Lost and Found

Along a highway, in the middle of a farm field outside the city, the bus stops. We pile out, rub our eyes, and blink into the low, early morning sun, wondering why we are here. Although we’ve been driving for almost an hour, the densely packed ticky tacky apartments of the city have only just begun to fall away into sloping farmland blanketed in yellow flowers. A peculiarly new development, designed to resemble an Italian villa complete with tiled roofs, stucco façade, and an ostentatious fountain, posed on the other side of the highway, looking like square peg trying to fit into a round hole. A beautiful but understated stone wall flanks the road, with a simple engraving serving as the only indication that we’ve arrived at Sançaklar Camii.

We filter through the opening in the wall, and being to navigate the jigsaw pathway of granite and grass. The broken path suggests a journey that might be lost; united then interrupted, reunited then interrupted again. As we drift across the crooked pavers, metallic in the low light against the dark grass, a dog with a big grin trots across the lawn to greet us. A bit unkempt with a tag in his ear, perhaps this dog is lost, too.

Our new tour guide clips along in front of the group then disappears over a ledge, where the path spills down across a gentle hill. A large curved wall, in the same ubiquitous grey stone that’s along the street, emerges out of the grade, only revealing itself to be a building by a narrow tunnel leading to a doorway. Gracefully nestled into the hillside, the façade bleeds into the lawn, becoming low, terraced walls that sweep across the gradient like threads in a spider web. A staircase that transverses the horizontal rhythm of the terraces leads us down into a long, slender courtyard, sheltered on two sides by the worship space and the library. A procession of dogs, exact replicas of our recent acquaintance, appear and begin to disperse through our group, some boisterously and some timidly.

The linear space between the buildings, though narrow, bestows a variation of experiences for gathering and contemplating. While the interior spaces on either side are typically for quiet reflection and prayer, the central courtyard is one where the congregation can merrily rejoice under the daylight. Nooks for solitude fade into the periphery, with simple benches that provide seating for an intimate meeting. Views of the quaint, peaceful surroundings peek through perforations in the surface of the walls—grey, as not to detract from the splendor of the countryside.

The geometry of the mosque tells the story: the broken lines of stone and pathway zigzag across the surface until it converges into a whole, forming the enveloping, welcoming void of the musallah. Alone, a person might feel lost. Coming to Sançaklar Camii, they find a space for community and acceptance. Although the dogs that have escorted our visit might be strays, when they come here they are not lost; they have found their pack, and this is their home.

Grab the 'Bul by the Horn

I am now in a city with a population of 18 million, which is more than the population of the entire country of Holland. Istanbul is a city that is everything I expected and nothing I expected all at the same time. One of my course instructors noted that the city operates at a “functional state of entropy and chaos.” This became overwhelmingly apparent on our bus ride from the airport.

The first glimpse of the city was surreal. Intricate floral topiary and designs wove their way up and down the hillside along the sound walls on the freeway. Then the topography dipped, and the city revealed itself. Layered behind the colorful filigree rose stacks and stacks of apartments, in shades of bright pastel. Closer to the freeway loomed gecekondu neighborhood—informal housing settlements built into shells of crumbling buildings, with tarps and clothing lines slung up between the battered concrete. After a considerable amount of honking, I shifted my gaze down to the street, where a boy was rollerskating on the freeway. A crazed smile was plastered to his face as he dodged taxis and buses. I can't say how he got there or where he planned to go. Maybe he was playing a prank and his mother was wringing her hands a few cars behind, but he appeared to be having the time of his life.

We exited the freeway, leaving the rollerskating boy to pursue his suicidal recreational endeavors, and suddenly our coach stopped outside one of the gecekondu settlements. A man jumped up from a table on the curb occupying a small gathering with some sort of game, and boarded our bus, taking a seat next to the driver. The giant coach bus began to navigate the narrow, crowded streets of the city, with Beyoncé blaring through the speakers to provide our soundtrack.

What one would anticipate being a pretty routine trip to-and-from the airport became an adventure when we realized the bus driver seemed to be just as lost in the city as we were. Periodically stopping, the man from the card game who joined us would jump off the bus, speak with a shopkeeper with lots of pointing, then get back on the bus. Strange new places became landmarks, as we circled by the same yellow awning or pharmacy over and over. Teetering on the cobble with a four-foot clearance between buildings on either side, our fearless driver backed up into an intersection. Pedestrians and motorbikes scattered as the forty-foot vehicle pulled a three-point turn. The gopher carried on with this elaborate scavenger hunt to find our apartment for over a half hour, hopping on and off the bus, sometimes stopping for a phone call or a cigarette.

I ended my first day in Istanbul by chipping my tooth on a beer bottle. It was my first beer of the night and there’s no exciting tale, the bottle just accidentally hit my tooth, and it chipped. Maybe the fluoride-less water and weird mint-flavored “tooth-paste” sugar gel from Hema (European version of Target) made my teeth weaker, but either way, it seems like a fitting close to my introduction to this place; a little wild and unexpected.

Alright Istanbul, you crazy city you, I’m ready.

CELEBRITY GUEST POST:

Sorry, Our Wednesday Nights are Full

Spencer Bauer

Flashing lights and fog machines flood the hot dark room as my classmates and I scurry around the slippery floor.  No, we are not at a club, its student night at Laser-Quest and the landscape architects have traded their pens, sketchbooks, and cameras for flashing vests and plastic guns. What was supposed to be a fun night of bonding quickly escalated into a cut-throat bloodbath of glory and honor. Although we paid 14 euros for two games and a beer (yes, I said beer) the blood, sweat, and laughs were simply an added bonus.  For some, laser tag was a new endeavor but the excitement was thick in the air.  Besides our class there was a Dutch father with his daughter and son. At first they appeared like easy targets, this surface level judgment was quickly diminished. Once teams were set, rules were given, and the arena gate flung open. Let the flurry begin.

“Lindsay! Hold the point here, I’m going to flank the right and flush them out!” I think I made it about two steps before Karen sniped me from behind and left Lindsay a sitting duck. The red team was off to a rough start, but the game had just begun. Zigzagging through the maze of strobe lights, glow in the dark paint, and dead ends, our team started to put together a solid series of kills thanks to the Dutch gang. The bells rang and the game ended. Getting out of the arena became a mission in itself, but following the laughter and lights I made it back to the briefing room. You would have thought we all just crossed the finish line of a military obstacle course. Sweat, smiles, and high fives converged between members of all teams as we headed out to the common room where cold beer and “activity juice” (the Dutch version of Gatorade) awaited us.  Everyone was given their scorecards to see their game report.  Go figure, the Dutch were at the top of the points list with Joe rounding out last place with negative points, no surprises there.  Following a refreshing pilsner we eagerly headed back for more.  The second game split everyone up into three teams and twenty minutes later we were back in the commons checking for scores and telling “tales of the hunt.”  We found out Karen is full time assassin, part time landscape architecture student as she had more than 3 times the points as anyone. While Jody “TA” Rader might be colorblind as she had the most kills against her own team, talk about a happy trigger finger. Overall we had a great time and will definitely be back next week for some more battle scars and war stories.

The Netherlands, in review

It’s been pretty quiet on here….

After a whirlwind schoolwork and kaas (Dutch for cheese), I’ve realized that I’ve been a bad blog momma. I thought about it all the time, I really did, but between a full school schedule and “trying to experience Europe,” I dropped the ball. So here’s a wrap up of my time in the Nederlands, touching on only the most salient parts of my trip (i.e. food)… the class blog has the low down on the schoolwork part, check it out at citiesonwaternl2014.wordpress.com

FOOD

The best part of every vacation, no? The first week or two in the Netherlands started off a little rocky in this department. I spent the beginnings of my trip in a cloudy state of hangriness (extreme hunger that leads to extreme anger) before getting wise to the ways Dutch Do Dinner.

Lesson 1: Eat early! That whole “10pm European dinner” thing is for the south continent. The northerners, on the other hand, have to make use of their scarce daylight and dine at a reasonable hour. With a full day of touring and classes keeping us out until at least 6pm, we didn’t usually venture out for food until 7 or 8pm. Pretty average time to seek out some eats in good old America, but cause for a lot of hungry tummies in Utrecht… It didn’t help that just finding a suitable place to eat took about an hour in itself. Don’t get me wrong, Utrecht has so many adorable cafes and bars, choosing one is like shooting fish in a barrel. But a restaurant with student-friendly price range is a bit of a unicorn (average plate cost between €14-20). We would trot around from restaurant to restaurant for an eternity, indulging in our pipedream of finding a “one-dollar-sign” unicorn, until finally collapsing in exhaustion into the nearest place we could find… only to look on in horror as the server told us the kitchen was closed. At 9pm. This scenario played out so many times, it was like a bad sitcom. But no one was laughing, we were just hungry.

The number of dining options was overwhelming

Lesson 2: ASK for the dinner menu, especially during happy hour. Springtime was just making her debut right as we arrived in Utrecht, so, naturally, we wanted to enjoy our meals outside at one of the many cafes lining the canal in the city center. While beer was aplenty, the food offerings fell more into the “snack” category than the “meal” category. It was like every restaurant was a tapas restaurant. I do love my snackies, however, nothing but Bavaria and Bitterballen (delicious fried balls of gravy and sausage) for two nights does not constitute proper sustenance. But we were clever, and thought maybe sitting inside would yield more formal dinner service. Wrong again, not clever enough for the Dutch. It wasn’t until we observed another table expressly ask the server for the dinner menu that we discovered the big kid meals, which, as we were soon to find, brought its own set of troubles.

Lesson 3: Have your menu translated. You might think it will be a fun game to play menu roulette, but you’re temping the gods with this one. Some words look similar to English and some you think look similar to English, but really mean something entirely different. The food in the Netherlands is too expensive to be gambling with your dinner. What you think might be a lovely appetizer plate for two to split can quickly turn into a hangry fiasco. It only took one platter of lots and lots raw meat for me to learn this lesson, then I got smart. And cooked food.

Lesson 4: BYO Onions. The food was good, don’t get be wrong, but as a Dutch person told me, the Dutch don’t really do food as hard as their French and German neighbors. They view it more as a process of obtaining nutrients than a passionate source of life and flavor and happiness. I frequently found myself wanting to bring my own garlic and spice kit to restaurants and dress up my grub a little before digging in. The whole time, I kept thinking it was the lack of garlic in the food that made it taste so bland to me, but when I got to Germany and devoured a steaming plate of bratwurst and potatoes in a cozy brauhaus, I realized what I was really missing… Onions. A favorite lunch spot we frequented was a tiny gyro shack under the Dom Tower in the city center. Fast, cheap, and oh-so-flavorful (and quite messy). And the best part—packed with onions and garlic. Don’t forget the extra napkins. And the breath mints.

KOFFIE

While the dining in Dutchland was tricky to navigate, drinking koffie was such a treat. At every, literally every office or firm we visited, there was a spread waiting for us, and I mean a SPREAD. Piping hot koffie (coffee), thee (tea), and the best part…. the goodies. The stroopwafels (thin waffle sandwich cookie with caramel in the center). The speckulas (gingerbread/graham cracker-like cookies with windmills on them). The shortbread. The chocolates. Oooooh the goodies. Even at a café or restaurant, the koffie was always served with a goodie.

Inside a tiny mug and saucer with a tiny spoon, awaits a fresh Americano under a layer of creamy foam. Inhale, ahhhhh caffeine. anticipation. Don’t take a sip yet, set the stroopwafel over the mug to collect the rising steam. When the caramel inside is melted, it’s time. Break it apart and soak up the koffie and foam. Repeat. Eat many stroops. Perfection.

It was a ritual, and it was wonderful.

BIKES

By the end of my stay in Utrecht, I was beginning to think that the town was really inhabited by a teaming population of bicycles that allowed humans to occasionally occupy their domain. The Dutch have their multimodal situation down, there is not a single street in that country without a bike on it. Even the suburban areas had incredibly extensive and well-connected bike routes complete with beautiful Dutch businesspeople cycling to work in their slacks.

Motorbikes are at the top of the food chain.

Navigating the streets as a pedestrian, however, was quite a different story. The daily walk from the hostel to the train station was quite the ordeal. If there even was a sidewalk (which ranged anywhere from 2’ to 10’), it was clogged with parked bikes. Jump into the street to dodge the parked bikes then DING DING the little fairy bell of death chimes from behind you as a tall Dutch goddess with perfect posture in a mini skirt and heels speeds past on a cruiser. There are traffic lights in Utrecht, but I think I only saw them actually blinking and directing traffic half the time (the other half of the time it’s probably taking a coffee pause). Tear ass across the five-point intersection at Neude Square, narrowly miss being flattened by a bus. Make it to a sidewalk, safety… OH GOD A MOTORBIKE. The rumble of those soul-stealing engines still ignites sheer panic in my chest.

The Netherlands was lovely. Organized, controlled, quiet, green. The people were friendly, but with a typical air of Scandinavian reservation. I have to say, we were spoiled by the openness and tremendous kindness of the Portuguese, even as we were butchering their language. But a welcoming country with an amazing public transportation system, scenic villages crisscrossed by canals, tranquil sheep pastures under a broad sky, and a bold, innovative flavor for design. It was an amazing place to live and an exciting place to study. I will miss stupidly beautiful, well-dressed Dutch people waiting orderly for every passenger to exit the train before beginning to pile on, leaving more than enough personal space. And the infinite free wifi. Farewell, Netherlands, see you in 2030.