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About Ramblings of a Hopeless Khowaga

Welcome to my Web site. My name is Chris, and I’ll be your host. I\'m an opinionated, snarky, gay academic with a predilection for the history, the Arab world, languages, photography, food, and music. I live in Austin, Texas. You can read more about me, learn 100 random things about me, and if you’re wondering what the heck a khowaga is, click here. Feel free to browse, read, and leave comments!

Tag: ‘lost’



Food Porn

Tuesday, September 8th, 2009

Changing tactics from my liberal ranting of the past 48 hours (I’ve lost two friends on Facebook … can’t figure out which ones, though.  It’s entirely possible that it’s the notoriously unreliable friend counter, but I prefer to think I’ve annoyed people), I’ve decided to go the food porn route.

I had a dinner party on Sunday.*  At the request of my guests, it was the long-promised Greek dinner party (that is, a dinner party where Greek food is served, not … well, whatever your mind came up with).

And so, let’s do some food porn!

Here was the menu:

Mezze course:

feta cheese
Greek and California olives
Greek pepperoncini
pita crisps
bissara (Egyptian fava bean dip)
hummus
grape leaves
tzatziki

Main course:

Pastitsio
Spanakopita

Dessert:

Baklava

As usual for me, I tend to wayyy over plan dinner parties, so I decided to cut out the soup course (it would have been lentil soup) because, well, there was too much food as it was.

So.  Food porn.

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Thursday night I rolled the grape leaves.  The recipe that I used is from this book: Little Foods of the Mediterranean: 500 Fabulous Recipes for Antipasti, Tapas, Hors d’Oeuvres, Meze, and More.  I didn’t take any photos, you see, because it was a repetitive boring task, and the best way to deal with those is to drink while doing it.  Which means that I was a little … um, my hands were wet, and I didn’t want to hold the camera with wet slimy hands.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Friday night, I soaked the fava beans and garbanzo beans for the various dips, and made the baklava.  (If you need to see how that worked, just check out my last 12 of 12).

Saturday morning it was time to make the bissara and hummus.

Bissara is an Egyptian fava bean dip.  Egyptians use fava beans — fuul in the local parlance — in the same way that the people of “Greater Syria” use the chick pea (also: garbanzo bean, in Arabic both the legume and the dip that’s made from it are called hummus).  You find hummus, and its eggplant-based cousin (known more popularly as baba gannouj, although in Greek it’s melitzanosalata) in Greek food.  Oddly, although fava beans are all over Greek food, bissara is not found on the Greek table.  It is, however, one of the few parts of Egyptian food that I like (I love Egypt, but Egyptian food is never … ever … going to be the next great thing on the world foodie scene).  The recipe came out of the above book.

I chose to make it anyway (food porn above).  It’s fava beans cooked onions, garlic, cilantro, dill, mint, parsley, pureed, and then cooked again with coriander, cumin, and cayenne.  It was a decent hit.

I also made the hummus on Saturday.  I’d never made it with dried beans before (instead of cans).  I kind of liked the way it turned out.  The recipe came from Anne-Marie Weiss Armush’s classic The Arabian Delights Cookbook: Mediterranean Cuisines from Mecca to Marrakesh.  It has attracted praise from actual Middle Eastern people, so I hold it in high esteem.

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Spanakopita.  Classic Greek mezze: spinach and various salty cheeses (feta, kefalotyri, and myzitra) in phyllo.  I made it Saturday evening.  This is my yia yia’s recipe, and it’s extremely variable — she wasn’t particularly the kind of cook who measured as she went.

And now, for the piece de resistance: Pastitsio.  It’s a sort of Greek lasagne.  Yia yia enjoyed the pastitsio, but she never made it, so I had to find another recipe to use (other than the one in the 1960s era cookbook I inherited, the one written before health care professionals started recommending against using lard and butter in copious amounts).

I used (and adapted) this recipe right here.  The taste is spot-on, however the white sauce that the recipe links to never actually set during the cooking process.  My guests didn’t notice, but I did.

Pastitsio (Greek Lasagne)

Here’s what you need:

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  • 1 1/2 pounds of tubular pasta (in this case, I used Pastitsio #2, acquired from the local Mediterranean market.  You can also use ziti or straight macaroni.  Do not use elbow macaroni.  I will come find you and beat you with a wooden spoon.)
  • 1 cup of olive oil
  • 2 cloves of garlic, finely minced
  • 1 1/4 cup of chopped onion
  • 1 pound lean ground beef
  • 1 pound ground lamb
  • 2 cans diced tomatoes, drained
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons of ground cinnamon
  • 6 whole cloves
  • salt
  • pepper
  • 1 1/2 cups of grated kefalotyri cheese
  • béchamel sauce with cheese or basic béchamel

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Sauté the onions until translucent in 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large heavy-bottomed frying pan.

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Add meat.  Cook until lightly brown, stirring to break it up.

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Add the tomatoes, cinnamon, cloves, garlic, salt, and pepper and stir well to combine. Reduce heat and simmer until liquid has been absorbed, about 30-35 minutes. This is very important–the meat mixture should be as dry as possible without sticking to the bottom of the pan. Set meat mixture aside, uncovered, and allow to cool.

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Preheat oven to 350F. Lightly grease a baking or roasting pan approximately 11 X 14 X 3 inches high. The height of the pan is actually very important–the sauce has to go on thickly.  It turned out that I didn’t have a pan high enough and so … well, I had to throw half of the white sauce out (although it wasn’t a major loss).

Boil the pasta, drain, toss with olive oil to keep from sticking together.

Now, your Greek mother who has nothing else to do … or your gay Greek dude throwing a fabulous dinner party to impress his friends with his cooking ability (which, given his inability to dance, dress particularly well, fix up his single straight friends with his other single straight friends, and his complete intolerance for shopping excursions longer than 30 minutes in length is pretty much ALL HE HAS LEFT) … will line up half of the pasta in nice, neat rows, and sprinkle it with 1/2 cup of kefalotyri.

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Layer on the meat sauce.  Sprinkle with another 1/2 cup of the kefalotyri.  Line up the remaining pasta.

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Make the white sauce … just not the one attached to the about.com recipe.  Find a recipe for bechamel and make it.

Pour the bechamel on top — this is why you need the pan to be 3 inches tall.  You’ll wind up with 1/2 inch or so of sauce that will puff up as it cooks.

Bake for 30 minutes.  Then rotate the pan 180 degrees, sprinkle on the remaining 1/2 cup of cheese, and bake for 15-30 minutes more until the top is golden brown.

Pastitsio is served warm, not hot — you don’t want to serve it right out of the oven.

The final food porn: the set table:

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My Turkish mezze platter:

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Grape leaves and tzatziki.  I love garlic, but … well, I may have finally met my match on garlic.  10 cloves of garlic is a bit much for 17.5 ounces of Greek yogurt (also: 2 tablespoons of minced fresh dill and one cucumber, seeded, peeled, grated, and drained).

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And yes … there are leftovers.  And man … it was yummy :)

* OK, let’s get this out of the way: given my current record of promising and then delivering dinner parties, you need to have known me for at least eight years before you can expect to actually be invited to one.  So, no, you weren’t invited, and it’s not because I don’t like you.  It’s just because I haven’t known you for eight years yet.

Just Can’t Take it Anymore

Monday, September 7th, 2009

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.

In all honesty, I’m a bit tired of the same old aimless blogging.  This outlet is no longer as anonymous as it used to be, and, in true “careful what you wish for fashion” I’m in a conundrum: I have more readers, but they’re people that I know.  Some of them don’t always seem to be familiar–either with the concept of exaggeration for comedic effect, or with my tendency to use it liberally.  Some of them are likely to approach me in the hallway (either a literal hallway or a metaphoric one) and ask me about something I’ve written.

In the case of literal hallways, it’s even more alarming: I’ve written things about my work environment that are predicated on a good number of my coworkers not knowing that I have a blog.  Some people are good about keeping the secret, others … less so.

And so, I’ve tried to keep my liberal rants and raves to a minimum in the hopes that I won’t offend anyone.  And in doing so, I’ve made myself rather bored with the whole concept.

Well, I’ve got a rant.  And if it offends you, tough.

For a while, I’ve been trying to put my finger on my feelings about the current political situation in the country.  And, frankly, it’s not just a political thing although what set me off today is political in nature.

We have guaranteed freedom of speech in this country.  The problem that I’ve noticed is that as a society, we don’t practice responsible freedom speech.  Americans seem to think that if they have a thought on their head, it needs to be stated out loud.

At the moment, we have this whole situation going on with President Obama: the man has the gall to want to speak directly to schoolchildren to encourage them to stay in school.  The nerve!  Doesn’t he know that as a bona-fide secret Muslim who was born in Zanzibar* and is trying to convert the entire country to Socialist Fascism** that good right-wing American Christians will see right through the AntiChrist’s ploy to brainwash their children.  After all, Memaw and Naydell left school after the fourth grade, and they turned out just fine!

Seriously.

Our last president … well, let’s put it this way.  In eight years, he took the entire nation to war with one country that had something to do with 9/11 (sorta) but that wasn’t spectacular enough for the news media … or his popularity ratings.  So, we decided to go to war with another country that had nothing to do with 9/11 and posed absolutely no threat whatsoever to the United States–this second war was justified on the presentation of completely false intelligence that the White House, it has been revealed, practically made up.  As part of said invasion, it was revealed that our infantrymen were involved in torture of sensitive prisoners, and graphic humiliation of non-sensitive prisoners.  We went from having a balanced budget to one so far in the hole that it’s hard to fathom … and, oh, by the way, started the whole corporate bailout scheme that everyone seems to have forgotten about and now blames on Obama.

Let me say this: I have lost my enchantment with Obama.  I have.  I’m starting to think that the best chance the Democrats have to keep the White House in 2012 is for Obama to not run again.

That said, where was this level of vitriol and anger at Bush 43?  I hated the man — hated him.  For all of the reasons mentioned above, and much more.  To his dirty rotten core.  But if he’d spoken to schoolchildren about the importance of education, I would have made a joke that the speech would be titled: “Stay in School!  Don’t turn out like me,” and let it go.  I wouldn’t have petitioned the school board to either not show the speech or change their policies to allow children to skip school during it.

What we’re hiding here is racism, pure and simple.  People don’t like Obama because he’s an educated black man.  It’s not nice to say that we don’t like him because he’s black, so we make shit up.  He’s Muslim.  He’s socialist.  He’s fascist.  He’s Zanzibari Kenyan.  But, no, really it’s not because he’s black.  We’ve evolved.  (But only metaphorically — we don’t use that term to suggest that we believe in Evolution.  We all know it’s much more likely that an invisible guy who lives in the sky snapped his fingers and made the entire universe happen in six days.)

Moving beyond politics: Americans really do think that they can say whatever they want — which they can, but without any sense of appropriateness or decency.

Take, for example, an experience that I had in El Paso a few weeks ago.  Natalie and I delivered training to a group of 70 people.  At the end of the day, as we were proceeding to the rental car with our things, we reflected on the day.  “It seemed to go well,” she said to me.  “People really seemed to enjoy it.”
“I think so too,” I said, “but I noticed that there was at least one evaluation that seemed to be straight 1s down the line.”  [Our evaluation forms consist of rankings on a 1-5 scale: 1 is "strongly disagree / poor / strongly dislike."]

Natalie then did what we’ve learned over the years that you should never do.  While standing in the parking lot, she pulled out the collected evaluation forms and started going through them.

I should say this.  The number of negative evaluations was somewhere around 4.  Of 70.  Far outnumbered by the number of overwhelmingly positive evaluations.

However, the negative evaluations were really negative.  Like, nasty on a personal level toward the two of us.  One of them, for example, went into pedantic detail about what a poor speaker I am because I said “um” and “ah” too much during one of the presentations (which I had prefaced by saying, “I haven’t done this one in a couple of years, so bear with me”).  I won’t even repeat some of the other comments because, well, they’re not worth repeating.

We sat in the rental car (yeah, it was a dry heat, but 102 is 102, especially when the sun is shining directly on you) in shocked silence.  “So much for professionalism,” I said.
“What on earth would make someone think that it’s OK to say these things to someone?” Natalie asked.
“I … have no idea.”

The coordinator of the event contacted us last week to see if we could set up another date for later in the fall or spring.  “All in all, I think it went very well,” she said.

Natalie called to ask if there was any way to respond in a way that would both convey our enthusiasm and willingness to continue working together, while making reference to the unacceptable and inappropriate nature of some of the comments on the evaluation forms.  “No,” I said.  “It’ll make us seem petty.”

My guess is that the reason people say nasty things is the disconnect of the written word: it’s easier to write it out and not have to deal with the repercussions of watching what you say hit home.  I work with a professor like that: in person, he’s the sweetest, most generous guy.  Put an Ethernet connection between him and the rest of the world and he becomes the sadistic lovechild of Dorothy Parker and Jason, the machete wielding villain of the Friday the 13th movies.  I’ve never heard him use the f-word in person.  I’ve never read an e-mail from him that didn’t contain it.

Why are we, as a people, so unaffected by the notion of the effect that the words we write have on others?  Why do we think it’s OK to engage in such awful diatribe?  Have we really lost the ability to debate civilly without resorting to name calling, innuendo, and wild accusations?

In other words: what’s wrong with us?

*Yes, children: in 1961, Mombassa, which is now in Kenya, was part of the sultanate of Zanzibar.  It became part of Kenya in 1963.  I strongly suspect that the reason why no one in the birther movement knows this is because they all think Zanzibar is a made up place like Wonderland, Narnia, or Canada.

** Quick primer: fascists are on the extreme right side of the political spectrum; socialists are on the left side–and not that far to the left, either.  You think they’re farther than they are because American “liberals” are what, in most countries, are called “leftist-centrists,” meaning that they’re just to the left of the center on the political spectrum.  Socialists and Fascists do not like each other as a matter of course.  It is not politically possible for Obama to be a socialist while pursing a fascist policy.  It does not make you look smarter to try to use both terms together and pretend that they mean the same thing.  They don’t.  And it makes you look even more stupid than you are.

12 of 12: August 2009

Thursday, August 13th, 2009

So, I’m a day late and a dollar short for 12 of 12.  Yes, it’s the 13th.  Shoot me ;)

Unlike last month when I posted my 12 from Egypt, this time … I was taking a day off from work.  I got home late the night before from Abilene, and I was due, dagnabbit.

8:41 am: French Press

August-1

I’ve recently discovered the magic of the french press and the full bodied nutty coffedy goodness that it can provide when you have the time to wait for it…

9:17 am: Doggie break.

August-2

My parents went to New York for a long weekend, and we agreed to sit their dog, formally known as Brandy.  However, because she startles really easily, we call her Boo.

9:37 am: Editing Photos

August-3

Editing some shots I took on my business trip to west Texas.  This one is from San Angelo.  It’s completely false advertising, by the way: they sell no men in the man’s shop.

10:01 am: Reading

August-4

I do not relax well.  However, I decided to try my hand by reading for a good chunk of the morning.

11:31 am: Furmination Time

August-5

If you are the owner of a short-haired dog who sheds all over creation, and you have not discovered the wonders of the Furminator, you are totally missing out.

11:31: You Can’t See Me

August-6

Brandy-Boo is small enough that she can try to hide behind blades of grass.  And the hair that’s always in her eyes.  No wonder she thinks we can’t see her–she can’t see us through that mop!

12:04 pm: Lunch

August-7

Trying to keep healthy.  Ray has lost 20 pounds in two months.  So have I.  The difference is that he’s lost 20 pounds, and I’ve lost 10 pounds twice.  It’s all the traveling.  Honest.

3:17 pm: The Kudzu Covered Walls of Higher Ed

August-8

I had a potluck to attend last night–a reunion for the trip to Turkey last month–and I needed to run to the store for stuff.  On the way, I stopped by the Round Rock Higher Education Center, because three of my photos are on display there.

3:20 pm: My first show!

August-9

It’s a photo exhibition of “places and spaces that matter” in Round Rock.  3 of the 20 photos are mine.  My first show!  *sniff*  I’m so proud.  This is one I took in the slave section of the old cemetery a while back.

4:39 pm: Making Simple Syrup

August-10

I’m bringing baklava for the potluck.  Real baklava does not have honey in it, dammit.  It’s simple syrup.

5:49 pm: The finished product.

August-11

Yes, you may have my recipe.  It’s right here.

6:51 pm: Rain Clouds

August-12

They got an inch of rain in Austin.  In Round Rock, we got … about ten drops.  Bah.

The reunion ran long, so I didn’t get to post this last night.  Honest.  I’ll get a doctor’s note!

And how was YOUR twelfth?

Facebook is a Punk-Ass Chump

Wednesday, July 29th, 2009

Yeah, that’s right.  I said it.  And I stole it off a bumper sticker describing our last president.

I won’t deny that I have used Facebook for varying purposes both professional and personal.  I have used it to stalk our notoriously blasé alumnae, whose career trajectories we are supposed to track (and they know this) but who are really, really, really bad about keeping us informed of their whereabouts the moment they leave town.  I have used it to look up people I used to know in a former life; not in the Shirley MacLaine definition thereof, but people I knew from my days as an underpaid, overworked cog at a non-profit in DC, people I knew from my days as an undergraduate, and people I knew from (shudder) high school.

I have stopped friending people from high school.  At this point, I’m “friends” with people that I knew well.  My “people you may know” box lists a number of people that I didn’t know well and, you know what?  If they want to get in touch, they can friend me. As the number of people that I have known in my life is actually something of a finite number (I was a bit of a wallflower until grad school), it’s that little box right there that’s been the source of some amusement and derision of late.

Maybe it’s just that I’m bitter that I don’t actually know most of the people that the little box suggests.  The chain of linkages seems to have worn thin–Facebook has, on occasion, suggested people to be friends of mine for no other obvious reason than they happen to have the same name as people that I already know.  That’s weird, right?

I am not in favor of the introduction of things that I can “Fan” into my “people you may know” box.  There are too many things to “fan” these days.  “Flipping the pillow over to get to the cool side”?  Really? The day that I completely lost my patience was … well, I found it creepy that a little box appeared suggesting that I become a fan of “butt sex” right next to another little box suggesting that I friend my high school guidance counselor.

Seriously.  Ew.

Then, of course, there are the recent spate of groups that have popped up that are Iran related.  I can support “free and fair elections in Iran,” I have been asked to support “supporters of free and fair elections in Iran,” I have been asked to join a group called “Where is their vote?”, a group called “Where is MY vote?”, and something in Persian that I can’t read because I don’t read Persian.  I’ve been asked to shade my profile photo green (I’m standing against a green background–I’m lazy and that’ll have to suffice).  I’ve also been asked to become a supporter of Mir Hussein Moussavi, which I decided not to do because, other than the fact that people are protesting because they think he won the elections in June, I don’t really know that much about his politics and whether I support them.

Therein, of course, lies the rub: I still think about what I do on Facebook like it matters.  I have “friends” who clearly don’t.  Two weeks ago, I came back to my hotel in Cairo after a lovely evening watching the sufi dances in the old city, followed by a stroll through the part of the old city that’s now lit up at night.  I booted up my laptop since the Internet seemed to run faster in the wee hours of the night, and discovered that someone who went to high school with me for one year and recently friended me had posted an article from a Christian Web site freaking out because “Islam is trying to take over America” (*coughfirstcough*). I had no problem removing this individual as a friend since it was clear that we had nothing in common (and he clearly hadn’t actually looked at my profile long enough to determine that I’m a hellbound homo).

The same happened to a couple of people who kept trying to recruit me to causes like, “Impeach Obama now!” (Why the sitting president is worthy of impeachment for any reason other than being black a Democrat is beyond me.  Always amazes me that these are the same people who sat idly by while Tricky Dick Cheney sat there with a pair of scissors and cut up the constitution.)

My friend Will is currently on a campaign to remove all of the birthers from his roster of Facebook friends.  I don’t think I have any birthers in mine, although I can’t be sure because there are a few people who are permanently hidden (mostly because their status updates are a nonstop slough of quizzes, status updates from Mafia Wars, or invoke God just a few more times than I think a normal person should when, say, mentioning that you just got home from the grocery store–praise Jesus!).

And don’t even get me started on those bizarre high school competitions to see who can garner the most friends.  There’s a reason that my profile is now on permanent lockdown.

All this is to say that Facebook is starting to spoil a little bit, like cheese left out in the sun for a week.  I’m curious to see what the next big thing in social networking will be … because I’m totally going to join it, and then blog about how much it annoys me.  Just like everyone else :grin:

Here, there, everywhere

Friday, July 3rd, 2009

I’m currently sitting in seat 5B on an AnadoluJet flight from Ankara to Sanli Urfa in the southeast part of Turkey.  We’ve been moving rather quickly these past couple of days — while we were sitting in the airport in Antalya, from whence we departed just a couple of hours ago, we had to take a moment to reflect on the fact that we have been in the country all of three days.  It feels like we’ve been here much longer.

In all honesty, this program has gone much better than I had let myself hope.  The organization that I’m working with is somewhat legendary for packing the itineraries on these trips so full that at least half of the participants wind up having to sit out a day or two due to illness incurred from lack of sleep.  Hence, I’m rather pleased that it does appear that they listened to my pleas not to overschedule the program, even if at first glance it may not have appeared as such.

When last I checked in, I was on an early morning flight to Izmir, Turkey’s third largest city.  I’ve never actually been to Izmir, and that, unfortunately, didn’t really change this time either.  We were met at Adnan Menderes airport and boarded a bus from which we went directly to the Greco-Roman city of Ephesus, an hour south.

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This was the group photo that we took that somehow I never wound up actually being in.  (“Hang on, I’m going to use my timer … where are you all going?”)  Oh, well.

There are, for the record, a lot more photos on my Flickr account.  As I’m doing most of my blogging offline, it’s very difficult for me to link to them from here, but check them out, OK?

Where was I?  Ephesus.  It’s a large old city, and I’ve been there before.  Still looks old.  The new attractions this time around were that the very large amphitheater was open (last time it was closed), although I walked in, took one look, and realized that I would have given myself heatstroke walking up to the top.  Instead, I discovered the other new attraction: Royal Caribbean and Celebrity Cruises pay local people to dress up like Romans and act out cheese-tastic skits for their passengers coming in from the nearby port of Kusadasi.

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This appeared to be a swordfighting match – it was kind of hard to tell, since the two fighters just yelled a lot a la Conan the Barbarian.  I guess that’s what you have to do with such a multilingual crowd.

After Ephesus, we went up the hill to the Meryamane Evi, the house where it is reputed where the Virgin Mary lived her last years in this earthy existence.  Most of you probably do not recall (as I don’t think I blogged it at the time), but the last time I was at Meryamane, one of the people in my group pitched a complete and utter fit in the parking lot because one of the interpretive signs at the site said that Mary lived there “until she died.”  As good Catholics know (and this woman was a better Catholic than you, and wanted everyone to know it) Mary did not die — she fell asleep and was lifted into heaven by angels.  The fact that she had earlier sneered that Eastern Orthodoxy was still full of superstitious beliefs that had been removed from Catholicism was an irony lost only on her.

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Anyway, as pieces of real estate went, Mary had a pretty nice one.  It’s set on a hilltop just outside where the walls of the city of Ephesus would have been located amongst the fir trees and pleasant flowering vines, and it catches a nice sea breeze coming in off of the Aegean Sea.  I should be so lucky.

Then came the visit to the pottery factory.  I’m always resistant to these sorts of “quick visits to a local factory” because they inevitably turn into sales pitches, but it wasn’t bad as these things go … and it turns out that membership has its privileges.  She knew the group we were with and offered us a 50% discount on the spot.  Unfortunately, that means that most of it was still out of my price range, but …

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Purdy, ain’t it?

After that, lunch at a ranch … that turned out to just be a ranch.  No actual house there — we thought we had been invited to someone’s home for lunch, and that turned out not to be the case.  They did, however, have a random yurt in the yard, which got us going on at length about words that are fun to say — “yurt” being one of them.

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Yurt!

So, after the yurt excursion, we did a double-shot in Selcuk to the site of the Basilica of St. John and the so-called Jesus Mosque.  The problem with the first is that they don’t actually know who St. John was — they’re not sure if it’s the Apostle, the one who wrote the Gospels, the one who wrote Revelation, or a completely different John.

It’s a prettier site than I remembered, though:

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Next door is the mosque of Isabey.  Isa is the Islamic name of Jesus, but despite the fact that everyone said it was the Jesus mosque, it turns out that it was named for some guy who lived in the thirteenth century named — you guessed it, Isabey.  Close, but no cigar.

After that was our first visit to a school on this trip, which was interesting.  As of now, we’ve had three with a fourth pending.

Shortly after the school visit, it was back to Adnan Menderes airport for a flight to Antalya that arrived at 11:30 pm.  Exhausted,we trundled off to the Marmara Hotel, which turned out to be a five star deluxe on the coast (not to be confused with “the beach”).  But when your coast looks like this, who cares?

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The day was fraught with various ventures: morning visit to the Antalya Museum, followed by lunch at a local school, followed by a walking tour of old Antalya that lasted for three whole blocks.  Again, when the blocks look like this, who am I to complain?

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This was followed by the inevitable shopping excursion to a carpet store.  The guide was very sneaky on that front — after consulting with our hosts, the four of us had unanimously decided that there would be no carpet shopping.  Then prayer time came and the three of them went into a nearby mosque to pray …and so the tour guide suggested that a nice place to wait for them might be the carpet shop.  Ha ha!  I went into the mosque and sat in the air conditioning instead.  If I buy a carpet — and that’s a big if — I’ll do it in Istanbul at the end.  I’m flirting with overweight luggage flying domestically in Turkey and I don’t need that weighing on my conscious.

I’m going to wrap up this narrative here.  At the moment it’s half past midnight in Sanliurfa (see map), and although I’m wide awake, balancing a hot laptop on my stomach isn’t the best thing to do to get ready for bed.  More later …

 

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