I remember when I was a tween I coveted a book called ‘sex tips for girls’ by a female New York jounalist called Cynthia Himel. She trotted around the big apple wearing fantastic leather ensembles with high heels and back combed hair (well it was the 80’s) having all manner of experiences with men and relating them in her weekly columns
.
Yes ladies it’s true. Carrie Bradshaw is a weak and fictional copy. This chick was the real deal.
There are many things she wrote that stuck in my mind forever. One great piece of advice was: never wear white tights, EVER. The other was that when a woman wears red shoes something magical happens. So after hankering for a pair of red heels for at least a year, I finally found a pair that I was likely to be able to walk in over Istanbul terrain.
I wore them for the first time today. The first sign that dear Cynthia might be right was when I got out of the taxi and walked to the office. My shoes attracted many a beep from passing motorists. In fact one guy was so busy looking at my shoes he slammed straight into the van in front of him. I kid you not. My shoes caused a pile up on the highway.
In fact the woman at work just laughed at me because she caught me admiring them. Again.
Anyway, in to work I skipped, full of the joys of spring confident in the fact that at the grand old age of 31, I can still stop traffic, well of a fashion.
But apparently the magical effect of my shoes only works within a mile radius of the store where I bought them. Yesterday I paid over the odds, while at the shopping mall, to have some particularly nasty passport photos taken. Like a dumb ass I left them at home this morning and I needed them for work permit purposes.
So rather than waste money on a taxi I decided once again to try the bus to get home at lunch time and pick them up. However there is a magic word which I only just figured out today that they write on the front of buses. I can't pronounce it but it means that wherever you thought you might be going – you are most definitely not. I think its something to do with the evil eye. To cut a long story short, and not for not the first time in Istanbul, I found myself being driven through the Turkish wilderness and ceremoniously dumped at the end of the line (well I presume that's what it was as there were no markings) on the top of a hill so steep that I knew that my shoes would not take me back to civilisation, which was miles away.
A little Turkish boy who got off at the same stop as me was tugging my sleeve with some urgency. I know not why. Then he looked at me sadly and disappeared off into the bush.
So there I was on a windy rain lashed hill. I could tell that I was somewhere near the Black Sea beacause I could see the ships entering the Bospherous. I tried clicking my shoes and saying ‘there’s no place like home’ but it didn’t work. So I tried to walk. When I realised it was futile unless I wanted bunions so I gave up – figuring that a bus would have to come back at some point. Which after a good dose of hypothermia and several nervous cigarettes, it did. Everyone we picked up on the way to our next bit of wilderness wore headscarves. They stared at my shoes, and not in a ‘wonder where she got them’ kind of way. It's amazing how RED shoes can look when everyone else is wearing muted shades of black and grey. Some whispered. My red shoes were beginning to make me feel like a scarlet woman. Which is why when I saw a taxi I started screaming at the bus driver to let me off and was half considering using the emergency hammer to smash the window and escape.
Got back to work 3 hours after I set off. It ahould have been a 20 minute round trip.
Last weekend I went island hoping on the group of islands around istanbul. This weekend more snowboarding!
Thursday, 20 March 2008
Monday, 17 March 2008
An old blog from last Friday
As sods law dictates, the very second I am legally employed by an umbrella
company and start getting paid, my Turkish work permit comes through. So
all that work, photocopying, making international phones calls, running
around, scanning, DHLing, meeting tax advisors, arguing with HR,
researching contracts and other nonsense enabled me to be legal for
precisely one week more than if I’d have just sat on my ass and done
nothing. Brilliant.
Today I am nursing a slight hangover. A rare occurrence for the all new
moi. I went to dinner last night with a Dutch corporate lawyer and three
bottles of sauvignon later we were putting the world to rights. That was
about when my colleague walked into the restaurant whose name,
embarrassingly, I could not remember. I also realized that I had forgotten
the name of my dinner companion. It was starting to turn into a tricky
social situation on my part, until I took my elbows off the table at the
precise point my companion decided to put his weight on his and flipped the
table over, knocking all the wine glasses onto his lap.
Embarrassing introductions were immediately replaced by an embarrassing
clean-up operation by two obviously tipsy people.
Needless to say I have avoided all common points of contact in then office
building today, eschewing elevators and canteens until I feel I can look my
colleague in the eye again. Which may be never.
Tonight I am going to my Irish friend, Mairaid’s, house. Mairaid used to
work at Oskar Mobil 5 years ago. Since then she has moved to Turkey, bred,
and has a very lovely apartment overlooking the sea. So tonight is a St
Patrick’s Day celebration of sorts. I have green suede boots especially for
the occasion.
I am hoping to go home and have a little sleep first. Apparently there will
be French people there (her husband is from that part of the world) of the
single male variety. Unfortunately you cannot buy the leprechaun promoted
breakfast cereal ‘Frosties Lucky Charms’ here, but if you could - I would
stuff my bra with it.
On Saturday I will probably feel ill. And on Sunday I’ll have brunch with
corporate lawyer.
So that’s my weekend sewn up.
Last weekend, incidentally, I went snowboarding in the Uludag mountains
after taking a ferry across the Marmara sea. It was good. My first time on
a black run.
company and start getting paid, my Turkish work permit comes through. So
all that work, photocopying, making international phones calls, running
around, scanning, DHLing, meeting tax advisors, arguing with HR,
researching contracts and other nonsense enabled me to be legal for
precisely one week more than if I’d have just sat on my ass and done
nothing. Brilliant.
Today I am nursing a slight hangover. A rare occurrence for the all new
moi. I went to dinner last night with a Dutch corporate lawyer and three
bottles of sauvignon later we were putting the world to rights. That was
about when my colleague walked into the restaurant whose name,
embarrassingly, I could not remember. I also realized that I had forgotten
the name of my dinner companion. It was starting to turn into a tricky
social situation on my part, until I took my elbows off the table at the
precise point my companion decided to put his weight on his and flipped the
table over, knocking all the wine glasses onto his lap.
Embarrassing introductions were immediately replaced by an embarrassing
clean-up operation by two obviously tipsy people.
Needless to say I have avoided all common points of contact in then office
building today, eschewing elevators and canteens until I feel I can look my
colleague in the eye again. Which may be never.
Tonight I am going to my Irish friend, Mairaid’s, house. Mairaid used to
work at Oskar Mobil 5 years ago. Since then she has moved to Turkey, bred,
and has a very lovely apartment overlooking the sea. So tonight is a St
Patrick’s Day celebration of sorts. I have green suede boots especially for
the occasion.
I am hoping to go home and have a little sleep first. Apparently there will
be French people there (her husband is from that part of the world) of the
single male variety. Unfortunately you cannot buy the leprechaun promoted
breakfast cereal ‘Frosties Lucky Charms’ here, but if you could - I would
stuff my bra with it.
On Saturday I will probably feel ill. And on Sunday I’ll have brunch with
corporate lawyer.
So that’s my weekend sewn up.
Last weekend, incidentally, I went snowboarding in the Uludag mountains
after taking a ferry across the Marmara sea. It was good. My first time on
a black run.
Thursday, 6 March 2008
Working girls, the bad date and why I need more shoes
There comes a time in every gals life when she has to work, unless of course she gets to live the dream by finding that rich handsome millionaire to marry sometime in her 20’s. However as THAT particular career plan never really happened (and I attriburte it to being moved to ‘Biggleswade’ as a teen – where the only wads of paper anyone ever had on their person in large amounts was anti social behaviour orders from the police) I have been forced to resign myself to a lifetime of office drudgery.
So far in my short and unillustrious career, I have been fairly lucky as far as office relationships go. One girl tried to bully me once at a newspaper in England, but that didn’t last long because I am far more scary than she. Plus she was just throwing her considerable weight around because she was screwing the editor and, as with most of her (and his) relationships, that pretty much ended as soon as he sobered up for a brief spell.
In the Czech Republic I didn’t really understand most of what was said most of the time, which meant I pretty much liked everyone because if they were fools, I didn’t know about it.
So fast forward to Turkey, a complex social system defined by what your job is, what you wear, who you know and how much bling you can cram onto your fingers. There is no avoiding it, my clothes are old and outdated and what I once mistook for a fabulous collection of shoes, with their worn heels and scuffed toes, no longer cut it. And unfortunately a 4 quid blouse from Promod and 7 year old Next suit (one size too small) does not a business executive make.
I, of course, am lost in a sea of social nuances. I never know when to keep my mouth shut and I have a habit of speaking to everyone in the same way - no matter who they are. I’m the sort of person who blathers on, only to writhe in her bed at night, unable to sleep, fretting about what I might have said wrong, who I have probably offended or which cat I have let out the bag. Thank God I didn’t get the PR position here. I’d have been a disaster.
All in all though my progess is slow, but it’s steady. Which I suppose is to be expected considering it’s my first major leap in years and I have been thrust from the world of creative concepts, cute advertising taglines and designing cool magazine concepts into a world of ARPU’s, KPI’s, CDI’s, BHT’s, COPS and a whole string of other acronyms I never really had to deal with until now. It’s enough to put you off the alphabet forever.
Socially, however, things are pretty good. I have had three dates since I arrived here, which is three more than I have had in living Czech memory (which due to copious amounts of wine was pretty short).
Todays lunch date, with the general manager of Hyundais weapons branch (did you know they make tanks? And trains? Well you do now) was nothing short of an absolute farce. First of all I couldn’t find the building, which was the skyscraper right next door, in heels on uneven terrain. Lots of unneccessary and toe crunching steps for no reason. My next faux pas was to empty the entire contents of my lunch tray (sauce and all) down the front of my trousers and smash all the crockery in the process bringing all of the restaurant to a gaping halt. Brilliant. My date seemed unperturbed by the fact he had invited a retard to lunch, which obviously means there is something quite wrong with him. I only just fished the last kidney bean out my trouser pocket a minute ago. I didn't even order kidney beans, how does that work? Sadly he is really not my type anyway and his hair could do with a wash.
I never was one for meeting people off websites or hanging out on the typical expat scene, but I have found the expats here to be an absolutely lovely bunch. Probably because they are a slightly more well rounded assortment than you tend to get in Prague, i.e. they can drink lots AND do interesting stuff AND they have generally lived in many many different cultures, unlike the people off the expats.cz site who settle in their first foreign city and think they are Richard Attenborough.
This week I am working hard again. My boss Martin is pleased with what I have done, which makes me happy as he is so busy I haven’t been able to hassle him for many explanations or help. Tomorrow I may go to the foreign correspondants club again. Friday is a small goodbye party for my German friend who is off travelling for a while and Saturday could see me going dancing with a Turkish chap I had lunch with last Sunday. But then again I may have to work.
I was asked to give a speech on ‘the youth market’ on Monday at a marketing club but I think I am going to have to cancel as all of my deadlines are next week. I’m off back to Prague in April to see Will before he moves to Kiev, see my friend who is undergoing chemo for quite extensive cancer, and visit all my other favourite people in the world.
Oh and I did a British Army fitness test this week. I mostly rank ‘excellent’ except in running where I am on the border of ‘average’ and ‘good’. I have also lost 6kg since August.
So far in my short and unillustrious career, I have been fairly lucky as far as office relationships go. One girl tried to bully me once at a newspaper in England, but that didn’t last long because I am far more scary than she. Plus she was just throwing her considerable weight around because she was screwing the editor and, as with most of her (and his) relationships, that pretty much ended as soon as he sobered up for a brief spell.
In the Czech Republic I didn’t really understand most of what was said most of the time, which meant I pretty much liked everyone because if they were fools, I didn’t know about it.
So fast forward to Turkey, a complex social system defined by what your job is, what you wear, who you know and how much bling you can cram onto your fingers. There is no avoiding it, my clothes are old and outdated and what I once mistook for a fabulous collection of shoes, with their worn heels and scuffed toes, no longer cut it. And unfortunately a 4 quid blouse from Promod and 7 year old Next suit (one size too small) does not a business executive make.
I, of course, am lost in a sea of social nuances. I never know when to keep my mouth shut and I have a habit of speaking to everyone in the same way - no matter who they are. I’m the sort of person who blathers on, only to writhe in her bed at night, unable to sleep, fretting about what I might have said wrong, who I have probably offended or which cat I have let out the bag. Thank God I didn’t get the PR position here. I’d have been a disaster.
All in all though my progess is slow, but it’s steady. Which I suppose is to be expected considering it’s my first major leap in years and I have been thrust from the world of creative concepts, cute advertising taglines and designing cool magazine concepts into a world of ARPU’s, KPI’s, CDI’s, BHT’s, COPS and a whole string of other acronyms I never really had to deal with until now. It’s enough to put you off the alphabet forever.
Socially, however, things are pretty good. I have had three dates since I arrived here, which is three more than I have had in living Czech memory (which due to copious amounts of wine was pretty short).
Todays lunch date, with the general manager of Hyundais weapons branch (did you know they make tanks? And trains? Well you do now) was nothing short of an absolute farce. First of all I couldn’t find the building, which was the skyscraper right next door, in heels on uneven terrain. Lots of unneccessary and toe crunching steps for no reason. My next faux pas was to empty the entire contents of my lunch tray (sauce and all) down the front of my trousers and smash all the crockery in the process bringing all of the restaurant to a gaping halt. Brilliant. My date seemed unperturbed by the fact he had invited a retard to lunch, which obviously means there is something quite wrong with him. I only just fished the last kidney bean out my trouser pocket a minute ago. I didn't even order kidney beans, how does that work? Sadly he is really not my type anyway and his hair could do with a wash.
I never was one for meeting people off websites or hanging out on the typical expat scene, but I have found the expats here to be an absolutely lovely bunch. Probably because they are a slightly more well rounded assortment than you tend to get in Prague, i.e. they can drink lots AND do interesting stuff AND they have generally lived in many many different cultures, unlike the people off the expats.cz site who settle in their first foreign city and think they are Richard Attenborough.
This week I am working hard again. My boss Martin is pleased with what I have done, which makes me happy as he is so busy I haven’t been able to hassle him for many explanations or help. Tomorrow I may go to the foreign correspondants club again. Friday is a small goodbye party for my German friend who is off travelling for a while and Saturday could see me going dancing with a Turkish chap I had lunch with last Sunday. But then again I may have to work.
I was asked to give a speech on ‘the youth market’ on Monday at a marketing club but I think I am going to have to cancel as all of my deadlines are next week. I’m off back to Prague in April to see Will before he moves to Kiev, see my friend who is undergoing chemo for quite extensive cancer, and visit all my other favourite people in the world.
Oh and I did a British Army fitness test this week. I mostly rank ‘excellent’ except in running where I am on the border of ‘average’ and ‘good’. I have also lost 6kg since August.
Monday, 25 February 2008
boxing clever (or not)
It has been a busy week. First of, amid much excitement, all my boxes arrived from the Czech Republic. However, upon opening the boxes I was disappointed to discover that my clothes, shoes and other essentials were not nearly as exciting or attractive as I remember them being. Quite why I thought I needed a scuffed up pair of silver boots with a wobbly heel or a packet of hair conditioner for curly hair is beyond me. But I left a massive carbon stamp-print trying to get them here.
Things are still in boxes as, predictably, I don’t have enough storage space for all this crap.
But I was happy to receive my CD’s and DVD’s. I also have not one, but 8 mismatching wine glasses to drink out of. So that was exciting. Oh and plates, you'll be pleased to hear. I don't have to eat out of a washing up bowl any more.
After last weeks blizzards I am happy to report that this weekend was temperate 16 degrees – 20 degrees. On Saturday, despite one too many wines with a colleague the night before, I managed to wake up at 8am and go running along the coast. I tried racing cargo ships. Despite having a brutal weight of several thousand tons, the ships won.
In the evening I went to a house party hosted by a vet from Guatemala. Actually he is a bit more than a vet. Food companies pay him tens of thousands to make battery farmed chickens more happy. Well I'm sure I could come up with a few suggestions for that too for a one off payment.
He has an extensive collection of wine and south american rum and his hobby is growing rare psychotropic plants from around the world and also growing potent chillis. I wondered if he ever got his crops mixed up? Either way you’d be in for a nasty surprise.
Anyway he is lovely and also a keen martial artist so we are going to have an evening of crap martial arts movies. Vunderbar.
I attended my first BBQ of the season on his terrace. In the morning I felt fine again, which was odd, so I had breakfast on my terrace before struggling to assemble ikea furniture. Luckily I was rescued by my German friend Ute who took me to a beach near the black sea.
I fell in trying to long jump across a channel, hardly suprising considering my legs are only 2 inches long in heels, and had to spend the next hour walking about in sodden jeans. Luckily by the time we reached a restaurant with a terrace I was sort of dry so we stopped to get our insides wet instead and watched the ships awaiting clearance to go down the Bospherous. This woman is in her mid thirtys and in the morning ran 18k before we went on a 2 hour hike and then she helped me finish my furniture. Mental.
Work is busy but fraught with complications. Even getting the most seeminly obvious information that should be accessible to everyone (KPI’s and churn rates) is a bloody marathon. At this rate it would be quicker for me to contact VF UK and get the bloody info from them.
Anyway tonight an exciting night finishing some shelving and unpacking my books. Oh how the mighty fall!
Things are still in boxes as, predictably, I don’t have enough storage space for all this crap.
But I was happy to receive my CD’s and DVD’s. I also have not one, but 8 mismatching wine glasses to drink out of. So that was exciting. Oh and plates, you'll be pleased to hear. I don't have to eat out of a washing up bowl any more.
After last weeks blizzards I am happy to report that this weekend was temperate 16 degrees – 20 degrees. On Saturday, despite one too many wines with a colleague the night before, I managed to wake up at 8am and go running along the coast. I tried racing cargo ships. Despite having a brutal weight of several thousand tons, the ships won.
In the evening I went to a house party hosted by a vet from Guatemala. Actually he is a bit more than a vet. Food companies pay him tens of thousands to make battery farmed chickens more happy. Well I'm sure I could come up with a few suggestions for that too for a one off payment.
He has an extensive collection of wine and south american rum and his hobby is growing rare psychotropic plants from around the world and also growing potent chillis. I wondered if he ever got his crops mixed up? Either way you’d be in for a nasty surprise.
Anyway he is lovely and also a keen martial artist so we are going to have an evening of crap martial arts movies. Vunderbar.
I attended my first BBQ of the season on his terrace. In the morning I felt fine again, which was odd, so I had breakfast on my terrace before struggling to assemble ikea furniture. Luckily I was rescued by my German friend Ute who took me to a beach near the black sea.
I fell in trying to long jump across a channel, hardly suprising considering my legs are only 2 inches long in heels, and had to spend the next hour walking about in sodden jeans. Luckily by the time we reached a restaurant with a terrace I was sort of dry so we stopped to get our insides wet instead and watched the ships awaiting clearance to go down the Bospherous. This woman is in her mid thirtys and in the morning ran 18k before we went on a 2 hour hike and then she helped me finish my furniture. Mental.
Work is busy but fraught with complications. Even getting the most seeminly obvious information that should be accessible to everyone (KPI’s and churn rates) is a bloody marathon. At this rate it would be quicker for me to contact VF UK and get the bloody info from them.
Anyway tonight an exciting night finishing some shelving and unpacking my books. Oh how the mighty fall!
Friday, 15 February 2008
Socks
I was quipping to a friend the other day that single women in their 30’s are a bit like socks, the longer a single one floats around, the less likely you are to find its pair.
This is okay because you can always find a use for an odd one, like straining ricotta cheese in the absense of muslin, or polishing windows. Of course if you’ve been alone too long, with the aid of a sock a couple of shirt buttons and a frivolous stitch or two, you can actually make yourself a friend to talk to.
Yes, of course it’s Valentines day, and as usual I was the odd sock out in the office as women staggered upstairs from reception groaning uner the weight of their pink orchid arrangements. Yes they give orchids here. A bit more classy dontcha think? The only time I ever generally get flowers from a suitor is when they have done something wrong. So they always make me suspicious anyway.
Don’t get me wrong, I could have had a date, but I really didn’t fancy getting gropped by the over friendly ikea guy (see previous blog). He is like the polyester sock of the underwear world really. Makes you sweat, you can’t wait to pull it off and prolonged use would probably lead to a fungal infection. My other option was psycho serb who ‘laaaavs’ me and wants to move in with me and ‘do the washing up and clean’ while I work.
Which is why I am currently alone and eating a meal out of a plastic washing up bowl in my flat, in the absence of kitchen equipment, which is still sat at Turkish customs. Given the choice between washing up bowl of salad and my other options…. well who says age does not bring wisdom?
My friend Pavel reported in from Kuwait today, where a group of MP’s are trying to ban Valentine s day under shaira law. Apparently it is a blasphemous commercial holiday that detracts from the values of Islam and encourages inapropriate behaviour like kissing. And yes, in some parts of town the police are raiding shops that contain red or white flowers and shutting them down. And quite right too.
Personally I have always approached Valentine s day wih some trepidation. At school the popular girls would always get a stack of cards. If I got one it was generally from the fat smelly boy in Mrs Stones class because I was the only girl except his mother that would actually talk to him. Bless I wonder how Steven Buckly is? I hope he is a VP at microsoft or something.
It was also generally a gamble when I got back home from a disappointingly empty school desk. My father, being Yorkshire and particularly dour when it came to special occasions, would either forget, or find out halfway through his third pint on his way home when he noticed the ‘two for one Valentines Campari special’ banner behind the bar and would have to rush to the gas station to buy whatever wilted offerings they had left. I think he got better in his later years, but then I guess the fear of a dressing down from a wife and three daughters as well was a bit too much to take.
But fear not. I am not stuck here talking to my socks all the time. Last night I joined a friend and took part in his live online photojournalism course which was excellent and being taught by a man who is three times world press photographer of the year. It’s the first time I have seen an online classroom in action and it was impressive. There were people from all over the world taking part. One guy, from Africa, whose excuse for not doing his homework was that he got shot at when he went outside with his camera.
Tomorrow I am going to a dinner party. And on Saturday I am entertaining some friends from Budapest and hopefully joining the running club. I have a notion to try the Istanbul half marathon this year.
I hit the gym with gusto this week and have formed a friendship with an tattood Aremenian former professional volley ball player and martial artist. And yes ladies, he is.
He’s also a devout Orthadox. But he did invite me to his church last weekend. Was that a date? Or is it like going out with a bunch of mates if the holy trinity is involved? Do I have to buy them popcorn too? Can I have their share of communion wine?
Errm anyway back to the socks and plastic washing up bowl meals for me. Besides, it snowing like hell out there. So much for fiery men and southern climes.
This is okay because you can always find a use for an odd one, like straining ricotta cheese in the absense of muslin, or polishing windows. Of course if you’ve been alone too long, with the aid of a sock a couple of shirt buttons and a frivolous stitch or two, you can actually make yourself a friend to talk to.
Yes, of course it’s Valentines day, and as usual I was the odd sock out in the office as women staggered upstairs from reception groaning uner the weight of their pink orchid arrangements. Yes they give orchids here. A bit more classy dontcha think? The only time I ever generally get flowers from a suitor is when they have done something wrong. So they always make me suspicious anyway.
Don’t get me wrong, I could have had a date, but I really didn’t fancy getting gropped by the over friendly ikea guy (see previous blog). He is like the polyester sock of the underwear world really. Makes you sweat, you can’t wait to pull it off and prolonged use would probably lead to a fungal infection. My other option was psycho serb who ‘laaaavs’ me and wants to move in with me and ‘do the washing up and clean’ while I work.
Which is why I am currently alone and eating a meal out of a plastic washing up bowl in my flat, in the absence of kitchen equipment, which is still sat at Turkish customs. Given the choice between washing up bowl of salad and my other options…. well who says age does not bring wisdom?
My friend Pavel reported in from Kuwait today, where a group of MP’s are trying to ban Valentine s day under shaira law. Apparently it is a blasphemous commercial holiday that detracts from the values of Islam and encourages inapropriate behaviour like kissing. And yes, in some parts of town the police are raiding shops that contain red or white flowers and shutting them down. And quite right too.
Personally I have always approached Valentine s day wih some trepidation. At school the popular girls would always get a stack of cards. If I got one it was generally from the fat smelly boy in Mrs Stones class because I was the only girl except his mother that would actually talk to him. Bless I wonder how Steven Buckly is? I hope he is a VP at microsoft or something.
It was also generally a gamble when I got back home from a disappointingly empty school desk. My father, being Yorkshire and particularly dour when it came to special occasions, would either forget, or find out halfway through his third pint on his way home when he noticed the ‘two for one Valentines Campari special’ banner behind the bar and would have to rush to the gas station to buy whatever wilted offerings they had left. I think he got better in his later years, but then I guess the fear of a dressing down from a wife and three daughters as well was a bit too much to take.
But fear not. I am not stuck here talking to my socks all the time. Last night I joined a friend and took part in his live online photojournalism course which was excellent and being taught by a man who is three times world press photographer of the year. It’s the first time I have seen an online classroom in action and it was impressive. There were people from all over the world taking part. One guy, from Africa, whose excuse for not doing his homework was that he got shot at when he went outside with his camera.
Tomorrow I am going to a dinner party. And on Saturday I am entertaining some friends from Budapest and hopefully joining the running club. I have a notion to try the Istanbul half marathon this year.
I hit the gym with gusto this week and have formed a friendship with an tattood Aremenian former professional volley ball player and martial artist. And yes ladies, he is.
He’s also a devout Orthadox. But he did invite me to his church last weekend. Was that a date? Or is it like going out with a bunch of mates if the holy trinity is involved? Do I have to buy them popcorn too? Can I have their share of communion wine?
Errm anyway back to the socks and plastic washing up bowl meals for me. Besides, it snowing like hell out there. So much for fiery men and southern climes.
Monday, 11 February 2008
not to be scarfed at
Right now in Turkey the great headscarf debate rages. Way back in the 80’s
when the people’s hero Ataturk was in power, he banned the wearing of
headscarves in government buildings, including schools, in the interest of
promoting a secular and modern society.
The current President, Gul, is known as a hard line Islamist, whose wife
wears a headscarf and whose election caused the recent street
demonstrations and the threat of a military coup back in May of 2007.
People feared it would only be a matter of time before he started imposing
his ‘extremism’ on them. Perhaps they were right.
His argument is that the banning of headscarves in schools and universities
is sexist and prevents many women from teaching and studying in schools.
Gul’s own daughters study in America where head scarves are not an issue.
The opposition say that allowing scarves is only a step away from forcing
people to wear them. This may sound extreme, but remember that this is a
fiery nation. Last year some teenagers were nearly beaten to death by fellow students for
drinking tea in a café during the daylight hours of Ramadan. The last thing
you want is for this country to take the hardline.
Non of the female Istanbulus I know want to wear headscarves or see them
introduced. They spend way to much on their hair to cover it up. Most of
the more traditional Muslims are poor, uneducated and from the country. The
problem is that their numbers are many and they have the voting power to
see this law revoked.
It’s true that whenever I am in a Muslim country I see women wearing
headscarves and long dresses I feel sorry for them, and think about how
awful it must be to be forced to wear something black, hot and
uncomfortable because men are too brutish to be able to control themselves
around the sight of a naked ankle. I always saw it as a repression.
But now I wonder. Which is worse? A girl in a headscarf, or a nine year old
girl in the biting wind in Newcastle wearing a g-string, short skirt,
heels, make up and a T-shirt emblazoned with an utterly inappropriate
sexual slogan? We talk about Middle Eastern women being repressed, when so
far as I can see, feminism in Europe has taken a million steps back over
the last decade.
There was a decade or two when using bikini clad women in
advertising was seen as sexist. Not anymore.
Thanks to the semi naked sweaty chicks that grace the cover of ‘Maxim’
females are conned into thinking that looking like a cheap tart is a sign
of empowerment. Getting so plastered on ‘Tropical Reefs’ you end up having
drunken unprotected sex and getting a good dose of the clap from a stranger
is a sign of freedom. Hurrah! But so far I am only seeing one beneficiary
in all of this. And it ain’t the woman.
According to hug a hoodie, Cameron (conservative M.P), studies have shown that nearly half of all British males
believe it is okay to force a woman to have sex in certain circumstances. In Turkey it is said that 45 percent of men think its okay to hit a woman in certain circumstances. Which is worse? Or are they the same? In one culture a woman can work if she wants but generally stays home to look after the kids. In Enlgnad women generally work AND look after the kids and all to be paid, on average, 20 percent less than their male counterparts some 37 years after equal pay laws were introduced. Freedom? One wonders.
Personally I am against headscarves because I detest all forms of organized
religion but I do quite like the hymns. I also like wearing skirts but then
I do have the legs for it. A lot of women don’t. Therefore shouldn’t in the
interests of common decency.
Anyway onto cheerier subjects. Had a mostly quiet weekend punctuated by one
expats gathering during which I won an award for the ‘best expat
introduction’ written on a website. Can’t remember what I wrote. It wasn’t
that good and I was banned from the site shortly afterwards.
The other nights I stayed in – quelle horror! Yes party Maie seems to have
gone to ground for the moment.
My friend Mike is having an operation on his brain tumour today. We are all
anxiously awaiting news of his status. It’s the size of a golf ball which
isn’t good. Okay so that wasn't a cheerier subject.
The other week I met members of the Istanbul Foreign Correspondents club.
Lovely bunch of people, although I felt like a fraud as all of them were
fresh out of war zones.
This week not a lot. I should start getting paid now all my documents are
here. I’ll probably go to the cinema and on Wednesday join my friend on his
photography course. I plan to go to the gym lots and start running so that
I can join the running club over the next fortnight without looking like
an idiot.
Also good is that my documents are all here, so I can finally start the
process of getting hold of my stuff that is being shipped from the Czech
republic and, more importantly, I can start getting paid. Thank god!
Anyway, its nearly gym time. My boss isn’t here today so I can have a nice
long session.
when the people’s hero Ataturk was in power, he banned the wearing of
headscarves in government buildings, including schools, in the interest of
promoting a secular and modern society.
The current President, Gul, is known as a hard line Islamist, whose wife
wears a headscarf and whose election caused the recent street
demonstrations and the threat of a military coup back in May of 2007.
People feared it would only be a matter of time before he started imposing
his ‘extremism’ on them. Perhaps they were right.
His argument is that the banning of headscarves in schools and universities
is sexist and prevents many women from teaching and studying in schools.
Gul’s own daughters study in America where head scarves are not an issue.
The opposition say that allowing scarves is only a step away from forcing
people to wear them. This may sound extreme, but remember that this is a
fiery nation. Last year some teenagers were nearly beaten to death by fellow students for
drinking tea in a café during the daylight hours of Ramadan. The last thing
you want is for this country to take the hardline.
Non of the female Istanbulus I know want to wear headscarves or see them
introduced. They spend way to much on their hair to cover it up. Most of
the more traditional Muslims are poor, uneducated and from the country. The
problem is that their numbers are many and they have the voting power to
see this law revoked.
It’s true that whenever I am in a Muslim country I see women wearing
headscarves and long dresses I feel sorry for them, and think about how
awful it must be to be forced to wear something black, hot and
uncomfortable because men are too brutish to be able to control themselves
around the sight of a naked ankle. I always saw it as a repression.
But now I wonder. Which is worse? A girl in a headscarf, or a nine year old
girl in the biting wind in Newcastle wearing a g-string, short skirt,
heels, make up and a T-shirt emblazoned with an utterly inappropriate
sexual slogan? We talk about Middle Eastern women being repressed, when so
far as I can see, feminism in Europe has taken a million steps back over
the last decade.
There was a decade or two when using bikini clad women in
advertising was seen as sexist. Not anymore.
Thanks to the semi naked sweaty chicks that grace the cover of ‘Maxim’
females are conned into thinking that looking like a cheap tart is a sign
of empowerment. Getting so plastered on ‘Tropical Reefs’ you end up having
drunken unprotected sex and getting a good dose of the clap from a stranger
is a sign of freedom. Hurrah! But so far I am only seeing one beneficiary
in all of this. And it ain’t the woman.
According to hug a hoodie, Cameron (conservative M.P), studies have shown that nearly half of all British males
believe it is okay to force a woman to have sex in certain circumstances. In Turkey it is said that 45 percent of men think its okay to hit a woman in certain circumstances. Which is worse? Or are they the same? In one culture a woman can work if she wants but generally stays home to look after the kids. In Enlgnad women generally work AND look after the kids and all to be paid, on average, 20 percent less than their male counterparts some 37 years after equal pay laws were introduced. Freedom? One wonders.
Personally I am against headscarves because I detest all forms of organized
religion but I do quite like the hymns. I also like wearing skirts but then
I do have the legs for it. A lot of women don’t. Therefore shouldn’t in the
interests of common decency.
Anyway onto cheerier subjects. Had a mostly quiet weekend punctuated by one
expats gathering during which I won an award for the ‘best expat
introduction’ written on a website. Can’t remember what I wrote. It wasn’t
that good and I was banned from the site shortly afterwards.
The other nights I stayed in – quelle horror! Yes party Maie seems to have
gone to ground for the moment.
My friend Mike is having an operation on his brain tumour today. We are all
anxiously awaiting news of his status. It’s the size of a golf ball which
isn’t good. Okay so that wasn't a cheerier subject.
The other week I met members of the Istanbul Foreign Correspondents club.
Lovely bunch of people, although I felt like a fraud as all of them were
fresh out of war zones.
This week not a lot. I should start getting paid now all my documents are
here. I’ll probably go to the cinema and on Wednesday join my friend on his
photography course. I plan to go to the gym lots and start running so that
I can join the running club over the next fortnight without looking like
an idiot.
Also good is that my documents are all here, so I can finally start the
process of getting hold of my stuff that is being shipped from the Czech
republic and, more importantly, I can start getting paid. Thank god!
Anyway, its nearly gym time. My boss isn’t here today so I can have a nice
long session.
Monday, 4 February 2008
Foreplay
Well tas been a mixed weekend indeed. Last week I found myself mostly working and too tired to go out in the evening. Honestly when you have to wake up at 6am everyday even going to bed at 11pm everynight is a disaster.
Despite being exhausted on Friday I figured I should accept a dinner invitation from some nice Turks I know and attempt to be social for the first time this week. It’s amazing how quickly I can slip into hermit mode if given a fair chance. We had a meal in Nitantace, a very expensive area full of high end retail stores and paid an arm and a leg for a few bottles of pinot grigio. I’m still not being paid and my rapidly depleting funds are a source for concern. After that we went to ‘the Roxy’. However this is not like the Roxy of Prague fame where one might be seen making a box to trance music, or catching a few break beats, or stamping to a mental D&B set. In this Roxy, they actually played the Weather Girls ‘Its Raining Men’. Twice.
So disgusted was I at my descent into wedding DJ music, that I had no choice but to slam back a few shots of hazelnut vodka. Anyone who knows me knows that in order for me to do shots, things have to be very dire indeed.
Strangely either the music got better or I became more anethetised because after a time I actually started to enjoy myself.
Then came Saturday which started brightly. The sun was shining, it was 15 degrees. I wore only a light jumper. I meant to pop to the shop to get some breakfast but instead ended up walking along the coast towards the black sea for several hours. And bloody lovely it was too. I had a spot of lunch and then got the bus back, which was about when I sobered up and my hangover kicked in.
Consequently I spent the whole of Saturday evening hugging a cushion on my sofa and wondering what the rugby score was.
Sunday was lovely. A friend picked me up and we had brunch by the sea, after which we went to Ikea, and then to a lovely fish restaurant and watched Fenerbahce V Galatasaray before he drove me back home. Unfortunately, it seems, a lift to Ikea is akin to foreplay to this particular Turk and I spent several hours in the evening playing musical chairs around my living room trying to avoid the arm that kept trying to creep around my shoulder. Eventually he got the hint. But bummer of bummers, the bedsheet set I bought has bits missing so now I am going to have to find another escort to get there. Hopefully some kind of amputee.
Despite being exhausted on Friday I figured I should accept a dinner invitation from some nice Turks I know and attempt to be social for the first time this week. It’s amazing how quickly I can slip into hermit mode if given a fair chance. We had a meal in Nitantace, a very expensive area full of high end retail stores and paid an arm and a leg for a few bottles of pinot grigio. I’m still not being paid and my rapidly depleting funds are a source for concern. After that we went to ‘the Roxy’. However this is not like the Roxy of Prague fame where one might be seen making a box to trance music, or catching a few break beats, or stamping to a mental D&B set. In this Roxy, they actually played the Weather Girls ‘Its Raining Men’. Twice.
So disgusted was I at my descent into wedding DJ music, that I had no choice but to slam back a few shots of hazelnut vodka. Anyone who knows me knows that in order for me to do shots, things have to be very dire indeed.
Strangely either the music got better or I became more anethetised because after a time I actually started to enjoy myself.
Then came Saturday which started brightly. The sun was shining, it was 15 degrees. I wore only a light jumper. I meant to pop to the shop to get some breakfast but instead ended up walking along the coast towards the black sea for several hours. And bloody lovely it was too. I had a spot of lunch and then got the bus back, which was about when I sobered up and my hangover kicked in.
Consequently I spent the whole of Saturday evening hugging a cushion on my sofa and wondering what the rugby score was.
Sunday was lovely. A friend picked me up and we had brunch by the sea, after which we went to Ikea, and then to a lovely fish restaurant and watched Fenerbahce V Galatasaray before he drove me back home. Unfortunately, it seems, a lift to Ikea is akin to foreplay to this particular Turk and I spent several hours in the evening playing musical chairs around my living room trying to avoid the arm that kept trying to creep around my shoulder. Eventually he got the hint. But bummer of bummers, the bedsheet set I bought has bits missing so now I am going to have to find another escort to get there. Hopefully some kind of amputee.
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