The summer issue of this online travel mag is out. The sort of writing that makes me actually happy to read about extreme sports and shaman-led epiphanies (oh, wait–that’s what I wrote about a couple of issues back!)–check out the Sydney Bridge Climb essay and the ayahuasca essay.
Duh: Persian cats come from Persia.
I only realized this when we were in northern Syria and the cats were starting to look quite a lot shaggier and fluffier than all the lean, mean Cairene felines, which look just like temple paintings say they should.
Double duh: Turkish toilets come from Turkey.
This only dawned on me in Antakya, just after we’d crossed the border from Syria and checked into our cheapie hotel right by the bus station. In itself, this was quite exciting–normal travel rules dictate that the hotels by bus stations be utter flophouses. Perhaps because we were still close to Syria, I felt myself about to cry when I saw the spotless tile floors and the posters of alpine heaven adorning the walls next to the carefully dusted tchotchke case.
We dumped our stuff, and I walked to the shared bathrooms–and started laughing like an idiot. It’s not like I hadn’t seen a million squat toilets already on my trip. But here we were in Turkey–experiencing all its cultural contributions to world civilization! And I’m not being sarcastic–I kind of like squat toilets. Very efficient…as long as your knees are strong and you have a decent sense of balance. I even enjoy the challenge of using one on a moving train.
Then I walked over to the shared shower room, and laughed again. Who would’ve guessed? Turkish baths come from Turkey too! I was delighted to see the grand technology of the hammam scaled down for home use.
Granted, there was a rudimentary little shower head in the square, tile-floor room, but it was clearly a retrofit to the basic Turkish bath setup: a marble basin, a tap, a drain in the floor and a shallow wide-mouth bowl (purple plastic, in this case, but exactly the same shape as the silver ones they use in fancy hammams). Sadly, the usual burly masseuse in nylon thong underwear was not a part of this home hammam, so I was on my own.
I toyed with the shower for a second, but the water was on the unpleasant side of lukewarm. So I gave Turkish bath tech a chance–and boy was I glad I did. If you’re going to take a bath with nippy water, it’s surprisingly pleasant to soap yourself up and just dump that water over your head again and again and again and again and again….
A million douses later, I finally toweled off, slipped on my clean caftan and stepped into my flip-flops. (Our $20/night hotel room actually came stocked with two pairs of plastic bath slippers…but only in men’s sizes, and they were a little bit stinky. It’s the thought that counts–and makes me cry.) I floated back to my room on that mellow, limbs-turned-to-jelly post-hammam buzz. Guess I didn’t need the burly attendant to scrub me down after all.
Maybe I can set up this Turkish bath technology (or lack thereof) at home somehow? It’ll be a little more socially acceptable to guests than the toilet, anyway.
Just to answer the two most frequent questions I got before leaving for my trip:
1) Was I going/would I have to wear a head scarf?
No. None of the countries I’m visiting have any laws requiring it, and I tend to think tourists who adopt this look when traveling anywhere but Iran and Saudi are a little dopey for doing so. First of all, their scarf-wrapping skills are inevitably bad, and they look all lumpy. And, um, they are probably not Muslim, so not required to. Cairo is a giant city with a global outlook, and the fashion on the street is more cool urban than frumpy babushka.
That said, wow, there are a lot more women wearing the hijab (head scarf) now, and even quite a few wearing the full black niqab, and even a couple doing that spooky thing where they put the sheer black veil entirely over their faces, so they look like ghosts. I’d say the split ten years ago was maybe 60/40 covered to uncovered, and now it’s more like 90/10.
Which doesn’t mean everyone is looking all modest and pious. Lordy, no. I haven’t seen so many tight clothes since Queens. And the care lavished on selecting the colors of scarves and the pinning and so on–straight off the pages of Hijab Fashion, and I am not making that magazine title up.
I’ve never been too bent out of shape about the hijab. It is not keeping women down–although it can be used to do so, along with a million other things. For the most part, it’s just another piece of clothing, and taking it off is not going to liberate anyone by itself. That’s not what women thought a generation ago, though–and it’s these older women, resolutely in polyester business suits and perfect coifs, that I don’t see much in Cairo anymore. The same backlash against overt feminism is happening in Egypt as is happening in the States–it’s just manifested differently. In the US, “I don’t consider myself a feminist” goes with midriff-baring tops and visible thong underwear; in Egypt, it goes with a bright-blue hijab tied to show off your earrings and a super-tight long-sleeve shirt and ankle-length skirt.
I’m sure there’s more to it, and every woman has a different reason/explanation/story (or none at all) for why they wear the hijab. It’s none of my business, really. I just appreciate the fashion parade.
(Though I do carry a scarf in my bag for wearing when I visit mosques, which is just polite.)
2) Don’t they hate Americans?
No. A lot of people really, really hate George Bush & Co., but they’re perfectly capable of distinguishing me from George Bush. No Texan accent, to start with.
There has been so much talk of anti-American sentiment in the Middle East that even I was starting to believe it might be true, even though I could not imagine someone in Egypt or Syria actually telling me they hated me because I was American. And it’s not like I believed it enough to start telling people I was Canadian or some crap.
Yes, I counted exactly two awkward silences following our admission of nationality–if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all, these two guys were clearly thinking.
More often, though, we got smiles, thumbs-up, “Ahsan nass!” (The best people!), “Yankee doodle!” and even “Hotsy-totsy!” (Huh?) One Syrian security guard said, “George Bush!” with a thumbs-up (we told him he was nuts), and another guard said, “George Bush bad!” while smiling apologetically. People in the Middle East are smarter than the American press gives them credit for.
And they are still kinder than most Americans would ever be to visiting Middle Easterners. I feel especially ashamed about this last point, and I will be practicing my crazy hospitality skills on anyone who comes within range–brace yourselves.
When Peter and I went to Syria in 1999, we were bowled over by just how incredibly nice and kind people were. Unlike Egyptians, however, these people did not have a clutching, crazed fascination with us as foreigners, and so were also exceedingly polite. It was odd to be in a place that was more closed off from global culture and yet also more blase and cosmopolitan than Egyptians could ever be.
More concretely, it was disorienting for me to sit in a park, alone, for half an hour and have absolutely no one bother me. Well, finally a young kid approached me, and he very nervously, blinkingly asked, “D-d-do you have the t-t-time?” After that, he asked me if I was Russian (aka a prostitute), and scampered away in shame when I said no.
Fast-forward to Syria 2007: Mobile phones, Internet and satellite porn have arrived, but not much else has changed. People are still exceedingly nice. Legitimate businesspeople still offer you the very thing they’re selling for free, which makes no sense at all. People say “Welcome” and don’t use it as a preamble to papyrus vending. Basically, Peter and I walked around for a week on the verge of tears of joy–every time someone did something nice, we would grab each other and blink the moistness from our eyes. I thought often of my mother’s made-up Spanish phrase, “Mi corazon es gordo”; my heart did indeed feel fat with love for all human endeavor, whether that came in the form of directions given clearly or an especially tasty sandwich.
Before we knew it, we were tearing up over, say, the bike-shop owner sharing his lunch with us, the tamarind-juice seller asking us whether people drank tamarind in America then offering us our drinks for free, Koko the adorable tailor making Peter a perfect shirt, everyone who offered us water and Kleenex to wash our hands, the bike-shop owner giving us a box and packing tape, the guys at the post office telling us how to navigate the system instead of being the usual sullen bureaucrats, the guys at the restaurant giving us cheese and salad when they saw me eyeing their plate, the bike-shop owner telling us he would give us a bicycle when we had a baby…
I could go on. And we really liked the bike-shop owner. He should get a medal. He’s certainly the only person who’s ever made me think twice about not procreating.
I realize there are some slightly problematic issues with us fetishizing Syrians this way. Egyptians did many of the same nice things (some were even helpful at the post office!), as did Turks once we crossed the border, but I’m not bursting into tears over them–is it just because they’re not locked away in a pariah state? And it’s hard to ignore Syria’s questionable political situation, along with the kerjillion posters of Bashar al-Asad, the most un-dictator-looking dictator ever. (In fact, because he’s so dorky, I simply can’t believe he means anything but good. I’m rooting for him, but I’m afraid I’ll regret that I typed this one day.)
See, one free lunch and I’m an apologist for a dictatorship. Did I mention how you can drink the water and there’s no crime? Excuse me–I feel a little crying jag coming on.
Oh goody–someone is blogging with obsessive detail about his flight to North Korea! After my Air Cubana flight, which was, to quote Heidi, “the fastest bus I’ve ever been on,” I’ve been curioius about the world’s more marginalized airlines. Curious–but not enough to actually fly them.
Meanwhile, Paul Karl Lukacs on Knife Tricks is reporting thusly:
Air Koryo is a flying circus featuring strangely coifed, vampiric flight attendants who work in a cabin straight out of a 1970s’ airport movie while travelers read palpably insane propaganda as they jet to an isolated dictatorship which is officially governed by a dead man.
He just got back from the trip, so presumably more detailed reports from the ground to come as well.
While I’m busy worrying about crossing the street in Cairo, someone I know is actually doing the Mongol Rally this summer. That involves driving all the way from London to Mongolia, in a tin can. But you get a special exemption to the one-litre-engine rule if you do it in an extremely weird vehicle, like a cherry-picker.
Haven’t picked a favorite to back yet? May I recommend Josh’s team, Mr. Dinosaur? Don’t be put off by the fact that they still haven’t got a vehicle–they’re relying on the whims of eBay UK. I urge you to contribute with cash donations–they will need them to donate to charities, as well as to buy cartons of cigarettes and buckets of whiskey with which to smooth their passage through the ‘Stans.
Josh is a fellow copy editor–so you know he’s reliable. And hopefully good at creative problem-solving…
The race begins July 21.
First: no green-pepper showdowns on the mean streets of the Crescent City. In fact, the only time I got even a hint of the stuff was in some alleged lobster oil floated on some cucumber soup, but by then my taste buds were so fried by, well, fried food that I could no longer judge. (More on that later.)
The second most important thing: New Orleans is a fabulous place to ride a bike. The fact that I’m mentioning this before the food is saying a lot. It has been a long winter, and I’m a little bike-deprived, so that may account for some of my enthusiasm. Another big asset: We had excellent guides in the form of Dan Baum and Meg Knox, who advised us on everything from where to rent the two-wheelers to which streets had the worst potholes. (Yes, the very same Dan Baum whose New Yorker blog I was admiring just a week ago. Lordy, I love the Internet.)
But in addition to all that, New Orleans is mostly level ground, completely anarchic without being crowded (read: I don’t have to follow traffic rules), and every person you pass has a little something to say, often about your hat. I’m sure in some neighborhoods, at some times of the night, the commentary from the sidewalk might not be so heartwarming, but this trip really reminded me why a bicycle seat is the best space to inhabit as a tourist. And certainly a bike is ideal for 2007 New Orleans, where you have this prurient interest in seeing just what the place looks like post-horror, but don’t want to seem like you’re staring. A bike goes a polite speed, a tactful speed.
(For the record: it is still a disaster, even though/because it’s not in the news much anymore. The trauma is palpable. Everyone wants to talk about it, but no one has anything else to say. It’s a strange place to be a tourist. Compare with Cancun, where everyone sports “I survived Wilma†T-shirts and laughs a lot; only the stubby palm trees are a clue that the biggest hurricane ever in the Caribbean landed here, not long after Katrina hit New Orleans.)
OK, OK—the food. Knox-n-Baum were also fine tour guides in this department, but we also got pointed to a sweet shrimp po’boy by a random dude on the street, which is proof that New Orleans really is an eatin’ town. If I asked a New Yorker for a restaurant recommendation, he would never give up his favorite place, and the place he pointed you to just at the end of the block would be some pretty crappy diner.
First night out, we gorged at Cochon, due to its proximity to where we were staying and its featuring calas on the menu. Not that I could actually remember what a cala was, but I did remember having clipped a recipe from a Slow Food magazine many years ago. (Oh, guess what? It’s something fried.) Cochon struck me as doing just the right amount of fancy-ifying of the Cajun and Creole oeuvre, but I’m not some kind of expert with standards of authenticity to offend. I pretty much bet there was no cream-of-mushroom soup at work back in the open kitchen, but there was of course a lot of bacon, and some succulent little ribs, and some sweet-and-smoky collards. Also some really buttery oysters. It was a bit of a blur due to travel daze and chatting with KnB and loads of small plates.
Next day…also a bit of a blur. Fried shrimp. Fried oysters. Root beer on tap at the Rock ‘n’ Bowl. Some soft-shell crab. Some eggplant and crab in a spicy cream sauce in capers, which made me realize what’s so genius about food in Louisiana: It’s all the completely unapologetic richness of French food, with the kick in the ass of spicy heat. It’s probably the only place at that near-tropical latitude that consumes so much butter and cream. Sounds like a recipe for disease of some kind, but damn, it tastes good.
Saturday: more fried oysters. Some fried catfish. A cherry Danish. Zapp’s potato chips in limited-edition Tabasco flavor and “craw-tator.â€
And then: The Wedding! The whole reason we were there, and the reason Peter (aka Recently Made Reverend) was wearing such a snazzy hat. Jim and Daphne tied the knot, to tearful toasts, terrible limericks and Led Zeppelin. I haven’t been to such a solid costume party in years, aside from that thing in the desert outside Reno. And I don’t think I’ve ever had such good food at a wedding. I rounded out my day with some fried chicken, plus a solid helping of collard greens. And the cake was scrumptious—by the pastry chef at Lillette, where I was sorry we didn’t get to eat. Oh, then a late-night bite of a grilled pork chop from an especially crazy grill contraption.
Sunday. I was so beat by biking against the wind (sing it, Mr. Seger) to get to the Single Ladies Pleasure Club’s second line that not even fried oysters and shrimp on the same bun could get me back in the game. A few bites of a smoked sausage bought from a grill mounted in the back of some guy’s truck helped a little. But even a couple of Pimm’s cups didn’t provide the refreshment I needed. Nor did a glass of red wine with ice in Tamara and Karl’s hotel room. (Yes, we take them everywhere we go!)
So by the time I tottered into Restaurant August, nearly the poshest spot in town and probably the only reason a random Google-r will land on this post, I could barely face a single plate of food.
Yes, I had a Campari. And fizzy water. But I really needed some Roman-era purging treatment. Peter had a five-course tasting menu, and I picked at my beet salad. Even asparagus soup seemed too rich, and a nibble of lamb nearly killed me. That’s when I thought I tasted green pepper in the lobster oil. So really, who knows?
Oh, but it’s good to be human—for what did I have the very next afternoon, as our plane took off from Louis Armstrong International?
A shrimp po’boy, of course.
I pretty much like all foods. I mean, almost. After I got over cilantro tasting like dish soap, and beets tasting like dirt (they still do, but now I don’t mind), the only thing left that I really don’t like to eat is:
Cooked green peppers. [horror-movie reverb font]
They remind of school lunch. Even at parts per billion, they manage to contaminate a whole dish, and make it taste…cheap, or something.
So I’m feeling a little anxious about going to Cajun-land tomorrow, where every recipe seems to start, “First, you saute your green peppers…”
There’ s a major disconnect here: I can’t imagine that an entire cuisine is actually going to be disgusting to me. I mean, it has hundreds of years of tradition and love behind it–how can it be bad? How can it really taste like spaghetti day in 1981 at A. Montoya Elementary?
But what if I’m served a big bowl of gumbo by some smiling old woman, who’s been slaving at a hot stove for decades…and I really just don’t like it?
I’m keeping an open mind. Believe me, I want to shake this negative association. I assume it’s just like getting used to guitar feedback. I just need to eat the Pixies, rather than, say, Whitesnake. Uh, right?
Meanwhile, this new post from Dan Baum, complete with photos of plump fried oysters, convinces me I’m doing the right thing by going, and facing my demons. It’s not like I’ll starve.
(Also, a Google map I made, based on assorted recommendations–any other suggestions?)
Just got back from a wild holiday weekend in that thrilling metropolis known as Manhattan–perhaps you’ve heard of it?
Living in Queens, even the first neighborhood into Queens, it’s easy to lost sight of the glass-towered shores of Manhattan. As I might’ve mentioned many times before, we have excellent restaurants and fine friends, as well as a giant movie theater, right here in Asssss-toria.
Peter and I had intended to actually leave town for the weekend, but we were gripped with indecision in the face of too many train schedules. Plus, I was a bit burnt-out from my Mexico jaunt.
Then Peter hit on the genius solution: We would check in to the Winslow Place B&B–in which the B’s stand for the ‘bed’ in our ‘basement.’ So we packed up our bags, walked downstairs and locked the door behind us.
TripAdvisor reviews for Winslow Place praise its lax “hands-off” approach to hosting, but criticize its equally lax standards of housekeeping, its less-than-cohesive decor and its ridiculously small shower.
I’m fresh from the finest resorts the Riviera Maya has to offer, but I’ve gotta say, the place wasn’t bad. Remarkably homey, with some very nice (and novel!) amenities, such as a bottle of wine, some bananas and a cribbage set by the bedside. There was also a full Dance Dance Revolution setup, which I think must be unique to this B&B. And you can fit two people in the shower if you’re really, really careful.
During the day, we actually went…into…Manhattan! Mostly it was to see movies, but we fit in some other culture, at the Studio Museum in Harlem. We had drinks at the Ritz-Carlton in Lower Manhattan, and took pictures of the Statue of Liberty, while one of the bar employees danced around behind us to “Fascinated” (he thought no one could see him, but he was reflected perfectly in the floor-to-ceiling windows). We had more drinks, and really good food, at Employees Only, where we’ve been meaning to go for something like a year and a half (the owners, incidentally, live in Astoria); we were also horrified at the well-groomed-but-still-ugly-mob bar scene of Friday-night West Village.
And we even bought a sofa. Which nearly punctured the fabric of fiction that was swaddling our little weekend getaway…but fortunately, it’s not being delivered until Wednesday, which gives us a lot of time to settle back into our real home in Astoria. Amazing how cheap the delivery fee is, considering just how far away we were when we bought it!