Parliamentary Procedure

Even if your government swears church and state are separate, the law is holy. The place where such principles are brought forth becomes a temple, and every country has one big one where its elected leadership does its decision-making. While Hungary’s democratic Parliament may be young, the castle and fortress where its members meet may be the world’s nicest. Inspired by London’s House on the Thames, the late 19^th century structure sits just meters from the Danube and has magnificent night lighting.

It takes longer to get inside than it does to walk through, but 'breaking in' to government buildings always thrills the history nerd in me. We saw wonderful frescoes and colorful stained glass, a gilded dome, and the changing of two guards around a 1000-year-old coronation crown.  Then, we get to the main chamber. Formerly bicameral, the Parliament now meets as one happy family. As we snapped selfies all around the building, the realities of the Parliament seemed to escape me. Golden cigar holders and red plush couches distract you from the facts that Russia had ‘advisors’ in the country until 2000. Currently, a minority party keeps speaking up in that big room with Anti-Semitic rhetoric that has the community scared that what happened once could happen again. Only outside of the building did a friend call the correlations to my bedazzled yet bewildered attention. 

On Tram 2, National Geographic’s 7^th most beautiful tramway in the world, we chatted only briefly about the government visit before gazing at the views of the Danube and the monument-scattered hills on the Buda side. After lunch, we stumbled upon an artisan spring market in Vorosmarty Plaza. With live music, fancy chocolate, mulled wine, and classier tschochkes than can be found elsewhere, we kicked off a fabulous shopping afternoon.

While shopping in my European favorites (Stradivarius, Bershka, Pull and Bear), our trip staff and I called half the restaurants in Budapest to see who wanted to have 30 Americans for dinner. This phoneathon began around 4:30, and we were looking to eat at 8. Few restaurants have the capacity for such a group much less want to have us disrupt the peace, asking a million questions and making a special request with every dish. We’re a waiter’s worst nightmare, and Hungarian service people are not afraid to roll their eyes, sneer, growl or just straight-up ignore you. I’ve found this leisurely way of dining out across the board from Sevilla to Vienna to Budapest. It’s not a problem when you’ve got time and you’re in good company.

We spent a final hour discussing our experiences and how we can translate them back home. I was so impressed with the ways my peers processed with both personal and community perspectives. From sharing stories of the political climate with parents and family members to planning on going to Shabbat on campus, I know that the largely-sophomore crew is anything but sophomoric in their vision for their journeys after the trip. In a circle, we shared our favorite moments (mine was hearing the German opera-singing cantor), and then led into a camp-style havdalah service signaling the end of sabbath and the end of our formal programming together as a group. I don’t think any tears were shed, but as is customary, everyone hugged it out warmly. There’s really nothing quite like 28 good hugs from 28 good friends.

Dinner at Vakjuk (Budapest’s only restaurant that could reasonably have us, really), worked out quite well. We indulged in a three-course meal, and drinks ranging from rich hot chocolates to mammoth beer towers – a grand celebration of our trip. I had funky cheese salami, which were made of spiced cheeses and seeds and veggies, but did have the consistency and smoke of a cured meat. Though I was sick of hot chocolate (I probably drank 20 over five days), my coffee-infused version said I could keep the mug as a souvenir, which seemed like a great idea except that I only have a carry-on and it’s already overflowing.

I jammed that very important mug in, nonetheless, and through on something sparkly to get my mood ready for a fun last night in the rain. 

Whose Shoes

When we heard the snow would finally be over, I didn’t think that that would translate to ‘abusive diagonal rain that will soak through to your soul no matter what you’re wearing.’ 

We left the hostel mid-morning to see the Shoes on the Danube memorial. Despite this array of metal-cast shoes on the river bank being one of the most famous monuments in the world, two official sources misdirected our entire group to walk about a mile in the wrong direction in the horrible rainy mess. Naturally I didn’t take my umbrella – I was asking for a drenching I guess.

The shoes are one of the most moving scenes. After walking on the Danube, I started to feel the cold drudge feeling that we might never find the spot.  When I arrived, I realized anything I felt can’t compare to what the shoe-wearers felt. 

The shoes represent the place where more than 10,000 Jews were led from the ghetto and told to take off their shoes – before they were cold-bloodly shot into that very river and murdered, just 60 years ago. The Nazis needed the shoes, so they took them – children’s booties, women’s Mary Janes, high leather boots – all shapes and sizes are represented there. All that's left there are these symbolic shoes.

Standing in the cold rain, staring down into the shallow water and rocks, looking at my own shoes, I felt a sour sort of pain I can’t describe. Go see this, and understand the gravity of what happened in our grandparents’ lifetimes. In some ways, we had to walk in the rain to really see the shoes. Our experience was transporting. But, at the end, we could walk away.

We rested at the hostel afterwards, needing to dry off and decompress after a draining experience. The afternoon brought some uplift as we went to engage with two vibrant Jewish communities in modern Budapest. 

To be continued...

Budafok Are You?

I enjoyed my matzah with chocolate spread for breakfast before our crew mobilized to visit Parlament. After staring at Parlament, a stunning architectural marvel, our snowy selves found out we actually couldn’t go in today. So, instead we traipsed across the street to a small columned palatial structure (The Museum of Ethnography, whatever that means) so we could warm up with a hot chocolate before our 5-hour wine tour. Yes, five.

Our guide met us at the Deak Ferenc Ter. Metro station. Tall, with a scraggly ponytail, this dude had rugged scars running up his left cheek. He seemed friendly, but at 5’3” standing smushed on the tram next to him, I couldn’t stop looking at the empty piercing clear through his nose, in between his nostrils. We got off the tram in a far, far away place, seemingly beyond city limits, where the air echoed of angry dogs barking and everything looked gray between the snow and the dozens of factory stacks billowing out soot.

Welcome to Budafok. Yes, Budafok. Pronounce it however makes you happiest.

After a half hour hike through misery, – I mean, snow – I felt more unhappy than I have in weeks. Every step in my soaked-through boots felt like I was squishing tiny icebergs with each of my angry toes. When we finally arrived at the wine cellar, I wanted to call a cab immediately to the hostel. I wanted out. I was a broken woman. Thanks to some really great friends, a vest, and a mysterious Hungarian lady who stole my boots and returned them dry, all is right again in the world. I even vaguely enjoyed the tour through various wine mazes, deep under limestone bedrock. Mold everywhere, different flavors age in the musk, the tour only further proved to me that wine is somewhere between art form and really dirty, old stuff.

We were seated in a beautiful but rustic cavern for a lunch prepared by a chef who reminded me of the Beast mid-transformation to a prince from Beauty and the Beast. He also poured us each five glasses of wine during this meal, each explained by our original tour guide. We looked at the lines and legs and whiffed the scents and swished the taste and pretended to kind of get it. I sat with a cool crew of sophomores and enjoyed the bonding experience as I ate another portion of fried cheese, the main vegetarian food of this great beefy nation.

When we cabbed back, five hours later as promised, I set myself on a mission to buy new boots. A kind freshman agreed to shop with and ultimately spotted the killer deal at the North Face store that led me to purchase a pair of everything-proof boots that will make me indefatigably adventurous in my continued adventuring. Or so I’d like to think.

On some level, these boots proved magic because some comrades noticed my mood was remarkably better, possibly opposite the broken woman of the early afternoon. Shoes can literally make or break a woman. A worthwhile investment, no doubt.

We took a beautiful boat tour of the Danube, complete with silly voiceovers on an audio guide and champagne. The lights and monuments and bridges connecting Buda and Pest make the dynamic duo a true contender for prettiest at-night city.

After the cruise, we were in need of some grub, but 11 p.m. dinner is a bit late even on the European mealtime watch. Luckily, the TripAdvisor app helped nine of us locate a new-age Hungarian spot near an intensely touristy main drag. I had some salmon, my first major protein of the day, along with a delightful pumpkin-spinach soup.  And, I yummed all the way home, into my pajamas, and into my bed to catch up on four days of blogging.

I’m halfway through this leg of the trip and almost home.

Home is a funny thing. Today at our endless lunch, we were singing a folksy indie song with lyrics I sometimes nomadically and poetically feel the lyrics are true: home is wherever I’m with you – my travel buddies have made this trip so amazing and I can only be excited for the rest of the week’s adventuring.

Szechenyi Soaks and Scrumptious Seders

After a steamy morning at the Szechenyi hot mineral baths, we had a free afternoon to get to know Budapest. With a few friends, I visited the Central Market, a vast warehouse filled with stands of produce, leather goods, and tourist tschochkes. But, the real shopping of the day had to be done elsewhere – we had a seder to prepare for thirty hungry students and just a few hours until go-time.

Some Hillel Shabbat veteran seniors knew just how to handle this situation. A convenience store, a grocery store, and thousands of forints later, we had cheeses and sauces and toppings for a matzah pizza feast, along with the basics for five seder plates, improvised but completely delicious charoset, and endless matzah ball soup, too.

Over the course of the afternoon prep work for the feast, we heard five different languages spoken in the hostel’s open kitchen. By seder time, the soup was at a high boil and the countertops were covered in more than fifty slices of matzah pizza. Chocolate fruit was cooling in the fridge and the first cups of wine were poured.

Our crew commandeered the back parlor of the hostel. The boys in button downs and khakis, the girls in nice blouses – we really clean up nicely. Just as everyone was seated, Alyssa led us in an opening activity, challenging us to free ourselves from our seats and go sit with someone we hadn’t yet gotten to know well.  After musical chairs was complete, the seder began. Jon and Tracy guided us through, and over the course of the night, two guests, other wandering Jews staying at our hostel even joined in to hear Maggid, the story of how we left Egypt, theories of the Four Songs, and a rousing rendition of Had Gadya and Who Knows One?. Full participation came from all corners of the table: Lita led us in the first cup of wine; Hayley hid the matzah (Gabi found it); Freshmen Ariella and Natalie kicked off the four questions but everyone joined in; Daniel, Danielle and Ali announced and modern danced the plagues; Ben opened the door for Elijah; Serena played us the Redemption Song as the closure, Nirtzah. The boys washed the dishes quickly and we were off to conclude our night in royal style.

On the bus up to Buda Hills, the high spirit of our group’s camaraderie was palpable. Stuffed from our five-star feast (every bite was demolished), all of us still had the energy to emblazon fresh footprints through the snowy plazas of Budapest’s grand Palace. As we took in the views of incredible columns and huge lion statues, we jumped around as the snowflakes fell, making for quite the photoshoot opportunity. Kodak moments abounded - we won’t forget this night, different from all others.

We’ve learned on our trip that for centuries, Jewish identity has been in flux in Hungary. Nazism, Communism, and Anti-Zionism have all tried to squash the community. As we stood in front of the palace, gazing down across the whole of the city, our group felt on top of the world. We had experienced two landmark seders, an unexpected snowstorm, and then stumbled upon an empty palace complex as night and taken it over, running through it with full freedom. We’ve been able to explore Judaism here in ways so outside the box – we are unlimited.

Soggy boots can’t hold us back. We’re learning about an incredible history, and we’re making history at the same time.

A Wake Up Call, A Jewish Day One

We woke up in our chic Jewish quarter hostel to enjoy our final bits of bread before turning a few corners to start day one of touring. The first event: a Jewish walking tour with a fabulously spirited and quite honest guide Agi. Hungarian Jews have a funky history. A generation wiped out by the Holocaust, their children survivors rejecting and forgetting the faith, their children curious to reclaim it, and the fourth generation finding our religion complicated, and distant but trendy. The community here, about 100,000 strong, has the world’s second-largest synagogue, a Chabad house, a JCC, and a sleepaway camp my sister went to called Szarvas (sar-VASH – that’s an easier word in Hungarian (which they call ‘MAGyar’).

To stand next to a massive and beautiful synagogue and then realize there is a mass gravesite where 2000 of your vague relatives are buried in that shul’s courtyard is a pretty jarring experience. I had not visited Eastern Europe before, and my direct lineage may not be Hungarian, but for the first time, I felt close to a home and a history that sounded like my family’s. Explaining the level of overwhelm that comes with realizing 2000 people – your entire class in college, for a frame of reference – is buried beside you – because they did absolutely nothing to deserve to be starved or shot – either way, murdered…. That’s rough stuff.

So, I’ll move to the lighter stuff – as we stood around the corner at a memorial to righteous gentiles (about the third memorial in three blocks – this country LOVES statues), I noticed a familiar guy walking toward the group. R. Michael Paley happened to walk right through our group – he’s in Budapest hosting a local community seder, but why was the name so familiar? I don’t keep a rolodex of rabbis, but maybe I should. It dawned on me that he had been the scholar-in-residence at my summer internship at UJA-Federation of NY – Jewish Geography for the win. Just in time, I was able to reintroduce myself and he claimed I did definitely look familiar, made a kiss towards the heavens at the mention of his intern Noam Mintz, and our paths diverged once again.

Next, came food shopping at the kosher place – hardly what one could call a grocery store, and potentially a temporary establishment for pesach save the few covered cabinets filled with gluten goods. I was able to snag a box of matzah and a few matzah ball soup mixes. Later on, the trip leaders came back to stock up on seder ingredients (more matzah, plus chocolate, wine and macaroons) for our second night which we planned to create inside of our hip hostel.

We had a leisurely lunch which led into free time. A group of the trip’s senior girls plus staff member stumbled upon a fairly epic architectural. Thanks to my handy-dandy TripAdvisor phone app, I was able to inform the crew that this was in fact a St. Stephen’s Basilica built in the late 19^th century and yes, we should go in. There’s a picture, but just shiny gold everywhere, incredible marble, and an alleged relic hand from 1038. That’s a one thousand year old HAND. Ew. 

Typical church stuff completed, we headed to a cute café and warmed up over three desserts. It had begun to snow – not exactly the Punta Cana spring break my peers seemed to be enjoying most thoroughly.

That evening, we went to maariv, the ten-minute evening service at the Great Synagogue. A neo-logue place, there’s kind of a mechitzah and definitely an organ plus maybe a choir at this palatial house of worship. No prayer books were to be found, so I used my proficient Hungrilish Sign Language to communicate with a local over the pseudomechitzah party lines to get him to send some readers over to my troops. I even attempted to ask in Hebrew, but those language skills proved invalid with this guy also. Needless to say, I was confused, and by the time I got the books and found our place in the service, my silent Amidah prayer was cut a bit short and the whole service was over.

The rest of the night was arguably the most bizarre seder anyone has ever been to, so it will have its own blog. Let’s just call it ‘awesome.’ That night alone was reason to travel halfway across the world on senior spring break to a land of slush and snow.

Viennapest - The Start of the Last Leg

We woke up to a snow-covered Vienna. Again, we slept in, past our intended wake-up. Christine has prepared a ‘light’ breakfast for us but then proceeded to pack us an entire snack bag for our train ride. She also figured out how we could buy train tickets and tried to find out if they would really cost us 120 euro a piece – a rate that seemed outrageous for a three hour ride to Budapest. It’s cool that in Europe, you just get on the train and go to another major historic city in just a few stops.  Christine gave us some parting gifts, pumpkin seed oil, ligenberry jam, and chocolate, you know, for our parents or something. Also, this situation was illogical because she had just displayed outrageous kindness and generosity for 48 hours to strangers and then continued to lavish gifts and warmth upon us. Doubtful the chocolate will make it back.

Sydney and I got to the train station (Meidling Banhof) and delighted to find out the tickets would be about ¼ of the price quoted online. We picked up one last topfenstreudel before boarding the train. The cheesecake-like pastry delight turned out to be a lifesaver. On the miserably crowded train, we sat cramped between the doorways, on the floor, like the Boxcar Children. I was just thrilled to be moving onto the next stop. Eventually, after many failed attempts to charade our way into strangers’ seemingly empty seats, we reneged on our German/Hungarian/English/Spanglish/Unofficial Sign Language and found a rather uncomfortable loveseat bench in the restaurant car. We finished off the topfenstreudel and watched the wind turbines outside, each working busily on our computers on something or other no longer so memorable.

Getting off the train in Budapest, we got super-ripped off changing money over in order to get our first forints. This absurd currency has nonsensical coin sizes and crazy denominations. It’s not unusual to carry around a 20,000 forint bill - because that’s under $100.

Sydney and I figured out the metro and made it to our hostel just as our Northwestern group arrived. This leg of the trip was an Alternative Break with Hillel, an integrated tourism and cultural engagement program around Budapest. In its inaugural edition, it’s sure to be full of surprises, mistakes and memorable moments.

Thirty of us broke down into a few tables in a back room of ‘traditional Hungarian restaurant’ around the corner from the hostel for dinner. You could totally tell by the authentic guitar and accordion duet (yea, right, totally) that the place was so authentic because everyone loves aggressive music for tips while they’re eating on jetlag. We were served goulash and chicken paprikash – I had a mushroom soup and fried cheesey nuggets, but I heard the traditional dishes were delicious and I was pleased enough with my option. I began to worry about how Passover would go, starting just the next day.

The group went on to Szimpla Bar, the most popular and famous destination for debauchery among foreigners. This massive cavern of endless ruined rooms is known as a ‘ruin bar’ – it’s just filled with weird junk. Chairs range from old car seats to a gymnastics bar, and graffiti and hookah smoke smother the walls. Sometimes, you feel a drip and you realize, oh, this room is actually outside. Others have no windows. 

We enjoyed some cheesy bread and quite the people-watching before heading home. This city, both the sights and the people, is intriguing.

Gut Nacht, Österreich

I didn't know Austria was known for it's breakfast, but there's a good reason Sydney and I had the meal twice today.

We woke up around 10:45 a.m. - I finally found someone who can keep up with my sleep-in abilities! and headed down to Christine's kitchen for a coffee and breakfast. This woman deserves a TripAdvisor rating of 5 - we had rolls, croissants, brie, jams, hams, and a weird probiotic smoothie shot that apparently opened a factory in California last year - it's called Yakult and apparently it's huge everyone else.

I made quite the busy agenda for the day, and we hit every stop flawlessly.

1. Karlskirche: Set on it's own plaza with it's own U-Bahn station, this enormous domed church makes you pay a fee to get in. After some debate, we decided you only Vienna once (except it's Sydney's second trip), and paid the 4€. Though it's not so large, the Karlskirche is really, really, really tall. Frescoes cover the dome and at the center of the altar, a huge gold sunburst is emblazoned with the Hebrew word for God's name. So, maybe it's actually a synagogue in disguise?

We took the elevator up through the ugly scaffolding in the middle of the church, finding ourselves suspended on a platform ten stories up... to find out we could (and would) walk up another 12 flights to get to the top of the dome to see what we thought would be a really awesome view. As connoted, the view was actually not that awesome because of tiny fencing all along the windows. Still, we could practically touch the ceiling frescoes, and there's a thrill and a novelty to being suspended above a 600-year old church.

Next came a walk past Vienna's famous 2. opera house (we tried to get tickets for tonight's Aida and failed) and then, to 3. the memorial against war and fascism, featuring an interesting statue of a man with a yarmulke and peyus scrubbing the ground with a shoebrush, as the Jews were made to do in this very city not so long ago. Standing somewhere where your cousins may have suffered before the perished has an effect on you. We didn't linger so long before heading over to 4. another church, this one from 1400, with a chapel converted to an Easter market, with painted eggs and pastries and candles and other little diddies Sydney convinced me I don't need.

Next came the main attraction, the 4. Hofburg Palace. Still in use, the over 2000 halls house more than 16 museums and goverment offices of the acting President. We toured the 5. Sisi Museum, about the mythical life and tragic assassination of Empress Elisabeth who was married to Franz Josef - their only son died and Prince Franz Ferdinand was slated to take over... but then his assassination sparked WWI - you remember 8th grade history, don't you?

So, this obscure queen was a really dark soul and she only wore black and her hair was six feet long. Her husband was a light among the nations and he held court open to his 56 million residents every Tuesday and Thursday all day long and used a military bed because expensive things were a waste of taxpayer money - that's how governments should be, I think. Except, when you're touring  6. royal apartments, you kind of expect a little more glam and glitz - still, the rooms were pretty, with nice paintings and big curtains and all original furniture - everything, tinted red.

We were starving by 3:30 and darted around 7. the Imperial Silverware Collection (pure gold plates you wouldn't dare eat off of, countless candelabras and cake pans, etc.) before crossing through to the modern art complex known as 8. MuseumQuartier for a lunch at the Leopold Museum cafe, a host recommendation. We ordered a breakfast platter after getting approval that we could still, at 3:57, order this dish that is no longer served come 4:00. The one meal came with coffee, juice, toast, pancakes with blueberry sauce, soup, salad, and smoked salmon. So, we split it, and had a hummus plate with olives and spicy eggplant. Pretty standard four o'clock fare, I'd say. I'm starting to not even notice that I am consistently the only person not smoking while eating wherever we go.

Next, we walked by the 9. Rathaus and 10. Parliament, city and congress halls. We began to notice how creepy and empty the city was. In any other major city, you can barely find space for a photo of you and a major site without 5000 strangers around you. Not so in Wien - this is the quietest city ever. It's utterly creepy that no one is out - granted, it's freezing, but really, I had an entire plaza to myself. On the walk home, we got an apfelstrudel to go and hit up the Naschmarket to get some hot chocolate, and enjoyed both back at our place.

We made it home at 6:15 and passed out for an hour before making any further decisions. More than ten sites checked off, we were pretty satisfied. The evening was uneventful - a random man talked to us on the U-Bahn and invited us to an electronic club we didn't go to. We had a yummy dinner and then headed to the Sofitel to see the rooftop bar for a view of the city. After waiting 45 minutes, we got in to the bar with a nice view, but no coffee and terrible service, so we peaced out and walked home, across the entire city. The most vibrant thing we passed was a Coca Cola machine. By our street, Kettenbruckengasse, we were frozen to bits and made cups of tea to enjoy in bed while watching another documentary, this one about White Supremacy in America (but, in German, of course). I really wonder who schedules these programs.

A very solid day in a very quiet but beautiful city.

You can drink the water in Wien

From a five-star loft, neatly tucked under a comforter in a heated room, I write this exhausted and exhaustive blog detailing the affairs of my multi-time-zoned day.

After a nice morning with Turkish Airlines (voted Europe’s favorite airline a few years running, for good reason – a three-course meal and over 300 movie options on-board a 2-hour flight? I wish they’d bus my ORD-LGA route…), I arrived in the magical land of the Ostereich to visit the city of Wien. Angelika picked me up and we bussed back to the middle of the city and ended up on a spontaneous walking tour. I champed through major sites and streets with all of my luggage in tow, looking so like the touristy tourist that I am.

Vienna is this magical place where every building is prettier than the last. Laid out in circular districted sections like Paris, the city is known for being clean, beautiful and filled with delectable desserts - I can’t think of any better combination.

My friend Sydney and I have the privilege of staying in my aunt’s partner’s friend’s daughter’s former apartment which is now used as a family guesthouse or rental unit. The place is an urban wanderer’s dream come true, and our host Christine put cookies in the kitchen. As aforementioned, desserts, even the packaged cookies, are certifiably awesome here.

Already in one afternoon, Wien is weird, too. There was the moment I entered a peaceful and majestic plaza, to be told that’s where Austrians had welcomed Hitler to take over the nation 65 years ago. On the flipside, I spent an hour at Sabbath services in a famous domed synagogue with a quartet complementing a traditional cantor and a rabbi’s sermon entirely in German. I’m always up to explore a new Jewish community – and in this case, it required a passport and interrogation from a Mossad-like security guard just to enter. Tension and spirituality equally course through Stadttempel.

After, Angelika and I snapped some photos outside Hotel Stefanie in the second district, on our way to a traditional dinner with Christine, her daughter, her boyfriend, and Sydney. Quite the motley crew, we were all chatty and energetic. After two bottles of wine, avocado-sunflower oil-potato salad, two whole fish (teeth included), mint-cheesy perogies, a schnitzel and a tapfel, we rallied for three shared desserts. 

By the end of the meal, we were exhausted, so full and didn’t want to talk anymore at all maybe ever again. We took the U-Bahn home, which seems to not require tickets and is the world’s fanciest subway for a major city. If I were homeless, I’d live on the U4. We exited at Kettenbruckengasse, our home for the weekend.

Sydney and I are now watching a documentary on Columbian roofie drugs and combining our knowledge of English, German and Spanish to understand it. This show follows an Austrian comedy variety show that might have been funny if we were from here.

Tomorrow, we’re going to look at palaces and desserts and take many, many pictures of both. 

Dear Vienna, I love you

I now know what perfection is. And it's made of palaces and U-Bahns and cafes and phonetic pronunciations and the sweetest little loft on Kettenbruckengasse.

Wilkommen.

Görüşürüz

görüşürüz: see you later, bye-bye

Can you understand why Turkish was so impossibly difficult to learn? I got about fifteen words down, but without the ability to talk in numbers, you can't even bargain for more cheap glass Turkish eye beads. I may have learned a little, but "Thank You" was just a huge toughie, so I probably seemed like the rudest person ever, or a mute in every single stop we made.

This morning, we walked 30 minutes uphill to drop my mom at the airport bus. I constantly feel like Miley Cyrus' 'The Climb' is background music for the vertical battle that is Istanbul. My aunt and I spent the rest of the morning walking back home, stopping for some delicious pomegranate orange juice here. Unlike America, when fresh-squeezed will cost you an entire hour of babysitting for three gulps, Turkey gives the people what they want, at just 1 TL (55 cents. Nobody even likes nickels - great justification for spending 11 of them this way).

The afternoon consisted of much more olive-smothered toast with cheese, getting in the last few earfuls of call-to-prayers competing for the warm wind. Last activities involved dodging a little drizzle as we flipped through countless thrift shops tucked into grafittied walls. When I crossed into Cihangir, the world of Istanbul transformed. The streets widened, the trash was picked up, and the women were not wearing scarves. There were gourmet cheese shops, lingerie shops, wine shops - specialities you don't see in the Eastern Islamic-influenced parts of the city. The cafe and tree-lined neighborhood probably would have felt Parisian, almost, except as per usual, all the buildings seemed to be tilted on each other, six stories high, about to come crashing down on me. My aunt took me to a hidden mosque for one final amazing view of the sweeping Bosphorus with hilled peninsulas, sunlit minarets jutting out and I thought about how cool it was that I got to come and play here.

Then, I took at 2.5 hour nap. Totally a good choice, except I was a little restless because I thought I might get robbed because that happened to my aunt's friend when he was showering a few months ago here and a neighbor (she thinks) smashed in the front window and stole all his goods (passports, laptop, diamonds - okay, probably not diamonds, but definitely the first two.). (Who doesn't love a good run-on sentence when you're running on minimal energy...)

My aunt's film editor's girlfriend Busla invited me out with  her friends to some cafe described as a hipster hangout in Asmalimescit (pronounce that - ha!). Social success!

And with the morning, another flight, another city, another set of unexpected adventures due to a total lack of planning this upcoming leg out...

görüşürüz: see you later, bye-bye

In which Princess Stefanie visits the Prince's Islands and meets a Prince Charming

This morning, we lounged around debating what to do for a while.  What a great luxury to have a vacation in one city for more than 24 hours. After all of my stefonstuff.blogspot.com study abroad adventures, I got used to the 2-day city blitz, where every 30 minute block had a new museum, park, train, gelato etc... In Istanbul, we sit around, shootin' the shit over coffee and tea, debating if the sun will ever come out.

By 10:30, on the cusp of being too late to do anything at all, we got moving and decided to skip Dolmahbace Palace and head straight for Kabatas Port for a one-day vacation to Prince's Islands.

We didn't even pick an island until we were already on the boat - that's how indecisive we are.

On the way to the port, my aunt stopped to pick up some cash in an illegal drug deal JUSTKIDDING but that's what the neighborhood looked like. While she got the dough for some photography and design work, we peered through the windows of her friend Christopher's design studio and watched some men unload a catering truckload of baklava. I actually don't know what the food was, but I hope it was baklava because baklava is totally delicious, particularly in mass quantities.

We continued on, passing my aunt's yoga studio, tucked above the local Little Caesars, which my mom found quite lamentable that such an awful pizza chain would (mis)represent our nation overseas.

On this quite leisurely walk down, I bought some tights, and continued to not know any Turkish, making local transactions just impossible. Notably, the store played old school Justin Timberlake in the background (Cry Me a River), so I was even more distracted when the shopkeeper tried to talk to me.

Next, with just 35 minutes to the ferry we were planning to take, I insisted we walk to a waterfront mosque down the road, next to a gas station. Classy.

Little boy, who do you think you are,
running past the gate? And making a great picture.

This turned out to be an awesome pick - Dolmabahce Mosque, the religious space next to Ataturk's final palace, where the clock has been set to the moment of his death...in 1938. As I deshoed at the doorway and stepped up in my new signature headscarf look, a security guard grilled me with the words, "Jami! Jami!" And I wanted to say, "I dont know what you're saying!?!?" but then he wouldn't know what I was saying either, so I decided to just smile and step back and avoid doubling miscommunication. We entered the small mosque to find an incredible chandelier and a small tour group.

We booked it back to the dock and got on the boat to the islands. Just 3.50 tl (under $2) to travel to a land of beaches and palm trees, the boat ride also offers sesame bagels, which people buy to throw at an attacking flock of seagulls, for the duration of an 80 min water cruise. These long distance water taxis take you through the Golden Horn, Bosphorus, and out into the Marmara Sea and have actual destinations - much better deals than the frequently-assaulting vendors offer for 'Bosphorus Cruise, 20 euro'.

Onboard, my mom made a buddy in the next seat over, our new friend Bara'a. He's an English teacher in the southern Turkish city of Gaziantep who introduced himself as, "From Syria, unfortunately." He had gotten a degree in English Lit at University of Aleppo, the city where he grew up as one of seven children. Syria is not the place to be now - Aleppo has been destroyed by the civil war and he has not been able to talk to his family in over a year. In his endearing cross of a British and American accent, asked to tag along with us for the whole afternoon. Your mother may have taught you not to talk to strangers. My mother is the clear antithesis to that statement.

Me, my aunt, and Bara'a - and a pirate ship.

The Prince's Islands were really beautiful and it was a 60s and sunny kind of day. We sat outside and ate some borek and pide and had slightly salty seltzer, and my forehead got the bright pinkish hue some call sunburn and I call 'funburn' because it means I had a good time.

Buyukada, the biggest of the four islands, is currently in the winter season. Shuttered houses, rundown tennis courts, private beaches and horse-drawn carriages mark the hilly cobbled streets of this cross between Key West and Gibraltar. Put it on your radar for future places to buy a private but not too lonely international summer home.

Bara'a tried to buy me a flower, which was a sweet gesture but I really have nowhere to put a flower right now since I'm going to two other countries in the next four days. It reminded me of when a friend told me not to be sold to someone in exchange for a camel. To be clear, I was not sold in exchange for marriage, a flower or a camel. Bara'a is my friend.

And if you know of any American university professors who specialize in comparative literature or English and want to help him get to a great Masters program stateside, let me know - I want to help him with his dream of an advanced degree. He's a scholar and a gentleman and though our lives are worlds apart, I think we'll stay in touch (thanks, Facebook). I even invited him to my future birthday parties, so he has to come to America.

Istiklal Cadessi -
tourist trap for spenders' and people watchers' delight

Bohemia, Brooklyn, or Istanbul?

We parted ways on the return to Taksim Square, where he was excited to go to Starbucks and I was excited to pick up some boots I had reheeled in an alleyway. Thank goodness for my aunt's language and local talents. The day ended with some shopping for inexpensive souvenirs on Istiklal Cadessi, eyeing gorgeously expensive shoes, and wandering into St. Anthony's - Istanbul's most active Catholic Church, where the recently resigned pope once visited, and you can't eat a hamburger or do PDA inside (says the sign at the front).



For dinner, we stopped by my aunt's friend's cave hideaway of a restaurant, all about fresh home-cooked Turkish Meze. We ate a feast of tomatoey bulgur wheat, cucumbers and hummus, cherry-rice stuffed peppers and fried zucchini pancakes in thick yogurt. At the end of dinner, mom and I both felt stuffed well, but also suddenly seasick, though our water journey had ended nearly four hours earlier.





My mom leaves tomorrow, which is sad - I was able to really relax and rely on her like a total child should, months before she has to move out and be independent. When I was tired, I literally had her carry me, bracing my arm. When I left the camera downstairs, she went to bring it for me and helped me decide what shots to keep. And when she packed her suitcase to leave, she repacked mine a bit, too.

Twenty-two, still can't ride a bike, still need my mommy. Other than that, I'm doing alright in the world. Better than alright. I fell asleep with the smell of burnt toast and the taste of rose tea, ready for the last day of this family vacation tomorrow.

Soon, I'll be adventuring with some Austrians in Vienna with the wild Sydney Wolfson, beforing being reunited with our hodgepodge NU family. There's a great week ahead - stay tuned!

Photosphorus

Since photo blogs are way more illustrative than my writing can sometimes be (aka, I'm exhausted. Two day blog break.), here is a short collection of the favorites so far. This gallery sampler exhibits my and my mother's strengthened ability to take pictures of one another because we don't like asking randos on the street. You never know who might take your camera and run, or just take a really crooked, poorly lit shot that wastes everyone's time.

We're making memories through the lens, all around the Bosphorus.
All today, all out of order.

Frame of reference: We stopped by the Arkeologi Muzesi (my Turkish is awesome), Gulhane Park, and the Mausoleums behind Hagia Sophia (a MUST see, that's even free but poorly publicized.)

Outside the house

View from a parking lot

Flashlights on flashlights on flashlights.
 Just what I wanted to buy upon exiting the tramway.

Mosaics from Nebuchadnezzar's Palace.

Go 4th century BC Cats!

Gulhane Park. I call this "Forced Smile on Lion"

We are so lonely in pictures.

Armenian Church since 1901.
Claims to be world's first... Not buying it.

Aladdin status.

There's a really old body in there.

Mom looks good in blue.  

Circle scarves and mother of pearl doorways.
Leading to many more sarcophagi.

The prettiest cemetery I've ever seen.
Apartment decor inspiration?

You can't buy a burial plot here.
Royal family only. But, they can't even SEE it.

Marble faces tend to win staring contests.

Girls Meets Homeland

I fell asleep around 11:30 p.m., just shy of my 22nd birthday.
I woke up at 2:30 a.m. and stayed awake until 7:45 a.m.
Street cats meowed at each other, fighting over garbage.
Around 4:15, a drunk man was shouting.
At 5:15, all the city's mosques turned up the bass for a crazy echoing adhan (call to prayer), which I recorded and sent to lucky friends on Facebook Chat. How's that for modern technology?  Beyoglu, Istanbul straight to the Core of Northwestern's library.

After hearing about my living situation here with my quite bohemian aunt, an Azeri refugee journalist she's been harboring for a month, and all the cats and minerets, my friend Sammie concluded I'm living some exciting new dramedy known as "Girlsland" - 'Girls' meets 'Homeland.'

Though this Istanbullu life features far less nudity, all the anxieties and enthusiasm I have for growing up are reflected in this city.

I was treated to a birthday breakfast feast including honey-soaked chocolate baklava, sesame circle bread (aka Istanbagel), lox, three kinds of cheeses, capers, tomato, cucumber, and more.

We headed off to run a few errands before hitting the big touristy sites of the day: The Hagia Sophia, The Blue Mosque and the Basilica Cistern - all in the Sultanhmet area.

Tramming across the Bosphorus, the day was already a lot less miserable than yesterday. Sure, it was cloudy and cool - but not nearly as frigid and moist (two words that feel as bad as they linguistically sound).

The Hagia Sophia dates back to 537 AD. That makes this great Ottoman church turned museum 67.09 times my age and effectively about that many generations old. The structure has it all - brick arches of an original mosque, marble blocks taller than my body, gold mosaics of Jesus, grand gardens filled with sprouting flowers and eroding columns...

As a history geek fascinated by interfaith cultural things, the ambiguous "Is it a mosque, or a church?" question baffled me from the entrance through the whole second floor. I left marveled but also a bit bewildered.

We headed across the street and ducked underground into the Basilica Cistern. I translate that as 'holy water.' Super unclear as to why Justinian had it built and why tons of fish now live in this great shallow pooled cavern directly under the city's busiest blocks. Two Medusa statues and more square footage than the neighboring mammoth mosque/church, the Basilica Cistern is a site worth a look.

When we exited, a friendly local asked us if we were British, told me I looked Turkish, and then informed us our next stop, The Blue Mosque, would be closed for a half of an hour. My mom and I then meandered really slowly across the street to a plaza with an impressive obelisk (intercultural history nerd heaven), and then lined up to wait for the end of the midafternoon prayer.

Following a crush of tourists, we deshoed, bagged our boots, covered our heads and ducked into the again very impressive architectural feat.

The Blue Mosque is not totally blue. The carpet had a lot of red going on, in fact. A lecturer sat at the front inviting all to learn the wonders of Islam, but he was speaking Turkish, so I had no idea. I was wondering at Islam just by standing there, so I suppose I inadvertently accepted his invite. My camera had died, which gave me a solid chance to actually look at the sites through my eyes and not a lens.

After exiting the touristy site, Birthday Girl (that's me) declared despite the 10 degree drop, we would go to a neighboring marketplace. Luckily, on the way we saw a real live TURKEY which has nothing to do with Turkey, other than the fact the two entities were co-existing. My camera luckily breathed a brief breath to capture this special moment before claiming to die again.

My aunt made friends with this carpet seller in the market who asked her to translate an email from Turkish to English. Weird, because we sat in his shop for a subsequent 45 minutes drinking tea and examining his wares while he explained everything... in perfect English. Habib was a nice man who admitted to not enjoying his business, and the fact that the vast majority of his wares came from other nations. I appreciated the honesty in a marketplace culture of tacky and cheap schemes.

Eventually, my mom bought a silk-embroidered pillowcase with my approval. We passed on the 1600 lira (885 dollar) bedcover and the 2000 lira ($1100) entryway rug. My 3 lira magnet mosaic has more value to me than those would anyway.

We timed our exit perfectly to catch a dazzling sunset over the Bosphorus before heading home to crash and make dinner plans (birthdaybirthdaybirthday) with my aunt's global non-prof consultant nomad friend in town.

I picked one of the city's most shmancy restaurants for dinner - Leb-i-derya. This place claimed the best city views and the menu, things I actually wanted (not kale, my so-far main food group here) - right for a birthday abroad! We ordered all kinds of yummy treats - spiced yogurt and salsa soaked nachos, pistachio salmon, eggplant with cherry rice, sea bass walnut carpaccio and cheesy red pepper. Even the bread and water tasted awesome. I recounted memories of all my best college experiences, from Paris to Evanston, and toasted to all the goodness that's ahead in life.

Glittering lights showed off more than ten mosques on hilltops, and thanks to the Kurdish New Year, we got a glimpse of fireworks blasting, between a maze of roof satellite dishes.

So, 22? So far, so good.

Minaret Morning, Rainy Day

Considering I woke up at 5:28 a.m. for 17 different days in January and February, I should probably not have a problem with a 5 a.m. wakeup call. But anyone who has ever had a sleepover with me knows I am the anti-morning person. And this morning, the alarm wasn't Apple's Marimba - it was a muezzin. Whoever composed the Adhan morning call to prayer did a great job. I should've put the clues together - a next door neighbor mosque, five calls a day, 24 hours in a day... The first had to come early. 

I rolled over and sort of whined back at the call, but it just went on and on for about 20 minutes. I think I heard the whole morning service, and the muezzin just forgot to turn the public PA off.

When I finally rolled out of bed at 11 a.m., I ate dinner leftovers as my mom tried to put food away midbite. As a treat, my aunt bought a tahini sesame glazed pastry, that I have since been snacking on and still can't call sweet or salty.

We walked in a light mist over to meet Linda and Sally at the Galata Tower. Our first major landmark! Woo! Tourism!

Just kidding. My aunt deemed the 1348 fortress visit unworthy for such a foggy day, so we sat and had tea in tulip shaped glasses, as every Turk does non-stop, easily averaging 20 a day. My aunt's friend Mukhtar came with a guy named Ed. Mukhtar is a Lebanese Parisian who stores his stuff in Maryland and has been spending some time in Istanbul. He's a non-profit consultant in grant-making and I liked everything about him, especially his bearded smile.  

We left Edtahr behind and went to see my aunt's documentary exhibition at SALT, an old bank turned art gallery/museum/cafe/library. They don't really do libraries (or toilets that flush paper) in Turkey, so the building is unique. Marble and carved wood exterior, stainless steel and glass interior. 

Her documentary, a study of all sixteen border sides (8 countries + Turkey) is shot beautifully and the injustices and tensions she and her partner expose through the lens are really fantastic. Quite the undertaking.

Next to her exhibit is a small museum about the building's history as a bank. I LOVE old stuff, so I had fun examining the yellowed bank notes and red wax seals, parchment record books with impeccable inked penmanship. 

From here, we walked down a million meters, vertical cobblestones and slick marble steps, to the tram station. Our party of five trammed across the Bosphorus River, past the Hagia Sophia to the Grand Bazaar. 

A wicked maze of rugs, silver, lamps, soaps, towels and useless junk, the Grand Bazaar is housed in incredible ruins of arched frescos and stalwart columns letting you know important people once inhabited it. Now, it's just a lot of foreigners buying things they really don't need. Tchockes on tchockes plus a ton of those pashmina fake scarves you get on 7th and 32nd for 3 for $12. Our Kansasian company was marveled.

We had a pretty mediocre lunch at a too-fancy restaurant over the neighboring Spice Market. You have to pay to sit and everything was made with gobs of butter. I'm much more of a streetfood girl - more filling and more yummy for your buck (lira). The restaurant came at the recommendation of a foodie cousin but I'm pretty sure he had lamb, and my creamed spinach surely paled in comparison. 

After, we mosied through a plaza to check out a top-notch mosque. I walked in and was like, "Now, we're talking." The chaos of ditching your shoes, covering your head, clutching your bag and fighting off pigeons is truly an art form. The beauty of a simplistic space with ornate architecture brings you a calm sense of wonder. I'm only sad that all pictures of me with my head covered look awful, but the ones of the endless tiled domes and crystal circled lamps are far prettier anyway.

Next came a wander through the less touristy avenues of the Spice Market, where my aunt bought some tea plates and my mom and I started getting cranky from the rain. My fingers and toes were soaked and cramping fast. We powerwalked to another smaller mosque through a mess of quiet alleys (a much happier me outside tourist crowd central). There, I bought a small tile magnet (likely made in China) to remind myself I liked it there. 

(This is beginning to feel very play-by-play. Sorry. Let me know if there's something you want to hear about.)

After a 30 minute trudge through the pouring rain, we relented and found a godsent taxi willing to take us close to home. Few drivers will because they think my aunt's neighborhood is the hood of Istanbul, plus the streets are teeny tinny.

Just as I lay down to nap, we get our third call to prayer. I think the muezzin can read my mind and is out to get me. Or maybe he's just trying to coax me out of jetlag. 

Not Constantinople

From the sky, it had seemed like the city that went to the edge of the horizon - red rooftops pushing out from either tiny plane window.


When in line for a Visa at Ataturk Airport, I realized that Istanbul wasn't pushing out. Turkey is the center of the earth - everyone was pushing in.

Behind me, three Spanish senoras muttered gossip in Castellano. Through the unveiled and thickly mascared lashes, an Abu Dhabi woman's eyes sputtered around the room until she found her searching husband. A 6'10" 20something clutched a Danish passport, matching his University of Copenhagen sweatshirt. Two Japanese pals giggled through those mouth-masks that probably don't protect you from the germfest.

Forget Midtown East: you have the commonfolks' United Nations waiting among the roped-off lines to make it into the meshed mecca of Istanbul.

And one very stern man took $20 and my passport and didn't even stamp it or anything. Apparently, that's a 'visa' in Turkey. You don't even have to tell them where you're staying or for how long. You have 90 days, and they have no way to find you after that.

We found my aunt jumping the hoards of limousine greeters and long-lost loves beyond baggage claim. She's been living here for a decade, in a Middle Eastern Ikea-style townhouse/art studio in the Beyoglu neighborhood squished between a mosque, graffiti, stray cats and ancient cobblestone.

Hopping in a taxi, we round our way down the fitting scenic route, right on the Marmara Bay. Old city walls hold up the edges and a new subway-friendly bridge is connecting the two sides of this fragmented, dirty, six-story city straight out of an Inception dream.

It's too big, it's too much. We'll need more than a week. Or maybe we're driving in circles?

After a little tea, a shower, and some excellent cheese and olives, I am here.
Mind and body, functioning about 82 percent.
A prayer call will certainly wake you up. Five times a day. Good neighbors to have.

The twisting, crooked streets are Moroccan marketplace meets Le Marais of Paris. The cars chase you down the skinny sidewalks and vendors invite you in to try an olive or a bit of cheese.

After an hour of wandering, we walked back home with a garden of veggies, stuffed grape leaves, tahini bread, and famous baklava in four flavors.

Now I'm dizzy, but ready for dinner with my uncle's mother and her cousin. Who are not related to my aunt or me or my mother. But, in our family, anyone is family. I hope they enjoy the earthy kale-leek-carrot soup for dinner. I was planning to eat all the baklava, but these guests brought wine, so maybe we can barter...

Welcome to a city of dirt, minerets, hookah, and endless noise and light.

Guten Morgen, Flughafen

Everytime the Swissair Maitre de Cabin came on the P.A. system, I giggled like the 4 year old behind me. "Guten Morgen, und ich danke Ihnen für den Flug mit der Swissair..."

I just haven't been around accents for a while, and pardon my laughter, but Swiss German is just straight out of an SNL skit. Delirious from a seven hour sleepless flight, I couldn't help but laugh again at the "Rundfahrten" sign as I exited the first flight and entered the land of the layover.
My mother rolls her eyes - the first of all too many eye rolls to come over the weeklong trip to Istanbul.

Switzerland is a very nice place. Or, so I can tell from the Flughafen Zurich's modern wood and steel aesthetic. And those stunning white-capped peaks that seem to taunt you as you ascend to the clouds.

I just do love the word 'flughafen,' and I'm glad I'll be stopping by there on my way home.

Hiccuping from the vegetarian meal served five hours prior (read: rice and vegetables with an acidic lingering in the trachea; unpleasant), I bounced through another round of too-friendly security checks, chugging that forgotten bottle of water, and embarrassingly thanking the too-helpful attendants in my native tongue, not their's.

I spent a moment being jealous of the bropack rolling twenty deep on their way to Dublin to celebrate my birthday, erm, St. Patrick's Day. I spent a second contemplating what some German girls ten feet from me might be chattering about.

How interesting it was that we're crossing paths loosely and will probably never see each other again.

And just like that, we boarded the next Airbus, surrounded by more crying babies and too many offers of coffee or tea from the overly-friendly Swiss flight attendants to one jetlagging New Yorker.

Pre-ChileChilling

[In case we haven't caught up in a while, here's the latest:

I graduated early, I got a job, I'm moving to Chicago sometime before September. 

Over the last two months, I spent several wintery weeks intensively babysitting and watching a lot of The Bachelor with amazing roommates in Evanston. I was living around campus and loving the familiar college life sans coursework. There were days where I thought that frequent coffee dates and free yoga classes was a lifestyle I'd be crazy to renege pre-graduation. And then it would blizzard, and I would hate Chicago and book yet another flight to somewhere else. And now I'm off to see what I haven't yet seen in ]

I followed the rules pretty damn closely from about pre-K on up. 

So, how am I now in some kitchen in Istanbul listening to a call to prayer from the mineret next door? Welcome to the new (short-term) normal.

Flights booked:

Istanbul

Vienna

Budapest

then, moving to Santiago, Chile for a month.

Hence, chilechilling.blogspot.com was born.

I am so grateful that I have stefonstuff.blogspot.com to document my study abroad travels, and I'd like to think I can now create content that's a little more selective, mature and introspective, without sounding like one long, cheesy proverb. (I do plan on eating a lot of cheese, though.)   

Hold me to the daily adventures, the colorful stories, the beautiful pictures, and the memorable mistakes. 

I'm on the scenic route. Stop by for a read - I'll be happy to have the company.