No Tate Modern for me, sorry. I blame London Heathrow International airport. I spent nearly 2 of my 6 layover hours standing in queue for passport control, finally leaving the airport only to find that were simply no eastbound trains leaving from the Acton Town stop or the orange line transfer on the Underground. (Map, but it won't help you any, trust me.) Faced with the option of circumnavigating London on the stop-plentiful purple line or actually catching my flight, I turned back, paid $45.68 (£7) for fish-and-chips, and resumed my place in the ungodly passport queue.
But more London unpleasantness on my return flight (a two-hour delay) rewarded me with a fairly awesome scene. At any U.S. international airport, arriving passengers are ushered through two separate security gates: one for non-U.S. nationals, and one for travelers who wear pajamas to fly. While waiting in the relatively short passport line, I noticed a trooper changing channels on the overhead TVs that show you what documents you need, how not to be a terrorist, etc. I was hoping he'd put on the Mavs/Suns game I saw listed in the paper (go Mavs!), but I'd forgotten that it was time for the Awards.
So here's a study in continents. On the American side of the passport divide—which works very well for my purposes; it was nice of the FAA to set this up so metaphorically—a few people set down their bags as most started to watch the show. But the other side of the room devolved. People fell completely out of line/queue/order. Luggage was abandoned, along with children and the elderly. National and ethnic conflicts, buried for the purposes of exchanging in the public sphere, erupted to the surface; recriminations flew as erstwhile fellow travelers clawed at one another for the best vantage. People even began to exhibit the characteristics of their more brutal forebears. Polite Scandanavians—turned Viking! I spotted an ancient Assyrian in the mix! At least 8% of the crowd were—Ghengis Khan! The French . . . continued to surrender.
There were screams, not muted but really energetic, and a lot of movement until a trooper finally settled people down. Maybe the Oscars represent something deeply American for people more excited about their arrival into Dulles than I was at the time, but that explanation feels condescending. I don't know, but it was quite a scene. Final analysis: We control our resources wisely, we can extend our lease on this hyperpower gig.
Back in the States for less than a day and I've already been called a "dirty skimmer and a tax collector" for refusing to hand over all the baklava that I promised to carry back for one friend. Precious, precious baklava. It's going to be tough to resist immediately booking another flight over once this stuff goes.
So, Istanbul! So much to say: it was my first trip to a Muslim nation, which wasn't so jarring considering Istanbul's secular temperament, but hearing a call to prayer for the first time is an astonishing, goosebump-raising experience. While I was there I ate the best meal I've ever had. My haul of Near-Eastern spices, teas, and china makes Marco Polo's look like the contents of a college student's minifridge. I visited the palatial Çemberlitas hamam for a traditional Turkish bath, though I failed to hit up the one built for Barbarossa or the one (featured in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom) that's seen the tushes of Franz Liszt, Kaiser Wilhelm, and Edward VIII. On the visual-sensory tip, in addition to such awesome sites as the Aya Sofia, Blue Mosque, and Süleymaniye Mosque, I saw a Byzantine church replete with mosaics based on apocrypha—you won't find illustrations of St. Zacharias and the Twelve Suitor Sticks of Mary in your family Bible. And I developed a minor back problem carrying home books on the great imperial architect Mimar Sinan.
And, of course, "I" should be "we" in all the above, and it's been too long since I've been able to say that. Great times; adventures and pictures are forthcoming.
