The Honeymoon

Turkey is full of Germans, and Germany, Turks. Apparently both countries think the other has more to offer. During my week on the coast of the Mediterranean, I was spoken to mostly in German, as I have blonde hair. I was mistaken only once for a Russian. They thought I was from Siberia because I had no tan. By lineage, I’m a quarter German, but by language skills, I’m probably negative 10% German. So, most of my conversations with the staff went something like this: STAFF PERSON: “Auchtung nine sprechen zee weinerschnitzel, ya.” ME: “I don’t speak German.” STAFF: “Oh. Where are you from?” ME: “I’m American.” STAFF: “Oh. I live in England.” It was surprising to find the number of Turks who were working at the hotel, living in Turkey, but were from some other country. I felt like I was in Los Angeles, where everyone is an actor. The hotel was clean and the patrons were civilized, which is a plus because the internet claimed the Russians will knife you in the disco. To the contrary, the Russians were not so violent as they were a little confused because no one was jostling them in public, or extorting them in the parking lot. Even though everyone was in swimsuits, you could still tell who was from what country--the Germans were the one’s with the naked children and the Russians were the ones in gold chains and cab driver hats. And the Kazakhstanis were the ones who, upon discovering I was American, upped their price for scuba diving: “Oops, I made a mistake. It’s $65, not $60.” The French were represented by the entertainment manager. On the first night, he sang us an anti-war/pro-gay song. The next night was a very French performance of the Phantom of the Opera meets the Rocky Horror Picture Show--you know, the one where the Phantom turns gay at the end. For some reason, we never saw the entertainment director after that night, and the “Phantom” placards and advertisements were quickly taken away. Without their director, the Russian performers resorted to crotch grabbing, to the delight of their fellow countrymen in the audience. But the Germans thought it was a political statement and took it all very seriously. Why we kept going back there, I don’t know. It’s the downside to having hope, I guess. There was one Italian at the hotel. He was the goal-keeper in the daily water polo matches. Being Italian, he alllied with the Germans against the Russians. Being American, I had the choice of playing against everyone. But thankfully, the Germans let me on their team. Russians, Germans, Italians, Americans, Turks--at one point or other in history, we were all enemies. But these days, we can all play water polo together, reminding each other in brotherly love that “It’s only a game.” But after a couple of games, I found out that the term “It’s only a game,” is very relative, depending on where you’re from. If you’re an American, it means that you are having a fun time playing a game as a sort of diversion. If from Russia, it means you can cheat because it’s only a game. If you are from Germany, you’re a little sad that it’s only a game because the dulldrums of living a socialized lifestyle have taken away all meaning of accomplishment for your life. And if you’re Italian, you’re very vocal and emotional, taking the opportunity to swear at everyone (including the referee and yourself) because, after all, it’s only a game. Unfortunately for Turkish people, the phrase “It’s only a game,” brings up painful memories of lost soccer matches. My wife and I spent 7 days in Turkey. It was enough for us, and we were satisfied to come back. Upon our return to Kazakhstan, one of the cab drivers offered us a $50.00 cab ride, and we knew that we were home.

Bye For a While

Today, my wife and I are planning for our honeymoon. We’ll be gone to Turkey for a week. Until then!

A Journey Through the Bazaar

Today, we went to Baraholka. Baraholka is the garment district in Almaty. It is made out of sheds and tents, all strung together. It’s located about 30 minutes by bus on the outskirts of town, in the desert. Actually, there’s no desert there, but the wind blows so much dirt around, you’d expect to see a caravan of camels. The word “Baraholka” in Russian means “Here Comes American, Quick, Double Price.” Knowing this by experience and paying lots of double prices, I went to the garment district in my most mysterious hat and darkest sunglasses. Natasha and I agreed that I would not speak, but just lurk around mysteriously. The first guy we went to was the underwear guy. “How much?” I asked Natasha, to which the underwear guy replied, “Double.” So, we resolved that I needed to concentrate more on being mysterious. We walked a little further and found the exact same underwear for 1/3 the price. (Usually, if you agree to pay double, then the salesperson has suddenly made a mistake, and the price goes up. Whatever you agree to pay, it’s more. This is a sales technique in Central Asia. It’s not very effective but effectiveness is beside the point in this adventurous land. Some day I would like to find out if I can barter someone upwards of a few thousand dollars for an ice cream cone.) We proceeded to look for shoes for Natasha, and found out that many of the ajoining stores are owned by the same groups of people. It kind of reminded me about the Presidential elections of years-gone-by. You think one deal is way better than the other, but in reality, you’re not goining to get a raise no matter who is President. Anyway, we discovered another great sales technique--it’s the one where the salesperson tries on the shoes and exclaims that they never knew how comfortable shoes could be! I watched as two shoe-shed clerks tag-teamed my wife with actual testimonials about flying to Heaven in a pair of shoes just like the ones she should buy. I lurked mysteriously near by in my hat. Natasha asked me my opinion, but I didn’t know which language to respond in so I grunted, which was good enough for her, and we bought the shoes (and didn’t have to pay extra for the entertainment.) The final stop was for a pair of shorts for me. Central Asia has three pair of shorts, each of which is located in an adjacent shop in Baraholka owned by the same group of people, each more expensive than the next. So, Natty came up with the great idea of getting pants, and cutting the legs off. It turned out that this was even cheaper than getting a pair of shorts, so we were real excited about it. We went to a pants tent, and I lurked in the corner, pretending not to know anything. As soon as we got a price commitment from the saleslady, I emerged from the shadows to speak English freely with my wife. We found a good pair of pants and then we “tried them on.” When you try on pants in Central Asia, you stick your elbow in the waist band and if you can get your hand in too, then they fit you. It’s not that we didn’t believe the saleslady about this; it’s just that I have unusually short radius bones. The saleslady understood completely and escourted us to the dressing “room,” which is (of course) not a room at all, but the place where they keep all the pants. I’m not proud, so I took off my pants to try on the other ones. Neither Natasha nor I realized that the clerks come back to the dressing “room” about the time you have one leg off. So the three of them watched me hop around with my pants half off. We tried on several pairs of pants this way until we got a right fit. Next time, I’ll bring a tape measure.

Moving In Together

I moved in with my wife. It was a lot of fun. First, we put things neatly where we thought they should go. Then, as we ran out of time, we piled stuff on the bed and in corners. Finally, after the evening winded to a hault, we had mounds of wedding gifts, guest towels, and dirty laundry piled all over the place. Of course, being the man, I knew the solution to our problem was to rearrange the furniture. So, we pulled apart as many particle boards as we could while we slid the closets and beds and stuff around on the carpet. Thoroughly tired, we decided to throw everything on the floor and go to sleep. And that would have been the end of the evening, except for the dog. No one knows where the dog lives. He lives somewhere around here. No one knows if the dog has a master or not. Because we are always listening to the dog. I mean always--he never goes inside. He is always barking. Usually, he barks for 15 minutes on, 15 off, like how they taught you to run/walk in gym class. During the day, the dog is drowned out by the pleasant sound of car alarms. The dog had barked for 3 days and 2 nights by the time we crawled into bed. And by the next morning, it was 3 nights. The dog likes to bark in an alley somewhere, and his voice is amplified by the concrete buildings. And at night, when the temperature drops, you can hear his every word. The first day, I went out to find the dog. I narrowed down his approximate location to within a few feet past a concrete fence. But before I could jump the fence, the barefoot security guard looked up from his book and told me "Nine." I guess he thought I was German. So I told him, "There's a stupid dog barking for hours now, and we can't take a nap." Barefoot Guard: "Nine." Me: "Can you shut him up or something? This is really rude, not to mention in poor taste for a country who's trying to attract western culture." "Nine." So I thanked him and walked away, adding "By the way, do you know what four plus five is?" When we returned from our wedding, I thought the guard would be gone. I waited until dark, just to make sure, and ventured out to find the neighborhood's-best-friend. But no sooneer had I set foot outside our building, than I noticed that the dumpsters were on fire. Not knowing if we were being attacked, or if this was just life-as-usual in Kazakhstan, I went inside and was content to listen to a night of barking, all the while looking forward to a full day of car alarms.