Kazan — summer 2014

It's my last full day in Bulgaria. I wander around the city and am feeling peckish. A-ha! There is a restaurant called "Garden & Barbeque." It's an awfully American name, but I'm hungry enough to give it try.

How entirely logical... their menu seems to abound with pizza. (???) And one of the pizzas is the Arizona pizza. Hm. What impressions does a Bulgarian have about what we would put on a pizza in Arizona?

I'm thinking the pizza has nothing to do with Arizona. They were just desperate for a name that didn't have New York or Chicago in it.

I scan the menu and decide this should be my lunch:

Back in the States I think we would call this a chicken roulade. Y'know how sometimes food that is delivered to your table doesn't quite look as good as it did on the menu? Here's how the dish actually came to the table.

I'm very pleased. Super tasty. What was supposedly bacon is more like ham, but I can deal with that.

I'm joined by a former student of Cleo's named Zhivko. He shows me around a bit. Here is the National Palace of Culture. The design screams ‘Soviet era.’

The city has lots of interesting fountains, but they are mostly dry since public funds are tight. Still, the economy seems better here than in Kazan. That's most likely because the Russians still have too much of a command economy.

Cool, cloudy day. I really like it.

C'est moi.

The mountain in the background is called Vítosha.

The main pedestrian street is also called Vitosha. Zhivko takes me to his favorite people-watching site. Zhivko orders a long-island iced-tea, and I order an appletini... the perfect drink to complement my murse...

And what do they serve up with it? Carrot sticks?? Are you serious??? The carrots are soaking in an infusion of salt and vinegar and heaven knows what else... and they are *very* tasty. Now that's a not-very-subtle way to sell more booze, eh? But because it's not peanuts or pretzels, one might not think about that aspect of it.

We wander around a bit more. It starts to rain, so we pull into a book store. I'm amused to find this subsection:

Hm. Maybe I should read a Bulgarian novel this summer. But it's been 20+ years. I need to read something that I can handle without a grammar book handy. Hm... I pick up a copy of “Interview with the vampire” by Ann Rice in Bulgarian. I remember the story well enough that I should be able to get through it without constantly checking a dictionary. That should be fun.

Woke up about five. Showered, packed, skyped with Dad since it is Father's Day. (Well, it's still Sunday back in Vancouver, although here it is Monday, so from Dad's perspective it is still father's day.) Checked out of the hotel, headed to the airport. Chatted up the driver like crazy, which set him off like a machine gun of political opinions, which were much too sophisticated for me to understand at the speed. My first instinct was just to nod my head and smile, but of course that means the opposite here in Bulgaria as it does in the US, so I shook my head and smiled. It's funny. The short cab drive to the airport cost almost as much as my two hour bus drive from Plovdiv to Sofia. I'll bet the bus drives are subsidized.

The Sofia airport is decently organized. No problems signing in. To my shock there was no charge for my second bag; in the States I had had to pay $100 for it. Post office to buy a stamp for a post card. Panini style sandwich in the buffet. Security. Another Panini in another cafe.

In the waiting area I saw four of the tallest women I have ever met in my life. All four were dressed very similarly in terms of jeans, blouses and shoes, all wearing Vakif bank jackets. Later they were joined by two more. I'm guessing they were speaking Turkish, but I don't have enough of an ear for the language to know; I did notice they occasionally threw French and English in as well. Perhaps they were part of a Turkish women's basketball team? Walking around the area was very good looking young man with a cock-of-the-walk strut. He walked by them and gave the lustful once-over to the the darkest haired of the girls. I think in the states when a guy does the once-over, it usually is fairly brief, say two-three seconds, and usually from a reasonably distance. This young Turk stopped about 18 inches in front of hear and leared for twenty-thirty seconds. She briefly glanced at him, sneered, and returned her attention to ther iPad. The girl next to her, however, caught his eye and directly grinned back. He moved on.

The airplane ride to Istanbul was only about an hour long. We had barely finished ascending when we started descending. Little did I know that I did I know that my irritation with Istanbul was to begin at any moment. Or as I now like to think of the city, ‘Irritating bull.’

I had an 11-hour layover in Istanbul. Frankly, I'm just not into the place that much. My love of a place is often prededed by an interest in the language, and I've just never been that interested in Turkish. Oh, sure, in my undergraduate days I would occasionally go to the library and thumb through Turkish grammar books for an hour or two, and I briefly had a Turkish language study group in my home for a few months back when my home church was thinking about Turkey. Nothing really serious. In short, I just don't care about Turkey.

But an 11-hour layover? I am so not sitting in the airport for eleven without free wi-fi. So I decided to explore the city. To leave the international section of the airport, you have to get a visa, a fairly simple process of forking over some money. How much? $30. Seriously? You want me to give you $30 to see this city I don't particularly want to see? Sigh. Okay. Oh, dear. I only have $14 in cash. You only accept cash? No, I don't have euros. Oh, you don't accept other currencies? Seriously? I have Bulgarian levs. The girl directs me to go straight to passport control with my levs. I stand in the mammoth line for passport control. Turns out the girl was lying. Passport control is not allowed to take any money. She just didn't want to deal with me. Sigh. I ask around. No, there is no alternative place where you can purchase a visa with a credit card. Seriously? Istanbul is a major trade capital. Cargo ships are choking the Bosporus like maggots on an untreated wound. They have an international hub airport of enormous size that has to process millions of people a year, and they don't process visas via credit card?? Quelle merde. Finally one of the information guys suggests that I go up to their third-floor international departure area; he isn't sure whether the money changing stations there will accept credit cards, but perhaps they might.

I head upstairs to international departures, which means going through another screening area. Sigh. I go up to the area via the stairs and surface into the most enormous restaurant-bar-duty-free-money change area you can possibly imagine. It's huge, it's beautiful, it's clean, it offers anything you can possibley imagine, it's chock full of people... and it's as festering a pustule of capitalism as I've ever seen, designed to suck money out of people who are temporarily stuck in this international twilight zone. When the revolution comes, the owners of all your companies are going to be first up against the wall! Can you tell my mood is bad?

So I find a money changer. Wow, they accept a lot of currencies. No, Bulgarian levs are not among them. No, they do not accept credit cards for cash advances. Neither does the next one. Now I'm fuming. I'm going to have stay here in this fetid cathedral to the free market for eleven hours. No!!!

And then I think of my nephew. When he was younger, if he couldn't solve a problem right away, he would just get frustrated and quit. Probably he has grown out of that by now. Heaven knows, it's a habit that usually doesn't serve you well in life. What about the duty-free stores? Nope, they only give you change in Turkish lira; I could buy something and get $30 of change, right? Wrong. If I use my credit card, that's for the exact price. If I use my $14, there is no way to get $30 in change unless you are a pickpocket, a skill I haven't practiced in so very many weeks that I probably couldn't pull it off at a cash register with video surveillance.

What about ATMs? Hm. There is a thought. We're in Turkey, so the ATMs probably only issue Turkish lira. But what if I found an American-based. Intriguing. I go to the computerized information desk since I can't find one with real human beings. It's a huge touch screen. I touch the ‘services’ button. Up comes a search function. Cool! I touch my finger to the search field... no keyboard comes up. Well how the hell am I supposed to use the search function without being able to type letters? My impression of Turkey slides down another notch.

I wander around discouraged. At the complete other end of this capitalist purgatory is another identical touch screen monitor. The software is probably centrally served. If the other one won't work, why should this one? Try it anyway... voilá! The search function works. I search for banks. There is a Citibank machine on the floor below, and the screen is giving me fairly lengthy and sophisticated directions. I memorize them. I follow them. Various security guards patrol the stairway and hallways indicated... but they all let me through. Interesting. Perhaps they are here just to intimidate people into staying in rip-off land?

I find the ATM. Let's think. In the States the most common bill to come out of an ATM is a twenty. They probably wouldn't stock the machine with tens. Okay, a multiple of twenty, then. I request $60. The machine responds that it cannot process a request for that sum. Damn. I hit ‘continue.’ The machine suggests that it could give $50. Seriously? Okay, cough it up, robobanker. Sure enough, out pops $50 US. Jackpot. That is, it's a jackpot of the visa creeps will give me change...

They do! I now have a Turkish visa. Passport control again. Success! I'm out of the international zone. Now I stop at another ATM and grab enough lira for the day. I don't want to carry my monstrously-stuffed backpack all over town, so I leave it at the luggage holding area, for which privilege they will charge me 15 lira. Capitalist scum. Now encumbered only by my murse and my attitude, I set off.

---

Kathleen had sent me an e-mail that gave me a fairly precise set of instructions on how to take advantage of the situation:

Follow signs to the metro. There is a bit of walking through empty-ish halls.

1. Buy 4 jeton at the machine. (You’ll need coins for this.)

2. Havalimanı (airport) is the end station of the M1 line , so you can’t go wrong.

3. Take the M1 to Zeytinburnu (olive fruit) station.

4. Exit there and transfer to the T1. You’ll need to exit the Metro station and use another jeton to enter the T1 Tram station. Follow the signs (and the people)

5. Exit the T1 at Sultan Ahmet stop. That is the center of the tourist area. St. Sofia, the Blue Mosque, the Roman Baths, a bazaar, a short walk to the Bosporus (follow the T1 tracks in the direction you were traveling)…
Lots to see in a compact area. Be sure to explore behind and to the left of the Blue Mosque.

Allow 1 hour transit each way. It will be less, but this gives you time to make a mistake and recover without panic.

Enjoy!

Her instructions worked well. General impressions en route:

• Skin generally seems a bit darker than Bulgarians. There's certain subset of the Turks who have a particular round face.
• On the other hand there are those who, if they were in Greece, would be taken as Greeks. Or in Spain, as Spanish. Or in Mexico as Mexican. I'm not sure if that's due to the mix of bloodlines or simply the random toss of genetics.
• Looking out the window, I'm amazed. I have never seen so many clothing stores in one place in my life. Note to self: next time bring money for clothes. Alas, most of my discretionary spending money has been expended over the previous week.
• Lots of food places, mostly doing variations on doner and kebap. It's exactly the same as in Kazan or Plovdiv. Note to self: there doesn't seem to be much original Tatar food. It's mostly variations on Turkish. (Yes, there are exceptions, but I'm write about Turkey today, not Tatar cuisine.)
• Lots of shops selling sweets. I've never been fond of Turkish Delight, but the displays of it here are beautiful. I buy one type that is pomegranate and pistachio. Another that is rose flavored. I still don't like it. But I bought a quarter kilo, so it will make a decent gift for my landlady.

I finally get down to the main tourist drag. Firs site of the Blue Mosque. Wow, impressive.

Turn 180° and there is the Hagia Sofia. Wow. Now I know where the Blue Mosque got its inspiration. Alas, it's a Monday and the Hagia Sofia is closed. It's prayer hour, so I can't get in the Blue Mosque for some time.

My blond hair makes me a mark here. And my age suggests disposable (disposible?) income. The carpet sellers flock to me like ants to sugar water. No, I'm not interested in carpets. And I'm getting tired and hungry.

Actually, I feel really funny. Is this because of irregular eating habits? The lasting effect of jet lag and irregular sleep? Am I having the effects of an arteriovascular misformation and am about to die? I'm gonna guess it food is the issue. I start looking around. Eventually I spot this place, which has a ton of locals eating at it.

Prices seem acceptable for the area. But I can't quite figure out the ordering process. Part of the name includs the word büfe which might mean buffet or a la carte style. Eventually they herd me through a line to a table and bring me a menu with pictures. Hm. The iskender kebap looks good. And a lemonade.

The lemonade is curious; it has obviously real lemon juice and a sweetness I attribute to honey instead of refined sugar. Tasty. And the kebap is thinly shaved meat over a piece of bread that is soaking the fat and juices from the meat and tastes glorious as well. Good choice, Don. Feeling a touch better.

From there I go outside. Weather looks threatening. Sit for a while in a cafe. I decide I really don't feel good enough to spend lots of time down here, so I decide to walk up the T-1 line toward the airport until I don't have enough energy to go on, then I'll get on public transport and head back to the airport. This lets me see a ton of stuff. Mosques, stores, racial mixes. Some of the stores have quadrilingual signs, especially the ones with wholesale prices that are marked in Turkish, English, Russian and... oops, I forget the fourth language. Beggars that may be faking it, beggars that are obviously handicapped (I give to them). I get lost. Crap. Trace my way back. Eventually I'm exhausted. I find the T-1. Start the road back to the airport.

Back at the airport I'm no longer in the mood for things Turkish. I sit at Starbucks and read until they assign my gate, which is 309. Retrieve my backpack from luggage storage. Check in. Go through security. Sit at cafe until an hour before my flight. Go to my gate. The flight has been reassigned to 224, which is all the way on the other side of the terminal. Damn. But all is well because I have always done things with the time to spare just in case stuff like this happens.

Next to me is sitting a Russian woman, but she is dressed just like an American. Curious. If you saw here in San Diego, you would never guess she was Russian.

Time to nap.

The plane ride is two hours and twenty minutes to Kazan. Yekaterina (Katya) and Dima (the driver) meet me at the airport with the driver. Katya recognizes me from my picture. It's about 3:00 a.m. We arrive at the apartment about 3:30 a.m. It's already light enough on the street to read a newspaper. My landlady Lena isn't quite here yet, but she texted me and is on her way. She shoes up. We enter the apartment, she gives me the key, I give her Turkish Delight, and off she goes.

Now there is a certain hierarchy of human needs, and I immediately start to meet them.

1. Air. The first thing I need to make sure of is air. Can't live without air, after all. I inhale. I observe that there is air. Well, that was easy.
2. Water. I start the water pot boiling. Must have boiled water to kill any giardia in the system.

Okay, those are the big starting two. I'm really not tired. I unpack a bit. But I may as well try to rest. I set my alarm clock for 7:00 a.m. I lie down, and I sleep.

Awake. Shower. Now to continue attending to the hierarchy of needs.

1. Shelter. I head to the bank to get money to pay for rent. The rent I pay in cash. The first bank I get to is the one I used most of all last year. This year it won't give me more than a thousand rubles at a time. A thousand rubles is like thirty bucks. I can't pay my rent for a month at that rate. I try another bank. Their limit is 7500 rubles. Much better. I draw 7500 rubles from two different accounts. That will be a good start.
2. Internet. Yup. For the moment getting internet access is more important than food. I go to Megafon to get new access for my USB internet modem.
3. Food. I buy a couple of chicken and potato elesh on the way home.

Here's a picture of an elesh. Basically it's a savory pastry. Love this stuff.

I plug in my USB modem. Start dealing with e-mail. Head downtown. Have coffee with a friend. Head to the institute. Retrieve my printer and fitted sheets from last year. (Russians mostly don't use fitted sheets. Two years ago I couldn't stand it anymore and bought a set to fit my Russian bed.) Taxied home with them. Checked out the printer. Wow, the color cartridge still works. The b&w doesn't. Head back downtown. Buy a b&w cartridge. Stop off at a restaurant. Read. Go home. Sleep.