Love and an Olive Bun

(Written January 2012) It took us twelve months, but my husband and I finally managed to go on vacation in 2011. Yes, we’d both traveled over 25,000 miles in those twelve months, but between evacuations, returns, and moving out of Cairo, none of it was remotely close to a vacation. We’d also had two vacations canceled (Tanzania in February and St. Croix in August), and by God or Allah or whomever would listen, we were going on vacation now!

The plan was to meet my mother in Prague (which was decided on after Googling “Christmas in Europe”) for a week. Our options from Kuwait were via Istanbul or Frankfurt. Having spent three years loathing the Frankfurt airport, we opted for Istanbul, and decided to stretch our vacation dollars by taking the long layovers so we could get out and get a taste of Istanbul.

What we didn’t really take fully into consideration was that we’d be leaving Kuwait at two in the morning, and arriving in Istanbul around six a.m. There’s not a lot of touristy things open at six in the morning in most cities, unless you’re at Disney. But we did our best to grab a few hours of sleep inflight, then donning our carry-ons we headed down to the metro from the terminal, and dove in to a Monday morning in Istanbul with great excitement!

We rode the metro a few stops, got off at Zeytinburnu where we stood with the working folk awaiting the tram that would take us, in a mere seventeen stops, to Sultanahmet. I confirmed with a young lady that we were waiting for the correct tram, heading in the right direction, and then when it arrived we squeezed on and grabbed a handle. At the time we probably thought that it was a bit crowded, but with stop after stop after stop introducing more and more people, the ludicrousness of our situation soon became apparent. My husband and I were each clutching a plastic handle attached to a pole above our heads; in our other hand we held our backpacks; and after the first four or five stops of additional people shoving in, we were now tummy-to-tummy, with feet twisted trying to find floor space, hands gripping desperately to the plastic handle, all the while with our fingers going numb from the fear-of-death-due-to-squishing grip. It was like standing 3D Twister, but with the added fun of potentially lethal compression. We’re definitely on vacation now! At one point I just couldn’t take it anymore and start to giggle. It was so ridiculous. I glanced over at the girl next to me, a mere 4.75 inches away, and just smiled at her. Luckily she smiled back. I guess this is just a normal Monday morning in Istanbul.

We finally disembarked at Sultanahmet with a hungry intake of air. It was cold and raining a bit, but that’s fine. We’re on vacation! Despite the Hagia Sofia Mosque being closed on Mondays, we still wandered the streets surrounding it, with visions of a hot tea and scrumptious breakfast in our future. We soon realized, however, that the proprietors here apparently see little point in opening at seven a.m. After wandering a bit more, we finally found an industrious and very tiny bakery that appeared to be open. We ducked through the small door and down the four steps. A man was standing behind a small display case, from which we picked out two fresh baked goods, which turned out to be delicious black olive buns and ordered two hot teas (which came piping hot and strong enough to make me wince).

With a gracious sweep, the owner suggested we sit at one of the tables. Staring down at them, I was having flashes of being Alice and mistakenly having eaten from the wrong side of the mushroom. The tables were about 18 inches off the ground and the stools were about a foot high. My husband, ever willing to try something new and exciting, tried getting on to one of the stools, but had to physically move another table away in order to pull the stool out. Having finally perched onto a stool, looking a bit like an elephant on a mushroom, he looked up at me and said, “Do you think these are for children?” I couldn’t stop laughing. It seemed odd that there’d be a bakery set up just for kids, but what did I know? (Later, as we continued walking around we saw these tiny tables and stools all over the place, so obviously Istanbulians have very strong knees and thighs.)

We finished up our breakfast, and headed back out. With the help of good-ole Google maps and my husband’s Smart Phone, we started wandering. We threaded through many back alleys and cobbled streets, up hills and down, and finally came to the Suleiman Mosque (built in the mid 1500s). After traversing around nine-tenths, we finally came to the front door. The mosque was beautiful; sitting high on the Third Hill (of Istanbul’s seven) surrounded by a formidable stone wall. And the interior was amazing, not just for its grand scale, but architecturally it was stunning, with the central dome reaching almost 174 feet into the air, supported by semi-domes, and decorated with Iznik tiles. Over the last 450 years, it has suffered through multiple fires and even an earthquake, so the structure we see today is from a restoration in 1956. But most noticeable to us (keeping in mind our mosque introductions were done in Egypt) was that it was spotless. I could have quite happily had a picnic on that carpet (but I didn’t). We came out the back door and sat down in the courtyard to put our shoes back on and decide our next move. While doing so we happened to see three cats racing across the courtyard directly toward us. I sat and waited to see what they’d do and one came running right up and jumped right on my lap, meowing loudly. She was very cute, but I wasn’t too keen on having her dirty wet paws all over me, so I picked her up and put her next to me, despite her very loud protestations, which I understood perfectly well, even in Turkish.

From here, we decided to head towards the Grand Bazaar and grab some lunch before heading back to the airport. I had glorious visions of doing some shopping in the Bazaar, and had forewarned my husband as to my plan; Turkish pottery was in my future, I just knew it. We finally found the entrance (or rather one of more than twenty apparently), and much like that mysterious wardrobe that lead to Narnia, it didn’t disappoint.

It is said that Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar is one of the world’s oldest and largest covered markets, with more than 58 interior streets, with Iznik tiled vaulted ceilings and thousands of shops. It’s labyrinthian, to say the least, but if I’m going to get lost in a sea of Turkish ceramics, just toss me a credit card and leave me be. We wandered a bit and then decided to just dive in. At random I chose one ceramic shop and did my best to not drool with delight. The variety of colors and styles was mesmerizing. It was like looking into a kaleidoscope, then getting to choose which jewels to pick. Upon expressing interest in the four and six-tile pieces, the proprietor started opening drawers upon drawers of hand-painted stunning mouth-watering tiles. With each one I sighed a little more, but then, seeing I wasn’t quite ready to fall just yet, he started unwrapping newly arrived pieces. And that was my downfall. There I found my love; a six-tiled blue-green depiction of the Tree of Life. He saw the light in my eyes and now began the bartering. I let my husband take the lead on this, and I have to say that I was fairly impressed. He managed to get the guy down 25%. Of course, he said later that unless you have the guy following you down the street finally agreeing to your stated price, you probably could have done better. I didn’t care, it was stunning and I was delighted. We didn’t have enough cash on us, so my husband wandered off to the ATM and I waited. In my love-haze I didn’t realize that that was a mistake, but after ten minutes I soon realized what I’d done. I’d sent my husband off into the labyrinth without his sense of direction (me). The proprietor and I kept a look out for him on any of the surrounding streets, and finally I said I had to go look for him, so I headed out. But no luck. I came back to the shop and waited some more. Finally, he showed up, coming from the back streets. “I got lost,” he said. “Then I asked someone for the tree of life ceramics, but he took me to his brother’s shop. But then someone else knew who I was looking for and brought me here.” Sigh. All is good. We paid, packed our well-wrapped tiles into our carry-on and took a taxi to the airport, heading off to Prague.

A mere week later, on yet another Monday (so still no Hagia Sofia Mosque for us), we returned. This time we only had about four hours, so we decided to forego the metro and tram, and just take a taxi straight to the Bazaar where we’d do a little more shopping and exploring. Unfortunately, our taxi driver somehow missed the turn he wanted, even after backing up on the street (ahh, Cairo memories), so with a lot of Turkish mutterings he finally parked in front of a large mosque and gestured for us to get out.

“Where’s the Bazaar?” my husband asked. “Just there!” he said with great annoyance. “Just five minute walk.” He even wiggled his fingers in case we were unclear of what “walk” meant. Feeling a tad frustrated, we relented and got out. My husband whipped out his trusty SmartPhone and we began following it like a diving rod. At first we were rather miffed at the driver, but it soon became apparent that he did us a wonderful favor. He had dropped us off behind the Ottoman Baroque Nuruosmaniye Mosque and to get to the Grand Bazaar we had to walk through the back alleys and local markets and at every turn we were confronted with wondrous sights. From the chains-only store, to the tassels-r-us store, to the naked mannequins and empty shelves store, to the life-size pirate and odd looking monkey toilet roll holders store. I was in seventh heaven. We finally made it to the Bazaar and stopped for a quick bite in a small café near the central hub. My husband was thrilled to be able to order a hot tea with rum (quite unusual in an Islamic country) and we ate our vegetarian pide (kind of like a folded pizza) then headed out. Our intention was to find our favorite ceramics seller again, Mr. Selim, and after a few stops along the way to oogle at the hat sellers and spice piles and fresh made Turkish delight, we found him and were greeted like long-lost cousins (spending lots of money tends to elicit this response). So, like any happy squirrel with shiny objects, I started my gathering. By the time we were done, we had six more tiles and eleven bowls. And the only thing that stopped me here was the fact that nothing else could fit in our, now four, carry-ons.

We made it to the airport with only one issue. Failing to follow our own advice, we did not get exact change before the ride, so when we asked for change from the driver, he suddenly pretended we’d agreed on a higher price. Knowing we’d been stupid, and therefore scammed, we berated him and left. At the x-ray screening I was pulled aside and asked to open my backpack. I had lovingly wedged the twelve tiles in it (six from our first trip, six more from our second) and suddenly the security agent wanted to unwrap all of them. I literally begged her not to; they would never survive the flight without the careful wrapping Mr. Selim had done. She looked unmoved and carried one pack off to her supervisor, but then returned and said it was okay. Whew! I’ve never felt like flinging myself on ceramic tiles before, but I was close.

So over our two mini-visits, we’d only been in Istanbul for about ten hours, but I was hooked. It was love at first sight, or rather, after the tramride. I don’t know if I can explain my love (can we ever?); it was like Cairo, but cleaner and more compact. The colors and activity were mesmerizing and I realized that’s what I miss most in Kuwait. There are no wacky things to see, no piles of dizzying colors, no wandering back alleys to find hidden gems. But knowing that Istanbul is a mere four hours away gives me hope that we’ll meet again. And this time I’m bringing a titanium suitcase and a larger backpack.

“Why Would They…?”

(Written February 2012) During our years in Cairo, my husband devised a game called “Why Would They?” It proved to be an expat game of trying to hold your tongue.

The rules in Cairo were simple, for every, "Why would they?" exclamation -- typically uttered when witnessing some fantastical, or wildly amazing, or just implausible and gravity-defying feat, such as "Why would they carry a plate glass window on a motorbike?", or "Why would they step out into traffic without ever looking?" -- you would get one point against you. If you were somehow able to NOT exclaim this constantly, then you were probably asleep; there's really no other explanation. Our favorite supplementary game, was to see how long it took visitors to utter their first “Why would they” sentence, which was sometimes within minutes of leaving the airport.

We have tried to play the game outside of Egypt, but frankly it’s just not as fun. Yes, wild and wacky sights can be spotted in Venice, or London, or Alaska, or Muscat, but so far nothing can compare with the sheer volume of wondrous mind-bending sights in Cairo.

Life is much more sane and less like a carnival in Kuwait, but having said that, we have come up with two “Why Would They’s”. The first is quite simply, “Why would they constantly drive with such recklessness?” No, it’s not as much fun as “Why would they put grandma on top of the pile of watermelons in the back of the truck (in Cairo)?”, but we work with what we’re given. The driving remains a constant source of stress here, but I am trying to train myself to fully expect to be passed on an on-ramp and cut-off in a merge lane, so as to lessen the stress spikes. Not to mention constantly checking rear and side mirrors; I’ve learned all too often that just because it’s clear one second doesn’t mean there won’t be a Hummer H2 climbing up your tailpipe in the next.

Our second “Why Would They?” comes from something I have failed to share, until now. It’s not because I’m trying to hide it, but frankly I find it so baffling that I can’t wrap my head around it. It’s simply this, is certain areas of town, Kuwait City stinks.

It really stinks. The sewage smell can be overwhelming in some neighborhoods, particularly those close to the water. I've heard all sorts of rumors as to why, including a broken sewage pipe flooding Kuwait Bay and the Persian Gulf with raw sewage, and an on-going search for an engineering firm to fix it. I don't know what the real story is, but I can certainly attest to the real result. Pew.

So, sadly, one of the best parts about Kuwait, their 180 miles of coastline, is strongly affected by this. No one wants to come to the beach, when the beach doesn't smell like a beach should. Personally, I would think that the high-end resorts lining the waterfront would team up and demand that the problem be addressed. I can’t imagine paying $500 a night for a room with a waterfront view (and complementary smell), let alone trying to take a dip in the water and dodge the debris (I'm making an assumption here; I have yet to take a dip in the Gulf and frankly can't see it happening anytime soon).

And so, it still stinks. We recently visited friends who had a gorgeous villa, just a block from the water, but when we parked and open the car doors the stench was so overwhelming we ran for their front door with our breaths held. We’ve taken walks along the beach on the promenade, and one minute everything is lovely, the next the wind changes and you’re suddenly speed-walking to the car.

So it comes down to this. In a country as flush with cash as Kuwait is, "Why Wouldn’t They Fix the Sewage Smell?" Okay, one point against me; let the game begin!

The Trouble with Truffles

(Written February 2012) Finally, after living here for four-and-a-half months, my husband and I made it to Kuwait’s infamous Friday Market. We didn’t really know what to expect; I was envisioning an Arab swap meet of sorts, and in part, I was right. But it encompassed far more than that.

We were told it was in the area behind “The Avenues” Mall and I had driven by it and seen some tents set up, so we headed in that general direction. The first grouping of tents proved to be the actual tent-maker area. We drove through, but realizing that we really weren’t in need of a canvas tent right now, we headed on to the next batch of tents (but not before noting the location for “Ready Tents & Accessories” – because there’s just nothing worse than a Not-Quite-Ready tent, right?).

We parked with a bunch of other cars, figuring they’re here for a reason. Unfortunately, that reason was the live animal market which we stumbled directly in to. I was suddenly surrounded by 50 parakeets crammed in a cage, or sad fishes swimming in a tiny bowl, not to mention the squaks and clucks I was hearing farther in. No one there had a life-expectancy beyond a few months, I’m sure. I sped through, keeping my eyes and ears averted until I bumped in to the fruit and veg sellers, almost literally. All of their goods looked great, and despite us leaving in three days, we bought half a kilo of strawberries and oranges, all for just two dinars (about $7). So we may have found our weekly fruit and veg place.

Just across the street were two rows of bright orange tents. We wandered into the first row and it appeared they were all selling the same thing: stacks of lumpy, dirty-looking potato-like things. But they weren’t potatoes, far too light, and I mused to my husband that maybe they were mushrooms of some kind. As we kept walking, he approached one seller and we learned that all of these booths were selling truffles. Piles and piles of truffles; little truffles, medium truffles, and big truffles. For about $25 we could get one kilo of the large truffles, or for $18 a kilo of the medium ones. Apparently this is truffle season here and they’re grown locally, as well as in Oman. Considering our imminent departure, we opted to forego the kilos of truffles, but I have it earmarked as a possible venture out next February.

As we were departing truffle-ville, I took out my camera and the seller beamed and indicated that I could take his picture, and as seems to be the custom, he told my husband to come around the counter and be in the picture with him (I’m thinking this will make a great February in the “My husband posing with various foreign men” calendar everyone can expect this Christmas). After taking their picture, the two sellers next to him indicated that I could take their picture as well, so never one to say no to a truffle-seller, I took their picture, too. Saying our farewells to the trufflers, my husband casually asked the seller if he was Kuwaiti (as we’re really dying to actually meet one), but he laughed and said, “No, I’m from Iran.” Ha, ha, ha. Then he and the sellers next to him all laughed riotously as my husband and I walked away. Truffle humor, I guess.

Crossing back through the parking lot, we headed toward a large fenced-in area that looked like a huge arena, without walls. The entire area was roofed and was filled as far as we could see in all directions with stuff. Beds and dressers, couches and diwaniyas (like an enormous couch set that lines the edges of a room), mirrors, kitchenware, clocks, rugs, curtains, washing machines, TVs, clothes, shoes, bags, etc. All of this appeared to be new, then we entered the “Arab flea market” area and you name it, it was here. From mountains of old tools, to rather filthy well-used strollers and cribs, to every TV remote made, to Singer sewing machines from the 1920s (I really wanted one, but they wouldn’t budge on the price), to bicycles and vacuums. We found a lot of amusing items, and even some fun purchases, but didn’t buy anything. This was more of a scouting mission. Continuing with our get-out-and-explore momentum, I went with a friend a few days later to the Kuwaiti fabric souq. I’d been hearing about it, and knew it was relatively close to the “Heritage souq” that I’d been to already, but when she offered to show me around, I jumped at the chance. It wasn’t anywhere near the excitement and adventure and dysentery levels that Cairo’s Boulaq fabric souq was, nor did it have the can’t-resist, must-buy-more, penny-pinching prices, but I will say that in terms of variety and pretty much all you could ask for, it could hold its own. All of the fabric shops were corralled in two shopping centers, with shops inside and outside, and tailors galore on the second floor. We wandered and explored, bought some gorgeous fabrics from India on sale, and found a wonderful all-things-made-in-China store that will provide all the “I heart Kuwait” buttons, red teddy bears, paper gift bags, and more miles of ribbon than I could possibly need over the next two years.

So, while we’re still accepting that this ain’t Cairo, we’re getting out and have actually had a few fun outings; visiting the Radisson Hotel to check out their gym and pools, making three attempts to see a movie, the last of which was finally successful (apparently everyone else has figured out that there’s not a lot to do here, so going to the movies is a highly popular event and one that must be planned ahead accordingly – we ended up having to wait an hour for the next film so we wandered the 360 Mall and my husband pointed out that it really wasn’t any fun to window shop in a Mall where you can’t afford anything; he's right).

So, having properly donned our adventure-seeking hats, we will now plan more outings, with well-stocked diaper bag and baby-in-tow, tucking away our low expectations, and continue with our Kuwaiti adventures. Now, on to planning that all-truffle dinner party for next February.

Wacky Mall Walkers

(Written January 2012) The other day I borrowed the car, after dropping my husband off at work around eight. My adventure for the day was to hit The Avenues Mall. I had no idea when the mall opened, but figured I could window shop until the stores awoke. I found myself with almost an hour to kill before Carrefour, the grocery store, opened, with the rest of the stores following at ten. During my hour of perusing the Rolexes, the Jimmy Choos, and double-take earrings with emeralds the size of Chiclets, I saw mostly mall employees prepping the stores or buffing the floors. It was quiet and clean and I can see how this could be a weekly pastime for expat moms, particularly with babies in strollers during the summer.

There were a few other non-employees like me milling about, but unlike me, and my lazy perusing, these were the Kuwaiti mall walkers. They didn’t clump in a group, but rather walked alone, and most were women. Clad completely in black (some with face scarves and gloves, others with just the head scarf and galabeya). But other than the outfit, they were just as determined as the mall walkers back home, who seem like they wouldn’t break stride and might even hurdle your crumpled form if need be. I kept my eye on them as we passed during our routes, and like any time you come across someone else actively exercising, I suddenly felt very tired and sloth-like. But I pushed through and at nine o’clock did my grocery shopping with great deliberation, since I still had an hour to kill. Luckily Carrefour is a huge Wal-Mart-like store so I ambled happily.

Much like back home, many of the mall stores were advertising big post-holiday sales, so once everything opened, I took a wander through Bath & Body Works. As I was choosing my sale items (which now made them just below the U.S. prices) I found myself rubbing elbows with an Arab man, wearing his traditional garb, and studying with great concentration the shower gels, obviously trying to decide between Sensual Amber and Moonlight Path (my vote would be for Moonlight, but I didn’t feel it was my place to interject).

This was one of those moments where your expat mind has to take a few extra seconds to process what you’re seeing, because it doesn’t add up with what you’re used to. I’m finding that despite the modernity of daily life here, many of the people have maintained the look they’ve had for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The men wear dishdashas, similar to a long lightweight robe (typically in white). Sometimes they wear a kefiya or ghutra (cloth head-dress in white or red-checked, similar to those worn in Saudi Arabia) with an agal/akal (black ring used to weigh it down). The women wear a galabeya/jellabiya, like the men’s dishdasha, but typically in black, and a hijab (head covering). Some may wear a burqa, which covers the hair and face entirely, or a niqab, which covers the face and is worn in conjunction with the hijab (it really isn’t as confusing as it sounds). Unlike Egypt, most of the women here wear all black, none of the peacock plumage I used to love seeing in Cairo. Granted, a lot of the black is adorned with jewels and sparkles, and the fabrics here are obviously rich and luxurious. Some women who descend from the bedu people (desert dwellers) may even wear a fuller face-covering that completely hides them, where you can’t even see their eyes. One book I read said these women, “are fiercely proud of their right to be protected from the gaze of men”. I believe this is primarily used for public settings, and non-familial men, and it’s probably not used when driving or chopping vegetables.

After leaving Bath & Body Works, where the poor man was still mulling (I think the scents were getting to him), I wandered through a few more sales, Pottery Barn Kids, Gap Kids, things like that. And I ended my three-hour mall-walking at Ikea, where I happily purchased a mattress for our crib (which is good, considering I'd also managed to acquire some adorable sheets at Pottery Barn). All in all, a quite successful mall walking day.