Ape Rifle

I have so much to say about my trip to Turkey that I cannot hope to cram it all into this entry, or even the next several. Istanbul alone could easily dominate the next ten posts, and that was but a small part of my travels. I will therefore take the proper time to cover my Turkey travels on this blog, devoting posts to fun stories, observations and specific destinations in no particular chronological order.

A good place to start would be my experience with the Turkish intercity bus system. This service, at least in the western region of the country, puts most ‘developed’ countries to shame (I should warn here, however, that none of my observations take into account the huge eastern half of the country, which I’ve been told is a whole other story in terms of infrastructure and socio-economic development). Every long-distance bus I was on was fast, sleek, comfortable and impeccably clean. Perhaps this stems from the apparently fierce competition between a huge number of private companies; each station, rather than having a central ticket office, was a bonafide marketplace of bus companies hawking their routes.

Particularly overwhelming for me was the bus station in Izmir, the country’s third largest city. Imagine the largest sports stadium you’ve ever been to, and try to picture the cavernous concession stand areas in which you walk around trying to find your section. Then, turn every one of those concession stands into a bus company booth with a bright, visually noisy sign advertising its routes. Thankfully, I was there around 10pm and the monumental hall was largely empty- I can only imagine the scene in there at peak hours.

Anyways, there was a point to all this. This intense competition between bus companies also seems to have fostered a rather amazing level of service on the buses themselves. Each vehicle has a well-dressed attendant who goes up and down the aisle several times a trip with a trolley cart offering free (what?!) coffee, tea, soft drinks, juice, snacks and water. If you want to pay a little more, you can end up on a deluxe bus with huge leather seats, wireless internet, a personal audio connection and an up-close vantage point from which to observe Turkey’s moneyed class.

And it was riding Turkey’s great bus system that I was first introduced to Kolonya.

Kolonya sneaks up on you quietly, most often in clear, squeezable plastic bottles. The best way to describe its composition would be a nice blend alcohol, cheap cologne, citronelle candle and heavy-duty pesticide. I’m not exactly sure how its use came about in Turkish culture or what the social norms surrounding it are, but I sure got doused with a hell of a lot of it. On every bus trip, the attendant would work the aisle on several occasions and squirt Kolonya into the cupped, waiting hands of each passenger. While I restricted myself to rubbing it into my hands, some other passengers seemed to prefer massaging it onto their necks or even smoothing it into their hair. I didn’t really know why I was subjecting my palms so frequently to this substance, but I knew I sure as hell wasn’t going to get any mosquito bites there.

My exposure to Kolonya was, thankfully, not limited to bus journeys. My girlfriend, being the good Turk she is, also had a trusty bottle of it in her bag. I thus had the chance to regularly experience both its medicinal qualities and the soothing effects of its sweet smell. Scratch on your toe? Kolonya. Pimple on your face? Kolonya. Looking Tired? Kolonya. 2:35pm on a Tuesday? Kolonya.

However, one should be warned not to mix different brands of Kolonya. One particular bus trip, I was subjected to both my girlfriend’s Kolonya and a rather less pleasant one courtesy of the bus company. Faced with such a concentration of Kolonya on my fragile hands, what did I do? Why, I smelled them of course.

Big Mistake.

I’m not sure what did me in more, the intense faux lemon smell or the cheap chemicals assaulting my brain. All I know is that I haven’t felt that instantly nauseous in a long time. Good thing I was on a bumpy bus. I quickly ate some biscuits and prayed for the best, desperate not to become that ‘foreign guy puking in the back of the bus’. Through the grace of some deity or other I was thankfully spared that fate, gasping for fresh air as the bus unloaded us at our destination.

The most unexpected appearance of Kolonya came on my last day in Turkey. In a photo shop in Istanbul, as my girlfriend and I waited for digital prints promised to some kids (another story to be told), the shop owner decided the occasion necessitated perfumed hands. With a big smile and a query to my girlfriend as to whether they had Kolonya in Europe (everyone in Turkey thought I was British, or at least European), out came the infamous plastic bottle. By this point, I had learned to stop worrying and love Kolonya. I gleefully extended my cupped hands and accepted the sweet, insect repellent concoction. This time, however, I didn’t smell my hands after.

I’m not a chemist nor a sociologist, but through my limited observational powers I believe Kolonya to be the Turkish cousin of the famed Chinese 白酒 (baijiu) alcoholic delight. They seem similar both in chemical composition and through the seemingly random occasions in which they are foisted on unsuspecting foreigners. Of course, the Chinese actually make the mistake of drinking their version, which might explain a lot about the current state of that country. The Turkish, it seems, prefer the milder oomph of Raki, a more distant and more palatable relative of the East Asian firewater.

As I sit here now in a cafe on my last day in London, watching the suits and umbrellas file by outside in the rainy weather, I long for the fun of Kolonya.

I just got back from Turkey last night and although I am still a little too worn out to blog in earnest, I thought I would kick things off with a little visual treat. One of our stops along the way was Efes(Ephesus) of stunning Greco-Roman ruins fame. This major tourist attraction has its fair share of interesting signage to say the least, lest Turkey be outdone by certain larger Asian countries. Here is a taste:

Caution: Aliens Falling

This next one, however, takes the cake. Apparently announcing the payment necessary to enjoy the site’s restrooms, the wording alone makes this sign the one to beat in terms of laugh-out-loud hilarity. The accompanying graphic, however, brings it to a whole new level.

Pure Magic

I’d say this confirms Turkey’s ownership of the esteemed “Funniest Sign Ever” title. Feel free to prove me wrong, but I have a feeling it might be hard. PS: Turkey was absolutely amazing, a lot more on that in the coming days.

I handed in my dissertation last Wednesday, and since then I have been wandering about feeling lighter than air. For the first time in much longer than I can remember, I don’t have some major deadline lurking in my thoughts, ruining my every waking moment by incessantly reminding me that I should be working. Since last Wednesday, I’ve had, well, absolutely nothing to do. It feels so good.

Of course the question of my future, both near-term and long-term, looms on the horizon just past this temporary respite. However, I can’t really say that it is stressing me out; I have numerous options, and I’m rather excited to pursue one, or some, of them. When I return to Canada in late September I intend to regroup, take stock of where I’ve been so far and what I’ve done. Two big questions will need to be asked:

1) Do I let work determine where I live, or do I let my choice of location determine my work?
2) Should I base personal relationships on my movements, or base my movements on important personal relationships?

These are serious and introspective questions, somewhat out of place here given the sarcastic tone I usually take on this blog. But I guess that’s the kind of mood I’m in right now. My year in London absolutely flew by, and I’ve reached the point where I’m saying goodbye to good friends, quietly wondering if I’ll ever see them again. I guess that is one of the biggest downfalls of the transnational life: you meet amazing people, only to let them go as we all drift back to our respective countries or chosen corners of the world. This will be my fourth consecutive year of goodbyes, and I think that emotionally I’m getting rather tired of it. Could it be time to settle down somewhere for real? Do I need to stop being such a goddamned drifter, and realize that I can’t keeping hopping around the globe leading a disposable life without suffering the consequences once the glory of youth starts to fade?

Anyways, I have promised myself not to get caught up in this self-reflection quite yet. Tomorrow, I head for Turkey and a much needed vacation. I’m really excited for this trip because 1) I’ve never been there and have absolutely no preconception of what awaits me upon arrival (well, actually, I guess Xinjiang was pretty Turkic), and 2) I’ll be traveling with a native who also happens to be a person for whom I care very deeply. Finally, some time to enjoy each other’s company without the stress of exams and dissertations in the mix. And given all the wonderful things I’ve heard about Turkey, it sounds like the perfect place to do this. As a self-professed lover of cities, I’m sure I’ll be swept off my feet by Istanbul.

Of course, coming back to the shell of my life in London for a few days in late September will probably not feel so great. Being one of the last people to leave is always the worst: you feel like a ghost, wandering through once familiar scenes now populated with new and unfamiliar faces. Rooms that were once full of life and laughter now sit quiet and empty, only this time coupled with the realization that, unlike during holidays, their occupants are never coming back. I’m not very good at saying goodbye, but I do miss people intensely.

When I get down like this, it always helps to remind myself how lucky I am. I’ve had tremendous and continuing support from my family and lifelong friends. I’ve lived in three countries. I speak English, French and somewhat functional Mandarin. I have a Masters degree from the London School of Economics (well, hopefully!).

I guess, in many ways, the sky’s the limit. It’s just that, sometimes, I wonder about those I leave behind when I’m reaching for that sky.