Losing Lost

Tomorrow will be a watershed moment in TV entertainment history.  "Lost", that show that millions have come to love, is scheduled to come to an end.  I don't know if the conclusion will be enough to satisfy me and the other rabid fans out there, but it will be a conclusion nonetheless.  Perhaps this is for the better.  We've been annoying non-Lost watchers for long enough, going on and on about our lunatic theories of moving islands, parallel realities, quantum physics, smoke monsters, and the meaning of ... well, just about everything.

But this has been more than just a TV show for me.  My wife and I have been married for seven years, six of which (i.e., almost our entire married life), have been spent avidly watching this show together.  Not only can we measure the milestones of our life with the passing of Lost seasons, but we can also give thanks for the many friends we've made who are prone to the same nervous tics and mad rantings that each episode of this show gives rise to.

Things are not perfect though - the executive producers enjoy going on talk shows touting how they won't answer some of the questions their own writing has raised so that "the show can live on after the finale."  This is just code for "we didn't know what the heck we were doing at various points of the story arc, and now have no way of wrapping up that particular sub-plot."  Still, I'm willing to forgive these transgressions.  Lost represents the most intellectual and intriguing show that has graced the airwaves, and does not shy away from questions of philosophy, faith, and science.  It requires devotion to the nuances of each scene of each episode, and encourages discussion afterwards because no individual can hope to parse the meanings of each plot twist.

So it is with a heavy heart that my wife and I will sit down to watch the series finale tomorrow.  Regardless of what happens on the show, we know that we'll have spent the last six years on a crazy ride that promises one last, unknown, reveal.

Final thoughts on Istanbul

What an amazing adventure this has been.  Turkey is one of those places where no matter how many times pictures you see, you have to experience it in person.  You can't walk in Istanbul without gaining an appreciation for the historical crossroads that the city occupies.  Of why empires have chosen this place as their seat of power, and why they have built magnificent monuments to honor the city.

And the people!  So friendly and willing to help at every turn.  Their love of children is something that took me aback at first.  Random strangers would come up to Nuha while we would be walking around a site, and would pick her up and pinch her cheeks.  Behavior like this back home would have me half-reaching for my cellphone to call the cops, but here there is a genuine love for children.  Security guards at airports would take Nuha from us and play with her while we went through security.  Even school children, no older than eight, and present at almost all the historical sites on their daytrips, would come up to us, ask us how old Nuha was, and start to play with her.  At the Blue Mosque, where Nuha started crying hysterically for Saeeda, who was still inside, I was approached by a mother who wiped away Nuha's tears, consoled her (something I as her father was unable to do), and gave Nuha her own child's snack to keep her calm before just walking away.  Incredible.

What I enjoyed the most about Istanbul was being surrounded by vestiges of Christian and Muslim buildings, each singing to their Lord through their architecture.  Saeeda and I made an excuse every day to somehow end up at the Blue Mosque at one time or another.  It was impossible to rip yourself away from the beauty and significance of that structure.

Even the south, with its heavier commercialization, was beautiful in its own way.  Beautiful beaches, stunning mountain ranges, unspoilt countryside.  No doubt there is much to see in Turkey for the outdoor enthusiast, or someone just wanting to get away from it all for a while.

This is not going to be our last trip to Turkey, if there is anything that I can do about it.  The country is too beautiful a jewel to be left unappreciated for long.

Of Pamukkale and Permanence

Not having a GPS made us a little nervous in trying to attempt a long drive to Pamukkale from Fethiye.  But after yesterday’s Oludeniz experience (nothing but a really nice beach), and time spent in Fethiye (not much beyond the waterfront), we didn’t want to spend our last full day in the south of Turkey driving to yet another coastal city to see more of the same.  So despite the hotel staff’s incredulity at our desire to drive into rural Turkey, we packed our gear and headed to Pamukkale.

Pamukkale, meaning "cotton castle" in Turkish, is a city in south-western Turkey containing hot springs and and beautiful travertines, which are basically terraces formed from carbonate minerals left by the flowing water. People have bathed in its pools for thousands of years and the ruins of the old city of Hierapolis, built in 200-300 BC, can also be found here.

Not sure of the best way to get to Pamukkale, we decided to take the direct route from Fethiye, which unknown to us meant cutting across a mountain range.  We knew something wasn’t right when the narrow, winding, ever climbing lane became so harrowingly tight that it would have been impossible for any tourist bus to comfortably fit on the road.  What of the loads of tourists that were supposed to be heading to Pamukkale all the time?  We hadn’t seen any rest stops, or restaurants, let alone the tourist buses themselves.

Our car, with it’s puny engine, struggled mightily to climb the mountains on a road that practically disappeared from out beneath us.  The markings gradually vanished, paved blacktop gave way to dusty gravel, signage vanished, and detours abounded.  Saeeda and I exchanged some nervous glances, as by now we were more than 90 min. into our drive, but had no idea where we were.  More worryingly, I couldn’t picture myself trying to make the same drive back at night - there was no lighting or barrier between us and steep mountain drops.  What if the car broke down?

It was then that we started to hit a string of villages nestled in the crevasses that we were traversing.  Life here seemed pleasantly stuck in the 20th century.  Sheepherders tended their flocks in meadows, elegantly dressed old men sat by the street, engaged in obscure arguments, and grandmothers walked by the road while their grandchildren playfully ran ahead.  The scenery was stunning, and the people were wonderful – we stopped often to ask directions and appreciated everyone’s help in keeping us on track.  It wasn’t long after that when we finally burst out of the mountains and onto a highway again.  The same highway that was being plied by tour buses galore.  Yes, not only were we back on track, but we had found the highway we would take on our way back when we were done.

Pamukkale’s white cliffs appear high above you as you make it into the city, and there is another 10 min drive that takes you up to the entrance.  From there all visitors are carefully funneled to the cliffs themselves.  Some time back there had been so much tourist traffic that the brilliant white cliffs had started to erode, and the clear water had started to run muddy instead.  Since then the government has defined where people can walk, which is just as well.  The effect of suddenly sticking to a path that suddenly veers and places you before the white cliff adds to the experience.

There was understandably a lot of traffic here.  The scene is surreal because you stand on these brilliantly white surfaces as you look out onto the valley before you.  It’s hard to imagine how many millennia of calcium-rich spring water was needed to create the natural wonder beneath you.  And the warm spring water makes it fun to wade around in the pools that form all around you.  For me, the experience was enhanced, comically so, by watching the other tourists pose for pictures here.  Something about this brought out the exhibitionist in everyone

And this

And then this

I decided not to snap pictures of bikini clad women who were posing as if they were auditioning for the latest Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition – I wouldn’t have been able to come up with explanations credible enough for Saeeda afterwards.  But suffice it to say that in certain parts of the cliffs it felt like we were disturbing a modeling agency’s photoshoot at times.

The ruins of Hierapolis area walking distance from Pamukkale’s cliffs, so after grabbing lunch at “Cleopatra’s Pool”, we headed north to the well preserved ruins.  The most spectacular of these was the amphitheater.  Beautifully preserved, and located on a steep hill, it wasn't hard to imagine siting here as an audience member thousands of years ago, and enjoying not only the spectacle on the stage, but also the view of the white cliffs and of the valley as it fell away beneath you.

While Saeeda and Nuha sat on the steep steps and rested, I walked around, wanting to touch the old worn rock that formed the walls, and perhaps in doing so connect with the ancient civilizations that had built this place.  The engineering was a marvel - sound carried effortlessly, removing the need for modern sound systems, and there truly wasn't a bad seat in the house.  I climbed back up to Saeeda and Nuha, and sat down to admire the view, and to try to understand the talent of those that had built something of such great permanence.

It was then that the call to evening prayer came wafting over the air from the city of Pamukkale beneath us.  I couldn't understand how, but voices of the muezzins seemed to amplify as they made their way to us.  The melody was one that I'm familiar with, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

God is Great.  God is Great, they called.  Bear witness that there is no deity but God.  Bear witness that Muhammad is his messenger.  Come to salvation.  Come to prayer.  God is Great.  There is no deity but God.

It was a spiritual moment.  Just a moment ago I had been remarking on the magnificence of man-made permanence.  The calls to prayer that continued to waft over me provided a stark reminder of the fallacy of my line of thought.  Civilizations vanish, buildings crumble, and history fades.  The only thing that remains permanent is the Force that placed things in motion, and which will be there for us to turn on the day it all comes to an end.

Oludeniz

Driving in Turkey isn’t as bad as everyone was making it out to be.  “Turkish drivers are crazy,” I was told.  “Don’t drive at night,” they said.  “Are you serious?” asked one of my friends.  But I’ve harped on my driving adventures enough times now, most recently here.  I’ll say it again – I’m not the world’s best driver, but I’ve driven enough around the world, and enough in my home country of Pakistan, that I’m not skittish behind a wheel anymore.

Turkey was no different.  Granted, my fellow voyagers wanted to overtake my car at every available opportunity, regardless of whether I was on a mountain switchback or whether there was an oncoming truck barreling our way.  But the Turkish countryside in the south is the sort of pleasant Mediterranean environment that makes you forget traffic troubles, and focus on what the unspoiled, rolling hills must have looked like when this part of the world dominated Europe centuries ago.  Until you hit Oludeniz.

If I thought Fethiye was commercialized, Oludeniz was basically a European tourist heaven.  We had come here for the unspoiled beaches, but to get here we had to pass soulless pubs catering to tourists, kitschy souvenir shops with useless paraphernalia, and unending tour operator offices, advertising the same thing over and over again, yet still claiming to provide a unique experience.

Oludeniz’s saving grace was its beach, which is why we had come here.  Nestled at the end of the commercial strip, this pretty stip of sand hugged jutting peninsulas amidst sloping hills, which created a beautiful picture and enhanced the feeling of seclusion.  Until your sight line was spoiled by Speedo-wearing men sunning themselves all around you.

So it was a hit and miss experience for me.  Saeeda and Nuha enjoyed playing in the water – my daughter especially found great pleasure in constantly splashing my wife and I (but did not enjoy it so much when I started splashing back).  I enjoyed swimming in the water, which because of its higher salt concentration meant that I was more buoyant than normal (I generally sink in any given body of water, and am incapable of floating).  But walking around afterwards meant walking into the lion’s den of tourist traps, and it’s not like we got any sort of an authentic dining experience either.

Tomorrow we’re planning on making the 3 hour drive to Pamukkale, that interior city famous for its calcium springs and ruins of Hierapolis.  I’m hoping that that experience will be less soul-crushing.

Fethiye

We’re done with Istanbul, and off to the Mediterranean coast for a little taste of the slow life. Usually, with eight days in a country, we’ve been able to spend time in multiple parts, jetting from one region to the next. With a 2 year old this time around, we decided instead to take things a little slower. Hence our decision to pick just two major destinations - Istanbul and Fethiye - and to drive around to see anything else that was around.

Our hope upon arriving in Fethiye was to find a quaint seaside town, where we could immerse ourselves in a relaxing environment, and interact with the locals to our hearts content. However, Fethiye is not quite that quaint. Walking around this evening has revealed a very commercial, tourist-ridden beach destination. A large chunk of the commerce here caters to the Western European tourist, most often from a Nordic or Germanic country – a fact made obvious by the channels available on our in-room TV. Five German, three Danish, one Italian, and one English. Nothing American. 

The waterfront is pleasant, and there are few ruins in the city that we might check out.  For this first night, though, all we did was grab dinner in a bazaar restaurant.  I walked around a little, and came across this puzzling barbershop that was advertising "Shaves", "Leg Shaves", and "Haircuts".  Are hairy legs that big a problem here?  Since the sign is in English, I suspect this is meant for the tourists.  Are the Turkish people so fed up with ugly, unkempt, hirsute tourists that they've opened businesses whose sole aim is to make the visitors look more presentable?  And why is the store called "Berber" and not "Barber"?

How I did my part for the Turkish economy

Saeeda came to Turkey prepared with a list of items she wanted to purchase before we left. Evil-eye charms that are so prevalent here, some Turkish tea, a calligraphic wall hanging, and if possible, a small Turkish carpet.  In all our international trips, shopping has been an organic experience. We will inevitably find ourselves in a marketplace where something will catch our eye, or we will learn of a trinket that we feel defines the country we are touring, and we will make the purchase. Rarely have we set aside time dedicated to the pursuit of shopping for something specific.

This time around, though, things were a little different. As we have continued to spend time in Istanbul, Saeeda has fallen in love with the beautiful rugs that we see in all the stores that we pass. At the same time, we’ve realized that we don’t really know much about rug buying, especially since the nice carpets that we do own were wedding gifts. We confessed this naivete to our hotel concierge, who immediately recommended what he professed would be a great carpet-buying experience.  A friend of his worked at a genuine antique store that specialized in carpets, and this store was run by a family that had been in the business for three generations.

Yeah, ok, nice story, I thought to myself. It’ll probably still be the same song and dance these things are everywhere, and going with a “friend” of his that just happened to work at a carpet store was probably not going to lead to anything. Still, it would be an opportunity for us to educate ourselves before perhaps buying at a different store, and it would be a chance to avoid the Grand Bazaar area – that infamous, notorious tourist-trap that sits not far from the Blue Mosque and has been a merchant hub for centuries. Shopping there for a rug would be just asking to be fleeced. 

I told the concierge that we’d try to go to his friend’s store in the evening after we were done with our sightseeing for the day.  I was immediately reminded of this commitment upon our return to the hotel that evening.

“Sir, your car is ready,” said the concierge when he spotted us.

Car? What car? I learned that the carpet store where the concierge's friend worked had offered to pick us up.

“Ok, give us ten minutes,” I requested. We quickly washed up, came down, and walked outside to a waiting, well-appointed Mercedes.

Alright, I thought to myself. You’re hitting us with the Reciprocity Principle. Offer us a service that is, on the face of it, purely a gesture of goodwill, but will later make us feel like we need to reciprocate and make a purchase. Please, I thought to myself, you’re not dealing with an amateur here.

Still, the ride was smooth, and the modern car contrasted nicely with the ancient buildings we passed. Just make sure they give you a ride back if you don’t make a purchase, I reminded myself.

Our destination was tucked away in a quiet corner of the old city in Sultanahmet. A few cafes dotted the streets, and a side door, labeled simply "Antiques" led down into the store. A winding stairway suddenly opened up to an extremely large space that looked like it was part of a beautiful, old building basement. There were archways leading deeper into the space, and sandstone brick decorated with repeating, fading patterns decorated the ceiling. And there were carpets everywhere.

We were greeted by a lady who introduced herself as our concierge’s friend. She smiled at Nuha, and immediately picked her up to start playing with her. No sooner had she done so, than a smartly dressed, middle-aged gentleman appeared at the foot of the stairs, shook hands with us, and introduced himself as Salman, the store owner.

What followed was one of the most amazing sales jobs I have been subjected to, and despite my ability to recognize what was happening, I was unable to resist. Salman first gave us a tour of the building basement that we were standing in, discussing the history of the space that itself stretched centuries into the past. He sat us down beside a loom, and explained in detail the process by which a carpet is put together, taking the time to let us hold dyed yarn, pluck at the loom, and play with the texture of the partially woven carpet on the loom. A half hour later, he had us take a seat on comfortable cushions against a wall, at which point he started to educate us on the history of carpets, and their place in Turkish culture. Saeeda and I were captivated – Salman knew his subject well, and something about learning about carpets from someone who was third-generation, while sitting in a ancient space surrounded by beautiful rugs was mesmerizing. Tea appeared beside us magically as we continued to learn from Salman. Our daughter was nowhere to be seen, but we could hear peels of laughter emanating from the corners of the store as the concierge’s friend continued to play with her.

These guys are good, I thought. Nuha has been removed as a distraction, and Salman is doing a great sales job.

It was then that a muscled helper appeared bearing silk rugs. The large open floor space in front of us was empty, but this helper quickly began to fill it with a dazzling array of the most spectacular silk rugs. I had no doubt that this gentleman’s physique was due in no small part to the weight of these rugs that he carried around effortlessly. He would approach us and all of a sudden shake out a rug in the air. The rug would fall towards the floor as it opened and rolled towards us, landing at our feet as Salman switched conversation to discuss the new rug, telling us about the motifs, symbolism, source, and heritage of the rug. It was all a well choreographed dance.

An hour into our visit, the topic of price finally came up. I realized that I had to start moving this process along, as Salman showed no signs of slowing down. My blunt question, tactless, though it was, helped start the real buying process. When Salman mentioned the prices of the rugs splayed open before us, I had to do everything in my power to ensure that I did not bring up the tea I had been drinking. I will not name the number here, but suffice it to say, it was well beyond our reach. I felt Saeeda shift a little, and knew that she was working hard not to let things show on her face as well.

Now exercising more tact, I crafted the most subtle way of informing Salman that we needed to see something cheaper. I started by asking about other materials used to make carpets, and of carpets that came from other regions of Turkey. A smart salesman, Salman picked up on this, and began to show us carpets that were progressively lower in price, but which came with a simultaneous decrease in quality. It was also at this point that I knew I was going to make a purchase at this store. Don’t ask me to explain – the dynamics of the entire experience until that point had been such that it would have been impossible to walk out without making a purchase. My only goal was not to be goaded by the extremely high anchor that Salman had set.

So I did the untactful, and mentioned our budget to Salman. Ever obliging, he said he could help, and started showing us yet more rugs. As the floor space piled thick with carpets that Salman’s helper continued to bring, I realized that despite my stated budget, the rugs that Salman was showing us remained well above the number I had told him. Nicely done, I thought. Salman was using my number not as a ceiling, but as a starting floor for everything that he was showing me.

But the carpets were just … so … beautiful! I had never made a snap purchase of this magnitude, but nothing about the experience was high-pressure, nor did I feel at any point that I was being led on as the dumb tourist that could be taken advantage of. Salman was incredibly knowledgeable, and his staff amazingly friendly, a point driven home when Nuha came squealing around a corner, pecked us on the cheek and ran off with her store friends again. Man this was going to be hard, I thought.

In the end, despite my initial intention to use this simply as an educational experience, I made a purchase, and one that I feel will make a beautiful addition to our home. This was not a store where you bargained in price – I had picked up on this early, and this was something the concierge had also mentioned earlier in the day at the hotel. If you want to bargain, he had said, go to the Grand Bazaar. My friend is a wholesaler, and does business the right way, he had said.

Regardless, I spent way more than I had ever budgeted for this. Again, I will not mention numbers, but will tell you that I paid 500% more than the price I had initially told Saeeda I would shell out when we walked into that store. I had plenty of time to contemplate this as I signed all the paperwork, and when Salman personally drove us back to our hotel (in another Mercedes).

Sometimes it’s ok to be taken on a sales ride, especially if things are handled in a polite and entertaining manner. Or at least, that’s how I'm justifying what happened.

Topkapi

Palace of the Sultans and a seat of Ottoman power for hundreds of years, Topkapi palace promised to be a great place to soak up some history and immerse ourselves in stories of palace intrigue. It did not disappoint in either respect. Laid out over a spacious strip of land that looks out over the Bosphorous, Topkapi palace reminded me a lot of the Forbidden City in Beijing. The parallels were eery - no commoners were allowed past the first courtyard, both were home to courtesans that spent their entire lives without setting foot outside the palace walls, and both are stunning in architecture and scope.

Out of all the areas, I found the Harem to be one of the most fascinating (but then, what guy wouldn’t?) A variation of the Arabic word “Haram”, meaning forbidden, the Topkapi harem was massive, and at one time housed 500 of the sultan’s concubines. But to me the Harem buildings could only be described as a gilded cage – amazingly beautiful in the craftsmanship of its many residences and gatehouses, but completely enclosed and secluded from the rest of the already secretive palace. Women brought here could spend their entire lives and not see the Sultan once, and had to rely on intrigue and scheming to make it up the pecking order. Murders were not out of the question, and poisonings were commonplace. A dangerous place, indeed.

The Treasury was equally spectacular, but not for its architecture. Here, the jewels and finery on display were breathtaking. 86 carat diamonds, thrones inlaid with gold, emerald and ruby encrusted daggers – all bore testament to not only the craftsmanship and creativity of the Ottomans, but also of their ability to bring home impressive treasures from far-flung conflicts. Three vast rooms, with case upon case eventually wore us down – there’s only so much glitter one can take before depression sets in.

Finally, the rooms dedicated to religious relics were also a great stop. Among artifacts from Mecca and Medina lay a display that I found inspiring – swords of all four caliphs, surrounding that of the Prophet Muhammad’s. As a child, I grew up hearing stories of the incredible persecution these men had faced, and of how they had fought back with faith and conviction. To see the swords they used, each a reflection of their personality, was special. Omar’s and Ali’s were massive broadswords, whereas Abu Bakr’s and Uthman’s were smaller, more elegant. The Prophet’s? Simple.

Although a big part of me wanted to believe that all articles in the Religious Relics museum were real, at least two of them engendered skepticism. In one room, I had a tough time believing that I was looking at the actual wooden staff of Prophet Moses, perhaps in part due to the cheesy animation in the background that keep showing the parting of the Red Sea. And I was similarly skeptical of the “cooking pot of Abraham,” which looked suspiciously like any other metallic cooking vessel I had ever seen – except this one claimed to be millennia old and claimed a credible chain of possession that somehow had been traced back to its original owner.

But then, if those artifacts were not real, what about the imprint of the Prophet’s foot? And pieces of the Prophet’s beard (also on display)? And those swords I found so inspiring? I guess in the end the faithful choose to impart authenticity to their religious artifacts in defiance of logic, but is that so bad? Science will not convince these individuals otherwise, so let them believe in the authenticity of their religious relics, as long as these are used to magnify the positive of each faith. As for me, I think I’ll believe in the Swords, and ignore the Staff of Moses and the Cooking Pot of Abraham. Probably not consistent, but as I said, so what?

Harems, treasures, and relics. The all-day visit to Topkapi was exhausting, but was a complete experience that was absolutely worth it.

No longer hip

I’m fortunate that I've made friends from all over the world, including Turkey. It's been these friends that I have relied on heavily for advice on things to see and do while in Istanbul, as well as to find out about “insider” restaurants away from the tourist hordes. Now that we're here in Istanbul, we hit up one of the recommendations for dinner – a great place with great food and great views. But the moment this recommended eatery we knew something was wrong.

The maitre d’ looked at us with obvious skepticism. “Do you have a reservation?” she asked. Her tone was layered with barely hidden incredulity.

“Yes,” I said. “Our hotel concierge had called ahead, and had even asked if it was ok to bring a two year old.”

The maitre d’ laughed – a mirthless, you-must-be-kidding-me laugh. “I don’t think so. We don’t allow children in our restaurant.”

Hmm, ok. Obviously there had been miscommunication somewhere along the way. I peeked into the restaurant, and realized that I should probably not be too concerned about this person’s attitude. Inside, the trendy restaurant was filled with young people, decked out in designer clothes. Lounge music was playing, lighting was dim and the china looked fine. Not a place for a loud two year old.

Saeeda sensed the dilemma as well, and half turned to leave – she’d rather not deal with the stress of dinner in a place like this. However, Saeeda's movement may have made the maitre d’ think that she may be offending us, because as Saeeda headed to the door the maitre d' softened her tone somewhat.

“Ok, don’t worry. I have a table in the back." Then the following: "Is your baby a good baby?”

Good baby? What the hell sort of a question was that? Was her baby a good baby? What was a good baby? Was she implying I had a bad baby? So many questions, but I bit my tongue. The stubborn mule in me prevented me from walking away with Saeeda, and instead I agreed to be seated. We'd show her.

Inevitably, we were seated in a corner of a well appointed room, away from almost every other diner who was enjoying their food with great views of the Bosphorous. From the point our butts touched down on our seats, we began a stressful dance with Nuha, basically ensuring that she remained distracted and entertained, and never in a position to utter a peep. We made up our minds on what to order in record time, wolfed down whatever was put in front of us, skipped dessert, and were ready for the check within 30 minutes. I have to admit, I think Nuha picked up on our desperation too, because she remained beautifully well-behaved throughout the short meal. Whenever a neighboring diner would look our way, Nuha made to sure to look her cutest and coo back at them. She refrained from throwing silverware on the floor (which happens to be one of her favorite pastimes). At no point did she insist on running around the restaurant, and she ate what we put in front of her with gusto.

As we left a surprised maitre d’ behind us on our way out (how’s that for a good baby, you arrogant excuse for a restaurateur?) I realized that I would not only have to start filtering any advice I receive from friends who don’t have kids, but that hip eateries such as these were going to be off limits for a long, long time to come.

Oh well.

Humility

From Paris to Istanbul, and the transition could not have been starker. Although both are ancient cities, with layers of history just asking to be peeled away, Istanbul occupies a special place in Islamic history, and therefore makes it a city with which I, as a Muslim, can form a deeper connection. We arrived here late last night, and were not able to see anything on our drive into Sultanahmet, where we are staying and where some of the most important cultural sites are located. Our inability to see anything turned out to be for the better, because the true impact of the first two monuments we visited – the Ayasofya and Blue Mosque – was best appreciated in daylight the next day.

And what an impact! The Ayasofya simply took my breath away. The emperor Justinian, who commissioned its building around 537 CE, is said to have dropped to one knee when he first walked inside the completed structure, and to have proclaimed “Solomon, I have outdone thee!” It’s hard to argue with that emotion.

The external structure is not as special as the inside, which has the effect of falsely lowering your expectations of the interior – until, that is, you step over the threshold, and are faced with the soaring interior. The cavernous space is just beautiful, with domes ascending ever upwards, and unlike the typical European cathedral, the entire structure has an incredible feeling of lightness to it. It’s not easy to understand why that is initially, until you realize that there are no large support columns that split up the interior. Instead, the massive central dome of the Ayasofya is supported by smaller surrounding half-domes that create an ingenious distribution of weight. In addition, the use of windows around the base of the dome allow in beams of light that bounce around the entire building, creating a mystical quality. The net effect on a human being standing within that space is to make them feel … puny.

Although Aysofya was the largest cathedral in Christendom for a thousand years, it was eventually converted into a mosque after conquest of the surrounding lands by the Ottomans. The, beautiful, immense medallions hanging from the ceilings that bear calligraphic representations of Allah and Muhammad are testament to this part of the building’s past. I felt this picture captured the duality of the Ayasofia's past, with the two medallions I mention suspended below a mosaic of the Virgin Mary.

We spent over an hour inside, even though there were no special exhibits to soak up our time – just standing in that hall was enough.

Ripping ourselves away from the Ayasofya was hard, but made easier by the fact that across the main square lay the beautiful Blue Mosque, so called because of the thousands of blue Iznik tiles that adorn its interior. Unlike the Ayasofya, the Blue Mosque presents a striking image from the very beginning. The intent, which is clearly achieved, is of size, majesty, and splendor. All visitors can enter the mosque, as long as they are appropriately covered. However, unlike the other visitors, as Muslims we were allowed to enter the actual space for prayer. This was significant, as it provided a symbolic differentiation, and helped make me feel a little special. I mention this not to describe a sense of superiority of my faith over others, but to explain how hard it is in these times to openly profess one’s adherence to Islam. Being in an environment where my faith is celebrated meant much to me.

I’ve heard that the interior of the Blue Mosque is not considered as architecturally significant as that of the Ayasofya. From an artistic point of view, I guess I can understand that – Ayasofya’s dome, as I mention above, stuns you into silence, where the Blue Mosque provides a subtler and gentler welcome into its religious space. However, while I offered prayer there, my mind was far from considerations of architectural achievements. It was deep in contemplative thought, feeding off the trappings of the beautiful mimbar, the mihrab, and the calligraphy, all of which served to heighten the beauty of this amazing, ancient structure. It was easy to close my eyes and imagine the centuries of supplicants who had stood where I stood now, bowing their head in utter humility.

Humility - the Ayasofya and the Blue Mosque have a way of imposing that upon you.

The kind Parisian

The weather has not been very cooperative. Paris in the spring, unlike the saying, is very wet. However, the weather has been more than balanced by the good natured people of this city. Yes, you read that correct – all the Parisians that we’ve interacted with have been extremely helpful. This is in contrast to what we read in every guidebook we picked up, all of which wrote (with appropriate political correctness) that French can be perceived as rude, and that one should communicate in French first, because trying to blurt English at every opportunity is asking for trouble.

I’m not sure I buy into this whole haughty Parisian stereotype. There was one point this morning where Nuha started acting up and crying in our hotel lobby while we were trying to ask the concierge for directions. Before we knew it, one of the bellhops came over, took Nuha, grabbed apples from a complimentary fruit tray, and started to juggle for her. I’m not talking an amateurish three apples in the air at the same time – we’re talking Cirque du Soleil caliber theatrics. Not sure how many hotels back home have staff that receptive to a guest’s needs. You could argue that well trained hotel staff will look to help a guest at every turn, but I feel that the kindness we’ve been experiencing extends further. Every time I have tried speaking my halting French, I have been interrupted and spoken back to in English, without a trace of an attitude. In fact, I’ve felt that the person I’m speaking with has been more willing to speak in broken English to make it easier for me, rather than things having to be the other way around.

Communication in general has been very interesting. There have been a few occasions now where I have asked if the listener speaks English, and once told no, I am in turn asked if I speak Spanish. When I’ve said, we’ve suddenly discovered a language we’re both comfortable with. It makes for an interesting interaction – Pakistanis and French communicating in Spanish. Crazy world.

The Eiffel tower was really cool, literally and figuratively. The weather was brutal this morning, and reminded us of the blustery Chicago winter. We had purchased advance tickets, which meant shorter lines, but the French staff and tourists generous yet again, and offered us the opportunity to skip to the front of our line and get inside the visitor’s center where it would be warmer for Nuha.

One thing I’d like to highlight is that desis will be desis, no matter where you place them. The couple below was appropriately bundled for the day, wearing warm, puffy jackets, woolly hats, scarves and gloves. However, when it came time to taking a picture, they made their volunteer picture-taker wait 5 minutes as they slowly disrobed in the frigid weather, until the couple was down to something more stylish and appropriate for posterity.

Long lines

Day 2 in Paris, and how can one skip out on the Louvre? Quite easily actually, when it is cold and raining, and one has not planned far enough ahead to purchase tickets beforehand. Because if one does not do so, one is then faced with improbably long lines, as if free doughnuts were being handed out (what else would be worth such a line?)

Saeeda was disappointed, but honestly, I’m not an art expert, and I doubt that my two year old daughter is either. It would only be a matter of time before one of us (most likely me) would have melted down and gotten on Saeeda’s nerves. So instead we made the best of a wet situation and had some coffee and croissants under the shade of a tree, as tourists rushed around us to find some cover from the rain.

With French café au lait coursing through our vein, we set out to walk the neighborhoods of the Seine. It was only an hour or so later that the sun came out, drying things up quickly and generally lifting the mood. So we walked and walked, marveling at the sheer splendor and … age … of everything around us. It got to the point where I silently just started multiplying by 10 any estimate I had of how old something was. This looks about 100 years old to me – nope, sorry, try a 1,000. The 3,300 year old oblelisk in the Place de la Concorde (the largest square in Paris) really blew me away. How many man-made objects have you been around that are over 3 millennia old? I thought so.

The very wet evening was capped by a beautiful boat tour of the Seine, with great views of the Notre Dame cathedral and the Eiffel tower, which we hope to ascend tomorrow.

Paris

Ah, Paree. What can one say that has not already been said? Arrival was uneventful, and the bus to the hotel was simple to figure out. The hotel itself is great – a new Marriott property that reminds me of a W, although without the pretentious, clubby staff that makes you feel really old if you’re anything north of 21. Saeeda and I have been really fortunate in our travels in finding great new hotels that haven’t quite been discovered yet. For us, this has meant that our hotel points go far, and we stay in places that lack the tourist crowds.

Jet lag wasn’t bad, so we freshened up and headed out, hitting up the Arc de Triomphe, which was a 5 min. walk from our hotel, and then the Champs D’Elysees, where we had some overpriced (though still good) croissants and coffee, before heading into the Metro system. With the evening approaching, we decided to make Notre Dame cathedral our one and only stop for the day.

There is something to be said about structures that man erects to attempt to connect with the God of his religion. There is a sense of proportion, a sense of permanence, and a sense of beauty that all combine to humble the supplicant. And Notre Dame captures this essence with great power, despite being what I would call a moderately sized cathedral, and from what I'm told, nothing close to the magnitude of the Sistine Chapel. The interior was beautiful, and I was lucky enough to catch a mass in progress, which made the experience all the more authentic.

Afterwards, Saeeda and I walked around the Latin Quarter, struggling to control the stroller on cobblestoned streets, but enjoying the window shopping and the great variety of restaurants. We settled on a crepe place (for dinner – why not?), and dug into some delicious fare.

On the way home, we passed the Champs D’Elysees again, and spotted that mecca of luxury goods:

We also came across signs that Paris is full of culture, filled with a desire to learn more about little known parts of the world in order to increase a mutual understanding:

As well as signs that Paris has no taste in music, and insists on throwing lifelines to individuals who should have faded into a hazy memory a long, long time ago:

All in all, a great first day.

Travel – we’re getting the hang of it

I’ve chronicled our travel debacles since Nuha’s birth in a couple of places now. Travelling with multiple pieces of luggage, frustrated and harried at airports, struggling to console our daughter on planes. But I have to say, we did real well this time. As we left home for Paris, and eventually Istanbul, we did so with two medium sized suitcases and a small carry-on, all well under the weight limit. Beyond that, I had a small backpack that I planned to use during our treks. We were ready before the shuttle arrived to pick us up, patiently waiting by the door, which in itself represented a marked change from our previous trips, where I’d usually be busy with last minute things, praying for the taxi to be late.

But the hot streak didn’t end there. Security lines, which once used to be child’s play, had become terrifying ordeals that we hated. This time around, however, it was like a finely choreographed dance - eliminate liquid containers before the line, grab multiple bins in one go, deposit jackets/belts/shoes in one, laptop in another, and backpack in the third. Shoes off, ticket in one hand, baby in another, deliver strategic ninja kicks to expertly collapse stroller, and walk through. Done!

Actually, the entire journey was a series of high fives between Saeeda and I. All except for one incident. We had boarded our KLM flight from SFO to Amsterdam, and the flight attendant, sitting in a jumpseat directly in front of us, asked us to buckle Nuha in. Nuha, however, wanted nothing doing . And so began a Class A, Premium Quality Meltdown of the 1st Degree. We’re talking writhing, hollering, hell-raising screaming, with tears and snot streaming out in copious amounts. Our neighboring passengers did their best to ignore the tirade, and we did our best to control Nuha, but to no avail. We were “those” parents with the uncontrollable child, and I could tell everyone was doing mental math to figure out how long they would be stuck beside us. Thankfully, the tantrum stopped the moment we reached cruising altitude and unbuckled Nuha. I think the flight attendant figured out what was in her best interest too, because during landing she turned a blind eye as we waited until the last possible minute to buckle Nuha, and then unbuckled her the first opportunity we got.

Still, all in all this was one of our most successful trips ever, and I’m hoping that it’s something that we can build on.

A volcanic disruption in review

My European travel adventures finally came to came to a successful end on Tuesday. On that day, the authorities in charge finally relented and airspace opened back up, allowing stranded passengers to start making their way to their respective destinations. All in all, this experience was an interesting and not entirely unpleasant one

Traveling in Europe is fun at any time, but doing so by relying completely on your own wits, rather than the boring predictability of planned schedules – there’s something exciting about that. Of course, I was blessed throughout this experience in that I was traveling on business, and hence was the ward of my multinational employer with covered expenses and dedicated travel agents ( albeit ones who refused to pick up the phone). There was also never a pressing emergency that had me desperate to be home, although it has emerged since my return that my wife and I have different definitions of “emergency” - a wailing, inconsolable toddler constitutes an emergency, I now know. Finally, my contact with stranded families aching to be home, or of stranded students running out of money and living off airport cots was sobering, to say the least.

Perhaps most interesting was the dynamic that was in play between the airlines and the governing authorities. At the outset, the public saw the decisive action taken by the EU as reassuring, despite stranded passengers grumbling about the delay - visions of planes with clogged jet engines falling from the sky made sure that few questioned the initial decision. But then something interesting happened. Airlines began to bleed money. As the shutdown stretched from hours to days, it became clear that grounded air traffic was going to lead to a severe financial impact. Airlines began taking “test flights” to check if it was ok to take to the skies, although I found it interesting that none of the test flights took place through the ash clouds themselves, or flew at much lower altitudes than normal. CEOs began exhorting the authorities to open up the skies, that the shutdown was draconian and excessive. There was even talk of bailouts.

And the EU relented. Despite any conclusive evidence that proved it was safe to fly, the Net Present Value swung in favor of letting planes off the ground. Someone will write an interesting analysis on this someday, but you could sense the equation changing on a daily basis.

Day 1: Planes crashing as a result of volcanic ash = no planes allowed to fly.

Day 3: $200 million in daily losses = hmm, is this volcano thing really that bad?

Day 5: Screw the volcano. We need to get s#%* moving again!

Ah economics. What a truly dismal science.

I leave you with a few pictures I was able to snap on my crappy Blackberry camera as I decided to make the most of my stay in Germany and Switzerland:

Chili flavored chocolate? Really, O Swiss people? Have desis so pervaded your society that you feel you need to cater to us?

Entrance to Dachau. "Work will set you free"

Surfing(!) in Munich. This is in the middle of the city.

With Mike's Bike Tours

Marienplatz - the old town center at night. Much prettier in real life.

Me, the Autobahn, and Lady Gaga

The norm for “seeing Europe” is usually after one’s college graduation, and before the start of one’s first job. It is an American rite of passage – a last hurrah before one has to buckle down and begin worrying about things like contributing enough to a 401k to make sure to get an employer match. But given this stupid volcano, I’m now living every fresh college graduate’s dream European vacation.

Today I bid goodbye to Munich, and headed to pick up my rental car for the journey to Zurich, which is where I had managed to find the next available flight out on Swiss Air. Driving in Europe is a ton of fun – you invariably get a German car with a great engine, and you get to speed on autobahns where it’s easy to push 100 mph. Picking up the car was just as much fun for me, though, because the rental car agency I had found was at the main train station in the center of the city, which meant having to use zigzagging alleys and one-way streets to get out of the city and on to the highway.

It’s hard not to feel a little like Jason Bourne during the process. Ok, maybe it’s hard for me not to feel a little like Jason Bourne. But come on! I don’t speak the language, but I’m at ease in my alien environment. I’m at places of mass public transit, wending and weaving my way through strangers who know nothing about my mission. I convince agents to lend me a car, using one of my many credit cards linked to offshore accounts. I locate my vehicle in a non-descript, off-site parking structure, load my minimalist belongings, rev the engine, and zoom my way across narrow roads, knowing where to go only by instinct … and by the aid of my GPS (which I set to speak at me in a haughty British accent).

Driving is indeed a lot of fun in Europe, even putting aside the great highways with no speed limits. The countryside is so ridiculously postcard perfect. In my case, I passed countless small villages clinging to valley riversides, with the Alps soaring in the background. Farms flew by, with cows lazily lounging in the fields. And every now and then I’d pass through small towns where I’d pull up next to an old church, built an impossibly long time ago.

The only blemish on this driving experience was the music. Europop itself is fine – I kinda like the catchy pop-tunes that make up most continental hits. And I really enjoyed listening to German, Italian, and French songs, even though I didn’t understand a word. It was part of the experience of being in a foreign land. But that’s what made the amount of American crud playing on each and every single radio station absolutely infuriating. I don’t claim to have a trained ear, nor do I claim to have any deep knowledge of music, but even I can tell good American music from formulaic, vapid crap. Among the songs that were on infinite replay on all the radio stations was that ludicrous song by that guy who would like to make himself "believe that planet earth turned slowly” and for some reason wants to “get a thousand hugs, from 10,000 bugs” (why is he asking each bug to hug him ten times?) Or something like that. Owl City, is the name of the band, I think. And then there was Lady Gaga. You know that song – the one where the chorus sounds like she’s trying to gargle while singing – “rah-rah-ah-ah-ah, roma roma-ma, ga-ga ooh la la.” WTF?!

Both these vomit inducing songs played with such regularity that I eventually just had to turn the radio off, and resort to my trusty British GPS guide to entertain me the rest of the way. The three and a half hour drive went by a lot quicker than I expected, and I pulled into my Zurich office in the afternoon, surprising my coworkers who thought they had seen the last of “that corporate guy from California.”

Tomorrow promises to be another exciting day – will I get to fly out? Will I be moving to yet another city? Will I have to endure more Lady Gaga? Who knows.

Unpronounceable volcanoes

My ability to withstand infuriatingly unhelpful travel agents continues to amaze me. Yesterday I stopped living in 90 min. increments (average wait time for an operator), and resigned myself to the fact that I will get home when I get home. This means that I'm no longer splitting time between keeping my bags packed in case my flight leaves from Munich, walking around the city entertaining myself, and wasting away on hold on the phone. This is a better approach anyway, since now I can relax and catch up on email, and spend time surfing the web again.

I arrived in Switzerland last week, and eventually moved to Germany for meetings. I was supposed to fly out of Stuttgart on Friday, connect to Munich, and then go straight to San Fran by Friday evening. That's when that silly volcano with that unpronounceable name started to mess with a finely tuned aviation system, and all air travel went haywire. Since then, I've taken a train to Munich, scrambled for a hotel over 1,000s of other people (and with the year's biggest convention starting here this week), sat around for three days while my rescheduled flights were cancelled repeatedly, contemplated taking the 8 hour train to Greece or Turkey (only places functioning close to normal), commandeered a rental car, and will be driving to Zurich tomorrow.

We have an office there where I should be able to camp out - perhaps literally as I have not found a hotel room yet. The second-biggest problem right now is finding lodging. People who were supposed to leave, haven't. And people who were in transit have arrived, which means availability in cities is tight. Still, being productive in an office, surrounded by my coworkers who speak the language and can help with travel arrangements is bound to be better than being useless in Munich.

I was on the phone with our travel agent for the umpteenth time this morning, re-booking yet another flight, when she mentioned that I should look into cruise lines. Apparently some forward-thinking passengers booked themselves on ships last week when the airports started shutting down, and many of them are already arriving in the US. Craziness. And it's not like the airlines know more than the rest of us - yesterday I ran into a pilot from Delta and stewardesses from Continental who had no idea when they would be leaving. When I used my Blackberry to look up the latest info on Lufthansa's website on airport closures, they were grateful because it provided them more of an update than they were getting from their HQ. I learned that flight crew are provided with company-issue laptops or cell phones, and instead just rely on wherever they get internet access.

By the way, I'm looking forward to my 3.5 hr drive tomorrow, since the only car that was available, and which I snagged, was a Mercedez sedan. The problem is that it's a manual transmission, which I last drove when I was in high school in Pakistan. I'm not worried though - I maintain that anyone who learns to drive on the streets of Karachi can out-maneuver James Bond in a car chase. I'll get to put my theory to the test tomorrow as I try to navigate out of Munich's old-town , with its classic windy, narrow, European streets, and onto the autobahn.

Possibly the worst part of all this (other than trying to convince my wife that no, secretly I'm not having the time of my life) is that I can't swear at this f#$%!@* volcano properly. It's not like, "Damn Mt St. Helens!" or "shit Pinatubo, why did you have to screw things up?". No, the ridiculous name of this volcano is impossible to pronounce, which makes venting of anger near impossible.

Maybe I'll dial my travel agent again.

i-Yawn

I wanted to wait a while before posting about the new i-Pad. So much hype preceded the launch of the latest device from Apple, so it wouldn't have been fair to discuss it without some time going by and letting thoughts settle.

But really? An oversize iPhone is all Apple could come up with? Granted the pricing is attractive, but netbooks continue to drop in retail price, and satisfy the needs of the casual websurfer just fine (albeit with some performance issues, but these should diminish with time). So Steve Jobs couldn't have thought this was going to displace the mobile computing marketplace (especially since the iPhone is already leagues ahead of competition in this regards).

No, I think the real value of the iPad is going to be in the eBook space, and the skirmish this has started with Amazon. There are several things going for the iPad in this regards - the iTunes-like store for books, the ePub format, and an interesting revenue-sharing contract with publishers are a few of them. Amazon doesn't need to worry about it's online bookstore engine, but the proprietary Kindle format and its pricing agreements with its publishers is of concern. I own a Kindle, and love it, but already the iPad has forced Amazon to move away from its loss leading $9.99 price for eBooks. I won't be too happy to see prices for books go up, so I'm waiting to see what happens.

Extra competition is good, and eventually you'll see innovation drive advances in the electronic publishing industry. As a consultant, I worked on eBook projects in 1999, but the platforms just weren't there, and projects fizzled. Now, with the iPad and Kindle going at each other, I'm looking forward to some true change (I haven't played around with the Sony Reader or the BN Nook to form much of an opinion on those devices).

But to come back to my original reaction to the iPad. Only the Apple fanboys can truly believe they are getting a successor device to the iPod and iPhone when they buy the iPad. For the rest of us, it's the shot fired across the electronic publishing world that should get us salivating.

What defines career sucess?

In the next six months I’ll be making a transition in my career. I’ll be staying at the same company, but will be moving off from a program that I’ve been part of for the last three years. The opportunity is a rare one – there are only so many times in one’s career where there is the opportunity to choose from multiple positions, knowing that some of these can take one’s career in a completely different direction. However, let me be clear - given the economic environment, there are multiple candidates vying for these same opportunities, so it’s important to network with senior management and get your name out there.

So last week I set up time with a Senior Manager to discuss opportunities on her team, but more importantly to get general career advice regarding the division in which I am interested. This individual has been at Abbott for a few years now, and has several staff reporting to her. Most of the half hour conversation was spent discussing my strengths, and what sort of a fit positions on her team (if they materialize) would be for my goals. Towards the end of our friendly conversation, she asked about my transition to California, and how the experience here differed from other places where I had lived.

When I mentioned that I had started out on the East Coast, her eyes lit up. Probing further it turned out that we were alums of the same institution – the University of Virginia. She mentioned that she obtained her MBA from the Darden business school at UVA in 2002, and I responded that I had attended UVA as an undergraduate.

“So did I,” she said.

“Really?” I asked. “I graduated in 1998 from the Engineering school. You?”

“1998. From the Engineering School.”

Although I should have been excited to find an alum from the same school and program all the way out in Santa Clara, CA, I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Here I was, having spent 30 minutes getting career advice from a personable, accomplished Senior Manager who had clearly achieved success. And yet we were the same age, and had started our careers at the same time. And she was my senior (by quite a bit).

I tried to recover a little by expressing surprise at what a small world we lived in, and asking who else I should network with.

“Do you know X?” she asked. Of course, I replied – he was a General Manager in charge of our Asia-Pacific operations, and I had heard his name mentioned often.

“He also graduated from UVA. 1998”

I don’t remember the rest of the conversation, other than her telling me to stop by if I had any other questions in the future. I was too busy trying to figure out where my career path had slowed down relative to these successful individuals, to do anything other than meekly thank her and leave.

So that remains the question. How does one define career success? A title, a corner office, multiple direct reports? A high salary, great responsibility? Personal fulfillment? And what timelines should be attached to those goals? I understand that I switched careers – from consulting to healthcare – and that I should not measure my path directly to the Senior Manager I met with, since she graduated with an MBA three years before I did. But how should I advise my daughter as she grows up? Should she try to get to b-school as soon as she can? Is working for seven years before grad school (like her dad), going to slow down her career trajectory? Or is the perspective that comes with time in the industry reward in itself?

Whatever the answers, I know I’ll continue networking. After all, I have lost ground to make-up.