Bullfighting in Spain

El Toro

SEVILLE, SPAIN I love everything about Spain, and dare I admit, even the bull fight I saw in Seville. Although, without question, it should have filled me with disgust, I was intrigued by the life and death struggle between a magnificent beast and a artful matador. To be sure, the bulls die and not since 1992 has a matador died, but the possibility, as I quickly came to learn, is always present. The three matadors, between the ages of 17 and 19, each had twenty minutes to kill two of six bulls. The first bull, pitch black and massively muscular, burst out of the gate, looking for something to charge. The matador's three banderilleros, stationed at different spots around the ring, shouted and waved their red capes. The bull charged one, who quickly took cover behind a protective fence, then a second, and then the third. The third banderillero stumbled before he reached the protective fence, but quickly picked himself up, and flipped himself over the five-foot wooden wall surrounding the ring, as the bull, not a second later, came crashing into the boards. The banderilleros' role was to tire the bull by teasing him into attacking them, then sticking him in the back with colorful flags, that caused blood to pour from the majestic animal's back.

Once properly conditioned, the matador, to the cheers of the audience, began applying his artful trade, by waving his cape, in close to his side, so that the charging bull would come within a whisker of his slender body. For the first matador, the first couple turns went fine, but then the bull made a quick sharp turn before the matador could get into position, and to the stunned "ohs" and "ahs" of the audience flipped the matador over his back, and started goring him. I thought the matador was done for, but the banderilleros, shouting and waving their capes, quickly distracted the bull and, surprisingly, the young matador, his colorful suit now covered in blood, picked himself up and resumed the battle. The bull knocked the poor fellow down three more times, goring him to the point where I was sure he was permanently injured, but every time the young man recovered his composure. The fight continued until it was time for the kill. A band of musicians in the stands heralded the bull's approaching doom with a triumphant blast. The matador, retreated to the side of the ring and came back with a thin sword about three feet long.

With the sword behind his back, the matador took a few more turns at the bull, who was now clearly tiring, pausing each time before he attacked. The bull, head down, ready to charge, and the matador, with his sword outstretched, squared off for the final time. The bull charged. The matador leaped into the air and thrust the sword deep into the bull's back. Stunned, the bull stopped in his tracks, wavered, then stumbled onto his front knees, where he waited, trying, presumably, to regain his strength. In an effort to get the bull to drop to all fours, the banderilleros waved their capes, frantically, but somehow, the bull found the strength instead to erect himself. Back on all fours, he stood there as the banderilleros shouted and waved their capes. The bull persisted, unwilling to succumb. Under the weight of his body, the front two legs were again the first to go, and then his back two legs. As the bull rested on his knees, a banderillero pulled the sword from the bull's back, handed it to the matador, pulled out another, much smaller, sword and gave the bull a quick jab to the back of the head. The bull rolled over, the band played, the matador took his bows, and the audience cheered. A team of horses dragged the bull out of the ring. The next five fights proceeded in more or less the same way.

Spain Photo Album

Denying Others' Rights

Koran

ISTANBUL, TURKEY As I was touring the underground Cistern, I met a man from San Diego, who told me, "I never give out where I'm from. I travel all over the world and I know how much we're hated. They confuse our govenment with us." This has not been my experience and, although my influence is zero, I would never deny, that I am not the government. Everywhere I have gone, people engage me in heartfelt discussions. Without rancor, they have strongly disagreed with our foreign policies. Some believe that Americans hate them and their religion. "No," I say, "In America everyone is free to practice their own religion. It's a freedom guaranteed under our Bill of Rights." That's where I lose them and I know also that I'm on shaky ground, as many in America would deny others their rights: women's right to choose, gays' right to marry, Muslims' right to build mosques, and children's right to be educated and not indoctrinated. They call us imperialists, and in someways it's true, but I point out, even here in Turkey, our greatest export, albeit poorly adopted, has been our constitution. They're clear on the concept of a democracy; the right to vote and choose. But a constitution, with a clear separation of powers, and the explicit and undeniable rights of the individual, is missing. Here, the call to prayer is at 5:45 in the morning. In Poland, the church bells ring on the hour and each half. How much carnage has been wrought to ensure that the cacophony continues? No matter who wins this battle of noises, the loser is going to be the poor guy who wants to get a good night's sleep. I wish I could say, "In America we all have a right to get a good night's sleep and that's something for which Americans are definitely willing to fight."

Tell Us the Truth

Turkish English Class

ISTANBUL, TURKEY Where has Turkey and the hundreds of acts of kindness gone? It's Istanbul! "Guide book- good price - please, make an offer. I like you, you American." "You need guide - I show you Blue Mosque -make you a very good deal." "I have carpet - hand made - you want?" Nationalities of every kind; Europeans, Arabs, Asians, Americans - a cacophony of languages, but predominately English; the crossroads of civilizations: East - West, Europe - Asia, Christian - Muslim, Rich - Poor, Past - Future. The city is buried in roving anthropologists, carefully reading their guide books, patiently standing in long lines, scrutinizing the inscriptions on the mosques; inundated in anecdotes, facts and figures, large and small. Out of the bazillion pieces of infomation is there anything to impress the folks back in Kansas? In the Topkapi Palace, one of the museums has a collection of sacred artifacts collected by the Prophet Mohammad: Moses' staff, King David's sword, and Joseph's turban. As the line approaches the staff of Moses, a German couple giggles, "Unglaublich!" Two young Arab men follow, scrutinizing the staff in great detail, demonstrating to each other that given the size of the staff, Moses must have been quite small. They reluctantly move on having been enriched and moved by this sacred artifact. My own thought was that Cecil B. DeMille had miscasted Charleton Heston in that role. Outside the Palace I meet a group of high school students. They're studying English and want to ask me some questions. I respond, "Do you want me to tell you what you want to hear or the truth?" "Tell us the truth, tell us the truth," They shouted. The worst I could come up with was, "Your transportation isn't very good." They laughed, agreeing, "But what do you think of our food - the kebab?" "Excellent!" I said. "The people? What do you think of us?" Their smiling open heartedness spoke for itself.

Take the Ferry

Venard is on the Left

BURSA, ISTANBUL Ever since I arrived in Bursa I had been trying to figure out how to get to Istandbul. Except for a spattering of words and phrases, no one speaks English. I was told to take the bus - it takes five hours but another hour to get to the station. Another said, "Take the ferry - only 1 1/2 hours," wrote down the name and location, but couldn't tell me how to get there. Near the hotel, I asked the attendant at the Metro Station, "How to get to the ferry?" "Take train number 1 to Mudanyan - it's near the sea - only twenty minutes - then the bus." "That's it," I thought. The next morning I went to the Metro Station and twenty minutes later arrived at my destination. Busses were lined up across from my stop. "This will be easy." I showed the first bus driver the slip with the name and location of the ferry. He shook his head and waved his arm in another direction. Seeing that I was confused, another bus driver came over - he couldn't speak English either. Soon there were half dozen drivers standing around, giving me advice - all in Turkish. I gave up trying to understand them and headed in the direction they were pointing. About two blocks away was a city bus stop. I decided to check with a small nearby pharmacy. The manager understood English, but was unclear as to how I to get to the ferry. He had five young ladies working for him, all started offering advice, in Turkish. They argued and debated and finally resolved that I should take bus 97 to the terminal and then another bus to the ferry. The manager wrote out the instructions in Turkish and said, "You need to go back to the first bus stop to get a ticket." There, the same group of drivers gathered around me; each reading the note the pharmacy manager had written, vigorously debating its merits. "I need a ticket," I kept saying. One of the drivers finally got it and pulled out of his wallet a well worn ticket. I looked at him in disbelief, but what could I do. I returned to the bus stop in front of the pharmacy not sure I had a valid ticket. A young boy saw me puzzling over the ticket, reached out his hand, looked at it, and gave me a thumbs up. I showed him my note and he nodded and pointed to himself indicating he was taking the same bus 97. He only spoke a few words of English but enough for me to learn his name was Venard, he was in the 10th grade, and played Soccer. Two women dressed in hijabs had been listening to our conversation and told Venard that they were going to the ferry and that I should follow them. As we waited for the bus, half an hour or so, I had time to get to know Venard, his two friends, and a variety of other characters, all of whom, had to read the note and offered advice as to its merits.

Blue Mosque, Istanbul

The bus finally came but seemed to take us back through the same area I had come by train. About a half hour into the ride, Venard, who up until then had been attentive to my needs, had to get off. The two women in hijabs motioned to me from further up in the bus that they would help me. A young, smartly dressed, woman, without a head scarf, noticed, and in the best English I had heard so far in Turkey, said, "Can I help you?" She was a journalist for the Bursa newspaper and had studied in England. I thanked her for her help and asked her what she thought of the recent constitutional referendum. Puzzled at first that I should take an interest, said, "Bad, I voted no." "Why?" I asked, remembering that Eyup had actively campaigned for it and saw it as necessary for becoming more fully integrated with the European Union. "Too much power is given the President. We will lose our civil liberities." I wished we could have talked more - she had to get off the bus and two stops later we arrived at the bus station. The two women in hijabs motioned to me to follow them into the terminal where they assisted me in buying a ticket on another bus that would now take me to the ferry. It turned out to be an hour long ride during which, for the first time in Turkey, I traveled alone and in silence thinking I probably had gone completely out of the way but couldn't have met more friendly people. As I finish writing this, I'm in Istanbul. You can take all the places I've been to, group them together, and you still would not have the city of cities - Istanbul.

Turkey Photo Album

Hope to Learn Arabic

Eyup and Wife in Mosque

BURSA, TURKEY Bursa is a city of 2.5 million and so you don't expect someone to be calling your name. It was Eyup and his wife. Our paths just happened to cross as we both headed in the direction of the old town, where there's a large bazaar and several old mosques. I politely passed on entering the first mosque, at Eyup's invitation, hoping to avoid any further discussion of religion, but later I ran into them again - this time at the Yesil Mosque and decided to join them. Upon entering the Mosque the two went through the customary prayers before marveling at the beautiful caligraphic Arabic writings on the walls. "Eyup, what do these mean?" I asked. "I don't know." I found his response remarkable. He was a devout Muslim and here, perhaps, were its most profound teachings upon which the faithful could meditate, but no one could understand them. Was the sing-song call to prayer blasted from the minaret speakers, shattering one's early morning slumbers, also unintelligible - just a part of the routine, like tea and cigarettes, bland clothing, head scarfs, hijabs, and dreary rain coats? Over tea, Eyup explained, "I hope to learn Arabic when I retire. I read the Koran now in Turkish." "Why Islam?" I asked. "Because it's true." "Were your parents Muslim?" I asked. "Yes." "And your grandparents?" "Yes." "Can you really say you chose Islam then?" His answer, as one might expect, was quite involved. I wouldn't be able to do it justice here.

OBL Is a CIA Agent

Abdullah before Mosque

CANAKKALI, TURKEY On the bus from Gelilolu to Ecsebat, I met Abdullah, friendly, bright, and well read; a dovout Muslim; a Turkish soldier on leave to visit his wife. With hand language and very broken English, Abdulllah eagerly talked about his faith and the many grievances he and his fellow Turks had against Jews, Americans, and the West in general. His passions ran deep accusing Jews and Americans of killing millions, "kill babies" was an expression he used. "Osama Bin Laden is a CIA agent," he claimed. Earlier on in this trip, on the train between Graz and Ljubjana, I had met an Israeli soldier who had expressed, with similar passion, his grivances against Palastinians and Muslims. Both so young, not much older than Josh, caring and generous to a fault, but willing to kill in defense of their religious views. We debated the role of religion across political conflicts as we took the ferry across the Canakkali Straights into Asia and to the seaside town of Canakkali. There I had planned to catch the 12:30 bus to Bursa, but engaged, as we were, I changed to the 2:30 bus. We ate lunch, debated; browsed a couple of book stores, debated; and visited an outdoor military museum, and debated some more. "Read the Koran," Abdullah insisted, and gave me a list of other books to read as well. Although his views were disturbing, but emblematic, I surmised, of most people in this part of the world, I tried to understand his position as well as I could. The call to prayer sounded, and Abdullah said, "I need to go to the Mosque. You come with." Soon I found myself in the midst of the faithful. Abdullah and I washed our hands, feet, face, and head; removed our shoes; and filed into the Mosque, while the women, with their hands held out in a form of supplication, sat on a bench outside. Inside, Abdullah found a place where I could sit and observe while he joined the other men listening to the recorded chanted prayers - falling repeatedly to their knees, their faces to the floor. Outside we each received a lemon sweet dipped in sugar powder. I made it to my bus just in time. We promised to exchange emails.

Eyup and Wife

I had just left Abdullah and was boarding the bus when a Turkish couple, the man speaking German and assuming I needed help, checked my ticket to make sure I was on the right bus and my bags safely aboard. The man, whose name was Eyup, had lived in Berlin for sixteen years. The ride to Bursa took five hours - we had plenty of time to get to know each other. His thoughts were the same as Abdullah, "The CIA had fabricated Osama Bin Laden. 9/11 was a CIA operation. Because communism had been defeated, the capitalists needed an enemy to fight, and that enemy was now Islam." He went into a lengthy explanation as to why this was true. I asked him if this was an opinion shared by most Turks. "Yes, of course," he said. Although I found his beliefs disturbing, and I told him so, I was impressed with his congeniality and eagerness to share his opinions and beliefs without rancor. "You must read the Koran," he said. "50,000 Germans have converted to Islam." Turns out he was also a successful businessman, owned a textile firm employing 45 people and owned five houses, which made his harangue against capitalist ring a bit hollow.

Abdullah with Army Hat

It's my third day in Turkey - very different and far more confusing than Eastern Europe. The accommodations have so far been spartan-like; buses and taxis, the primary modes of transportation; people, like Abdulla, Eyup and his wife, eager to give advice; others wanting to give me a piece of candy, a piece of bread, or buy me water or tea; all wanting to help me in anyway they can; and most importantly, wishing to talk and explain what they're about. As a parting gift, Abdulla had given me his worry-beads. I had bought him a WWII Turkish army hat at the outdoor military museum. I shared a taxi with Eyup and his wife, who wanted to stay in the same hotel as I to continue our conversation, but we weren't able to find one with two rooms free. I'm not sure I would be having this experience if I hadn't been traveling alone.

Friends

Talking Basketball

KIRKARELI, TURKEY I was going to blog about lessons I learned on this trip, but that will have to wait. I planned to take the bus to Malko Tarnovo, a town near the Turkish border for $4.50, but no one could tell me how to get from there over the Turkish border and where I go from there. Anxious about what I was getting into, I allowed a taxi cab driver to talk me into taking me directly to the border. "Across the border, there are hotels, buses, and taxis," she promised me in very broken English. It was an hour drive and would cost me $50. As we approached the border, there was only wilderness, and then a solitary guarded gate. "Border," she said. "50 meters," Pointing to the other side where I saw no sign of civilization. I showed my passport to the guard and he waved me on. Schlepping my bags I encountered another post, and again they ask for my passport. I walked through eight passport controls, at one point I had to buy a visa for $20, and about half way through, a lone taxi driver started hustling me. A Turkish family took sympathy on me and told me not to listen to him, "He only wants to take your money. Wait for a tourist bus to come. They will give you a ride to the next town." I continued through the phalanx of passport checks; the taxi driver continuing to pitch me in unintelligible English. At the end of the controls, there was nothing but more wilderness - no sign of civilization. I decided to negotiate with the driver who I finally convinced to take me to the next town for five Euro where he promised me I could catch a bus. It was a remote rustic country village, about ten kilometers from the border, and well off the beaten track. We pulled up to a van, amidst a handful of buildings that served as the town center. I immediately knew my options were limited. The van was the bus he had promised. Two men were in charge of the van, neither of whom spoke English, except to say, "Twenty-five Euro to next town." I was in a fix; the weather, however, was beautiful and so I decided to sit down and get to know these guys. One of the three knew sufficient English to ask me where I was from. "San Francisco," I said and his eyes glistened. "America good," he said. "America and Turkey friends." I nodded in agreement and said, "Turkey Basketball good!" All three, excitedly, nodded their heads in agreement. The one who spoke some English eagerly explained that one of the Turkish players plays for the Chicago Bulls and another for the Miami Heat. After about fifteen minutes of trying to talk basketball, I said, "Ten Euro." The one who spoke the best English said, "Okay, get in," and without further comment other than to shake my hand and to say his name was Hassan drove me to a hotel in Kirkareli, a town where the adventure continued but in the interest of brevity I better sign off for now.

Swam for an Hour

Beach in Sozopol

BURGAS, BULGARIA In Sozopol, I swam for an hour, 'luxuriating' in the clear salt water, although not as salty as the Adriatic. Most of the tourists are back in school or on their jobs, leaving the beach to an older crowd. Out of the water, the pace is slow and authentic. Here's where a writer like Hemmingway might choose to write. I'd love to stay longer but it's Nick's last day and he needs to get back to Varna. He'll drop me off in Burgas, another coastal city like Varna, where I'll spend the night before trying to find my way to Turkey. Burgas is about an hour drive from the Turkey border, but due to the century-old hostilities between the two countries, light years away. From Burbas, the shortest way to Turkey is by bus but you have to take it all the way to Istanbul, a seven-hour trip. I'd like to go to one of the towns over the border. The best advice I've gotten so far and more than once is, "Take the bus to Malko Tarnovo, about an hour from here, and ten kilometers from the border. From there you can catch a cab to the border and walk across into Turkey." "What do I do when I get to the other side," I've asked. "Don't know, I haven't been there." has been the response.

Old Town Fortress

View from Room in Sozopol

SOZOPOL, BULGARIA The weather sunny and warm, Nick and I rented a car and drove south to Nesebar on the Black Sea, shimmering dark blue, clear as the Adriatic, and just as inviting. Even at this late date the town attracts tourists, some Germans and Brits but no Americans. Like so many of these old coastal towns, it's built out over an island on the ancient ruins of the Byzantine and Roman empires. We spent about two hours snapping pictures but understanding little of the history before getting back on the road and continuing on through Burgas before arriving at another island fortress-like old town called Sozopol, with which we quickly fell in love. We found a small hotel on the rocky cliffs with a view of the beach below and the town across from the island. The price, including free wifi and air-conditioning, $26.50. Many stores and restaurants had already closed for the season and as evening approached, a brisk breeze, coming from the east off the sea, made it feel like Fall was in the air. Our waitress told us it snowed the whole month of December last year, something it had never done before. "The snow," she said, "was up to our knees."

Bulgaria Photo Album

My Nirvana

Fishing off the Pier

VARNA, BULGARIA, I'm here, the resort town on the Black Sea - my destination, my nirvana. It can't be over until the fat lady sings? What can I possibly write? The beach stretches for a kilometer below the hotel in which we're staying. To the right is a pier built over a jetty upon which a gaggle of fisherman cast their rods in vain. To the left is another, much smaller jetty, beyond which is another beach, and then another jetty, and then another beach, and so on. The water, unlike the Adriatic, is slightly murky - but beyond the jetty to the left, it becomes clearer. It's early morning and promises to be a warm sunny day. The beach is slowly filling with sunbathers. Many of the women wear nothing but thongs, the men are appropriately attired. A very fat, copper brown, naked woman is wading a few feet off shore, bending over and picking out sea shells, her large breasts almost touching the water. On closer inspection she's not completely naked, she's also wearing a thong I hadn't detected through the rolls of fat. I'm almost tempted to take a picture. No; that wouldn't be in good taste. This should be the end of my blog. I made it. I made it to Varna. The fat lady didn't sing but she did appear. But I have 25 days to go so I'll push on and continue to blog - it's lent a certain structure and meaning to what otherwise might have been a pointless trip.