The Weekly Wad

2006: The Year in Rearview

Maybe black was a bad color choice for my fake suede coat. I was more enamored by the idea of the coat looking and feeling like the expensive fabric without the worry of it being ruined in the rain. But as I confidently approached the JC Penney’s cashier counter, coat in hand, I perused the sales tag one last time. I quickly scanned something about water resistance and tumble drying. Nothing on the tag, however, forewarned me about spilt tahini and vodka, enormous chalk and brick imprints on the sleeves and back or the coat being often used as a crude blanket or a train pillow.

Then again, nothing, no matter how resilient to the elements (or condiments), could have prepared me for the year’s wanderings, period. I approached 2006 like I usually approach everything else: staggering through the sloppy, stickiness; with little balance and most likely, unshaven. Like the fake suede (fuede?) coat draped around me as I write this, I’m somehow still around. In some capacity.   

A few staggered snippets:

The main thing learned from a short stint in Pittsburgh over the summer was that the probability of every restaurant meal in town being accompanied by a fried potato product, equals 100%. Whether French-fried, chipped or pancaked, I was amazed at how Pittsburghers relentlessly created new ways to serve something that grows in the ground. All three renditions were served in abundance to ensure proper artery deterioration, at Fatheads in the Southside neighborhood. Not so much the restaurant and brewery it claims to be, as a sanctioned trough, Fatheads is Pittsburgh all the way down to their pierogies and keilbasa. Incidentally, both were offered together piled high onto the Southside Slopes; not so much a sandwich as a zip code. I had to have it. But really, after a few jaw-straining bites, it had me.

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Forget GNP, trade deficits and academic achievement. The real indicator of progress and/or whether a country has or has not, is if the general populace has clothes dryers. Or not. Egypt hasn’t. Turkey hasn’t. Romania hasn’t. Ditto for parts of Spain and Portugal, even. While the washing machine revolution has swept most of the world up in a detergent wave of clean, in the most cramped of urban landscapes, the clothesline still proudly links building to building and neighbor to neighbor.

But to expect “April Fresh” from places where sheep excrement doubles as a sidewalk is beyond wishful thinking. Instead, my shirts held a bouquet of leaded gasoline with a subtle, yet noticeable, hint of cheap, domestic cigarettes in Cairo. In Rome, a piquant homage to brewing espresso and Vespa exhaust lightly graced my windblown boxer briefs.

At the same time, few things even come close to reproducing a sense of place better than its odors; something you don’t get from Downey dryer sheets. I just could have done without my pants having the aromatic whiff of an Alexandria fish market.      

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I was more than fortunate to have first and second helpings of Turkey in ’06. More specifically, Istanbul. With its ancient, cobbled streets, teeming bazaars and fascinating ethnic jumble, it’s hard not to love exploring the city for hours at a time. The task is made easier thanks to the constant influx of tea into the bloodstream. Turkish tea is a lightly sweetened, frequent delight. So frequent it might also explain the city’s frenetic pace. So frequent that you understand why waiters carry gleaming silver trays, laden with the traditional, figure-shaped tea glasses, down city streets and through hotel lobbies because tea is being ordered all day and all night by everyone with a mouth. So frequent that simple visits to stores and market stalls can result in a warm, welcoming tipple of the stuff with the salesperson, no purchase necessary. So frequent it’s no surprise to see the blue flame of an old stove firing a worn kettle behind the counter of any restaurant in any part of the old city, Sultanahmet. So frequent that even as I write this, already hopped up on two pots of coffee, I peer out the window, anxiously awaiting the next tea-toting Turk.         

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Historical re-enactors do not always cue eye-rolling and a frenzied search for the exit. A friend of mine and I sat on the porch of an old farmhouse with a few even older tourists, listening to a twenty-something actor play a Civil War-era Confederate soldier. The re-enactor precisely described life as it was the day Lee’s army surrendered to Grant in quaint, little Appomattox in 1865. The actor was terrific and completely believable as every detail from the grubby farm-wear to the slight Scottish brogue in his eastern Virginia accent was authentic. Managed by the National Park Service along with the rest of the superbly run Appomattox Court House National Historical Park, it was refreshing to see a government service actually worth my tax money. I would have gladly forked over more money if the park rangers would stop wearing those stupid hats.

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Constantly getting lost in Baltimore’s rougher neighborhoods – something just too easy to do – always seems to ram home the stark differences between the Charm City and Washington, DC, my former home. The short forty-five minute drive between them couldn’t be further away in terms of landscape, architecture and ambition. DC, the never-supposed-to-be city, simultaneously strives to be America’s best; while trying to hide America’s worst and competing for America’s future. Baltimore doesn’t try so hard. Maryland’s largest is a classic, East Coast city that has deteriorated gorgeously during the 20th century, yet is experiencing a modest comeback. Even many Districters have looked to Bawlmore’s bustling ethnic neighborhoods, it’s underrated nightlife and cheap, by comparison, real estate. That the Italian food is far superior than what can be found in the nation’s capital should be reason enough to call U-Haul.

Torment and Tea

The old van labored up the water-slicked cobblestone and with every hairpin turn, I was awed we were still moving forward. Kevbro and myself were having a revealing conversation with Rahim; a thin teenager with a bright yellow sweatshirt and an even brighter demeanor. Kevbro and I occupied one of the middle rows of seats in the large passenger van. Behind us, seated in the last row, was a stern-faced older Turk, his glasses lightly glinting as he periodically peaked his head above his newspaper.

While the driver pushed the van through Sultanahmet, Istanbul’s “old town”, Rahim answered our questions with enthusiasm we hadn’t seen from someone not trying to sell us anything. He was young and in college with a grasp of English far stronger than our attempted grasping of Turkish. His heavy, serious eyebrows belied the eyes of an easygoing jokester. An employee of the Turkish bath – or hamam – we had just paid for, Rahim was responsible for bringing two large men hoisted upon a leather sofa, barely covered in towels, their tea and Fanta. So it was easy to understand why he couldn’t help but chuckle after every few sentences.

The van ride back to the perfectly-priced Hotel Legend, which was a hotel in some sense and far from legendary in every sense, was thrown in by Rahim’s employer as part of the Turkish bath package we had paid for. Eager to take part in what was billed as a soothing Turkish experience, Kevbro and I made our way a few hours earlier to one of the oldest Turkish baths in the city. Cold and rainy, Istanbul in March made the word ‘bath’ ever so inviting and so after several wrong turns and a few rounds of point-and-gesture with some locals, we found ourselves in a plush changing cabin. We hung our wet clothes on the hooks and exited the cabin wearing nothing but striped towels around our waists. Luckily for me, the towel managed to just cover my capital region, while making sure my Constantinople didn’t unexpectedly peek out.         

We hobbled to the hararet, or steam room, on uncomfortable wooden, yet traditional, clogs and were told to enter and lay upon a giant heated stone slab and wait. Once inside, the cavernous stone room was humid, but not steamy. All around the slab in the center were several stations complete with faucets and marble beds. The slab itself was warm, but not hot, and laying on it while developing a good sweat was wonderful. The deep echo produced when Kevbro and I talked also added to the atmosphere as it reminded me of how monks would chant in the steam room after hitting the Stairmaster.   

Fifteen minutes of bliss passed when two thin, sinewy men wearing similar towels to ours walked past. They greeted us and told us to follow them to one of the stations encircling the slab. These were our masseuses and with a handshake and a smile, perhaps our friends. Kevbro went to a separate marble bed and I mine and the whole thing started out friendly enough.

Immediately, the sanctity of the room was broken by the gush of the faucets and my guy proceeded to pour pans of warm water on my back. He took what looked like a giant loofah sponge and began to scrub me thoroughly with its firm fibers. The whole thing felt brisk and invigorating and put me in a state of sorely needed relaxation.

Then came the thumbs, which my masseuse sorely kneaded into my flesh as though I was wearing a tattoo that read ‘Pillsbury’. A good massage has to hurt a little, or so I kept telling myself. That little mantra became less convincing as he put all his weight on my calf muscle and slowly squeezed upwards until it felt like a midnight leg cramp. Then came interesting techniques like being punched in the back several times and exerting abrupt pressure on my stomach with both of his hands. My hamstrings became his sparring session; my lower back his tackling dummy.

During the punishment, my grunts became louder and harder to conceal. I even started to get self-conscious as I knew Kevbro must be going through the same pain and I hadn’t heard him utter a whimper. The periodic pans of water quickly began to alternate between uncomfortably hot and shockingly cold. I began to gasp and squirm uncomfortably. For his finale, my tormentor took his opposing thumbs and forcefully applied them in direct opposition to my inner thighs. An alarming move, I began to flop around on the marble slab like a fish pulled right out of the lake. I even let out one of those high-pitched yelps you save for special occasions like third-degree burns. 

He assured me it had to be this way. He had to search out muscles rusting in a corner somewhere that I never knew I had. He had to sit me on the floor afterwards and pour pan after pan of glacier-like water over my head till I had to grab his arm and make him stop because I was having trouble, you know, breathing.

After they had left, Kevbro and I sat on the edge of the stone slab and looked down at the floor. My heart was trying to stop beating a thousand times a minute. Had we just gone through barefoot boot camp? Why did it have to be that way?

“Hey man, I’m impressed,” I said, panting, “you didn’t make a sound.”

“What?!” he looked at me with disbelief, ”didn’t you hear me scream?”   

The terrible two brought us to another room where they tied several towels around our heads and torsos. We looked ridiculous; like sheepherders. They then led us to a couple of leather couches where we were invited to lay down and relax as long as we’d like while they brought us plenty of refreshments. Within minutes, Rahim and his bright yellow sweatshirt, came into the room bringing us some of that addictive Turkish tea and a joke about how I look like I came from Spain.

Before long, we found ourselves in the western suburbs of the city, caught up in rush-hour traffic. The older man in the back continued to dodge any attempts at a friendly smile towards us and doggedly read his paper.

When we got to a street corner he liked, the old man stood up, said some things in Turkish to the driver and Rahim and exited the vehicle. During this process, he continued to not look in our direction and might have muttered something under his breath.

Rahim loved tourism, or so he proclaimed. I was inclined to believe him. As soon as the old man left, he turned to us and began a candid conversation with us about not only where we were from (oddly enough, the Turks were bad guessers) but what we had seen or done in Istanbul. He told us about wanting to fulfill his dream and go to Spain one day which of course forced me to break out my rudimentary high school Spanish and yammer on about how ‘caliente’ the women were and how ‘bueno’ the food was. His more than capable reply made my inferiority in Spanish seem suddenly equal to my Turkish.

Rahim made us aware of the gargantuan importance for Turkey of the soccer match that evening. Little did he know he was trying to inform two people who do not follow sports. Yet, he tried to explain it to us as best he could and we put our most polite smiles forward. Conversely, while passing a mosque no less, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” soulfully seeped out of the radio and I instinctively asked for him to turn it up. Rahim didn’t know who Marvin Gaye was but out of pure interest, he turned up the radio and proceeded to groove a little as Motown rocked the old town.

The van began to weave its way gracefully through the windy roads of Sultanahmet, when Rahim turned and asked us if we knew who the old curmudgeon in the back was. We didn’t. Apparently, he was a former high official, very high up in fact, with the Turkish police. A “VIP” as Rahim called him. Considering Turkey’s appalling track record on human rights and torture, not to mention the physical intimidation with a sponge that Kevbro and I had just experienced, I couldn’t help but think that maybe our masseuses were really working for him.