Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Feeling Bursa and Bursa, Day 0.5

It turned out that Sercan decided to go the U2 concert that night and the lateness of concert combined with the out of the way location meant he crashed at a friends place. This is something one can only do in places like Turkey - a U2 concert! He simply showed up and bribed the guard with 70 lira (35 euro) for two people, which must be significantly cheaper than the actual ticket price. He returned early in the morning and left again around midday for Izmit. His mother would be staying the night and I was to wait for her - a perfect excuse to stay in and rest as my health began to deteriorate more quickly after the stresses and exertion of the previous day. I hardly left the flat over the next forty hours, typing blog posts, sleeping, writing letters, watching anime via Yale VPN.

My last minute couch request to Bursa was accepted so I departed on first day of Ramazan Bayrami (9.9.10), the end of the fast, by ferryboat. I chose the ferry as I thought itd be more interesting. This came to pass in my the form of motion sickness - less mine than the young birthmarked girl sitting a few seats down with her family. While the waves certainly made me rather uncomfortable it was this girl who hurled, covering her mouth my instinct and thereby directing the sick laterally, where a few bits (mostly watery) landed on me. The father felt absolutely horrid as I went to find a bathroom, also. It seems he was the only other one hit. I smiled back at his worried, guilty glance - its not like she could have helped it and I completely understood. On returning to my seat I rummaged a long while for my Dramamine and gave him the vial to inspect and perhaps give to her. He bowed and thanked me and I retired to a seat further back to try and drown out my own discomfort with sleep.

When I awoke the father indicated that he bought me a bottle of water as thanks. Then followed a merry tour of Bursa's public transit akin to my first day in İstanbul. Perhaps it was the joyous mood of everyone (they can now eat!) as the Bayram was later explained by my host to be as big as Christmas, for nearly every person I asked for help accompanied and directed me. The first, a man on the bus from Güzelyalı, helped me get off at the appropriate stop and walked me to the metro. I'd quite forgotten the directions in my infirmity and got off at the center, accidentally. The metro workers helped me quite keenly and we chattered away merrily in Turkish all the way. One very friendly young metro worker went with me to the appropriate metro stop, asking other metro workers for ideas. They'd get on the car with us, talk for a while and get off after divulging enough pleasantries or information. The last, a thickset woman, joined us. Both of them waited at the bus stop with me until the minibus arrived, giving the driver instructions to take care of me and wavingly happily at me through the window.

After getting acquainted with my incredible hosts, Fatih and Melek, I decided to walk into town. I felt rather healthier, for some reason. Bursa reminded much of Bergen, surrounded by enormous mountains as it is and built all the way up the slopes, with small, winding, mostly traffic-less streets. It lacks a seaside, however, so these roads are quite dusty and give the city a mirage-like vibe. They call it the green city (I though due to the famous Green Mosque and Tomb) but actually for the abundance of greenery - the Ulu Dağ directly behind my hosts place in Teferrüç stretching lushly in all directions and catching the clouds to rain in the valley. For a Gainesvillian, however, the greenery was nothing spectacular.

The architecture, however... Bursa was the first capital of the Ottoman empire, the following ones being Edirne and İstanbul. The mosques boast an older style, with T-Plans slightly reminscent of gothic transepts rather than the radially symmetric glory based of the Aya Sofya. The mosques are much smaller in size - the focus being not on the scale and the engineering prowess but rather on the delicacy of intricate ornamentation. A very different appeal but no less astonishing.

The "Green" Tomb. It looks blue or at least turquoise to me.


Detail rather than scale


Leaving Emirsultan Cami.


A pair of young Turks seemed quite keen to help me find Ulu Cami (which I knew was directly ahead...) and rather reminded me of Mormons in their earnestness, dress style and childlike insistence. I escaped them but only remained at the great mosque a few minutes, determined to return and draw it - something like the photos I've seen of the Alhambra but with a completely different vibe - less infinite, and grander. I hailed a bus back to Teferrüç but it dropped me in a different location and it was dark. My map was woefully incomplete for the upper reaches of Bursa. I began asking about for directions to Teferrüç Cami, directed first by a man who told me to walk west and then an electrician in a little hut who told me to walk southeast. I continued this way a while before ducking into a store where the man told me to walk back the way I'd came. I never felt worried, for some reason, just rather peaceful - probably due to my only carrying a small tote bag.

Ride back.


There's something about mountain towns.


I stopped by the electrician's once again and he helped me very happily, asking others passing by for assistance then ushering me into his aluminum sided squat past snarling Kangals to his phone. He called Fatih and then insisted I stay and wait for him. We spoke long in Turkish, somehow my skills having improved to keep up a fifteen minute conversation.

The wonderful electrician then led me to a worn suede couch under an open cloth pavillion, where we watched Jackie Chan's Who Am I? with Turkish dubs, sipping Nescafé in wait for Fatih. He joined us with some crackers after some time and we sat very pleasantly together - they understanding the dialogue and me remembering it all from the time I'd watched it with my family. A strange mix of nostalgia and surreality with the crisp coolness of fresh mountain night air, the familiarity of food and entertainment and the warmth of instant friendships.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 2

So I felt pretty crappy on this day. Adding to that I was rather unsure where I was to sleep as my host to be, Sercan, was quite confusing about his couch availability and location. Murat gracefully let me leave my things packed up in a corner of his place while a cleaning lady came by and despite the rain and my abdominal discomfort, I decided to head back to the European side. Later, I heard from Murat that after fifteen minutes the rain cleared up in Kadıköy. I assume this was a direct result of its becoming rather taken with my looks and following me about all day instead, consistently dousing me in a friendly manner until the late afternoon.

A word about my shoes. If shoes they can be called. I've been traipsing around Europe in Sanuks, which are distinctly non-waterproof and essentially a disaster for hiking. I take some strange pride in this. They make for quite uncomfortable days squishing about with constant deluge, however. Now I think on it, it probably didn't help the state of health much, either. Whether it was the rain or my health or just a general malaise, the entire day unfolded as a series of aiyas (minor disasters, Cantonese). I sought shelter in Sultan Ahmet but a holy day's service prevented me from entering. The line for Aya Sofya stretched forever, enough to deter me. The Kapalı Çarsi was closed for the day. The Nuruosmaniye Cami was closed for renovation. Here's a word of caution for any wishing to visit a city while it's the European Capital of Culture: don't. Judging by the many many signs and cloth facades stating "___ is being renovated with European Capital of Culture Energy," visiting one such capital assures a not-seeing of the sights. In the tired end I settled on the mosque at the beginning and end of my circular wet wanderings about the historical bits, Yeni Cami at Eminönü and drew for a few hours, with the "Çok güzel"s and crane pose hand gestures.

After inhaling a suprisingly successful mint chicken bulgar concoction, Murat returned. I proceeded to feel terrible for not having a phone or computer, for my host-to-be'd been calling him and he'd waited until late for his appointment in hopes that I'd return. Happily, meeting Sercan in Göztepe went smoothly, and I was able to relax, somewhat, in his enormous flat with his two friends, celebrating the holiday with them by means of food and conversation. His older friend, a large, scholarly man of perhaps fifty years asked me how long I'd studied Turkish for and continued to voice his disbelief of my response of six days throughout the night, much to my delight. Due in large part to his encouragement, I spent most of the following hours teaching the young, seventeen year old Bülent English and learning Turkish phrases in return.

Bülent accompanied me into the city the following day (9.6.10). I brought my guitar with me and arranged to meet him, if he could spare the time, at Galata Kulesi at 17h. Now my guitar case with nothing but a guitar, capo and seed change inside weighs in at a healthy five and a half kilos. We docked at Eminönü not long after noon. You'd be amazed how heavy that weight gets after carrying it by the handle up and down hills for six hours. I'm now certain my sickness contributed to the horridness of the day, but the many events conspired against me such that even the gorgeous architectural moments, or the delight of being in a strange land flew out of my mind.

I walked somewhere around twenty kilometers, all quite miserable. Anuradha told me, earlier, not to spare the lows from my recountings if its for my readership - but now that I'm writing this I realize it's also for me. I don't want to go back to that frustration and despair. So I'll just detail the facts. While Turkey seemed to have cooled into an instant fall on the first of September, the temperature rose once again this day, cresting well above thirty degrees with little breeze. Renovation energy reigned in full force: Süleymaniye Cami and the Fatih Complex all but closed off, with scaffoldings inside and out and plasterboard completely obscuring the roofs and walls, the tombs nearby closed as well. A few positives dotted in between - the gorgeous Valens Aqueduct in the valley between these two mosques, stopping in Şehzade Cami just long enough to draw the mihrab, marveling at the almost modern simplicity of the square based Sultan Selim Cami.

The main problem, beyond the absurd weight of the instrument I was toting everywhere, was the lack of sustenance. I'd assumed I could find a cheap kebap stand in the afternoon, but I learned later that the Fatih district is one of the most conservative of the city. Nothing was open (Ramadan). One man I asked, for all the restaurants boasted people sitting and chatting or preparing food for later, smiled broadly when I enquired and replied with a gaze to the heavens, hands cupped by the ears and an exultant "Allahu Akbar!" I found a liter and a half of water in a store but the plastic bag I was given to carry it with broke almost immediately, puncturing the bottom just enough to spray water as I walked but not enough for me to relinquish it. I had no change on me after that and despite asking some very helpful imams how to get a bus to Galata had to walk all the way there, spending my fifty kurus on a piece of pide bread when I found I could hardly move from hunger.

The walk to Galata seemed interminable. Across the bridge, wandering about near the outskirts of Beyoğlu asking directions as I'd forgotten my map and finally fording the absurdly steep hill to Taksim, where I met a pair of Brits who recommended I try a pitch on this main street. Halfway up it I knew it was exactly the wrong location - broad and teeming with people, amped groups even lost in the vastness and the street sounds. Nearly as crowded as Hong Kong without the side streets to share the load.

I found my way to the Tower, finally, and prompted by some curious youth started a pitch on one side of the entrance to the surrounding plaza. Absolutely fatigued, frustrated, I'd spent much of the last few hours screaming obscenities in the recesses of my mind, interspersing the f word before every modifiable noun or adjective, nearly tossing my hated heavy guitar over the bridge. Utterly alone. I knew just the song to begin with and thanks to Gosia, I knew Gary Jules' Mad World quite well by then. I quieted the youth, no doubt looking for someone to make fun of. The previously vacant square filled with listeners - every bench taken, every curb. A young mother stayed for half my pitch with her young child, looking at me strangely but dancing with her child all the same.

My voice seemed stronger. Not full, no power, but I could hit the notes without straining so. I gave what I knew to be a heartfelt performance and I know my listeners appreciated it. A man from a group of Puerto Ricans sang loudly against, rather irking me, before coming up with a friendly face and requesting "Mi Viejo San Juan," then telling me the key, Re Majeur and leading the rest in a verse and chorus. I spoke rapidly in Spanish to them, offered to try Ojalá. They tipped me well, leaving with waves and smiles. But all the others? Few looked me in the eye, those who did stared as if at some curio. I sang on for song after song to no tips. The girls across brought back friends. Strangers started up conversations by gesturing in my direction and indicating with that clawlike hand gesture how they enjoyed my sound. The boys sitting on the curb beside me spoke with me in Turkish between songs, requesting La Bamba or "Titanic" over and over. Bülent never showed.

The way back was even more fraught. Sercan had given me his keys and I was to be back at eight at the latest. My ferry had complications but I thought I could make it alright. Night fell and I hailed a bus to Göztepe. One old woman helped me know what stop to take but got of before me. A youngish man who got on after indicated my stop... but it was wrong. I'd no idea where I was. I asked around, remembering only the names of the intersecting streets where I'd met Sercan previously. After a while some shop owners headed me off in what proved to be the opposite direction. A few kilometers later I accosted a pair of women, one young and one old for help. One spoke English and told me I was quite ways off now. It would take half an hour for me to walk there, she thought.

Mostly I felt terrible that I might be locking Sercan out - and he'd no way to contact me. On the walk back I hailed a cab in desperation. He got me to the intersection for four and a half lira, the pittance I'd earned after lugging my guitar around, unfed in the heat all day. I ran back to the flat, twenty minutes late. I spent hours anxiously awaiting Sercan's return until at around one I finally turned in, hating myself for being such a bother to my host.

There's a touch of funny at the end of the night, however. Pissed off, tired, and feeling ready to give up entirely, I was disgusted enough to spend money on dinner. A Little Caesar's across the street - my first American fare on the trip - was offering a Ramadan special. One large pizza for nine lira. It was pepperoni.

Earnings: 3,95 TRY, 40 minutes
Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears

Monday, September 27, 2010

Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 1.5

My mother has relayed to me that my Uncle told her "I guess Terrence is more of the creative kind (and not the science kind)." Accordingly, with my music taken from me by way of my destroyed voice and illness, I began to draw more and more. I'd taken a long hiatus from the visual arts after graduating before finally doing a couple of drawings in Stamsund, and then nothing until Poland. In Turkey I'd draw quite a bit.

I spent the entirety of my first full day (9.4.10) in İstanbul on the Asian side, simply walking about and relaxing. I bought stationary, found groceries, walked by the gorgeous sea-side. It's pretty incredible that the city spans two continents. The wind blows strongly upon the rocks by the ferry stop, but luckily it blew Eastwardly, and thus kept my hair out of my face when I faced the historical sprawl of the European side. I finished a song back at Murat's place - singing in my head and mostly succeeding in remaining silent all day.

On the following day I ventured across the Bosphorus by ferry. The public transit was much easier to navigate when I simply ignored it - I never mind walking and I've been averaging about ten kilometers per day. Store and hotel owners were wonderfully friendly as I passed and let me use their restrooms - probably as I asked politely in Turkish :). I planned to hit up the main tourist attractions that day. İstanbul's attractions coincided for once with my own interests as they're all fabulous buildings (that are actually fabulous and not just built up to be so). I figured I'd visit the Aya Sofya, Sultan Ahmet Cami, Topkapı Sarayı, Nuruosmaniye Cami and the Kapalı Çarsi today and wander about the Western bits and the Golden Horn the next day.

I spent all eight hours at the Topkapı Sarayı. Now, there are two reasons. Firstly, they charged twenty lira for admission and didn't accept student cards or whatever, which is absolutely absurd. Secondly, it's pretty cool.

I wısh I could take level photographs.


The place swarmed with tourists, many of whom were Asians - I thought to myself at one point "I didn't know this palace was in Japan." Now, one of the main reasons I tend to avoid tourist attractions is precisely these crowds. Not merely the numbers but the quality of their "sightseeing." I feel somehow implicated and dumbed down in their presence. (Forgive this small, elitist rant.) Just as the many Louvre-goers in Paris rush to La Jaconde to snap a photo, the vast majority of those wandering the grounds of the Topkapı Sarayı in large herds had the package-tourist head-bob:

1. Stare at the tour guide (if present)
2. Gaze around dumbly
3. Find a placard. Read it without looking at what's being described.
4. Consult the paper map/guide, still without looking at the object at hand.
5. If either description boasts a magical word like "ancient" or "unique," glance passingly up.
6. Turn to companion and regurgitate what was read, gesturing at object but not looking.
7. Continue on, looking bored.

People are in such a rush! One Japanese tour group stopped outside the entrance to the Audience Chamber to mill around half-listening to their English speaking Turkish guide. This took about fifteen minutes. They then hustled through, single file, in bunches - once the first in line reached the other doorway they turned as one, held cameras above their heads (with flash, of course) snapped a photo, sighed, and shuffled on, all forty-so of them making it through in two minutes.

A quiet alleyway in Topkapı Sarayı.


The various guards within the kiosks and halls of the buildings all took note of me for staying and actually looking. From looking bored and lounging against a fabulous mother-of-pearl inlaid screen they'd come awake and smile ever so broadly, asking me where I'm from, or what I study, or why I'm so interested. In the first of these kiosks, the library, the guard very kindly told me to watch my wallet and bring it to my front pocket - something that proved to a Turkish way of saying "I care about you" and actually not reflective of the places safety.

Inside the Baghdad Kiosk.


Imperial Council Hall.


I had horrid timing, however, sitting down to draw the Baghdad Kiosk not long before they closed off the area for a television broadcast, or starting one of the Imperial Council Hall just before the whole palace closed. After about four the place quieted down immensely and by the evening only I remained with a few locals. Every passerby made some positive comment about my drawing except one, the rather amusing story with which I'll finish.

While I had a go creating a likeness of the Imperial Treasury, a man stopped behind me to watch for a while. I thought nothing of it. He smiled when I looked up and after a few long minutes sat down beside me, still watching. Perhaps he tired of my slow progress, because he soon tapped me on the shoulder, motioning to me (as if mute) as to why I was drawing. He began to repeatedly mime taking a photo interspersed with open handed gestures at my drawing. When we finally spoke (in Turkish) he went on at length trying to understand why I was wasting my time drawing when I could just photograph it and move on. I found it impossible to explain, my Turkish only sufficing for "I like to draw" and "Why not?" and shrugs. We shared an amiable smile before he took his leave, shaking his head in wonderment as he walked away.

Sultan Ahmet Fountain.


Epic Fish Restaurant/Boat.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 1

I haven't posted in nearly two weeks not because I'm preoccuppied with having awesome fun and traveling and haven't internet (which caused my other lapses) but rather because I've been deathly ill. I'm still unsure as to what the illness is as I decided to skip on lab tests (i don't like needles). To give a quick picture without being self-indulgent and incurring pity: my symptoms, while morphing quite often and every few days, generally conform to that of malaria, without the fever (which is odd) and thus I didn't quite have the wherewithal to write. I took a last minute flight home, halving my bank account in the process, from where I am writing this post. My brothers managed to convince me that saving money < being alive.

To the date at hand, 9.2.10. My stomach woes may have their source in my last meal in Edirne. I wrote out a list of phrases I wanted translated and brought them to the restaurant where Himmet worked in the morning. I was unwilling to spend nine lira on a small meal so I headed towards the cheap chicken döner place. Halfway down Salaçlar Caddesi, however, one of the hotel guests stopped to chat with me, and then took it upon himself to find me something good/cheap to eat. I rather would have preferred eating the tavuk döner quickly and then getting a bus, but he wouldn't have it, and so led me on quite the unmerry chase around Edirne. I'd checked out of the little hotel already so I was carrying my things about in his wake, which got heavier and heavier as the search progressed.

We first checked a fish place, which was closed for Ramadan. The owner referred us to a side street where we talked to a fish merchant. Every person (and their co-workers) we talked to stopped working to contemplate our dilemma very seriously, thinking a while, then having long conversations about possible solutions. From the fish merchant we walked almost to the end of Salaçlar Cadessi to an empty restaurant where the owner explained it was a specialty and thus would cost 20 lira, which was unacceptable to either of us. My companion led me to a few stores to get advice before telling me to drop my things off in the hotel and leading me afterwards to a small cafeteria style restaurant right next door, about an hour or so after I'd met him on the street. Annoyed at the whole thing and at my duty to keep up our conversation (he was a Turkish man who'd moved to the Netherlands) I accepted whatever the worker recommended and ate the Köfta and rice despite the meat looking quite uncooked.

My Dutch friend shepherded me to his favorite bus company and waited with me for the serwis (minibus) to the main bus station at the outskirts of town. Though I certainly felt grateful for his kindness and concern, I was quite glad to be quit of him - the attention was smothering.

Then again, this is what I love about Turkey - how helpful everyone is, and how kind. I'm still noticed for looking different, and I still get gestures and comments that would seem racist in the States but one can tell it's innocent and simply curiosity. Kids will do kung-fu moves in front of me and adults will ask me about Jackie Chan or Jet Li or Bruce Lee. Young adults will compliment me by smilingly pulling at the corners of their eyes to make them slanty - one even told me he likes Asians "because they have small eyes" - a weird reason, to be sure. They'll ask me if I eat rice with every meal, etc... and while it can be tiring I don't get offended in the slightest. Which is strange.

Finding my way to where I was to meet my host turned out to be rather an adventure, because İstanbul is HUGE. I knew, going in, that it boasted some twenty million people but I didn't quite grasp the sprawl. Again people everywhere insisted on assisting me and I probably would have arrived faster and spending less money had I gone alone. But it was quite nice to be taken care of. After leaving the bus it turned out there was no serwis to Kadıköy, on the Asian side of İstanbul, and I was eventually directed to the Metro and then to the Metro Bus, a brilliant idea where the central lanes of the highway are reserved for busses - creating another traffic free network above ground.

Kadıköy. İstanbul is biiig.


I asked the man beside me for assistance and he took it as his mission to help me. This is all happening in Turkish, by the way. Himmet's phrases were instantly useful and though I'm sure I could have found an English speaking helper I preferred it this way. This wonderful middle aged man accompanied me out of his way to change busses twice and spoke with the minibus driver to assure I'd arrive. Another middle-aged man gave us advice and chatted with my benefactor for the first half, but the real wonderful experience came from a pair of wonderful young deaf guys.

Because sign language, obviously, transcends much of the language barrier. I communicated with them with absolutely no problem. They made jokes about my guitar being a gun. Wanted to take photographs with me because I'm Asian (the pulling eyes thing). As I remember we filled the half hour ride with "conversation" and my helper seemed to be inspired and used hand gestures and no words for the rest of his assistance. It was a strange, enlightening feeling, like suddenly becoming aware of the superfluousness of words. How they get in the way or actually cause additional confusion.

Friendly deaf guy #1.


Friendly deaf guy #2.


When I arrived at Kadıköy, after a merry one and a half hour tour through İstanbul's various public transport options, I still wasn't terribly sure if I was in the right place. So I drew a cartoon for a passerby, who helped me find the flag. I had an hour and a half to kill and the boat station was extremely busy - a small group played classical Turkish music right at one end of the hub so I figured it could be a good pitch. I waited for the gypsies in the grass by the flagpole to finish drumming before setting up across from the flagpole, with my back to the Bosphorus and a ferry station to either side. Every few minutes a ferry would arrive and people flooded the walkway before me - most looked, many slowed, two tipped.

I though it was a bus station. This caused some confusion.


It's hard to imagine a less grateful crowd. The benches near my chosen spot were previously empty but soon filled so that people began to take seats on the raised stone before the grass. Young gypsy men shining shoes harassed me, gypsy children danced around me in a mocking way (miming a guitar) or screeched loudly over me. Older gypsy women darted around my case, looking for a quick grab. Most disappointing of all, however, was the Chinese man, very friendly, who struck up a conversation with me, then passed many times to keep listening but never made eye contact again, even when I sang him Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin. I sang nearly a full set, determined that my host would discover me in action, but my voice simply broke after forty minutes. During the rise into the falsetto chorus of Falling Slowly the sound just ceased mid note.... not a good sign.

Luckily, the night was a bit nicer - I spent an exorbitant 12 lira on pide, a Turkish pizza like affair, to avoid being rude to my host, and ate the thing despite the egg on top being rather translucent (salmonella, anyone?) - which may also have contributed to my stomach woes later on. Whatever the cause was - the pide, the köfta, or the fleas/mosquitoes from Burgas, after this day, the trip quickly derailed with my health.

Earnings: 1,80 TRY, 40 minutes
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Edirne-ly missing America, Day 2

Edirne is famous for it's fried lamb's liver so I parted with some of my dearly earned lira for a plate. I spent the rest of the day on the outskirts of town - at the library and the Bayezit Mosque Complex. I think Edirne's one of my favorite places thus far. It's up there with Bergen. There's a very peaceful air to the place despite the bustle. No tall buildings, gorgeous mosques, wonderful people. If it could boast mountains or a seaside I think it'd be perfect.

Zebra's not a cannibal, really.

Bayezit Complex.

Panorama.

Bayezit Cami.

Looking back at Edirne.


As soon as I arrived at Salaçlar Caddesi (9.1.10), the shop owners near where I played the night before came out and helped me find a good spot under some light and near the same benches. But the pitch started off poorly and my first few songs earned me nothing. I switched to slower, gentler songs with Flightless Bird, American Mouth and that changed everything. The night was colder but no less magical, with my own songs again doing the best, even one I mangled the lyrics of. A drummer passed by with his friends and we had a great set of three songs together. He reminded me of a very friendly bear, enthusiastic and playful as he followed me. One of his friends spoke a few words of English but I think I had the greatest conversation with the drummer, and I told him this through his friend: "Music is the universal language."

The passersby were distinctly younger this night and I gathered an even larger audience. My voice even started to feel a little stronger. One thirty something man struck up a short conversation with me in a distinctly Irish accent and tipped me, in his words, "five bucks." He helped translate between myself and a group of elementary school children who I'd been singing for when he arrived. At the end of this first pitch I ran into the Tunisian and Morrocan who stayed at the same inn and had earlier given me road maps for Turkey, Egypt and Tunisia as parting gifts. As I spoke with them a pair of haggard looking Roma showed up and started to hover around my case, looking desirously at my earnings, but my friends shooed them away.

My second pitch after an hour's break met with markedly slower tippage. The composition of pedestrians strongly favoured groups of high school to college age boys. Many stopped and sat nearby such that by the end every bench I could see was occupied. I think I boosted the sales of the kiosk across the way, also, as some of the passersby would buy something small to get change to give me. One pair of boys passed twice, each time buying Buglers and offering me some.

In the interim between pitches I'd returned to the Anil Hotel for some water. The night shift worker gave me a short Turkish lesson using no English and when I returned at the end of the night he and another guest or friend, Himmet, taught me a page's worth of phrases. Himmet wrote an encouraging note to me in my journal. He worked previously in Antalya, the tourist capital of Turkey, and offered to help me with the language, asking me to bring him a list of phrases I needed in the morning. He was very keen on my travels and with the permission of the hotel owners I quietly sang them Hotel California at his request. I'll leave the irony or beauty of that to your discretion.

Magic.


Earnings: 39,30 TRY, 1.9 hours
Song of the Day: Someone New - Terrence Ho

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Edirne-ly missing America, Day 1

I realized it may be unclear why I left Central Europe. Essentially the Schengen Area allows 90 days within a 180 period within its borders to a tourist. I have heard this is often easy to subvert, for instance by wandering off to Ukraine for a day and exploiting the relaxed border control with Poland, but on leaving via plane to the States I was bound to be checked by someone less relaxed as I'd depart from a more Westerly country. I might still escape with no ill effects but I didn't think the possible five year ban was worth the risk. The cheapest flight out of Poland went to Bulgaria... so voila.

At the time I thought this was a marvelous (and hilarious) sequence of events. Hilarious because my style of traveling (decide where to go 1. based on cheapest ticket and 2. a day or so in advance, never more than a week) has conspired such that in my four months in Europe I never set foot in Spain, Portugal, France, the UK, Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands, Italy, Greece, Switzerland... And my impression from the States is that these countries are those Americans consider "Europe." Maybe Austria? It was marvelous to me because I never studied Western Europe. I don't particularly care for its architecture or history and by wandering east I've managed to make a little use of my classes. I was once both an architecture and a Russian and East European studies major, after all.

And so I'm in Turkey. A place I've studied some history of and a lot of architecture. Edirne isn't directly served by Burgas so I had to make a bus connection in Kırklareli, and like the Lichkov/Miedzylesie crossing into Poland it was rather an adventure. I was the only one to disembark at Kırklareli. I've read, often, of the feeling of "stepping into a different world" and it was precisely that. Turkey always seemed very Western in my mind - I'd had this image that Ataturk basically changed it over-decade - so the reality was quite shocking. Horse drawn buggies. People of all shades - from the extremely dark-skinned "Indians" to olive skinned Turks to the paler Kurds and the very western Greeks. When I asked one of these lightest skinned ones right when I wandered around the dusty "bus station" (a bazaar of vans and horses and hawkers) in English and he turned to me blankly I realized I, too am often guilty of prejudice.

The overall feeling is a sense of life. Europe and America seem so dead, so staid after spending some days here. People run about all over the place, there's chaos but no accidents, hawkers every two meters screaming "Edirne, Edirne, Edirne!" "İstanbul, İstanbul, İstanbul" or for their food while young men weave about with elegantly shaped mini vases of chai on tin platters. There's a conspicuous lack of women and a disturbing abundance of unmanaged children. I am taken care of, led about by hands and smiles, and I have no feeling that this is for money but rather out of kindness. With the words of Turkish I memorized on the bus I find a man who takes me to Edirne-bound van. I have no lira, there's no exchange office but this is no problem. The man at the counter very happily exchanges my fifty euro note for a hundred - a rate which actually nets me four lira. The bus costs just five so they lose a lira but they don't seem to care. There seems to be no schedule for departure as the man remains outside the van shouting "Edirne, Edirne, Edirne!" until the seats are full.

A frighteningly speedy trip to the center later and I'm plopped right in the center. With my Turkish I make it to an Internet Cafe and dismayingly find my host-to-be has yet to respond. I message her to meet me at the Üç Serefeli at 20h but she never shows. Abandonment and bewilderment don't really begin to cover my emotions at this time. Happily two young men on the way to their sunset prayer inform me of the cheapest nearby hotel and I hobble over to Anil Hotel, where I enquire the price in Turkish. Later I realize this saves me a lot of money. One of the owners reflexively responds (and I don't understand) but another, who speaks english translates it for me - 25 lira/night. Two nights later a set of foreigners enquiring in English are told the price is 100 lira.

Zebra goes to market!


I spend nearly the entirety of the next day learning Turkish. It takes two hours to find a paper store, what with the language barrier and the oddity of the request. Every person I solicit assistance from surprises me with hospitality and a determination to find me someone who can help, if they can't themselves. After the chaos of the previous day I spend the afternoon (8.31.10) in relative stillness, hiding from the heat and noise by drawing the interior of architect Sinan's masterpiece: the Selimiye mosque. I start right after the midday prayer and finish after people file out from the afternoon prayer - and the many friendly passersby teach me the word and motion for "excellent" and "beautiful," striking up conversations with me despite my constant "Pardon, anlamadım"s. It feels nice to be appreciated for my art, even if it's not singing or monetary. I feel worth something again.

Selimiye Cami.


As I move to set up a pitch on the street I ask a policeman for the rules and he kindly suggests I start after eight. With some time to kill and having inquired the night before about the city's iftar, I drop off my things and head back to the gardens before Selimiye Cami. And it's crazy.

I arrive to a ginormous, seething crowd funnelling into the tented iftar space. Women and men in different lines. Two men introduce themselves to me and provide good company in the funnel: Amit and Arcan. After about ten minutes a huge altercation starts when people at the front of both lines protest some hold-up or some going on, calling the police over. After a moment a very unkempt man clutching large bags of trays or something runs out, chased by the police, with the scared look of a trapped mouse. He becomes aggressive or something (I'm unsure) and the police start shouting, one pulling out his gun. At this point I'm kind of terrified. They chase the man down the hill, warding him away with pepper spray while people from both lines run off to watch, highly entertained.

After this incident, perhaps due to the fear evident on my face, I'm helped through the line, ushered through by everyone - old men and young, well kept and not smiling as they make way for me and insisted I pass to the front. Arcan joins me at the table not long after.

In line for iftar.


I eat rather crazily, inhaling one tray of excellent food before an amused worker gives me another, which I devour with equal abandon. Arcan finishes quicker and sits watching and smiling at me - but this gets the attention of the workers, who usher him out of the tent. This confuses me and I start wandering about, asking for an explanation... which I can't understand. After about half an hour I comprehend that they think he wants to go back to my hotel with me and that he's a bad man. Either way, he's departed and I head to the hotel, a bit scared and looking back to see if I'm followed, but also sad for him because I still believe he's innocent of these accusations.

Yea, that's a shadow in the sky.


I set up on the main pedestrian street, Salaçlar Caddesi, about half way down where it narrowed. Two boys curious about my guitar prompted me to start and pointed randomly at my repertoire list to select Cinder and Smoke. They tired of it after the first verse and I played what I wanted to afterwards. The pitch felt magical. Light pedestrian traffic illuminated by festive ornaments. The shop owner across the way emerged to tip me, and every last passerby left me at least a smile or a thumbs up. A group of boys cluster by the benches and trash can and they tip me and offer the sympathy of eyes after my only negative interaction: a moped rider who tries to graze me as he speeds down. They abuse him hotly for me. By the end of my forty five minute first pitch I've gathered an audience and two young street vendors, who stand quietly nearby with their baubles.

I have no power in my voice - perhaps the inadequate nutrition or the exhaustion - but I don't need it. For my second pitch, also, I sing at a moderate volume, all my favourite songs and not the popular ones and people listen. They slow or stop or sit and to my delight I get the strongest tips for my own songs. It grows windy and my case lies barely open before me, propped up on my water bottle but this doesn't deters my tippers at all, who take the time to slot their coins into the crack and use the closeness to smile at me. One Moroccan traveller chats with me in French and I sing him Liberta. At the very end a cotton candy vendor insists I take one of his sweets as a tip, and as I leave my benched audience offers me compliments or that close-fingered gesture for excellence. I'm freezing but I feel warm and loved this night.

Earnings: 24,60 TRY + €4, 1.6 hours
Song of the Day: Purple Dress - Terrence Ho

Friday, September 10, 2010

Talking Up a Storm

Jess mentioned to me that she was impressed I was getting by with all the different languages, so I'll do a little detour about how that works. Languages aren't my gift (as they are Nick's) but memory is - in high school I'd spend the time between 1st and 2nd period memorizing a vocabulary list and grammatical rules for a spanish test and this is basically what's got me by. In Scandinavia I didn't even bother learning anything beyond "Thanks," "Hello," and basic street names: everyone speaks English quite well in those northern parts. I learned a touch more Finnish from those two little kids on the bus, listened to a lesson on Swedish Pontus recommended me and picked up some Norwegian from staying in Edane, but aside from that it was basically all English, all the time.

Austria proved simple, too, with no real need to interact with people aside from Geoffrey I just picked up basic words from street signs. It's also close enough to English and the Scandinavian tongues that I could make things up. Actually, that's my number one recommendation for all would be travelers - when in doubt, use your knowledge of etymologies, general sounds/pronunciations and instinct and make it up. You'll be understood about a quarter of the time, which isnt bad. The little German I learned consisted of numbers and self descriptive words like kunst (art) prompted by curious passersby.

I was only briefly in the Czech Republic, where my time studying East European history helped me be less intimidated by all the diacritical marks. With Mates giving me a couple words here and there and positing words from Russian all was well. Only when I went to Poland did my language adventure really begin. Here I was at a distinct advantage from the year of Russian I took four years ago. Polish is actually quite different from Russian, especially in all the basic words, the pronounciation, etc, but close enough that the more technical words could be gleaned from a slavicization of English words. The morning I jumped on the bus for Wrocław I watched two youtube videos on Polish basics, wrote down the words and let them sink while I traveled - in Lichkov my Czech/Polish/Russian hybrid was intelligible enough to get directions.

I must note that in addition to memory and a willingness to make things up, an important skill for traveling so quickly is the skill of forgetting. That is - I had to quickly forget my Czech and Russian basics in favor of Polish, and also the Scandinavian and German I'd picked up. Intersections like the Scandinavian "Tak/Takk/Tack" for thank you and the Polish "Tak" for yes otherwise become rather confusing. I'm really good at forgetting things and this is probably the reason why I suck at languages. But for these purposes it worked.

My first Polish host, Tomek, wasn't terribly strong with his English so we I learned Polish equivalents to basic words by necessity and context in conversation with him. My American host in Kraków, Casey, was an English teacher and keen on Polish. He was impressed at my vocabulary retention and therefore cheerily informed me of the Polish words for basically everything lying around: beets are buraki, voiced and unvoiced consonants do different things to the pronounciations of the multiple consonantal letters like cz, sz or rz (which all have soft counterparts and multiple ways to write), and so on. Getting lost in Kraków trying to find Kris' place also accelerated my learning curve as when I asked passersby, "Czy mowisz po angielska?" and recieved a "Nie" I still needed directions. Casey insists my Mandarin helps me with the hard consonantal Polish. Perhaps that's an osmosis thing because my Mandarin is truly poor.

Gosia and her family delighted in my attempts at Polish and thereby encouraged more. I particularly remember one happy moment in her kitchen where she taught me the word for lemon (cytryna) and had me repeat it till correct as she held one up and asked me "Co to est?" She also undid the mental setback I faced with a bus driver who didn't understand my request by assuring me I pronounced everything well. And so by Poznań I interacted with most people besides my hosts in Polish.

I hadn't time to copy any words in Bulgarian before I left but happily the language is almost exactly a hybrid of Croatian/Serbian and Russian - Croatian grammar with a Russian twist. My year of Russian helped me immensely with the cyrillic (everything in cyrillic and alternately in cursive or print - a nightmare if you're not expecting it). Most conveniently Bulgarian's lost it's case endings so I could confidently speak without fear of mucking those up. Upon landing I learnt a few words from the girl at the exchange counter and the first night I copied a set of basic words from the lonely planet Sheena was using. This, plus Russian and making stuff up was more than adequate to enquire about bus tickets to Edirne (there are none), nearby conveniences and purchasing of groceries.

Turkey has been the real challenge - the language isn't similar to any I've studied - the closest sound is the Bollywood films I used to watch, but as I didn't pick up much past "pyar" and "zindigi" and things that doesn't help me much. I copied about half a page of basics from Graeme's Lonely Planet but was still entirely overwhelmed upon arriving in Kırklareli and then Edirne - no one speaks any English. So I learned fast. Hand gestures, nods, etc. Merchants and hawkers repeating their entreaties as I passed or following after me also helped. Then one night at the Hotel Anil (no English) the nightshift worker taught me a few useful phrases with hand gestures - like "I am going to..." and the following night Himmet helped me further. His list the following day was a godsend.

Of course the best way to learn a language is to use it instantly. I'd learn a word/phrase/sentence and that same day determine to use it at least twice. After that it's in your brain and you're set. After a few words (say the numbers) you understand spelling and pronounciation or at least can extrapolate. A critical mass of perhaps of perhaps fifty words and then you start understanding grammar and logic in the language. Polish with its cases, Turkish with its nested conditionals in the verbs, etc. With the friend of my second Istanbul host, Bülent I learned many more words and used them the following day.

As for other languages, throughout my journeys I've used Spanish a surprising amount, as well as Chinese (both dialects) and French. I think I've used Spanish in every country and Chinese in most. French I've heard and used to listen in to tour groups or read old signs - of course I can't speak much but enough to make myself understood (to the Moroccan, for instance). Arabic will probably destroy my overburdened brain, so I'm looking forward to the mental relaxation of returning to America.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Imagine if they had two

After Scandinavia, Central Europe, and then Eastern Europe felt extremely cheap. From prices over double that in the states to about comparable in Wien they continued to drop as I went along. This is the only way I stayed afloat - that, and as you'll see - Geoffrey's generosity in Wien. I essentially slowly bled that money away after leaving Prague. Racism, post-socialist attitudes, bad health and an accelerated pace didn't help, either. I think my days in the black have ended.

Wien, Beer - €3:
Stolen: €3,00
Bus to Praha: €14,40

Total: €17,40
Earnings: €96,52
Net: +€79,12

Eastern Net: +€79,12
TOTAL NET: +€108,61

Praha, Beer - 30 CZK:
24h Transit card, twice: 200 CZK
Single Metro ticket: 26 CZK
Groceries: 129 CZK
Bus to Lichkov: 157 CZK
Train to Miedzylesie: 15 CZK
Train to Wrocław: 132 CZK

Total: 659 CZK
Earnings: 818 CZK
Net: +159 CZK

Eastern Net: +2154 CZK
TOTAL NET: +2875 CZK

Wrocław, Beer - 4,50 PLN:
Exchange: 1,60 PLN
Groceries: 26,87 PLN
Stolen: 7,00 PLN
Pierogi Ruskie: 6,50 PLN
Train to Kraków: 37,00 PLN

Total: 78,97 PLN
Earnings: 82,38 PLN
Net: +3,41 PLN

Eastern Net: +348,66 PLN
TOTAL NET: +464,59 PLN

Kraków, Beer - 8,50 PLN:
Bus fare: 2,50 PLN
48h transit pass: 18,80 PLN
Groceries: 16,00 PLN
Bar Mleczny: 12,00 PLN
Train to Gdańsk: 127,00 PLN

Total: 176,30 PLN
Earnings: 72,95 PLN
Net: -103,35

Eastern Net: +245,31 PLN
TOTAL NET: +361,24 PLN

Gdańsk/Sopot/Gdynia, Beer - 7,00 PLN:
Ratusz Tower: 4,00 PLN
24h transit pass (twice): 10,00 PLN
Solidarność Exhibit: 4,00 PLN
Train to Sopot: 2,38 PLN
Train to Poznań: 51,00 PLN

Total: 71,38 PLN
Earnings: 74,38 PLN
Net: +3,00 PLN

Eastern Net: +241,31 PLN
TOTAL NET: +364,24 PLN

Poznań, Beer - 8,75 PLN

Groceries: 3,86 PLN
Flight to Бургас: 219 PLN

Total: 222,86 PLN
Earnings: 39,00 PLN
Net: -188,86 PLN

Eastern Net: +52,45 PLN
TOTAL NET: +175,38 PLN

Бургас, Beer - 1 BGN

Bus from Airport: 1,20 BGN
Yonat Hostel: 30,00 BGN
Groceries: 10,79 BGN
Bus to Kırklareli: 40,00 BGN
Bus to Edirne: 5,00 BGN

Total: 86,99 BGN
Earnings: 6,42 BGN
Net: -80,57 BGN

Eastern Net: -55,80 BGN
TOTAL NET: +1,88 BGN
TOATAL NET excepting nothing: -331,23 BGN

Hankering for Burgas

Blog posting's been suffering recently because internet is hard to find (for free) in Turkey. That and I'm really, really tired. I have a lot more energy and enthusiasm to post for good days and experiences and those have been rather outweighed by negative ones and exhaustion of late.

After my sequence of failed pitches in Poznań I spent a rainy day inside doing something extremely relaxing to me: playing Starcraft II. My host's roommate had the game on his computer and I managed to play quite a few missions that day, only emerging for a walk to get some groceries. I intended to wander the city one last time the following day but on checking in for my flight online I suddenly realized it was to depart at 6 AM and not 6 PM as I'd thought. This I discovered just prior to midnight. Naturally I spent the next few hours packing and preparing other random things and my plans to see Poznań again were quite dashed. In past years I would simply stay up the night to ensure I'd catch the one bus that would see me to the airport on time, but I decided to heed my mother's oft-repeated advice and set an alarm... for the wrong time (again, twelve hours late - my defunct american phone in airplane mode serves as my alarm and i have to mentally add six hours). Now either due to my prayer or an excellent internal clock or both (I'd like to think it's both, at least) I awoke precisely when I intended to, caught the busses and boarded the flight with no problems. On Jacek's recommendation I never bothered buying bus or metro fares in Poznań and this happily didn't backfire this early morning.

Reading cyrillic signs everywhere upon arriving in Бургас felt very friendly, somehow. I had to get used to the tvordiy znak being used as a vowel, but aside from that it was an easy transition. The airport is tiny and as far as I could tell the only reason people flew in to Бургас was to get themselves to Istanbul from Poland. As soon as I got on the bus into town, a Malaysian girl asked if I spoke English and we chattered away most of the ride in. I'd marked down a hostel the night before and she, like me, had been abandoned by her couchsurfing host and it was nice to have company... for the first few minutes. She latched onto me and complained my ear off - I suppose I understood, as I also have much to complain about but it wasn't a particularly pleasant role to be her personal venting pole. She had very strong and negative opinions, mostly arising from distrust, of all those around her, and especially East Europeans. The contrast with my probably naive outlook on traveling was stark.

As an example she assumed when she couldn't find her cigarettes that the boys in the bus had stolen them and was very eager to find internet to write her couch host a negative reference. I spent much of my responses trying to be understanding but at the same time positing my belief that the boys were probably just travelers and didnt steal anything and that maybe something happened to her host and she should wait a few days to give him a chance to respond. After checking in to the hostel (where she bemoaned the lack of a lift) I waited by the train station, unsuccessfuly, for my host and then wandered the beach and park a while, doing a little writing on the way. The black sea coast reminded me pleasantly of Florida's Gulf Coast (though I havent seen it post oil spill), though the occasional topless sunbather made me think more of Croatia. I slept the rest of the day away at the hostel.

Sarasota/Flagler-esque


I spent the morning of the 29th wandering the town from bus company to bus company to assess ticket prices and times. Most companies only left for Istanbul, and only for night busses but on the suggestion of a couchsurfer I'd been corresponding with in Edirne, I found Istanbul Seyahat and reserved a seat for the following day, at the reasonable departure time of 11.30, rather than 23.30. I decided to follow this successful search with a pitch on Богориди street, the principal offshoot off the main pedestrian drag of this small industrially beach town. When I retrieved my guitar from the hostel I let the other guests know where I was headed.

I ran into two of the other guests sitting behind a "busker" who'd set up before the pink library building, a prime location. They seemed to be enjoying the suspiciously clean sounding music. Now, I put "busker" in quotes because this man represents to me all the reasons why my trip has been so difficult. From all accounts I've heard, busking used to be a respected profession in Europe, but with the advent of the digital age and the rush of commercialism it's all changed. One told me how about a decade back buskers all over the continent felt a huge hit from replacement of film cameras with digital ones. The logic is counterintuitive but that's normal with this trade:

With film cameras every shot is an investment - it's one of a limited set. You take greater care, and thus time composing the shot. You'll develop and print it at a cost and so it's literally worth something. All this time and the preserved transience of the moment (how many photos did the average tourist take?) with the tacit recognition that this encounter was special led people to tip after taking a photo. But with digital photos you just take a million, throw them online - all for free - for no one to look at except in a fleeting manner through facebook. When you come across a busker you can take many shots and review them without ever having to focus on the busker or make eye contact. The shot's worth less as its one in a million so you don't tip.

With Roma beggars infesting all the streets after they: 1. all got passports with citizenship with reforms in Romania and 2. exploited the borderless entity once within the Schengen area, busking's actually become associated with begging, and understandably so. It's been extremely hard for me to try and remain unprejudiced against the gypsies, for all their stereotypes seem true: they steal (from me), they have no desire to assimilate into the cultures of the countries they inhabit (none of them spoke anything but gypsy), they look dirty and unkempt and lazy and are aggressive for their money rather than talented. This particular "busker" was one such example.

Before I get into how he infuriated me so much let me continue a little on how busking is dying. Besides the result of the prevalence of iPods and such (why listen to a street musician when you have your favourite tunes in your ears already?), the commodification of music has changed people's perception of the entire thing. You ask any random person and they'll probably tell you they don't even listen to a busker because they figure he's no good if he's not got a record deal. People, a la Brave New World, like what they're told is good because it's easier than assessing and comparing on one's own. With louder streets and smaller attention spans for the average instant gratification passerby, buskers are forced to create more noise (amplification) or make a spectacle of themselves (Underwear Cowboy) such that in music, at least (fire shows etc. seem immune) income is a reflection of volume and appearance rather than talent.

Which gave birth to the backing track, I think. You'll hear them everywhere - "guitarists," "flautists," "violinists," playing over backing tracks pumped through an amplifier. Some talented buskers create their own with looping machines, live, and this I have enormous respect for, but most download some midi or karaoke-esque studio recording. The result offends me greatly. The whole point of busking is as a statement about the spontaneity and transience of a musical event: who knows when you'll hear this musician ever again? And the added complication of backing tracks is it's often difficult to tell (especially for the lay person) what's being performed live and what's part of the track - most of those I've seen using them are hardly playing anything at all, just the occasional "solo."

So. This man. He wasn't even bloody playing. A black "amp" served as a speaker to his right and just on top of it was his iPod, cleverly hidden by his glasses case. His miming wasn't even skillfully done - for the discerning musician - for he repeated the same pattern over and over again: a nonsensical flourish with his left hand that approximated a classical tremolo but never touched the strings while his right hand wandered between an Am open chord, a Gmaj bar chord and an Amaj bar chord. That's it. And these two young travelers were fooled, one remarking to the other that he was quite good when I showed up. These travelers, a Swede and a Pole who seemed to have a discerning taste in music: liking Bon Iver and Justice and Radiohead and such. I had half a mind to scream at the man or smash his guitar.

Instead I set up halfway to the beach, in a nice spot facing some clothing shops. Sheena and the couple requested a few songs between them and the latter tipped me for Jacek's request: Bon Iver's Re: Stacks. Graeme, a Scot staying at the hostel who recommended I head to the British Isles, wandered by in the middle of this song and tipped upon leaving. I was encouraged and ready for a good pitch when a man with a rapt child came up and tipped, also, but perhaps he was emboldened by the presence of my four member audience, because that was my last tip. If I thought the looks in Poland were bad the ones here were downright insulting. As if to underscore my otherness and the fact that appearance was what mattered most, most of the men passing either pulled at their eyes or karate moved at me. At the end two young men (of college age) laughed maniacally on seeing me and started mimicing me after every phrase, pointing unashamedly.

Naturally I didn't bother with another pitch while I was in Бургас. So began my monetary woes.

The pitch.


Earnings: 2,48 BGN + €2, 45 minutes
Song of the Day: RE: Stacks - Bon Iver

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Voice Poznań a Problem

My voice hasn't had a day of rest in... nearly a month. Add to this the complication of bad nutrition and bad water and my voice is essentially screwed. This leaves me in quite the recursive dilemma: ruin my voice or eat? Yes, finances in Poland have been that miserable.

Perhaps I'm a fool in that I almost refuse to dip into my bank account safety net. It's a point of pride for me that despite the economic climate and the racism and everything that I'm still breaking even. With the purchase of a new Capo, however, that's no longer the case. Yes, a $20 capo is enough to unsettle my accounts: I am counting every cent and just scraping by largely on the kindness of others (Gosia providing food for me, etc.). I suffered a further setback on the train to Poznań. I'd purchased a student ticket and the first conductor to pass through looked at my Yale ID and didn't make a fuss. The second, however, just an hour outside of the station very firmly demanded the difference. No, firmly isn't the word. He was a total asshole about it.

When I passed him my ID and ticket he looked at it and spat, sarcastically, "Co to est?" After tending to the rest of those in my cabin he motioned me out to the hallway and we proceeded to have a protracted fifteen minute argument. He was the cruel type, with a personality that oozed superiority and a love of power. To my entreaties that I was, indeed, a student, he shot back "W America. Ne Dobrze." And continued with some hot abuse of American and it's students. Me being me this incited me to not go easily, and though the difference was "just" 18,87 I drew out the argument for quite a while. When another conductor I spoke to cowed to my assailor's vehemence, however, I finally gave in.

The plus to all this is that my Polish is apparently sufficient to carry on an argument. Like in France a couple years back, arguments arising from being a cheap-ass seem to be good markers for my language proficiency; In Paris I haggled with a cashier at the Louvre until she directed us to the card office and again at the Musée Picasso, though unsuccessfully.

The downside was how this interaction underscored just how alone I am, traveling like this. Should I run into the wrong authority (or thug) in the wrong mood I could be rather helpless. I'm extremely tired of traveling and I long for America. I've learnt more about America than any of the countries I've visited - some disgusting (the propagated entertainment and stereotypes). While the problems in race/ethnicity relations everyone bemoans so loudly at Yale certainly exist, I beg these torch bearers travel elsewhere and they'll see just what a multicultural haven the States are. At least the average passersby will assume I'm American and engage me in English, won't gawk or point or laugh, will assume I've seen the same TV shows. This loneliness probably contributes to the length of my posts.

There's not much to say about my pitches in Poznań except that they sucked. I arrived and negated a rest-day-to-be by singing a bit for my host, Paweł while he cooked up a marvelous (and beautifully plated) Polish inspired meal. We spent the following day puttering about the beautiful town. Paweł was amused by my constant labeling of the sculptures and landmarks as either penises or dildoes, so I kept it up. I played up the crazy art major thing throughout the day. This may have contributed to the vibe, but I did enjoy many things visually today. The most magnificent was an old Brewery converted into a Mall that I went all architecturally gaga over, but failed to capture a photo. Inside the Mall we stumbled into an exhibit which Paweł despised and I liked probably for this reason - which later made me feel a bit unclean, like art elite I myself despise (They seem to place more value on art if the general public hates it).

The gorgeously painted buildings of Rynek.

An example of the infuriating-to-Paweł aesthetically beautiful moments.

Monument inscribed with important years of anti-Socialist uprisings.


Much of the day was spent purchasing things: my new Capo, a set of earrings as a present for his friend's birthday party, groceries for our meal that night. The chicken marabella I made wasn't properly marinated (30 minutes rather than 2 hours) and his risotto was a bit off (uncle ben's rice was all that was available) but it was a great meal nonetheless. I spent the rest of the night learning songs and blogging.

The rain the next day (8.26.10) pushed me to try a pitch beneath Rondo Kaponiera, one of the main crossings of town - trams stop overhead and people use underground passage to access them or cross the street. Paweł and I encountered another guitar player there and it was arranged that we'd play together - something I was admittedly not at all keen on, as the current denizen wasn't particularly skilled and quite unkempt. Happily (or not so happily) he knew this and after a few songs told Paweł that if he knew I was coming he would have practiced years more and that I'm too good for this crossing and ought to go to the Rynek... dratted rain. The rest of the pitch went unremarkably.

The same "Look it's an asian!" stares, more distrustful glares than normal and only a few pitches - from women. One old lady stared me down as she inched past as if my presence offended her. There were a couple of girls handing out flyers, one of which called her friend to come listen. Aside from this silent appreciation and a group of young guys' thumbs up my only company besides Paweł was an obnoxious roller blader using the rondo as his own skating rink.

Paweł took me to Rynek where I had two hours to wait to meet my next host, Jacek. In the interim I practiced a bit, quietly, in a niche of the town hall under the clock balcony and tried unsuccessfully to write. A few others had taken cover with me and after a while two of them took interest in my playing. Just as I started to play for them, however, we were moved from the place as it closed and they led me to a sheltered passage close by. I set up a pitch there for the few passersby, most of whom looked at me like I was insane to be playing there. The police kindly turned a blind eye (despite having told Paweł and I earlier I was not to busk here). Two money-dressed girls tipped me well and delighted in the comments of my compatriots.

One of my two companions was a friendly drunk man who helped me out very warmly, helping me move my things when a shopkeeper wanted us to move a few meters down (I felt a bit nervous then that he'd take them). After a few songs he decided he wanted to sing random Polish lyrics to my chords and did so before I could begin the real ones. He sang surprisingly well, with decent melodies and fluid lyrics - probably the alchohol - but his drunkenness was apparent and what I divined of the lyrics mostly involved solicitations to the passersby and curse words. My other companion had just returned from busking as a statue in Berlin (rubbish now, he told me) and after departing a moment came back with note written painstakingly in English about having a free spot in a van to busk in Wrocław if I wanted to go. If Schengen approved I would have gone...

Jacek greeted me moments later with a smiling, "Don't you know you need a permit to play here?" The drunk then asked if I could buy him a beer and I declined, though afterwards I felt perhaps I ought have as he'd been quite kind to me. After consuming a fine porkchop/potato meal at Jacek's he and I returned to Rynek to try and catch the wallet-fancies of bar-goers during half time and in the aftermath of a local football match. The ambience was wonderful with soft night lighting and quiet passersby but the money stank. I'd just recieved my first decent sized pitch (after Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin, of course, racism experiment proving true again) when I was effectively moved on by a duo of gypsies invading my soundspace. Their style of "busking" really disgusted me: they'd set up right outside a cafe and play a two minute oompah song, haggle for tips, move three meters down and repeat. That is begging.

They killed the only halfway decent pitch in the square (I'm of the opposite mind in regards to imposition in busking and stayed out of earshot of those bars showing the game on their televisions) and relegated me to a spot by the Ratusz and a couple of empty bars. The waiters and waitresses of these establishments, with nothing to do, became my de facto audience. Those few who passed in pairs or threes did so appreciatively. Often the female half of the couples smiled sheepishly at me before turning guiltily to the male half. A set of lovers chose a bench across from me and made out rather annoying the entire pitch, leaving once I finished without a backwards glance.

Radiohead songs went particularly well this pitch, for whatever reason. One girl hung around while I finished Falling Slowly, came up afterwards and tipped with an excited "From Once!" When I finished I asked the waitress who gazed the longest at me if she had and miod (honey) but unfortunately she didn't. My throat felt horrible, causing me to wrap up before the football goers left the cafes. The waitress did compliment my singing (first in Polish and then in English as I didn't comprehend) which did make things a little better.

How French


Earnings: 34 PLN, 2.3 hours
Song of the Day(s): Falling Slowly - Soundtrack of Once

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Finding it hard to Sopot myself, Day 1

Flies kept me from sleeping well and awoke me earlyish today (8.23.10). Gosia and I decided to head to the beach between Gdynia and Sopot despite the warnings of rain and happily it held off the whole time we were outside. She'd built up the place with photos of a gorgeous cliffside but I was distinctly underwhelmed when we arrived - the "cliff" was hardly twenty meters. The beach itself reminded me strongly of Florida, as did the entire vibe. Soft sand, greenish water, seaweed, a dead bird, tiny waves, old people and students. We spent a pleasantly relaxing hour or so there, just dipping our feet into the water and munching on a some light sandwiches while I sang some chill songs (many of my own).

Okay, it looks big with Zebra there...


Sopot felt incredibly boring to me. Very Las Vegas-y, sort of that generic seaside resort with the same insipid "attractions." Seeing as the passersby on Monte Cassino street were therefore loaded, though, I had high hopes. I saw a couple of other buskers when Gosia and I scouted the whole street and set up in a clearing where I wouldn't disturb any shop owners... and it was rubbish. People just passed me by and then after a few songs I heard a violin interrupting my sound space. A pair playing guitar and violin had set up just down the street, so I packed my things and marched up to them, angrily.

I managed to cool down and tell them off very nicely when I got there, explaining they ought to ask first, scout the street - that neither of us would do well with us both infringing on the others soundspace. They seemed oblivious but apologized. I think I also managed to keep a level head because they played well (though simply) and the girl let me borrow her violin for a moment. I was quite surprised when I took it by how loosely she strung her bow. Now, I just played totally random improvisational stuff. I started with a few chords of the Chaconne, messed around off G minor and A minor chords, played broken sixths and thirds or other arpeggios - simple warm uppish stuff and instantly drew a crowd. I don't think I played more than two minutes before I gave her back the violin and by that time maybe 15 people had gathered and applauded. Pathetic.

One of these audience members turned out to be a serendipitous find. A kindly old Polish lady asked me "Where did you learn to play like that?" and noticing my guitar asked if her son might have a go on it. Disgusted at the world, I acquiesced, having us move down the road to a nice pitch beneath a tree before lending it to him. James, a twelve year old half British kid who speaks fluent Polish and English, slightly chubby and full of energy, started playing Tutti Frutti facing me. He played and sang quite well and again a crowd drew near. The case was open, facing us and away from the street but after the song finished he'd earned four złotych. I told him he was free to keep playing but his mom smiled kindly and took him on, saying "Maybe when we come back down."

Gosia'd rejoined me by then and sat behind me to a lukewarm pitch. Many stuck around from James' song but refrained from tipping when he didn't return. I made a bit of a cynical game of it - not to say that I held back or sang sarcastically, no I gave it my all in each song - but I alerted Gosia before each experiment, just to have a witness. My best songs, and only my best songs: Hallelujah, Stand By Me, etc. garnered a coin or so. Aside from that the racism experiment provided my only earnings.

The waitress in the restaurant across the way gazed dreamily out the whole pitch. This, and Gosia, gave me the energy to keep going. Once she darted out to tip me and everytime she moved from her spot with her head propped on her elbow on a lectern-like object to serve someone or take a bill she looked dazed and shook her head as if to rouse herself from a trance. She was the reason I sang Hallelujah, actually. Towards the end of my pitch Gosia's friend Natalie, a denizen of Sopot, joined us and helped me out by requesting songs. To my utter surprise her request of Brighter than Sunshine ended up my most succesful, and Torn came a close second. They're not my strongest and I found that odd.

James and his mother re-appeared as I finished my last song. Perfect timing, I figured, and handed him the guitar to play some. Just as he slung it over his head, however, an angry old Polish lady barreled towards us, screaming about regulations and such. What was oddest about the whole thing was the distinctly targeted nature of her anger - she directed it entirely at me. I'd already stopped playing but she shook her fist menacingly at me (she held a rather large stick in the other hand but wasn't speaking at all softly) trembling with "You. Go. OUT. OUT." I'm hesitant to brand it as yet another racist encounter in East Europe but it was a little odd.

Natalie provided a haven for us in her flat a few meters down the road. James' mother proved the exact opposite of mine in trusting both him and us - he came with us to play and eat and drink some tea while she wandered about elsewhere. We spent a relaxing hour or so there. James taught me some Michael Jackson and regaled us with tales of his busking adventure in Hungary (a couple days), his opinions of popstars (rubbish), other buskers (rubbish), and Bruce Springsteen/Michael Jackson (brilliant, and the latter wronged by the media). I treated him as an adult and maybe because of this he sort of latched onto me like his new pet. We jammed a little and on his insistence departed the flat for another pitch on Monte Cassino.

Light rain fell so we decided to occupy the same pitch as before, happily beneath the cover of a tree. James' Tutti Frutti went ignored this time, however, perhaps because the passersby saw he was accompanied by me (I played backing chords). We moved on to Black or White, which changed the rest of the evening. Still no tips - he sang while I played - but by the chorus the buskers who'd been struggling up the road came and joined us in song. The two girls danced enthusiastically in a hippie-esque twirling/flamenco clapping way, singing along and smiling broadly. The next hour was total chaos. I felt a little guilty for the pitch - it was the party-on-the-street kind of "busking" I tend to stay away from - but hell, I had fun. The same waitress seemed to sympathize with me and had an obvious pattern of attention when I sang and tending to the customers when others did.

It's hard to describe the whirlwind of activity. I passed my repertoire list to the male busker, who'd just busked his way to Portugal, and we sang our common songs interspersed with James' own (on his insistence), which I backed with random chords and echoes of the.. childish lyrics. The two girls didn't know many lyrics but happily sang along in the way of backup singers - swaying along in time, snapping, and "oohing" to Let it Be, Tears in Heaven. They swooned over Hey There Delilah and danced crazily during I'm Yours. When the man and I sang Falling Slowly (at a faster tempo than I'd like and with less of my lingering pauses) a couple of high school girls in I heart New York shirts joined us and "oohed" along. The man boasted a very low voice so it was impossible to harmonize - we sang the same part about two octaves apart... not my best rendition but fun.

One of the buskers from the gate to the long pier wandered by during Mrs. Robinson and tipped us wonderingly. Our tips were generally non-existent, as most of the people stared incredulously at us (sometimes staying to gawk) but never shuffled forward. The rain petered out halfway through, about when the night grew truly dark. A crazy drunk emerged, dancing and shouting along to us spastically. Somewhere in there we swapped collection cases - I'd take breaks while James or the man sang a song I didn't know and chat on the bench with another "busker" from our growing ensemble. By my last song - a full on Hey Ya complete with four backup singers doing the swimming hand motions, two men responding to the "Alright now Fellas" we were a party of eleven.

I began to feel overwhelmed and made an excuse to duck out to find Gosia. My fellow buskers graciously passed me all our paltry earnings and after a bit of searching, James and I retrieved our respective cases (he'd borrowed Natalie's guitar). He continued to latch onto me, trying to make me stay the night with his family but I demurred. We parted with his insistence that I visit him in Katowice, soon. Somewhere in the frenzy, however, I lost my Capo, or it was stolen, which tinged this very memorable pitch sourly - the cost to replace it would set me back significantly.

Earnings: 39,00 PLN, 2.5 hours
Song of the Day: Brighter Than Sunshine - Aqualung