Istanbul to Urfa

Half the price of flying last minute but several times the trip length, I board the bus to Urfa at Istanbul’s main otogar in the early afternoon.  I settle into my seat with 19 hours of road ahead of me, and I don’t really know where I’m going. 

The woman next to me is large and seems to grow larger with each of my attempts to reclaim lost ground (key on an overnight ride of any sort), as I drift closer and closer to the window.  Ignoring the rolling hills and the polite, general announcement to refrain from cellular communication, she complains loudly that she had to take the bus instead of flying to Gaziantep.  “So she’s getting out before me,” I think with some consolation, which then begins to melt away as she hangs up and folds her hands on her lap, forming a sharp pointed elbow that seems to interpret my forearm as an armrest. 

Before leaving Istanbul, I dismissed the good natured advice of some friends to avoid the long distance bus by telling them the not untruth that I enjoy long-hauls.  “I don’t mind them, and if you get too tired of it you can always stop to eat at the tesisler…who can resist running into the tesis with everyone on the bus at 3am to eat sütlaç?”

“Yes,” a friend had replied, “ everyone who ends up on the has that romantic view of those places, but it is only because it is the only damn thing to do.  Don’t forget the toilets.”  Yet a few hours into the drive, I’m looking forward to our first stop with the excitement of a kid whose been promised a Happy Meal “when we get to Kentucky.”

Nearly everywhere interesting outside of Istanbul is at least an overnight bus ride away, so it seems everyone has an overnight bus story or two.  [Yet since most of the bus rides go so smoothly, none of them are usually very good.] This shared Turkish travel experience varies slightly depending on your bus company and destination, but for the most part is wonderfully predictable and comfortably dull.

If you’re my height, there are no complaints in the seating department.  In accordance with your ticket price and luck, you’ll be entertained in one of the following ways, in decreasing order of desirability:  an interactive screen, a la transcontinental in-flight entertainment, strategically placed televisions with Turkish films, sit-coms or dubbed foreign films you’d never otherwise see (I’m thinking “The Lake” and Lohan’s “Love Bug”); Turkish music blaring from one speaker; Turkish music blaring from speakers above every seat, which you may or may not be able to turn off; a single Turkish CD playing again and again and again.

The bus will also have a flight attendant who keeps everything in order, passing out drinks (coffee and tea, water, Coke and some version of orange soda) and – again, depending on your luck – pre-packaged cakes.

Just when you’ve had more than your fair share of the complementary beverages, and usually in exactly the middle of nowhere, brakes huish huish huish into a parking lot, filled with a handful of other busses, all spilling out passengers to the cafeteria.  For breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, or for whatever sort of meal you might feel compelled to eat at 2am, while still others pour over the nuts and sweets in kitschy barrels and islands of boxed Turkish Delight, buying bags of gifts for recipients most likely yet to be determined.

But on the bus to Urfa, I was one of the few passengers who even stepped inside these shiny monuments to modern Turkish consumption and construction.  I sit in the AC with my lahmacun, looking through the glass store front at the families eating sandwiches and dolma from old yogurt tubs in the sticky air.

I usually indulge in sütlaç at these stops, but sweets aren't as fun alone.

9:30, and I’ve been on the bus for 9 hours.  My two friendly attempts to small talk with my neighbor have failed, but I’ve hardly looked at the clock – particularly impressive as the reading lights don’t work.

Riding along on this route – and indeed many routes in Turkey – you realize how big it is, what a large, growing country it is.  Riding a bus, with little else to do than look out the window, you’re bound to reflect on where you are, where you’re coming from, where you’re going.  It feels like a timeless slice of life, an empty mind stationary yet rolling, and somehow more profound than being an empty mind anywhere else.  As the countryside seems endless, I think about where I am.  The tesisler, which we find in fields of nothing and so leave them, are new, unarguably clean with the sad reality of the utilitarian multi-purpose space.

On my last long ride, from Istanbul to Athens, I thought for hours about Greece’s long coast, miles and miles of coast, with every gas station boasting a clean, uninterrupted sea view.  But I feel that the quintessential Turkish bus ride – not just this one, but the one I’m nurturing and contemplating on this long ride [and again typing my notes from the trip] – is not one winding along turquoise waters, but one lost in the middle of Anatolia.

Ну, давай же!

Various fliers around campus advertising the university's Russian language and literature courses.

Gogol.  Only if you like non-ironic facial hair.

Ever wonder what this is all about?

Spies like us study Russian.

I should have taken Gogol.

Well, go ahead!  Take Russian.


I find the "spies like us" flier particularly perplexing.  But all quite entertaining.

expatiations of an former expatriate

My itinerant lifestyle has slowed down a bit, with a lease and significant academic commitments in Hyde Park.  But, oh, dear readers, do not despair!  For I have saved for you some photos and journal entries from previous travels, and will be rolling them out over the next few weeks.  So stay tuned for some memories of Turkey, Tanzania and Ukraine, with a post here and there about my days in Chicago.

Good morning, Chicago

I've been in Hyde Park for just over a week and start classes tomorrow.  

Classes registered, books ordered, office supply fetish indulged.  

It was nice to come a bit early and get to know some of the other students in my program.  The Hyde Park Jazz Festival was yesterday, and a great excuse to hang out with my new friends. 

Although I've been back in the States for almost a month now, I'm still holding strong to my jetlag-induced early rising.  I finally got out with my camera on this morning's bike ride along Lakeshore Trail.

Mackinac Bridge Walk

I arrived back in Michigan just in time for Labor Day weekend. On that Sunday, my mom and I went to visit my grandmother in St. Ignace, my mom's hometown and the first city you reach in Michigan's Upper Peninsula after croossing the Mackinac Bridge.  The plan was to take part in the Mackinac Bridge Walk the following day, but led astray by a false weather report, Sunday night we changed plans and decided to just drive back early in the morning.  We went down to the bridge view for some photos that night and shivered, telling ourselves that walking across the bridge the next morning in "scattered t-storms" was a definitely a bad idea.  

Grandma and the bridge

I was a bit disappointed, but didn't want to brave both the crowds and the "scattered t-storms."  We got up early the next morning to drive back across - the walk takes up two out of four lanes and can cause quite a traffic hassle.  After some coffee and oatmeal with cranberries, we were off.

We quickly realized that the weather was perfect for the bridge walk (well, northern-Michigan-September-perfect).  And the crowds we had dreaded hadn't arrived either, perhaps also scared off by the possibility of rain.  Unfortunately, it was a bit too late to change our minds.  Our original plan had been to park the night before in Mackinac City (on the south side of the bridge) so we could drive off immediately after finishing the walk.  If we did that in the morning, the parking and lines would have taken a few hours.  But, luckily, we approached the south-bound toll booths with hardly any wait.  

A good number of northbound vehicles were filled with tourists and locals, ready to walk that bridge!

Some walkers were wearing humorous hats, pins or costumes, but most were just families in windbreakers or raincoats taking part in the 55th year of this Michigan tradition.

The sunrise over Lake Huron made for some beautiful photos.   Maybe next year...

Applying for a Fulbright?

Note:  This post, and indeed the entirety of this blog, is written solely by me and does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Fulbright committee, IIE or the State Department.

Perhaps you’re graduating from university soon and want to go abroad, but not to teach English.  Maybe you’re planning to apply to graduate school and want to make your application more competitive. Or you’ve been out of school for a few years and want the chance to improve a foreign language and research a specific issue in the region.

These are the types of things the Fulbright program was designed for, and if you have a recent Bachelor’s or Master’s degree, are a US citizen with skills or interest in learning a specific foreign language and a research question that interests you, there’s no reason you shouldn’t apply.  Find out more about the Fulbright program on its website.

In the meantime, here are a few things to keep in mind during the process. 

APPLYING

1. Start early.  You need time to make connections in your host country, get letters and write up a workable project proposal.
   
2.  Prioritize the letter of affiliation.  Even if your host country doesn’t list this document as mandatory, consider it so.  It will set you apart from candidates who haven’t done their homework by showing initiative and a genuine desire to get your feet on the ground as quickly as possible.  If you're not sure who to contact, spend some time searching for organizations, scholars and universities in your host country.
   
3. Complete the language forms.  Get these done, even if you have very weak skills in the language.  Coupled with evidence of language lessons or future coursework, this will be a big plus in your column.
   
4.  Be specific in your project statement.  Provide a timeline to show you have thought through all steps of your research.  Give concrete goals, keeping in mind you can change them once you’re on the ground.  Have someone with knowledge of the region or discipline give you feedback, and try to find letters of recommendation from people who know your area enough to comment on your project.  They also may have ideas of people for you to get in contact with in country.
   
5. Show all you have to offer.  If you have ideas on how you might spend your free time in country, write about that too.  Maybe you have an interest in opera, boat racing or volunteering at a youth center.  Fulbright wants people who will get involved, not just sit in a library.
   
6. Beware of sensitive issues.  Check with a professor if you think your host country might be offended by your project proposal.
   
7.  Through your school or At-Large? If you’ve been out of school for a while, you have two options:  submitting a proposal through your school, or applying on your own.  Check with the Fulbright Director at your university to see if you will be able to apply through the school – it may give you a leg up on applicants applying without the university stamp of approval.

CHOOSING A PROJECT

1.       

1.  Keep statistics in mind.  Some countries are much more competitive than others.  If you speak Russian, consider applying to another Russian-speaking country (but be sensitive to the local language in your application, and begin to study it if at all possible).  If you speak German, you'll fare much better in a pool of applicants to Austria than to Germany.  Speak French?  Why not go to Africa?
   
2. Read the web page of your host country's Fulbright Office.  They have have hints about the kind of projects they are looking for, or other tips for applicants.  You could even get in touch with them with any questions you may have.  Perhaps they can connect you with former Fulbright students and scholars or others in your area of interest.
   
3. Draw on skills and experiences.  Maybe your degree is in political science, but you've spent every summer for the past 4 years volunteering at an orphanage.  Rather than a project centered in an archive or library, think about  basing your project in an NGO or other institution.  The Fulbright program is a cultural exchange program in addition to a research opportunity, so don't be afraid to draw on your life experiences in addition to your education.

AFTER YOU’VE APPLIED

1. Take a deep breath.  You’ll be waiting until winter to hear if you made the first cut, and then until late spring for the final word.
   
2. Make a Plan B.  Having other options in mind ease your anxiety as you wait to get that email. 
   
3.  Don’t lose momentum.  Keep working on language preparation, and read about the host country.  You should be interested in the place regardless of whether or not your application makes the cut!
   
4. Keep in touch.  Inform your contacts that you’ve applied, and let them know about the long decision timeline.  They might think you’ve forgotten about them!  Also be on the look out for more in-country contacts.  Even if you don’t end up a Fulbright Student, you may get the chance to go where you’ve applied on another grant.

IF YOU'RE STARTING A FEW YEARS AHEAD

1. Work language and area studies courses  into your schedule.  This will show a long-term commitment to the area.
   
2. Follow current events and scholarly work related to your area of interest.  When the time comes to write your proposal, you want to make sure you can situate your research interests within the country's past and recent history.
   
3. Make connections at your own university.  While professors won't want to help you on your application just a week before it's due, many will be impressed if you approach them a year or so ahead of time with your plans.  They may even have connections in the country, or know of specific courses available to help you hone your project.

And of course, good luck!

Any more ideas?  Let me know in the comments!

3.       

4.   

Greetings from the bubble

I’m finally moved in, staying near the University of Chicago (where I’m starting next week) on 51^st.  I’m a quick walk from Lake Michigan, a quick bike ride from campus (on biker-friendly roads!), and my bedroom window looks out at some beautiful houses I thought were breathtaking, but soon learned are to be found all over Hyde Park. 

View from my bedroom window

With no shortage of cute, precocious toddlers in expensive strollers eating organic yogurt, and 20- and 30-somethings relaxing with books (required or pleasure reading, I wonder?) on the grass, Hyde Park seems a bit like the American dream, slightly oriented to the left.

But as I jogged to the lakefront trail this morning, I passed someone sleeping under a worn blanket beneath the pedestrian overpass, and a middle-aged black man slowly walking down the trail with tired bundles and a tired face. 

Hyde Park is a bit of an island, like many university communities, and you don’t need to stray too far to wear away at that satisfying suburb feeling that all is right with the world.  The neighborhood is littered with bike frames with stolen wheels and wheels with stolen frames.  Even in the locked bike room of my University housing apartment building, I’ve seen a lonely wheel or two.

Ever since I signed up for my U Chicago email address, I’ve been receiving warnings and incident reports from the university;  muggings, break –ins, be-smarts, don’t-go-here-or-theres, and lock-the-door-behind-yous.    A Chicago graduate I met in Ukraine told me to choose an apartment “as far north as possible,” and I did.

I am not saying I’m not “safe” here – I am.   I’m just thinking about the bubble.

Standing on the lakefront trail, to the left is a compact view of the Chicago skyline.  In front of you is Lake Michigan for as long as you can see.  And to the right is an industrial cluster pumping brown and gray.

Taken from my phone - a not so great photo of downtown from the Lakefront Trail

Is this what it is like to be a suburb dweller?  A most likely white, anything but lower-class American, with places to go and things to lose?  Living in your own space, with a cute breakfast place down the street, and a great locally owned shop where you can buy organic flour and hear hipsters make jokes about egg brands, secure in your morning coffee and daily newspaper delivery, but not-so-secretly terrified to slip past this street or that, where life is inconceivably different and you do not belong?

Bumper stickers are slapped on stop signs and poles, with the face of a young black child and the words “Don’t shoot, I want to grow up.”

Perhaps I've just gotten used to European crime rates.  When I moved to Istanbul I lived for a week in the Tarlabaşi area, a poor neighborhood with a bad reputation.  When I told my Boğaziçi friends I was living there, they all made me promise I would move.  “It is such a bad area!” they would say.  Knowing nothing about the city, and finding a better deal, I did move, especially after walking by a group of sex workers near my door one night on my way home.

In Istanbul terms, this was a bad neighborhood.  But not that bad – foreigners are moving in by the day, and the municipality has plans to kick out and clean up.  My German roommate stayed in the flat and said the whole year he lived there, he was the victim of only one crime:  someone stole his trousers out of his window while they were drying.  Maybe for Istanbullus, Tarlabaşi is dangerous.  But relatively speaking, Tarlabaşi is pretty tame.  Poor, but tame.

But here in Chicago, and in many places throughout the US,  a bad neighborhood is, well, bad.  David always jokes that he will never come to America because he’s afraid he’ll be shot.  In my first weeks back in America after more than 4 years abroad, I can feel what his joke is getting at.  I feel perfectly safe in my semi-permeable Hyde Park bubble.  But I suppose that is just what it is.  Not just in terms of crime, but in everyday life.  How much of America lives like this?

As a foreigner and a traveller, you can move through places and communities with a certain degree of fluidity that is hard to find at home.  With low crime rates and your well-honed travel smarts, you want to go everywhere, you don’t believe all the stereotypes about lower socioeconomic groups, or racial, ethnic or religious minorities.  You can accept the hospitality of a poor family in a village and end up chatting for hours, feeling right at home, but when you tell your city Turk friends about it, they may seem a bit uncomfortable, or jokingly ask how you possibly could understand “that dialect they speak there.”

But now I am “home,” and I realize although I’m new in town, my world is very different.  I have a place, and that place is in the bubble.