clumsy

I was just going through and clearing my emails in my Admin / IT sub-folder and just came across this... and remembered the chilly and chilled Toronto evening when we shared a plate each of tuna, chicken and aubergine (sorry, eggplant) and sipped on Filipino hot toddies. 

On a day when days have somehow lost their sense and sequence; my mental calendar would tell me that was only 10 days, and about 30C degrees and a 8-hour time difference ago. Where the landscape is awash with sandy yellow submerging with clumsily and hastily made steel and glass of Kuwaiti skyscrapers whereas they would have been much better off keeping to their local tradition and scale, at which they are very good at, I'm reminded of a suburban landscape, colours of which neutralised by the cold, dry air. Only 48 hours after flirting with the feeling with I could just live there with a few very dear people to me (no matter how much and how far back I've known them), would I arrive in New York -- no longer than 48 hours in that magestic city, and it would immediately feel my natural home. And then Kuwait, the Middle East, the sand, the inefficiency, lack of transparency, covered all over in white and oil-dripped sand; another home of the sorts...?

And then I go back to this email... and I miss Toronto, and the dinner, and the walk... not so much the sore throat but the sweet goodbye.

After a 5-minute deliberation or a 15-minute drivearound, I parked the car on Esplanade by North Derbigny. It looked safe enough to escape a parking ticket, yet shady enough to warrant an overnight break-in. At this point, I rated the former over the latter. I got out of the car and looked around. The driver of the car behind ours was inside and gestured at us. He was about to rest the case on both parking tickets and safety. He was to be the Damiel, watching over Wim Wenders's Berlin. 

He came out of his car and asked for some change. I gave him the four quarters I had in my pocket and turned to him to add: "I only have four quarters in my pocket." 

He replied, with his thick Southern accent: "I need the cash for the tank, man. I need to get to my job." By this point in the trip, I was able to articulate a fair ratio of the Southern accent thrown at me. By this point in life, I was able to articulate largely how genuine such requests were meant. But I only had four quarters in my pocket and I gave him all.

I knew exactly which direction we needed to be headed. I played dumb to waste time, so I could observe the man's next moves. If he were to break into the car and even if that took place hours later, I had a sense I could be able to tell, if I observed long enough.

I turned to Z. and pretended to check our destination on Google Maps. Damiel came forth and asked if we needed help. We didn't need any help. Not from him, nor from Google Maps. I knew exactly where we were going. 

I turned to him and said: "Sure, we are trying to get to 623 Frenchmen." We were following the advice of S. who was going to host us the next evening, whom I had not seen since we finished Uni. The Spotted Cat was one of his favourite in town!

Damiel knew. He lifted his head, quickly turned his slender body on his feet and walked back towards his car, murmuring: "just hold up, I'll walk you there."

"You don't need to bother man, but as you please" was a redundant British politeness. The Creole kindness swiftly ignored it.

We crossed the street and started walking south. By the next block we were already back in French Quarter keeping our direction until Burgundy, one of the few southeasterly crossing diagonal streets into Frenchmen. He exchanged greetings and handshakes with a few people on the Esplanade. I asked him about the devastation caused by Katrina. He told us everywhere around us flooded except for Bourbon Street: "the rich are always protected!"

He wanted to make sure I knew exactly where we turned left and then right again, so I could find our way back easily. But we weren't walking back to the car at the end of the night. We didn't sleep in our car. He did.

Damiel was a 53-year old man who occasionally did labour work. Whenever he could find one. And whenever he could put together enough money to put gas in his tank to drive there and pay the $10 upfront to secure accommodation and shower for the three days he would spend out there. He had three daughters, aged 31, 29 and... before he could tell us the other's age, he got interrupted by a local. They've had a quick chat.

"Aaahhh, you want to know more about Katrina", he said half jokingly when I asked him another question. He hadn't seen his daughters in many years. They lived in Texas with their mother. Did they now also have a stepfather? He was living to see them again, as soon as he could. He lost them, as he lost all else to the storm.

"If I came to your town, I would want locals like you to show me around. That's why I am walking you to your destination" said he, while pointing out at a few restaurants and bars he said we could check out. We knew exactly where we were going. He knew exactly where we were going. He was sharing his life, and his city with us. 

He didn't mix Turkey with Kentucky when I told him where we were from, unlike that young police officer on the highways of Mississippi who stopped me the day before. That officer had advised me "to watch yourself in New Orleans; it can be a dangerous place." So far, it was nothing but a city watched over by angels.

"Are you Muslims? I turned to Allah one day" he exchanged. He would later leave us with an "alhamdulillah".

15 minutes had passed since we started walking. The mild tunes of jazz had started to mix with the progressive drum beats as the scent of gumbo was merging with the stench of running sewer. We were treading less carefully to avoid the dirt. His large feet were on auto-pilot. His large smile would reveal his missing teeth. His large soul kept us company all the way through.

We exchanged hugs and went on about our dues. As Damiel left us, he noted: "You left your car in a risky spot. But for tonight, it is the safest in town."

A gig followed the dinner. We ran into K. that evening and talked about how New Orleans made us feel. She'd been there for a few weeks, we had, for just over 24 hours. Z. and I shared the mutual feeling of magic. Post-Katrina gentrification had so far taken little out of it.

I made the quick walk next morning to pick up the car. Z. was preparing to check out of the hostel. It was yet another very warm and humid late-May morning. The previous day's long walks through Treme, Bayou St John, the City Park, Mid-City and Algiers would leave way to a very long drive via Alabama coastline and Selma to Atlanta. The city was preparing for the Memorial Day and the long-weekend holidayers were slowly getting ready to hit the roads back. The river breeze washed over the fresh beignets.

Most of the cars parked around ours had seemed to have left long ago. Ours was  intact. Damiel's was behind it. He was sleeping in his car. I hesitated. I struggled to leave without a goodbye, I struggled to decide whether I should wake him up to offer more money; not in return for his company or even guardianship, but because he said he needed it. I thought better of waking him up. How difficult was he finding to fall asleep? 

How little did I know about the sleeping rituals of a man who had to make a habit of living in his car. He was under a blanket and that is when I had realised, in broad light, how crowded inside of his car was. It was as I was leaving him I realised, we never learned each other's names.

When J. pulled me aside, my phone had been dead for just short of two hours. When he reluctantly asked if I knew what was going on, he probably did not genuinely think I did not. Despite our age difference and having only seen each other a few times in our lives, I trusted he knew me well enough to recognise a man in me whose ears were often on the ground. He might have also sensed that I am someone who emotionally connects to those, who may be thousands of miles away.

That reluctance, helped by A.’s initial support would do just about enough to keep my nerves in check. Now I knew for a fact that the sickly feeling I had been having in the past hour was telepathically linked to what was going on back home. J. looked worried, though. For a man who made the bold decision with his wife to take their family to a 10-day long trip across the country on the day its main airport had seen the worst terror attack in its history; for a man whose country has seen no fewer problems than mine, his eyes laid bare the truth. Things looked to be seriously getting out of control.

I rushed downstairs to make a few phone calls. Had Z. found a safe haven? Mom and Sister should have been alright, far from the centre of it all, but how did they feel? Where was Dad? They must have been trying to reach me… People around me started to ask how I felt, a question I thought I’ve heard all too often lately, in between Brexit and all sort of troubles in Turkey. Somehow, I was unable to give a concise answer, the painful indifference I wanted to resort to, I too often have in the recent past, was nowhere to be found. Lack of a clear answer to the simple question of ‘what is going on?’ was weighing too heavily. After all, this wasn’t one of those events with grave consequences on my life in which I had no say, or those where the privileged status of mine and those around me would keep us ‘statistically’ safe. This was a moment of great uncertainty, and was already traumatising those I most cared about.

As the sense of urgency started to give way to confusion and disgust, I tried to collect myself, and decided to follow A.’s advice, not to spend the rest of the night on my own. The inevitable death to my phone’s battery in a few hours’ time would also mean an unavoidable distancing from constant flow of information. It didn’t mean emotional detachment, but gave enough breathing space to avoid suffocation through the thick and humid air of Venice.

Wherever I went over the weekend, I was greeted with the natural, inevitable question – trying to make sense of the events with the little information at hand and communication I could keep with those back home. There has recently been a running gag with friends back home: how the UK politics, for once, has stolen the scene from the Turkish political landscape. While I heavily continued to comment on mainstream British politics recently, I felt at such unease to even come up with meaningful deliberations of thoughts and feelings in this latest saga. It was not all that different from June 2013 – where I would find my hands tied, fully submerged in front of my office computer in London on a Friday evening, watching developments unfold thousands of miles away. My boss R. would sympathise and let me take the earliest possible flight so I could be with those who I loved – the same R., who on Friday night put his head against mine and consoled me. No trip was to be had, though, all access was removed.

Over the years, I’ve reluctantly learned to tame my emotions towards incidents that are out of my immediate control or reach – at least to such an extent that I surprise myself as remaining one of the calmer people in a group of acquaintances when a major incident takes place. Combined with our day’s horrific sense of the normalisation of the evil, this has helped me distance myself from the immediate feelings of devastation and threat… an involuntary and compromised resilience of some sort. I am also trying to take the optimistic view on things in life, often conflicting with my true feelings and often with the risk of appearing naïve or ill-conceived [legitimising the evil] by those whose opinions I care about.

One of the greatest travesties of our times is our indifference to the nuances of mass sufferings around us. There are too many of them and adjusting our moral compasses to build a hierarchy amongst them has not helped either. The mainstream media has a lot of blame to take here. And what little of the nuances mainstream foreign media covered over the weekend has been short-handed, if not ill-conceived. It was almost a return to the early days of Erdogan’s ascendancy to power – the simple narration of dichotomy had prevailed.

And it is then, I finally started to reflect on the numerous conference sessions and exhibitions I experienced in the last few days and search for a meaning behind the events over the weekend and how to position one for the future. Forensic Architecture’s work at the 2016 Venice Architecture Biennale (http://www.forensic-architecture.org/…/reporting-front-ven…/) is one of those few pieces that respond directly, and with strong relevance to its title and its brief – Reporting From the Front. Visually constructing the scenes of drone strikes at victims’ households by weaving forensic data into a re-rendering of architectural details communicated through various forms of narrative, the exhibition shakes your indifference and detachment from all forms of physical and geographical sense of being and puts you right into the thick of it. Three case studies follow the scales of Afghan families’ kitchens to Gaza residents’ streets and the vast Mediterranean that migrants so desperately try to cross. To those who pay even the minimum of attentions, there is no catastrophe deprived of our senses.

Perhaps the inability to 'report from the front' as I often do, was what was getting to me. And perhaps, unlike Gezi Park, but in light of all these sensations, I was internalising and was internalised in the events that unfolded over the weekend – distancing was ever more difficult but somehow the rupture felt ever more real. So much so that my often-found optimism left its way to confusion and a form of mutism. As the aftermath started to unfold through Saturday and Sunday, it was more apparent that the necessity to own the narrative of inclusion, togetherness, and resistance to oppression and the tyranny of the majority is urgent. For everything we would wish to turn a blind eye, we shall be reminded of our collective duties. And for every moment we lose hope, we need to keep investigating, forensically, to find and pave our path to recovery.

one cocktail too many - Part II: Tyneside

There were four songs that accompanied me during this trip: The first one was the most influential in igniting that idea to walk up North London to watch the sunrise, which I mentioned, as the initial step in what eventually ended up as this trip. It is Glósóli by Sigur Rós, and in fact the last (and the second time) I had watched them live was Alexandra Palace, the very place where I wanted to head up to watch the sunrise. Sigur Rós have been a long-running favourite band of mine, and it is little surprise they can have such dramatic effect on my psyche at times of self-conscious emotional flexibility/vulnerability. It was another favourite band's, Calexico's Roka and its warmer, Mexicana tunes that gave me the feeling that, I should rather keep going but not follow a long, cold walk but one that will take me to further places, not necessarily warm and deserty in this case, but one, during which I can transcend into a mental journey, too, which was easy to achieve while snoring my way into patched dreams while their music tingled my ears in the background. They were joined by a recent discovery, Mumford & Sons, whose The Cave and Thistle & Weeds completed the quattro. It was in this order that I repeatedly listened to them, most of which, in my sleep. Now, by providing the links, I don't expect the reader to transcend into what I may have been feeling on a cold, damp Newcastle morning where even the seagulls seemed to have abandoned, despite the fact that it was already nearing 10 AM. Neither should I expect you to mix yourselves some German wheat beer, port wine, Aztec (tequila, spices, cacao and something else) and some prohibition-era cocktails although I can assure you they make up for a good mix, if consumed over sufficient number of hours. What I can certainly assure you is not to start your next-day hangover with black coffee and that is what I precisely did whilst trying to blend into my Tyneside weekend excursion.

If there is one feature that an outsider like me would assume dominate the Newcastle area is water, and there seems to be plenty of it. River Tyne is wider than many other rivers I have encountered in the United Kingdom around which major urban agglomerations have been founded. Newcastle sits about 10-km (6 miles) inland from Tynemouth, where the River Tyne flows into the North Sea. As far as I can understand, and to my disappointment, it does not directly connect with the other major rivers or canals within England and thus is not necessarily part of the famous extensive network of waterways but the importance of the river in the history of the city is, unsurprisingly, significant. Quayside, as I mentioned in my previous entry, has bent the commercial hub of Tyneside. By Tyneside, we should understand the combination of Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Gateshead cities that sit across from one another, on the northern and southern banks of the river, respectively. History says the name "Newcastle" is owed to the construction of a castle by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror built a castle here on return from a raid into Scotland. Clearly, if this was a new castle, built in the Norman times, there was a settlement here from long before. And those who may know about Hadrian's Wall may also understand the significance of this part of Britain, where the Romans who had once conquered here their northernmostly part of their empire wanted to build a defensive wall against the Caledonians, the Celtic Highlanders referred to by the Romans as such. Many people still mistake Hadrian's Wall as the marking point of the borders between today's England and Scotland but that is not true. There is still more to England further north of Hadrian's Wall, but I shall not go into that now. In fact, I will not even talk any further about Hadrian's Wall, because that was an itinerary that I always wanted to do and by the time I realised it was not going to be achievable on this very trip, I decided to bury that somewhere deep in my mind and focus on what I had available in front of me: number of bridges spanning the Tyne.

Many of the seven bridges were built between the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, in the aftermath and on the heritage of the city's rise through the Industrial Revolution. Coal mining remained as one of the leading industries of the city for many years. The city went to an inevitable decline in the early to mid-20the centuries, and especially following the Great Depression, specifically due to its high reliance on exports while manufacturing played a key role in the city's economy. I had little information about the specific history of Newcastle, but anyone with some knowledge about British history and geography can have a good idea of the fate the northern English cities have suffered after the end of the industrial revolution and through the inter-war period and in its immediate aftermath. As this trip gave me the chance to reflect on these, especially under an overcast sky and in the perceived lack of people around, I remember about the story of some coal miners who took art courses and made a major contribution to the history of British art in the inter-war period, which was made into a book and is now an imprssive play which Kara went to see recently. Now I want to see the play, too, but I also wonder whether his review of the play that he had originally shared with me a couple of months ago had sub-consciously affected me in my decision to head up to Newcastle.

By the time I started to get bored of one bridge after the other, trying to decide where I should cross the river (and why), I realised that a city that kept its medieval heritage rather well, started to appear to my left. It was the mixture of the water feature, the industrial heritage, and architectural heritage of even earlier times (or remakings of them) and the varied topography (with narrow streets through unexpected hills) of this city that I was getting introduced to suddenly made me feel very attached to it. It also helped me overcome the repeating question in my mind: "what the hell am I doing here, and what am I going to do for the whole day"? Now, I have always been a big fan of waterfront cities with hills. If you have nothing else to do, just spot a few ideal places whilst walking on the waterfront (which is often where you start your city tour) and find ways to get to that top of the hill you just marked. Make sure you follow a consistent direction but try to get lost in the unexpected diversions as much as possible. And finally, voila, you find yourself with the most spectacular view of the entire city and its river/sea/lake under your feet... that is only if the weather is not shit or you have super-human skills to see through the clouds. Yet on this day I was not going to complain about the weather; if anything, the cold fresh northerly breeze was helping me recover subtly and the weather was only going to get better for the most part of the day.

Many formerly predominantly industrial cities suffered crises through the 20th century. Many cities that relied on manufacturing lost out to cheaper competitors elsewhere in the country and then further in the international market through the latter stages of the 20th century, too. Many waterfront settlements fell into decay and lost their authenticity, too. I had little idea as to what kind of transformations Newcastle went through but a city that had become the centre of printing, coal mining, glass making, locomotive manufacturing, ship building over time should be able to rub off its decay even if it was something along the lines of "...as the 20th century progressed, trade on the Newcastle and Gateshead quaysides gradually declined, until by the eighties both sides of the river were looking rather derelict. Shipping company offices had closed along with offices of firms related to shipping. There were also derelict warehouses lining the riverbank". And it looks like what may have saved Newcastle was not only its football club that marketed the city internationally but also the proactive and immediate response to the city's parents to draw up masterplans to re-develop the Quayside. And as biased as I may be, I think it worked well. A similar story is read through the waterfront re-development of Gateshead, where the city re-created its image through architecture. As much as it may seem superficial, and out-of-place in any other city I have been to, something made me feel that Gateshead's attempts were rather honest, humble and fit well with what was happening on the other side.

Gateshead decided to remove the one on the left from its skyline and replaced it with the one on the right and I think that was a good idea.

It is the The Sage Gateshead I found myself visiting, following my simple rule of trying to head up to the top of the hill to get a better view. Had it not been for the impressive graffiti I have encountered on the small alleyway leading to the entrance of The Sage and had it not been for the early Saturday passers who with their warm northerly smiles and nods drew me towards their direction, I might have given The Sage a skip. But I had other urges, too. I needed to use the bathroom, and I desperately needed some coffee!... and boy was that last one a wrong decision that I would regret...

It was before midday Saturday but The Sage was filling up with a curious crowd of young and old people. Before too long, I had ordered my black coffee and taken one of the free tables, across from what looked like a pretty comprehensive music stage. And there came the presenter up and said "welcome to you all for this BBC Music Nation Concourse Performances" and suddenly 5 young girls (aged around 16-17?) turned up on the stage and started playing their music. It all felt brilliant, these young people playing melodic tunes, high-treble, low-bass sound with an extremely loud keyboard into my dark as hell coffee and the sun started showing its face through the clouds behind the large, funky windows of the building. But, by the time the band started their second song after the rather funny introduction "if you have heard us before, you may know this one" (and so much for their confidence, well done girls), I felt like I needed to move on. I had already taken too long a part in this beautiful local setting and the rest of the crowd consisting of decent families could possibly smell my alcohol-soaked clothes from miles away and their baby kids (and I often have nice eye contact with little kids) were frighteningly drawn into my hazel-blooded eyes. I just needed more fresh air.

Across the funky Millenium Bridge and I was back in the old town of Newcastle. By now I had read that a landmark monument I wanted to see for a long time was nearby and I could take a bus from central Newcastle, which I had not yet been to (up the hill again and behind the train station). I started to climb through the narrow streets, passed the Grey Street (named after Prime Minister Early Grey, but at that moment, as far as I was concerned, it could represent the general weather or what I felt like was the colour of my stomach), passed Amen Street and had a very brief look at the surviving walls of the actual castle and rushed myself behind the walls of a nearby cathedral. And there I had my first of the day!

A painful vomit... and an innocent-looking elderly gentleman whom I have apologised to for ruining his streets and from who I got a rather cold and confused "pardon". Boy, do I love the northern accent even if all I hear is "pardon".

Before too long I got myself to Eldon Square, where I would catch my bus. I walked through the main street, the shopping mall and could already start seeing the youth of this typical English town pouring in. I knew I was going to get back here and get myself exposed to all that hype but now I had one destination to go to...

...and thus I jumped on the municipal bus number 21 for my trip to go see Angel of the North (one more episode to go...)

one cocktail too many - Part I: my own prohibition in Newcastle.

Part II is here: http://ocavusoglu.blogspot.com/2012/03/one-cocktail-too-many-part-ii-tyneside.html

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This is where it all started. No, in fact, this is where everything ended, and re-started in a different shape. Everything new that made this story possible. Everything that happened due to events prior to it (or lack thereof). 

When I left the office around 5:30 PM on Friday, with the plans to head to Christien's magazine launch within the next half hour, I thought I'd give Can the usual LSE Friday evening calls to see if he wanted to grab a beer. After an unsuccessful attempt, had he not called me back and decided to come down for a drink, none of what I am about to explain would have happened. Neither would they, had we been not joined later by Pinar, Kara, and Oya; and decided to head back to another pub because Oya felt cold and spend enough time there for me to ditch my magazine launch plans, at the expense of disappointing Adam, Christien, and Olivia who I had earlier invited to the occasion.

Had Kara and I not had long, long, long, deep, and enjoyable conversations over some white port and red wine after a huge sausage meal at Herman ze German, I would not be writing any of this at all. And if we were not in London and a place like Gordon's Wine Bar had to close down its outer space on a fine late winter/early spring's evening, we would not even have though of moving on to Freud's for some cocktails. I am still a confrontational person but my patience skills have taught me how to deal with annoying offenders and this way I could avoid a fight with two guys who were being cocky, yet showed them I was not a pushover. Maybe that helped me and Kara stay for another couple of cocktails, in stead of heading back home wearily. And that brought us to polish the night at our local speakeasy whose creative cocktail menu and the setting we just fell in love with, which you can see in the picture.

Were I not cycling the whole night, and in fact, had I not re-started working at LSE Cities; might have I not forgotten to buy myself a new set of earplugs since I lost the others two days ago and borrowed Adam's amazing earphones which I forgot to return to him; then I would not have started taking a walk after getting back home, because the music felt good, I wanted to cool-off from all the night's movement and walking my bicycle home and the patchy sky was inviting me to watch a lonely sunset. At that moment, I thought of walking all the way up to Wood Green to catch the sunrise from Alexandra Palace. It did not take too long before I realised I'd get cold and bored pretty soon and that if I really want to go further north, it should be worthy of the trip. This is when I decided to head to King's Cross. I picked up my iPhone charger and my passports, knowing that if I took the next bus to King's Cross, I would have about an hour before the trains heading north of England started the day's service. Plenty of time to start a recovery from the hangover, decide on my itinerary and find something to eat...

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It had been a while since I have done trips on my own. Obviously, Dani's presence, as well as my change in travel preferences over the years have been key reasons to enjoy my trips in the company of others; but circumstances have somewhat forced me to take matters into own hand, lately. I did a small cinema-oriented trip to Berlin (although I have friends there) two weeks ago, but this one came totally out of the blue and I enjoyed every minute of it. 

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I know I wrote this before, but no harm in stating it again. When my father was taking me to Sirkeci Train Station before I took the early morning train to Thessaloniki to start my 30-day solo travel on the rail tracks across Europe at the age of 19, I had a cramp in my stomach and almost decided to ditch the trip altogether. I had second thoughts 7 days into the trip in my lonesome experience of Barcelona, and on my last day in Paris when it started raining down the sky and down my eyes for reasons that are difficult to comprehend, let alone state. But, that trip changed so many things in my life and if I had missed any day of it, it would not have been the same. Irrespective of the location or of their length, some trips are better off, not fiddled with. Yet, many will start with a funny feeling in the stomach until you actually hit the road and the sunflower-filled fields start passing through the tilted windows.

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First train up northwards that fit my desired itinerary leaves London King's Cross Station at 06:15 on a Saturday morning. As bizarre as it may be, the return ticket to York was much more expensive than that to Newcastle, which is a farther distance than York is. I had heard some interesting things about Newcastle. While I was confirming my PIN-code at the ticket machine, I was not in a position to remember whether those "interesting" things were good things, thanks to the 6-digit alcohol volume level in my blood, but alas, I was to find out, and as a saying goes in Turkish (and in many other languages I am sure); it is not the one who reads more, but the one who travels more, learns more about life.

I disagree, at large, with those who claim iPhones limit mobility in the sense that it constrains you heavily into social activity and frequent email correspondence and limits your ability to adapt into the physical setting you are in. True it may be, in some senses, if it weren't for my iPhone, I would not have had the chance to check the train times and ticket prices without actually heading to King's Cross and, unfortunately, when you don't plan your itineraries well, when traveling in London, things can get so frustrating that you give up in the 1st minute. This time, I had enough time, and just about enough consciousness to stop by home, take my iPhone charger, 6 tablets of Alka Seltzer, fill up a bottle with filtered water and head to the station. 4 Alka Seltzer pills just about had enough in them to help me endure a 3.5 hours train journey on cramped East Coast route seats, following my somewhat uncanny selection of honeyed turkey and butter sandwich. I barely remember any stops we made along the way, I certainly missed the sunrise, and I am sure it was hidden behind clouds anyway, I have no recollection of the scenery (although I took this route to Edinburgh once before) and I could barely keep myself awake before reaching Newcastle to make sure I didn't end up where I wasn't supposed to, the end station of the route.

I stepped afoot outside the train and all I knew was that there was a river with a few bridges on it, which I saw, on my way into the Central Station, on the train. The path near the river was called Quayside, and thanks to my experiences in other British cities on riversides and water streams (Liverpool, Oxford, Cambridge, Belfast, Birmingham, not least London), Quayside should take me somewhere interesting. It also looked like streets encompassing Quayside were more dense and narrower and more crooked around Quayside and that should mean an urban centre, and I knew all this thanks to the tiny city maps outside the train station and the Google Maps.

So I started my Newcastle-upon-Tyne discovery, walking down a hill that curved past a Chinese restaurant, superimposed by a dominating large, blue bridge. A couple of young lads, probably on their night's after-hours tours at 10 AM, buzzed their friend's security-gated apartment. I turned around the corner and rolled down the hill to reach the waterfront, after this first and brief human encounter. I could see the early joggers and fishermen setting the scene in what I was about to set myself into... (more to follow)

geographies don't lie

When you descend into Maçahel (or Mach'akheli in its native Georgian) from the Maçahel Pass at 1,800 metres, you start to wonder why this is not already part of Georgia. At 600 metres elevation, Maçahel is an area that is home to some 18 villages, split between Turkey and Georgia, with 6 of them on the Turkish side, and the remaining 12 on the latter. The valley formed by the River Macahela (or Machakhlistskali) is surrounded by mountains on all sides at varying elevations, starting from 2,000 metres high and slowly decreasing to sea level as the river flows into the Black Sea near the Georgian town of Batumi, the capital of the Adjara Autonomous Republic.

The area had long been home to Georgian communities as part of the Georgian Kingdom until it surrendered to the Ottoman Empire at one of Mehmed “the Conqueror”’s eastern campaigns during the 16^th century. Quite surprisingly, however, it was not until the 18^th century that a number of the communities of the region started to convert to Islam. That being said, this conversion was not much different than those practiced by the neighbouring Armenian or Laz communities who, until today, keep a special part of their ethnic identity intact and in some unique harmony with their religion, in a way not much pronounced as one finds in other parts of the country. As such, the customs, as well as the native Georgian language remained dominant for all communities across the Maçahel region.

Through the decline of the Ottoman Empire and following the Russian advance through the Southern Caucasus, mass migrations outside the area have started to take place. However, it was in 1921, when the Turkish-Soviet border was drawn, that the remaining communities on either side of the border would fall into what could be seen as an eternal division. 6 villages have decided to remain within the confines of the newly founded Turkish Republic after a popular vote, leaving not only some of their relatives behind, but also valuable minerals like salt and natural resources, whilst opting to settle in a country that embraced their religious beliefs.

One can still come across the "nazar boncuğu", the evil eye bead amulet, to keep from bad luck during the construction of new timber buildings across the valley.

In the earlier days of the Cold War, relatives and friends from both sides were able to pay rare visits to one another as we learn through oral history. However, following the end of the World War II and the joining of Turkey into NATO, the area has become a sensitive frontier for the Soviet Republic. Many of the villages were emptied around Mach'akheli and populations have migrated to other parts of the country. The Soviet-Turkish border issue was so sensitive that dynamites were installed on a bridge spanning over the River Çoruh (or Ch'orokhiin Georgian) in the nearby district of Borçka, so that if the Soviets were ever to come through to attack the town, their efforts could be damaged by exploding the bridge. Fortunately, the occasion never arised, meaning that an unlucky one of the two soldiers guarding the eastern side of the bridge did not have to swim over the river for his life. Already by this era of the Cold War, the earlier generations of relatives from the divided communities started to pass away and the centuries-long bonds have started to vanish. This did not imply a total breakdown of communication, though, as legends have it, folk songs were sung in harmony over the mountains from each side so that the communities remaining in Turkey would not forget about their language and history.

At the end of the Soviet-era, those who have come back to the villages around Mach'akheli would barely recognise anyone, were they to be taken to the Turkish villages. Even the village names would now be beyond recognition, all renamed in the republican era, the central one now being called Camili (meaning the one with the mosque). Today, the new generations of Camili still speak Georgian with their grandparents, however, unlike their parents, many of them learned Turkish before they started primary school. Majority study or work in the major cities across Turkey and often come back for a summer retreat, a harvest or to help with their relatives, many of whom now include Maçahel as part of their “Black Sea and Northeast Anatolia” trekking and historical tours.

Geographies do not lie. It has always been a curious indicator of many myths and reminder to those who once forgot the stories that lay behind it. Up until 1963, the only way to access Maçahel was via foot. This was at a time when trekking in the region was not yet a popular activity but the only means to reach this mountain-locked area. The beginning of the construction of the dirt road on that year had granted relative access to trucks who helped with exporting some of the goods produced in the region; now famous for its beekeping and honey. It was also not until the mid 1980s that the villages around Camili were wired with electricity. Asphalt pavement on the initial dirt road is still taking place at different times of the year. It is, due to this lack of access to and fro Maçahel that the contemporary Turkish residents of Camili have started to enjoy a limited journey through the land that was once united with their villages.

The road leading up to Macahel Pass transforms from finely-paved asphalt to a pebbly dirt road. Flocks utilise the road, sharing with the few vehicles that pass by, at times at a fog reducing visibility to a few metres. That is bad for driving but good if you don't like to see hundreds-metres deep exposed cliffs on the side of the road.

Because there is still no official border crossing between Turkey and Georgia at this location (the actual border, being a hypothetical line that runs through bushes over the mountain and its exact details known only to locals, the high authorities and the Turkish and Georgian gendarmeries, conveniently located on either side of it), when the roads are closed due to heavy snow – in some years, for up to 6 months – the only way a Camili resident can reach the provincial capital of Artvin is through a rare international journey that does not require a passport or a visa: we were told that a few times throughout the winter, groups of Camili residents would walk to the gendarmerie at the border and would be handed over to the Georgian authorities, who would then drive them with their shuttle buses, down the river path into Batumi and then to Sarpi, where one of the only two border crossings between Turkey and Georgia is located. The Turkish authorities would then pick them up and let them pass back into Turkey so that they can take another one-hour bus ride back to Artvin to complete an almost full-circle. All the more a reason to believe Camili is, by nature, a part of the Georgian Republic. Or, another way to say, that the political boundaries may know no geographical boundaries, but will always succumb to the common will.

The border between Turkey and Georgia was drawn along, what is recognisable to a careful eye, a dried stream bed. It makes a funny loop where it meets the Camili village. This was because, an elderly lady did not want to give up three households that were adjacent to the village to the Russians and had the border loop around it.

Midsummer in Camili and nearby villages is a time when the explosion of all shades of green has come to its full-bodied maturity. The early spring’s blossoms have slowly faded and the valleys and the mountains have given full exposure to green leaves of pine, chestnut and linden trees. Youngsters helping their parents build new timber houses, cool their sweat in the fresh and cold waters of the stream as the communities gather their harvest, only a small portion of which can be exported outside the city in time to keep fresh, while the rest will be stored in serenders, large timber storerooms elevated by long legs to keep the rats away, as the villagers will prepare for the long months of winter.

acting dumb can make you look smart, at times when you least want it

I missed my flight to Hamburg. I was supposed to be at the airport at 5:30 AM, therefore having to wake up really early. I thought of not going to sleep at all, but then fell asleep eventually around 2 AM. By the time I woke up the clock was showing a sinister 6:05 AM. No way to make it.

I bought a new ticket for 3 PM. Cost a bit on my wallet... Then decided to go to work to make up for some of that money and get some work done before leaving the city to the airport in the afternoon. Never been as early as this to work before.

My bag was packed from last night, and the nice shirt and the trousers and the shoes of my suit were hanging on the wall. I wanted to wear them for the flight even though the wedding is tomorrow, so that they won't get creased even worse.

The outcome: I have repeatedly claimed that I will not be dressing smart, heading to work really early and look like one of those irritating businesspeople. Here I am at the office at 7:30, looking at my emails with a nice bordeaux shirt, a slick pair of black trousers and shoes while the Hispanic-origin cleaners are still cleaning the floor where the office is located. Life always gives you a good fix, whether you want it or not.

at the gates

- The city I live in.
- The city I grew up in.

- The city I live in.
- The city I love.

- The city I earn in.
- The city I yearn for.

- The city I am going back to.
- The city I will eventually go back to.

- The city that feeds me.
- The city I want to feed-back.

- The city I am fed up with.
- The city that has fed me.

This morning at 6.30, I was sitting on the corner of Switzerland, France and Germany. Across me was the gate to the flight bound to the airport that was actually called "The City" airport of London. Besides me was a longer queue of people waiting to get on board on a budget-airline flight to Istanbul. Rows of people passed by me, almost all holding a blue passport with golden logos and writings on them, in two languages. The first of one which the language that belongs to my hometown. The other one that comes from my residency.

Istanbul flight should have already left at 6:30 but the boarding had not even started yet. People with multiple hand luggages were probably trying to convince the EasyJet operators or were ripped off due to extra hand luggage, a policy which budget airlines rely their profits heavily on. I was among others who each held red passports, were extremely calm and had small bags or suitcases with them, mainly in suits or some sort of well-looked-after shirt and trouser combinations.

"Come here, otherwise I will leave you and go on my own, and you will be stuck here", the mother said in Turkish. The boy started crying. I looked into his eyes. He saw me. The mother also saw me.
"Look, the man is looking at you, don't cry!" she ordered.
I smiled at the kid.
"You cheeky little bastard. What the fuck are you crying for, spoiled kid?" I thought, in a rather friendly way.

Ahmet was his name, and he was a blonde little kid. He looked more Swiss or European than many others in the queue for the London flight. He was curious about these other blonde man, too, and wanted to go through the gate with them.

The day was just dawning. I was just driven by 2 friends from Zurich to Basel around 5 in the morning, through a beautiful Swiss landscape under the dimmest of lights that hardly dinstinguished the shades of green of the trees nearby and the magnificient river Rhine.

I slowly got up and walked through a few people, with whom I shared the same humiliation at the border control, of being questioned where I live and where I am going for what purpose. They were trying to go home. I was trying to go somewhere where more interrogation was waiting for me.*

I made my way into the airplane with the red-passport people. The lady at the gate with the red Swiss Air suite checked my boarding pass and passport and said "you need a visa, uhhh, here it is, OK, thanks" and smiled back at me. I just realised I hadn't said a word since about an hour. I walked into the airplane and had a final look behind. Ahmet and others were waiting. The boarding had not yet started and there were waiting in yet another long queue, instead of sitting down on the benches around them and wathcing the sky.

* Here, I am referring to the UK Border Control customs that are usually extremely annoying. This time, however, I have to admit I was being checked by a really friendly officer whom I had a chance to have a chat with (rather than being asked only to "answer" and "not talk back"). This does not improve the general unfriendliness and human-rights violation of non-EU and non-UK citizens at UK Border controls.

Find the 7 bombs in the pictures

New York, New York... I cannot be any humble on this, as at last, after years of anticipation I got to spend 9 beautiful days with my friends in this amazing city. Not even the bad weather, a mix of crazy humidity, a lot of rain and freak thunderstorms could ruin it. All in all, I could easily say I felt at ease most times with the New Yorkers and had a smooth time with the officials alike. However, there is one incident, maybe the only negative story I'll share in here among many good ones, that I'd like to scribble down before I do the honours later with other blog posts.

On Saturday, 9 May, I woke up to a beautiful morning around Williamsburg in Brooklyn. Before heading to some parks in DUMBO and walking over into Manhattan through Brooklyn Bridge, we were having brunch with D., J. and C. talking about the fine lines between use of public and private spaces and issues of infiltrating into people's private realms through photography. Only 2 days before, on 7 May, I remember taking a picture of a large housing block, of which there was only one window open where a veiled lady was looking down onto the W 57th Street. As I took her picture (or rather the picture of the building) she drew back immediately. At the brunch table on Saturday, C. and J. were saying that you can make a picture of someone at their window and it is their responsibility to draw the curtains to avoid being exposed to the voyeurist's lens. The discussion went further on with gaining access to shooting films and photography on sets and getting the consent of locals, and etc...

In the afternoon, I decided to pay a visit to the Grand Central Station on my own. I've always been fascinated with train stations, as a railroad-commute-lover and the useles wandering arounds, or running into catching trains, or stopping by to catch some breath in train stations have always been part of my interests. For that matter, Sirkeci Train Station in Istanbul also holds an important place in my heart.

As I walked into the Grand Central for the first time and got easily fascinated by the overwhelming non-human scale of the whole "thing" I started to taking pictures of the interiors and the peope alike. I made may way into the train platforms, hoping to catch some more movement. A few poor shots and I walked back into the main concourse. I bought a bunch of cupcakes and made my way into the balconies with the fancy restaurants to have a final elevated view of the space...

At that moment I was approached from behind by a couple of cops with whom we have exchanged the following bizarre conversation:

"Sir, could you please stop?"
I stop.

"There have been complaints from staff that you were taking pictures of the train platforms, can we have a look at the pictures"?
I show them some of the pictures I took as I don't feel the need to end up an interrogation room for losing my calm for nonsense discussion.

"Why have you taken these pictures of the walls and lights, but not the main area or people? These are not pictures that normal tourists would take. Can I please see your ID? Where are you staying, what are you here for, how long are you going to be in New York"...

The rest was the similar treatment that I have gotten experienced to at the 2 stop and search incidents I had in London (2nd of which was accusation of stealing my own bicycle). The sheer differences were that in New York when they wrote down some of my ID details, they did it on a random piece of paper and did not tell me what they would to with them, whereas in London it was on a standard print-paper, a receipt of which I was handed afterwards, clearly stating all my rights (I keep one pink slip of that).

In general, in the States it has felt as if they have more experience in being suspicious but also handling situations. I would rather not mess with the American cops, as in Europe and especially in the UK, there is much greater sense of regulation. However I also have to admit that I despise the hypocritical royal attitude of the officials in the UK, whereby they take every step to make life miserable to people that are not from certain backgrounds (ethnically, or citizenship-wise (eg non-EU, non-US)).

So, after having had this small interrogation, I remembered the morning discussion over public space and asked the cops the following:
"Is there any regulation of taking pictures in here? This is a public space, right?"

I learn that the issue with the train platforms are different, that they are grey zones, that the lawas that once helped shelter the homeless are much tighter now and that they followed me because of taking pictures in the platforms. Well, one of the remarkable quotes they've used in this conversation was:
"The world has changed since the 1980's, right?"

What can I say? I was astonished by the retrospective. What a valid, self-reflective, intellectual criticism of the 1980's neo-liberal led conservative policies. Wish all cops had this edge!

In the meanwhile, can you spot the 7 hidden Usames in the following pictures I took at the station?!

Besiktas - Berlin

Cok hizli ve uzun bir hafta oldu.

3 Subat Sali aksami F. ile kisaca gorustukten sonra, Sabiha Gokcen Havalimani’nin yolunu tuttum. Yolda durup, Kurtkoy civarinda bir pideciden pideyi kapip, otoban ruzgarinda soguttugum pideyi yerken onumdeki uzun (9 gunluk) bir haftanin programi sekillenmisti.

Sali gecesi Londra’ya vardigimda, sehir 2 gunluk kar firtinasindan (1 Subat - 2 Subat) yeni yeni uyaniyordu. Rotarli, bol aktarmali yolculugum, Istanbul’daki evimden, Londra’da D.’nin evine kadar toplam 10 saatlik bir maceraya donustu.



Carsamba sabahi 6 saatlik bir uykuyla solugu Londra Alman Elciligi’nde aldim, Schengen Basvurusu icin. Henuz 6 haftalik bir Ingiltere Vizesi macerasini yeni noktalamistim ama Almanlarin 6 aylik bir turist vizesi icin cok sorun cikartmayacagini biliyordum.

Ertesi sabah Persembe saat 10’da tekrar Elcilik’e gittigimde, Schengen vizesi hazir, LSE’de Urban Age Ofisi’nde beni beklemeye devam eden isler de aynen duruyordu. Carsamba gecesi Turk yemegi gecesi yapmis, bol bol raki ve uzerine mangolu Malibu ictikten sonra, soguk Londra havasi Persembe sabahi zihnimi tekrar acmisti. Persembe tum gunu ve Cuma gununun onemli bir kismini yogun bir calisma temposu altinda Urban Age ofisinde gecirdim.




Cuma gunu ogleden sonra saat 4 civarlarinda Liverpool Street Station’da, Stansted Havalimani’na gidecek treni beklerken, ‘kotu hava kosullari’ndan oturu binmeyi planladigim trenlerden birinin iptal oldugunu gordum. Neyse ki, ucusta bir aksama olmadi ve 6 Subat Cuma gecesi saat 11 civarlarinda Salzburg’daki hostele sag salim vardik.

2 saatlik bir yuruyus; birkac ilginc shot (aralarinda muz likoru, Kahlua ve Vodka karisimi “Monkey Fucker” da bulunan) ve peynirli bir sosisli sandvic (Käse Kreiner) ile Salzburg’u hemence gezip gece biraz uyku icin hostele dondum. 5-6 saatlik bir uykunun ardindan Cumartesi erkenden kalkip Zell am See’nin yolunu tuttuk.



2.5 gunluk bu kayak tatili, taa Aralik ayinda planlanmis, ucak biletleri ona gore alinmisti. Aralik-Ocak aylarindaki Ingiltere Vizesi sikintisi hesaba katilmamisti. Dolayisiyla yeniden planlama cok pahali olacagi icin solugu Londra’da alir almaz Schengen vizesine basvurmus, boyle sikisik bir programin ortasinda kendimi Zell am See’de bulmustum.


Zell am See, Avusturya’nin batisinda, Salzburg’a yaklasik 1.5 saat mesafede, genis bir vadiye yayilmis, buzlarla kapli bir golun etrafindaki daglara konuslanmis bir kayak merkezi. Hava guzel oldugunda pistlerden Zeller See golunu izleyerek kayabiliyorsunuz. Cumartesi oglene dogru hostele vardiktan sonra, snowboard kiralama, skipass alma teferruatlarini atlatip saat 1 gibi pistlerdeydik. Havanin cok guzel olmasi cok buyuk bir sansti.

Uzun haftanin ilk yarisi sona ererken vucudum artik iflas etmek uzereydi. Cumartesi aksamustu saat 9’da uyuyup, ertesi sabah 8’de uyanarak 11 saatlik bir uyku festivali yasadim. Aralarda 6-7 kere uyanmama regmenm vucudum yataktan disari adim atacak mecali hic bulamadi. Sabah 8’de yataktan kalktiimda susuzluk ve asiri uykunun verdigi yorgunlukla kendimi hemen kahvalti salonuna attim.




Pazar hava cok kotuydu, ama Zell am See kayak merkezinin yamaclarindan biri, tepedeki ruzgarlara gore korunakli ve daha az kullanan kirmizi pistlere ev sahipligi yaptigi icin, Pazar gununu burada kayarak gecirdik. Pazar aksami klasik Avusturya yemekleri ve kesinlkle ugruna siirler yazilacak guzellikte irkci bir isme sahip Moor im Hemd ile tatli sonlandi.

Pazartesi Zell am See’nin hemen yanindaki, Kaprun isimli, genis buzul vadisi ile biraz daha soguk ama kayak icin de daha fazla alternatif sunan merkeze hareket ettik. Merkezin ortasindaki tamami kar ve buzdan yapilmis Ice Bar kompleksinin icinde birkac fotograf cekip, bir seyler yiyip ictikten sonra, ogleden sonra saat 3 gibi boardlari teslim etmek, esyalari almak, ve Zell am See’den ayrilmak uzere tekrar asagi dogru yollandik.


Schengen vizemi bu kadar acele icinde cikartmamin bir iyi yani daha olmustu. Pazartesi aksami D. ile yollarimiz Salzburg Tren Istasyonu’nda ayrildi. Saat 19:30 treni ile Viyana’nin yolunu tuttum. Avusturya’nin sagladigi yuksek hayat standardlarindan birini de, bos trende tamamen kendime ayirdigim 6 kisilik bir kompartmanda dinlenerek, uyuyarak ve film seyrederek yasadim. Saat 22:24 civarinda F. beni Viyana Westbahnhof’da karsiladiginda, bu guzel sehre kisa bir sureliginde olsa tekrar donus yaptigim icin mutludum.

Viyana’da topu topu gecirecegim 7 saatim vardi. Plan belliydi. Esyalari F.’nin evine birakip, O. ve E. ile bulusup sabahin erken saatlerine kadar muhabbet edip, esyalari tekrar aldiktan sonra Viyana Sudbahnhof’un yolunu tutmak... Gece yarisini biraz gece basladigimiz muhabbet sabahin erken saatlerine dogru bira bardaklarini devirmece, mekanin ortaklarindan Avusturyali Turk gocmeni genc Yusuf (sanirim) ile tanismaca, onun yardimlari ile neredeyse O. ve E.’yi spontan bir sekilde yolculugun devamia katilmaya ikna etmece ile evrildi. “Spontan” benim pek asina oldugum bir kavram olmakla birlikte, gecenin onemli masa muhabbetlerinden de biri oldu.


Saat 04:30’a dogru evlere hareket edilirken, icimden bir ses, esyalarini toparlamaya giden O. ve E.’nin her an yan cizebilecegini soyluyordu. Nitekim saat 05:00 civarlarinda O.’nun klasik bezginligi agir basti, ve 05:56’da Sudbahnhof’dan hareket eden trende yerlerini almadilar.

10 saatlik bir yolculukta karli manzaralar komur siyahindan beton beyazina, endustriyel mimari kir evlerine yerini birakirken, Cek Cumhuriyeti’ni boydan boya katedip saat 16:00 civarlarinda Berlin Hauptbahnhof’a yanasti tren. Uzun haftanin son duragi, artik okuyanlarin ve duyanlarin sikildigini tahmin ettigim betimlememle ‘en sevdigim sehir’ Berlin’di.


Uykusuz Viyana cikartmasina ve ceyrek uykulu Berlin tren macerasina eslik eden onemli telefon ve Internet haberlesmeleri olmustu. 10 Subat Sali gunu saat 17:00 civarinda Potsdamer Platz’da Berlinale merkezinde emaillerimi kontrol ederken, Urban Age’den Philipp Rode bir yandan telefonla taciz ediyor, ben de o sirada Pazartesi ve Sali biriken, ‘is hayatimin’ en yogun trafigine neden olan 35-40 emaili teker teker anlamaya calisiyordum.

Hic beklemedigim bir sekilde 1.5 gunluk Berlin gezisi bir anda en az 9-10 saat calismam gereken bir “is kampi”na donusmustu. Buna mukabil kafami toparlayabilmek ve rahat calisabilmek adina daha once sozlestigim Y. ve G.’yi aramayarak, 5. Berlin gezimde ilk defa olmak uzere parali bir konaklama opsiyonu ugruna Rosa-Luxemburg Platz dolaylarindaki hostellere yollandik.

Berlinale’de film gorme planlarim tamamen yalan olmak uzereydi ve 10 Subat Sali aksaminin onemli bir kismini hostelde laptopumla calisarak gecirmistim ki, saat gece 11:30’a dogru daha fazla kendimi sikmamaya karar vererek, Tacheles’in yolunu tutup F., S. (Dn.), Y. ve A. ile bulustum. Gece gene saat 04:30a dogru sonlanirken ertesi sabah 07:30 da kalkip hostelin barina kahvalti esliginde mail-telefon trafigine baslayacagim fikri hic hosuma gitmiyordu.



11 Subat Carsamba gunu hafif bir kirilganlik ile uyandim. 2.5 saatlik var ile yok arasi bir uykuyu 3 bardak portakal suyu ve 2 kahve ile bertaraf etmeye calisip sabah seansi calismami yaptiktan sonra, Berlinale kapsaminda Talent Campus programinda soylesiye katilan Reha Erdem ve Yesim Ustaoglu’nu dinlemek uzere HAU 1’in yolunu tuttum.

Urban Age’deki isim uzerinden, tesadufen daha 1 hafta once Londra’da (5 Ocak Persembe gunu) bir email trafigi ile tanistigim D.2 bu etkinlik icin davetiye hazirlamisti. Zira bu soylesi ayni zamanda Urban Age’in de finansoru olan Deutsche Bank’in Alfred Herrhausen Society’si tarafindan organize ediliyordu. Bu sayede soylesiyi biraz dinledikten sonra HAU 1’in fuayesinde Londra’dan gelecek is telefonunu beklerken, Alfred Herrhausen’dan D.2, Jessica Barthel, ve Ute Weiland ile tanisma sansina da eristim.

Bu sirada soylesinin cikisinda liseden arkadasim C.’ye ve universiteden arkadasim S.’ye rastladim. S., C.’nin kiz arkadasi, ve iki kiz daha Berlinale Talent Campus tarafindan, filmcilik alanindaki ustun yeteneklerinden oturu yaptiklari basvuru sonucunda Berlinale’ye davet edilmis, 5 gunluk bir atolye calismasinin son gununde Reha Erdem ve Yesim Ustaoglu’nu dinleyerek etkinligi destekleyemeye gelmislerdi. Isin ilginc yani, yaklasik 2-3 senedir kendisini gormedigim C.’ye bundan sadece 2 hafta once bir gece yarisi Besiktas Ihlamurdere’de rastlamis olmamdi. Ben komsum-arkadasim F.2 ile yaptigim kisa bir yuruyusun ardindan eve donerken, C. de Fulya’da yaptigi bir hali saha macinin ardindan evine dogru gidiyordu. Dunya hep kucuk ya, en cok da Berlin’de karsilasilan bu tesadufler beni epey bagliyor bu sehre galiba.

Potsdamer Platz’da bir cafe’de emailleri kontrol ettikten sonra D.2’nin daveti uzerine Unter den Linden’daki Deutsche Bank ofisine gittim. Kendisi ile verimli bir gorusme yaptik. Su anda Urban Age Direktoru icin ayarlamaya calistigim 18-21 Subat Istanbul toplantilari icin bana fikir verip yardimlarda bulunurken, biraz da dedikoducu ve ilgili tavri sayesinde oradan buradan muhabbetlerle epey ilginc haberler aldim.


Carsamba aksamina dogru atesim cikmaya, hastaligim iyice belirginlesmeye baslamisti. Burada fazla detaya girmeyecegim bir hadise uzerine de, daha once gerceklesmesini planladigim ve eski kiz arkadasim A.’nin da dahil oldugu bir 3luyu gorusmeye katilmamama A. ile birlikte karar verdik. Cok acikmistim ve cok sevdigim bir yerde bir aksam yemegi programi idi bu (Tiergarten S Bahn duraginin altindaki Alman pub’i) ama onun yerine acligimi Alexanderplatz istasyonundaki bir Cin bufesinden devasa bir noodle box ile kapatmaya karar verdim.

Saat aksam 6 civarinda hostele dondugumde uzun haftanin yorgunlugu, hastalik ile birlesmis agirligini iyiden iyiye hissetiriyordu. Fotografini birkac hafta once Istanbul Modern’de bir muzede de gordugum dogu Berlin’in unlu sinemalarindan Babylon’la ayni koseyi paylasan sokaktaki hostelimde yaptigim 2 saatlik is calismasindan sonra odaya donerek Berlinale programina son bir kez goz gezdirdim.

Saat 9’daki filme bilet bulamadik ama saat 10’da Potsdamer Platz’daki kisa filmlere gidebildik. Film gosteriminin yuzdek 80’ini uyuyarak gecirdigim icin, 1 kisa film disinda digerlerinin cogundan cok az sey anlayabildim. Gene detaylarina girmeyecegim bir aksamustu hikayesi olarak, keyif ve temp dozu dusuk gece saat 12’ye dogru agir bir hastalik uykusuna yolculukla sona erdi.

Sabah 8 gibi kalktim. Dune gore daha iyi hissederek. Bogazimda beklentilerimin cok altinda bir agri var ve belki de yarina kadar bir seyim kalmaz. Saat 10:30’a dogru Tegel Havalimani’na vardim. Ilk defa Urban Age ucus biletlerimi almisti. Zira Istanbul’a, Urban Age ile ilgili bir is icin donuyorum. 2 hafta daha Istanbul’dayim ve sonrasi Londra’da yeni bir hayat mucadelesine donusecek.


Besiktas’tan Berlin’e, uzun, yorucu, karmasik, genelde soguk, buzlu, karli ve gene hayatin inanilmaz temposuna girdiginizde sizi asla birakmayan o muthis enerjinin verdigi anlatilamaz hislerle eve dogru gidiyorum. Uzuuuunn ve guzel bir haftanin ardindan. Fotograflarina bakip yamaclarina gittigim mekanlarla, farkli cografyalarda hikayelerine birlikte baslayip birlikte bitirdigim guzel insanlarla ve bohcamda Y.’ye alip hediye edemedigim bir paket Mozartkugeln ve bircok bircok aniyla gene eve dogru donuyorum. Her defasinda yeni bir gozle bakmayi ogrendigim essiz guzellik ve essiz cirkinlikteki Istanbulumun silueti yagmur bulutlarinin arasinda hayal meyal secilen yeni gokdelenleri ve yigin yigin uzanan kirmizi damlari ile, sonsuz ceperlerini zorlayarak etrafindaki batakliklara yayilirken, son bir kez hemen altimizda enginlige uzanan, goz alabildigine masmavi Karadeniz’e son bir bakis atiyorum.