Gorgeous, isn't it?

more pork

It was about that time when a good dose of pork was necessary. Some of you are already aware of the posts I have dedicated to my love for pork, and that I have become a regular smuggler of bacon, presunto, and various sausages when returning from a non-Muslim country. I will even shamelessly ask Pedro to carry some in as well, which he kindly does. So when in Spain, one must indulge in some jamón and assorted Spanish pork sandwiches. I realise now that the sandwiches in the foreground do not reveal a hint of the goodness inside, as I photographed them from above, but trust me when I say that the mysterious pork purée slathered inside was absolutely wonderful.

As usual, I was struck with food envy, and though I thoroughly enjoyed what I had ordered, I needed to try the sandwich with whisky sauce that also came to the table— so I ordered my own.



Oh my goodness.

gothic grandeur

Standing where a great mosque once rose into the sky is the very grand, very Gothic Sevilla Cathedral. Traces of its Islamic predecessor can be found in the cathedral's airy and fragrant courtyard, and in the mathematical, intricately carved Puerta del Perdón gate. Upon the conquering of Sevilla by Ferdinand III of Castile in 1248, the mosque was converted into a church, and its minaret replaced in 1376 (after a devastating earthquake) by a bell tower.

I was stunned to learn that Sevilla's cathedral is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world— I had always believed the imposing church in Köln held the title, but no! What's more, when the construction of the church was finally completed in the early 16th century, it was the very first to end Ayasofya's near-thousand year reign as the largest cathedral in the world. But wait— there's more.



The alleged remains of Christopher Columbus are entombed there too.

When looking at all the glittering gold and grandeur of the cathedral and his tomb (pictured above), my mind can't help but move to darker thoughts: slavery, colonisation, and the countless lives lost in the genocides that took place in the Americas. With Columbus' crossing of the Atlantic the world was forever changed, though oppression and genocide seem to be a sad constant in our collective history— before he set sail, until this very day.



It is a stunning, impressive piece of architecture.

the andalusian capital

I've been in the sky and on the road again, and this time the road lead me across the Guadiana International Bridge, into Spain from Portugal. The heat was southern and the sun strong when it showed itself, a major change from the chill back in Istanbul— wooly sweaters and socks are currently a necessity in my apartment. On the second day on the other side, we drove to Sevilla.



My curiosity about Andalucía began in college, when I took a course on the Islamic art and architecture of Medieval Spain. Once upon a time, I had booked one of the trips of my art-nerdy dreams, only to have it foiled by a certain volcano in Iceland. I had planned to explore Barcelona and make my way to Granada to see the Alhambra, then if time allowed, the Great Mosque of Córdoba— but Eyjafjallajökull sent me to Athens instead.



So at last I found myself wandering the streets of Sevilla, the capital of Andalucía, searching for Moorish touches in a Catholic city. There was a spectrum of yellows, red accents, Arabian arches, intricate iron work— and surprisingly quite a number of Turkish tourists. The sun was relentless, but it cast long shadows.

the morning commute

One of my souvenirs from Prague was the book Letters from Prison, by Milan Šimečka, a dissident against the Communist regime in former Czechoslovakia. I read this a long while ago, but one of the concepts which stuck with me was a link that he noticed whilst imprisoned, between the lack of nature and depravity.

Since leaving Istanbul, the weight on my chest has lightened. My morning commute is now twenty-five minutes through foggy fields, spiderweb sparkling with dew, grebes on the lake— instead of an hour or two of aggravated drivers in grey gridlock.

I'm so glad I left the city.

the spot of red

As my kitchen steamed from the chickpeas rolling in their bath of garlic and cumin, I spied a spot of red out the window. Today was one of those days when you can't do much else but shake your head at the actions of others, and I was feeling like some kind of river fish swimming against the current. I pressed my cheek to the cold glass and stared at that red, watching it blur with the fog of my breath. She sat there for twenty minutes or so, like a statue— not a finger twitched. I pushed my cheek harder to see if I could see what she saw. The sky was a fragile blue, paper-thin and tinged with pink, and the warm glow of street lights threw its orange into the mix. Suddenly the day felt like a perspective diagram, with lines and shapes moving toward a vanishing point, taking my unrest with them.

I know this is not the most beautiful photo, but I felt something in watching her sitting there. There is so much more to life than the trivial little issues that arise in our everyday lives. There is tremendous beauty, and we should never turn our eyes from it.

by the sea

hey, pelican!

We headed back to Lake Manyas around 8:00 in the morning to spy on its feathered beasts while waiting for the Kuşcenneti Milli Parkı to open. The area became a national park in 1959, and is home to 266 species of birds, 178 of which pass through during migration. Needless to say, Kuşcenneti Park is a very important place, and I was thrilled by the park's cleanliness and beauty. Often in Turkey, natural areas are treated like trash bins by the public, but Kuşcenneti Park was truly cared for. The information center was lovely, and the man who gave us our tickets was excited to show off the park's remote live cameras, which were fixed on the lake. Families trickled in, borrowing binoculars from the nice man, and mindfully headed through the little woods to the observation tower, where you can get a magnificent view of the birds.



I was delighted to discover that the observation tower was made with an Ottoman touch— it resembled an old wooden yalı, and once inside, Pedro found an owl pellet and feathers, which lead me to believe that the tower itself offered shelter. We set up the telescope, and were moved to silence.



The Great White Pelicans were pink.

in celebration of change

I'm a bit behind in posting— it's late September now, and there are still loads of photos from this summer that I haven't shared. So much has happened since July that I can't possibly catch up to it all, so I'm moving ahead with what is current, and will sprinkle in some summer here and there.

I have left Istanbul for a quiet seaside town outside the chaos. No more two hour commutes through murderous traffic, no more bumping my way up Istiklal, no more crazy howling neighbours, no more fearing the inevitable break-in. Upon returning from Nepal, I discovered that someone had taken the time to remove the locks from my front door— fortunately whatever they were using to jimmy open the door had broken off, and they never made it inside. As much as I love Istanbul, it is an exhausting city, and I was ready to move. I wanted owls and bats, the sea, clear skies and friendly faces. I wanted to get home from work in less than 30 minutes. I wanted light.

In celebration of our move and the coming of Autumn, Pedro and I went on a little adventure. Our destination was Lake Manyas, also called Kuş Gölü, and our goal was to catch a glimpse of two species of pelicans: the Great White Pelican and the Dalmatian Pelican. The sky was a violet-pink when we finally arrived at the lake, and the village shepherds were gently coaxing their flocks in for the night.



The air had a bite to it that called for sweaters— summer was over. We layered up and headed to the water, binoculars and telescope in hand. Distant, bulky white shapes brought childlike grins to our faces, and as we set the telescope at them to confirm what we knew they were, a battalion of Great White Pelicans soared past.



After a certain point, counting was futile— I had never seen so many pelicans in my life! One of the joys that got me through doing time at an ad agency in San Francisco was watching these prehistoric-looking beasts from the window by my desk, as they glided smoothly into the bay. Somewhere in the reddening light were the Dalmatian Pelicans, but distinguishing them from the rest of the crowd would have to wait for morning.

juniper man

Nearly every afternoon for the past three summers, I could rely upon a certain cloud of white smoke following the crowd around the Stupa. Often, it was the scent of juniper branches that it carried with each dissipating puff, and because Kathmandu is home to a variety of offensive stenches, I breathed its whiteness in deeply, feeling the juniper sweep my head clean.



We called him 'Juniper Man', the man who swung the censer like a pendulum, muttering mantras through lips barely parted. He wore a turmeric jacket and a pointed beard, his hair neatly tied back in a bun. I have never drawn him because every time I see him, I find myself caught up in his wake, mesmerized by the movement, by the scent. This year, we came to the point of mutual recognition— I would place my hands together in greeting, and he would nod with a slight smile, never breaking his swing or a syllable of his prayer.

On the night of the full moon, I followed him for several circumambulations, camera in hand. Knowing precisely what I wanted, he slowed down and kindly paused until I got a few blurry shots, smiled and continued on. I asked the older kids at school who he was, but no one knew.



Seeing him was always uplifting. It's funny how a perfect stranger can have such an effect on you.
Thank you, Juniper Man.

two goats and a little news

So I've left the mayhem of downtown Istanbul for a seaside town with pink mornings and space— wide, open space. Claustrophobia be gone! I can walk down a street here without fear of being bumped. People are much more relaxed and friendlier, and I am loving the fresh air. Now that the internet has been hooked up in my new home, I can resume my posting.



Stay tuned!

colour among the rice paddies

I never knew how green green could get before I started my relationship with Nepal. Sometimes the rice paddies are so bright, you can feel their colour in the back of your skull. Forgive me for my scarce posts, I am in the midst of a much needed uprooting. Soon, I'll be smelling salt air instead of smog.