Game of Chickens

In between all the visits with family, I’ve also managed to get some shopping done. I had already received my assignment from Saeeda, and in return for being allowed to take this week off by myself to visit Pakistan, I was to bring back some things that are hard to find Stateside. As part of the treasure hunt that I’ve been on, I’ve had to survive the daily Dance with Death that is Karachi traffic.

I’ve realized that I no longer have the stomach for the game of chicken that takes place on the roads. Basically, the larger or faster the moving body, the more legitimate its claim to the “right of way.” Throw in a transportation infrastructure that is not built to handle the daily volume of traffic, and ignite it with ridiculously poor planning (intersecting thoroughfares with no exits) and you have the explosive mess that is Karachi traffic.

The irony is that this is the city where I first learned to drive, but I now cringe in the passenger seat when the driver takes actions considered basic Driving Commandments of Karachi: “Thou shalt never give way”; “Thou shalt take the color of the traffic light as a suggestion only”; “If the shortest distance between your current location and your destination requires driving into oncoming traffic, thou shalt do so” and so on.

What I found myself amazed by on this trip was the ability of the people to defy the laws of Physics and squeeze multiple cars into a lane already choked off by double-parked cars and motorcycles (normal in high traffic shopping areas). I’d be sitting in the passenger seat, watching an oncoming SUV bear down on us on a strip of roadway that in no way could accommodate our two cars, and yet somehow my dad and the SUV would create space without hitting each other or the aforementioned double-parked vehicles. This phenomenon has definitely given me greater appreciation for the amount of elbow room we enjoy in the US, and of the fact that laws of Physics are just a relative thing.

The aforementioned narrow lane full of double-parked cars. It was here that my car faced off against the world's largest SUV, and both of us squeezed by each other by the skin of our teeth.

Family

It was with some trepidation that I set out on Monday. I was going to be visiting family that I hadn’t seen in a really long time. What would they look like? Would we have anything to talk about? The weather did not help.  It’s 104 degrees with 47% humidity - weather that will bake you while making you feel that you are drowning. And the roads, though a little better than what I remember, still feel like you’re traversing a moonscape in certain parts of town.

Still, all of this was forgotten with the very first visit to my cousin’s home – a small apartment in a densely populated area of Karachi (not that there are many sparsely populated parts of Karachi). I hadn’t seen him or his kids in eight years, but it felt like I had just been there a few months back. There was backslapping and joking. Shock on my part at how much older my nephews and nieces had become. Disappointment on my cousin’s part that my wife and munchkins were not with us. But in all, a great reunion.

And this same story played out over and over again, at every home that we visited. There would be a look of surprise on the part of the host (social visits here are usually unannounced, and no one in my family knew that I would be visiting Pakistan), then there would be hugs all around, some initial small talk, and very soon we’d be gossiping as if we had just seen each other a few weeks back.

The day was long as we wrapped up our last visit, but it has been fulfilling.

Home

I was not sure what to expect when I arrived at my childhood home, which my parents recently sold and are now temporarily occupying as renters. I was afraid that in the last eight years all signs of familiarity would have vanished, and that I would struggle to remember the way things were. Today, however, was my first day home, and it has been such a pleasant experience. Everything is just as I remember, with a few minor variations in furniture, or in the configuration of the potted plants, or perhaps in the pictures of the grandkids that are on the walls.

My room is the same as it was from when I first moved away to go to college in the US. There is the picture from when I was in 3^rd grade and which my parents still insist on keeping. The medal I won in my school’s art competition in 1985 still hangs on the wall, clearly inscribed with the words “The Sports Shop” in case I needed to recall where the medal was purchased. There is also the random 500 piece puzzle that I put together as a child, which my father decided needed to be framed and hung for display to all. Mercifully, my parents replaced my furniture with something a little more mature.

The funny thing is that I instinctively knew how to turn the door knob just so to prevent it from coming off the door, or which power switch controlled which light and in what sequence I liked to turn things on. I knew which curtain to keep open to allow in the best daylight into the room without making the room too hot. And I remembered the secret closet hiding place I used in my teen years, and which I was smart enough to empty out a long time ago.

Since my parents just recently sold the house, they are still working on disposing of much of the junk that has accumulated over the course of several decades. What is left for sale includes toys that I used to play with. The Lego sets, the puzzles, my magician’s kits, as well as some ancient electronics that are still fully functional. It was this last that I am going to have to figure out how to take back to the US with me, as I’m sure that these are now vintage and would fetch a smart price if I were to try and sell them.

Meeting Khursheed, our butler-driver-handyman-chef all-in-one was fun too. He hasn’t aged or changed, but was offended that I didn’t bring the wife and kids, especially since he has not met the latter yet. Soon, I promised him.

Between the slow return to familiar surroundings, exploring the neighborhood by foot, and eating fresh desi food, my first day back has been an amazing experience, and one that I so badly wish I could have shared with Saeeda. Still, I’m excited for the rest of the week, when we begin visiting family.

Going Home

It’s been eight years, which is far too long. Eight years since I’ve been back to Pakistan. Eight years since I’ve visited my extended family. It’s funny though, because even that term – extended family – has no meaning for the people of that region. There is no such thing as “extended” because you’re always just “family”. So to have been away for eight years is entirely too long, but I’m headed home now.

A work conference in Turkey provided the best excuse possible to take some vacation and book a four hour onward flight to Pakistan. So here I am, on the plane, about to land in Karachi. I’ve barely slept in the last week because of work and travel, but I’m still strangely alert and excited, even by the small stuff. Such as the all-Urdu chatter in the plane, reminding me of a language that I barely speak now. Or the uniquely desi (but inexplicable) need for my fellow passengers to immediately open the overhead bins the moment the plane lands, despite the seat belt sign or the fact that we have to continue taxiing for another 15 minutes. Or the uniquely desi aversion to deodorant, a fact that I am reminded of as my eyes tear up and my nose hairs begin to singe once the pilot turns off the air conditioning. But then the plane doors open and the line starts inching slowly forward, and all is forgotten.

Because I’m home.

Product differentiation vampires

Nuha came down with a fever yesterday evening.  Ever since we had the scare of our lives last year when she went into febrile seizures, we've been apprehensive whenever her temperature rises.  Today there were a few instances when it hit 103 degrees, so Saeeda made the call and I took her into urgent care.

There wasn't anything to worry about - the doctor found a mild infection that needed an antibiotic, so I decided to pick up the prescription at at the nearby Walgreens.  It was while the pharmacist was completing the transaction there that he asked me a question I was not prepared for.

"Would you like that flavored?" he asked.

Puzzled look on Faisal's face. We're talking about antibiotics, not lattes, right?

"Uh.  Is that an option?"

"Sure - we can make it cherry or strawberry flavored."

Cool, I thought.  I wish this had been around back when I was a child and my mother was shoving the world's worst tasting concoctions down my throat.  Back then, you measured the potency of a medicine by how badly it burned your throat as it went down.  The more gag-inducing the medicine, the more likely it was to annihilate whatever was bothering you.

"Um, ok, sure," I said.

"That'll be $2.99 extra."

And just like that, it was oh hell no time.  First of all, I was annoyed that some executive thought it cool to make flavoring an option for children's medicine rather than keep it standard and making life easier for parents all over the world.  Second, the economist in me was annoyed that Walgreen's expected me to believe that adding a spritz of flavoring could possibly cost almost $3 extra for a generic medicine that didn't cost that much to begin with.  Finally, I was incensed that this whole idea was a play on a vulnerable parent's susceptibility at a time when sick children were likely to be waiting at home.

I decided to decline the offer for a tastier antibiotic, and mentally made a note to never become a product differentiation vampire as a marketer myself.

Housework x10

People told me that having a second child would more than double the work for us.  That the second child would create one of the toughest transitions I would experience as a parent.  I listened politely, because I didn't entirely believe them.  And for the most part, I feel that I was right - yes there's more work to do in the two weeks since Ziyad made his entrance, but it's no tougher a transition than when we had our first.  What has broadsided me is the amount of housework.

All my wife and I do now is pick-up stuff and put it back in its place.  We turn around, and our entire universe is instantly thrown into chaos.  So back we go again, redressing naked dolls, replacing refrigerator magnets (why do we have so many?), and re-organizing the DVD shelf (why does my Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 Xbox game have a copy of the Potty Power: How to Train your Toddler in 5 Easy Days DVD?). We're in hell, assigned the Sysiphean task of rolling the proverbial boulder up the hill, only to watch it roll back on us.  And Hades (our daughter) mocks us.  You see, the corollary to having a second child is that one of us can no longer clean up while the other distracts the cause of the mess.  We are now constantly busy and distracted - while one of us tends to a chore, the other is busy with Ziyad.  Which means that Nuha has the run of the house.

Used to be a time when if there was silence my wife and I would breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that either a) Nuha was asleep, or b) she was keeping herself busy with her toys.  Now, when there is silence, it is cause for immediate alarm and a reason for the Khan household to move immediately to code blue.

Nuha left to her own for 10 minutes as I clean dishes:

The tormentor, mocking me (hint: I'm the one in my undershirt, dishtowel on my shoulder, and a haggard look on my face):

Two weeks later

So Ziyad has been home now for two weeks now, and it's amazing the transformation that has taken place in such a short period of time.  For one, he is a better feeder than his older sister ever was at this age, which means that he is filling out his newborn clothes at a rapid pace.  Nuha was a tiny baby for a long time - Ziyad is adding heft quickly.

I'm not sure why I thought child number two would provide us with the same experience as the first one, but already the differences are starting to make themselves clear.  Ziyad is a mellow baby, crying occasionally, but mostly only for food.  Putting him to sleep isn't hard, whereas Nuha required all sorts of rocking and walking.  Our parenting style has changed too, from the classic over-attention and fussing to a more relaxed "he'll be fine" attitude.  I remember how when Nuha was born Saeeda would hang at the edge of our bed all night long, drifting asleep for 5 minutes before darting awake to see if Nuha was ok.  Now Saeeda's reaction is to feed Ziyad, putting him to sleep, and slap me awake if Ziyad starts to cry so that I can do diaper changes/swaddling/rocking to sleep.  This whole having to parent thing is a lot of work.

I'm going to find out more, I guess, as my paternity leave started on Monday.  That day was fine, as Nuha was in daycare.  Tuesday, however, was not so smooth - elder sister was home, had the run of the house, and decided that having mom and dad's attention diverted away from her is not that cool a thing.  Lots of throwing things, screaming, and generally pushing boundaries.  By the end I was exhausted, as I was tasked with keeping Nuha away from Saeeda and the baby.  I might have to rethink growing the family to five kids.

Ziyad Khan enters the world

It's funny how different this pregnancy has been from when we were expecting Nuha almost three years ago.  Back then, everything was new and brought with it tremendous uncertainty.  Conflicting advice would send us scurrying to the internet to determine tie-breakers.  We considered everyone to be an expert. "What to Expect when Expecting" - that Bible of Pregnancy - made us dread the most benign of Saeeda's symptoms.  And a trip to Babies R Us would always leave me paralyzed and disoriented.

This time around, however, we've been able to focus much more on us as a family, and on preparing for an arrival that will completely change the way we interact with each other. Granted, this "preparing" has sort of crossed over into territory in which I am not comfortable.  For example, this past weekend Saeeda, having run out of things to organize, acquired a label maker and decided to label the entire contents of our spice cabinet.  When finished, she proudly declared that I would now finally be able to find the right spice when I needed to do so.  I stopped short of informing her that finding the right spice had never been the problem - it was what to do with the spice after I had located it that was the problem.

But for me, "preparing" for the new arrival has meant spending more time with Nuha.  With busy lives and crazy schedules, I've relished the recent, rare weekends where she and I have just goofed around in the park, chasing after each other, hunting down daffodils, making fun of other kids too scared to try the big slides, and generally making a mess of the nice clothes Saeeda always picks for Nuha.  We've spent time meticulously apply band-aids to each other.  Me, because of small blisters suffered through all-around clumsiness, and she because ... well, who doesn't want to sport five, multi-colored Dora the Explorer band-aids on their leg?  Sure, I've had to suffer some worried looks from Nuha's day care teachers, each wondering what damage I'm doing to my child.  And sure, Saeeda has had to stealthily rip off one bandage a night, having had to wait until after Nuha has fallen asleep.  But so what?  

In general, I've worried that the attention and love that we've provided will soon have to be diverted, and that makes me a little sad because of the tectonic shift Nuha's world is about to suffer.  This morning, after Saeeda had gone into labor and we were preparing for the trip to the hospital, I snuck into Nuha's room to dress her.  We would be dropping her off at a friend's house, and I needed to quickly make sure everything was ready to go.  I paused at Nuha's bed to watch her sleep, with curly hair splayed in a mess on her pillow, mouth in a smile, her trusty stuffed giraffe and cow clutched tightly in either hand.  As I started to move her, Nuha, still asleep, instantly started yelling at her mom to leave her band-aids on.  I couldn't help but smile.  How nice would it be if my biggest nightly concern was anger at my mother ripping off unnecessary band-aids?

We dropped Nuha off at 4:30am this morning, silently offering thanks for having developed close friendships that allowed us to substitute for having family around.  Driving quickly, we were at the hospital by 5am, and checked in within another 10.  Saeeda was in bed with nurses swarming around her almost immediately, but we soon realized there was a slight problem - Saeeda was too far into labor for the administration of any medication whatsoever.  In the 20 minutes of pushing that followed, Saeeda convinced me that no matter how much CrossFit I partake in, I will never approach a level of resilience, endurance, or stamina to hold a candle to what she proved she was capable of.

And just like that, Ziyad Khan entered the world.  Mother and son are now doing well, with Ziyad as alert and quiet as Nuha was when she was born.  I'm leaving them in the hospital room to go pick up Nuha in a bit, and to introduce her to someone who I hope will become her partner in crime and best buddy for life.  Saeeda and I cannot be more thankful or grateful for the prayers and well wishes of all of our family and friends.  Success as parents, I think, will now depend on how well we can transition from 2-on-1 to man-to-man defense.  

Tragedy and beauty

Our last full day in Maui … already?  Yes, a little hard to believe, but then that’s sort of how quickly time flies in this place, even though you feel like things move reaaalllly slooowly.  Like the cars on the "highways" of Maui, obeying the 35 mph posted state speed limit.

Given that we had hit the pool yesterday, today was more about the beach.  Still on Pacific time, we woke early, munched on our bagels and downed some cereal, just in time for the sun to begin warming up the water.  I decided to rent some snorkeling gear, having been told that there was some good coral reef right on the beach that our hotel looked out upon.  I was skeptical at first, especially since my last snorkeling experience had been at the Great Barrier Reef in Australia - it would be hard to top that adventure.  I remembered from that trip that we had to travel a fair distance out to into open water, so I didn't think I could just wade into the water, and within a few feet be amongst coral.  But it was true.  Kaanapali beach had coral that were so easily accessible that you could not be blamed for thinking  that it was an expensive, fake, set-up.

My snorkeling adventures did come to an abrupt end, however, when I noticed a lot of commotion on the beach right by where I had left Saeeda and Nuha.  I decided to swim back to shore, and no sooner had I got there than I realized that the excitement was due to a group of people trying mightily to revive a lady who was lying prone on the sand.  Saeeda and Nuha were huddled not far away, having had to scatter as the lady had been pulled in from the surf.  A few minutes later EMT’s arrived, and it became clear from the conversation that the woman had been snorkeling and had passed out.  Her family had dragged her out when they had noticed something wrong.

Saeeda, Nuha, and I decided to leave the crowd of gathering onlookers – the EMTs were trying to revive this poor woman who had gone into cardiac arrest, and gawking was not going to help matters.  What I found strange was that the same thing had happened the day before, while we were at the hotel pool.  From our poolside chairs, we had seen an older gentleman pulled from the surf, also having passed out while snorkeling.  The EMTs had not been able to revive him, and he had been rushed to the hospital.

The three of us went back to our hotel room to change, sobered by the reminder that tragedy can strike even in the happiest of places.  Still, in a way that made me appreciate Hawaii's beauty even more.  There's only so much time that we have on this planet, and the beauty that surrounds us is vast.  Being able to visit some of that beauty is a blessing, and for that I am grateful.

The island's affect on the mind

Ah Maui.  Boy did we enjoy it the way it was meant to be enjoyed today.  We woke up late, had breakfast in the room, and headed for the pool, where we lay around some more.  The lounge chairs reclined at the perfect angle, the sun was just the perfect amount of hot, and the kiddie pool was just right for Nuha, who if left to herself, would have remained there all day.

All that hard work in the morning required a nap back in our hotel room, after which it was time to get ready for the luau that we tickets to.  As with other native traditions in places that depend so much on tourist revenue, the Hawaiian luau has become more of a spectacle that amuses visitors than an accurate depiction of local custom.  Despite this, the kid-friendly Polynesian Village luau that we attended was a pleasant experience, one made more so by what came across as genuine hospitality by staff that looked as if they enjoyed what they did for a living.  Nuha enjoyed making leis, I got to taste kava juice (which the muscled, bare-chested, islander manning the station promised “was good for my banana”), and Saeeda delighted in seeing me up on stage trying to imitate one of the warrior dances.  There were plenty of dances thrown in from neighboring islands – Fiji, Samoa, New Zealand all got a shout out.  And the firedance was really neat too.

In all, a great day to relax and cleanse the mind.  I’m starting to rethink this whole having to work for a living thing.  Why can’t we just live in an island state of mind?

Are you ready for that now?

Of all the places I’ve wanted to travel to, Hawaii is the one destination about which it has been hard not to form preconceived notions.  So many people have traveled there and then come back with great reviews, that it’s been hard keeping expectations low.  Still, when we started looking around for one last, quick vacation to take before baby #2 arrives, Hawai’i was at the top of our list.

Given the limited vacation time that we both get, we decided to stick to Maui for the four days we would be here.  Arrival and getting the rental car was uneventful – what struck me was the tropical heat, and how similar it was to the heat and humidity of Pakistan.  It then also struck me that Maui and Karachi could not possibly be more dissimilar in just about everything else.

For example, you are unlikely to find a Costco right beside the Karachi airport.  Here, it seemed natural.  Visitors from out of state often come to stay for weeks in rented condos on the various islands of Hawaii, and it makes sense to stock up on food and sundry items immediately upon arrival.  Although we were staying at a hotel, it was still hard for me not to pull our rental car right up to the megastore.  Why pass up an opportunity to buy that 400-pack of AA batteries?  Or 200 rolls of toilet paper?  Or 20-pack of Calvin Klein underwear?  I might need any of those items at a moment's notice!

The Sheraton Maui, which was to be our home, was a pleasant enough property located in Kaanapali, in the northwest of the island and a 45 min. drive on a winding ocean highway.  Surrounding the Sheraton were the Westin, Hyatt, and Marriott properties, so we were definitely in resort central.  Despite the concentration, I didn’t feel that the place was overrun with tourists

Our first afternoon was spent eating a lazy lunch by the beach, getting some ice cream, and doing some grocery shopping.  By this point we had only been in Maui a few hours, but already we could tell prices were exorbitantly high here.  Eight slices of Kraft’s American cheese?  $4.  Gas?  Over $4.50 a gallon.  Being thrifty here would not be easy.

Dinner that night was an interesting experience.  We drove into Lahaina town, a short 10 minutes from all the resorts and a pleasant oceanfront area with lots of shopping and dining options.  However, service at Lahaina Prime Rib and Seafood was … interesting.  Our server kept forgetting to bring out things that we had ordered, and every time we reminded him, he would say, “Oh, sure – are you ready for that now?”  Of course we were ready – we ordered it, right?  I would understand if we had a 5 course meal that we were gently savoring at a leisurely pace, but that was not the case.Shouldn't we be provided with things like water and silverware right away?  

“O sure – are you ready for that now?” Yes, please, I’ve decided against eating my fish with my fingers, and will instead use a knife and fork.  “O sure – are you ready for that now?” Yes please, I’d actually like to try the food that I ordered.  I’m ready for that now.

Weird.  Just weird.

Rookie traveller

I'm in Brazil for a weeklong meeting - I arrived today in Sao Paulo expecting chaos because of the torrential rains that have already killed so many, but everything was smooth sailing.  We got picked up at the airport on time, and were whisked an hour into the countryside, where we are staying at the Bourbon Spa Resort.  Sounds fancy, but I've had to struggle to get my internet connection working.  Wireless is slow as molasses, so I'm having to use a LAN cable.  A what?  Yes, they still have those, youngling - wires that physically tether you to a specific location.  Cruel and unusual punishment, that is.

Also, despite the grand-sounding name of the hotel, the place is guilty of one of my pet peeves - no iron in the room.  I don't get it.  I mean, I know I'm a little anal and like to iron my clothes in the morning, but how can a hotel - a large, resort-style hotel with attached convention center which attracts business travelers from all over the world - not have in-room irons?  What's more, the front desk didn't keep irons either.  What the h#$%!  Are South Americans the world's greatest luggage-packers?  Do their clothes simply not crease?  I understand when a small, family-owned inn in a quaint European town, keeps irons only at the front desk because there is a clear fire and electrical hazard to keeping irons in guest rooms, but I'm staying at quite a modern facility.  I've had to spring for expensive ironing service for half of my wardrobe, the other half of which I will simply wear wrinkled.  Trust me, though - I'll be keeping an eagle-eye out for folds on the clothes of the other meeting attendees.  Because if I don't find any, they know something this experienced traveler does not.

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.