2 wheels on 3D

Regent's Canal. For some reason, I tend to believe, is one of the more underrated features of London. It is beautiful to walk along it, even more so to cycle alongside it. You can see the changing city-scape of London from one end to the another whilst being close to the water at all times, a feature you will always miss if you are from a city like Istanbul.

Another summer's evening... A fine one, maybe a rare one in London's sake, as you rarely get 3 dry days in a row. This time, on my own. Just practicing the usual: rolling down the hills, taking care of the narrow pavement when a pedestrian comes across, bowing my head when a low arch happens to be own my way, and whistling for attention (because my bike bell is broken) each time I cycle through an overhead or a bridge that overshadows the canal. The scenery is as pretty as it can be. A Monday evening, by far the calmest evening on a London day, with a few passers by and lovers strolling down the canal, with virtually the rest of the way left for wanderers like me to take the most out of.

Housing estates of multiple storeys rise and sink on my left as the new developments by the canalside show their timber framing in elegance on the right hand side. Some textile workshops and abandoned factories go on a window-display, as I pay attention to roll down on my 2 wheels, a little tipsy, and shooting up to the stars.

Feeling joyful and happy, a rare notion for a London evening, recalling the last call of the pints at the bar with the pub quiz, of which I was only able to guess a few Oasis songs that made #1, that was the Question number 8. As my Danes stroll onto their usual 7th round of drinks in their Scandanivian style, I head home, passing by shiny road workers down through City Road, confronted by numerous churches, whose existence I only appreciate, and send a salute to their mid 2nd millenia glamour, and as soon as I find the Regent's Canal connection on my way, I make my way down into it.

K. had crashed my bike into a wall here severly injuring herself, only to fix the broken parts of my bike to make it even better than what it was when I gave it to her last year. As she is now ordering a new pint for herself with A., S., T., A2. and R. around, I think of sweet D. with whom I was just meandering through the same routes last night, making a short stop at a lovely pub for a burger and a beer before heading home.

The canal, presenting its unique opportunity to experience a different perspective of London, is a strong feature that reminds of the a lot that you can take out of this city... Well, only if it's not raining again as it usually does. And for rest, likes of D. and others make it an experience that one rarely appreciates, but should give its worthwhile justice.

HH oder...

Hamburg Flughagen-the new S1 extension-Schlump-Schanzenturm-ex-Kafe X-tapas and sangria-Rote Flora-Kicker-Altona, Rathaus-H.&S.-Elbterasse-I.&F.-B.-Ferries an der Elbe-Speicherstadt-Kees Christianse-Hafen City-Elbphilarmonie-Herzog & de Meuron-Landungsbrücken-Rathaus-St. Nikolai Kirche-75.38 M.-S31-Taverna Sotiris-ouzo & souvlaki-Fabrik-Övelgönne-watching the ships get loaded across the harbour at 2 AM's silence-S.'s model ship-Strand Perle-Elbe Promenade-Altona-Ottenser Hauptstrasse-Zeisen Kino-Sabah Avrupa, Yogitee, nouss-nougat croissant-back to Sternschanze-Hamburger Berg-Reeperbahn-St. Pauli Theater-Gerhardstrasse-Herbertstrasse-meat-market (prostitutes) and window display-mexicana, tequila, b52-hardcore, heavy metal, minimal-Altona, fish market (literally)-fish breakfast at 5 AM in the morning-bei der Apostelkirche-Lange Reihe-Alster-A.&F.-a 9-month late delayed trip...

Es war super geil, wieder in Hamburg für ein paar Tage.

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.

Urban Age Award Istanbul 2009

Here are a couple of links where you can find information on the $100,000 worth Urban Age Award that will be given to an architectural project realised recently in Turkey that had significant effect to its surrounding environment and population with respects to improving the quality of life and the physical form whilst engaging the community in decision-making in their cities.

http://urbanageawardistanbul.wordpress.com/

http://www.alfred-herrhausen-society.org/en/uaa_istanbul.html

http://www.alfred-herrhausen-society.org/en/1083.html (Turkce)

grumpy reality

I said "yes, if I had lived in the 60's, I might have been as grumpy as him". I guess I thought I would be as expressive or explicit as him, or anyone of that era. Then I was told "yeah, that's what you always think about older times"... Dylan looks so sharp that he knows he is not a lost soul. If he ever were one, would he have lived until his balls came licking the ground and still tour around the world as the grumpiest and most boring live musician? One thing is certain that he kicked ass in his time, and he did not give too much a damn. He cared about himself, though... We all know the picture, where he is almost patiently waiting for the ship to come. He was patient with the rest of the world, that is why he is still alive. But he has never been patient wih himself, as grumpy and as in-your-goddamn-face as he can be. And yes, whatever others may think, I think "I'm Not There" is one of the coolest films out there...



And then we strolled down the long, thin corridors where Tante Marianne was waiting for us with her distorted reality, crooked looks and with the tainted love from the child on her lap... She was with Renate, in a proper 60's version of a Jim Jarmusch scene. Probably Dylan was holding his stomach not to throw up a disgusting fish soup he had in a British town on his live tour. The beautiful children of Liverpool and the plastic smile of Betty.


We looked through the mirror and saw no clean brush strokes or a slight distortion and artistic escape from reality. With my growing weight, I looked as ugly and as real as I could be. It was a nice short, evening visit to the National Portrait Gallery...