It's hard to believe I've been back from my trip for almost seven weeks now.  Time really flies – one of the many cliches that I'm finding to be so true.  The grass is always greener on the other side is another.  I suppose their axiomatic nature is why they're cliches.  But I think they get an undeserved bad rep.  Sometimes the cliche is just the right way to express something; I don't care if my fifth grade teacher recommended against them.  In either case, my mom and sister Emily arrived to Israel yesterday morning, and I thought it'd be wise to write an entry before we fill up our schedule and I have too much material.  

As I said, I got back from my trip about six weeks ago.  In truth, though, I've been 'tripping' continuously for almost four months now.  Every day something happens which, even if I don't realize it at the time, affects me in some way.  As each day passes I like it here more and more.  Israel is so small.  Smaller in area even than New Jersey.  There are people here from every degree of the globe.  The community is unbelievably eclectic, particularly in Jerusalem.  They call America the diverse melting pot.  But the diversity here is so much more prevalent because of the size, or lack-there-of.  I mean to say that in the U.S., the Hispanic community, for example, while representing a significant portion of the population, is located primarily in one area, the Southwest.  Of course, it's a natural human, even animalistic, tendency for groups to stick together (as far as I've ascertained in my 20+ years).  Here, though, there's just no option for groups to be secluded.  The diversity is manifest even from something so trivial as sitting on a bus.  It's easy to get lost in the nature of the Jewish state and feel that there's a type of unity which supersedes any notion of diversity.  Yet, even disregarding the non-Jewish population, there's an extraordinary plethora of backgrounds, cultures, lifestyles, all which blend together within the lens of this place yet retain their own uniqueness.  It can easily be disregarded, but in reality the collision of cultures permeates the air, and is in fact illuminated by the select commonalities and stark nationalism.  Additionally, there is so much to do here.  Unbelievable natural beauty: The lunar-like expanse of the Negev, whose vastness the mind has trouble wrapping around, yet whose endlessness is beautiful; the Sea of Galilee in the north, whose glisten symbolizes its nature as a diamond of life in the middle of an arid dust-bowl; the mountains which scatter the country, whose height has been utilized for thousands of years for wartime advantage by some and spiritual journeys by others.  And of course the man-made history: Relics from before the common era, telling stories of ancient times and ancient peoples who paved the way for civilization as we know it, right alongside recent historical trends which still are prevalent today.  

So, overall, I'm having a really great time here.  The country itself is amazing, I've really enjoyed spending time with my friends that I have who live here, and the new friends I've made through my program are amazing people from all over the US and Canada, and elsewhere, who I hope to stay in touch with for my entire life.  Despite all this, I've decided to study in Madrid, Spain next semester.  It's going to be extremely bittersweet leaving here on the morning of December 31.  I'll miss my friends, the country, the culture.  It'll be depressing.  But then I'll be moving to a completely new culture, with new friends and new experiences.  Sometimes I wake up here in the morning sad that I'll be leaving so soon, but it helps to remember that before I came here I wasn't so keen on leaving Ann Arbor.  It's interesting comparing my feelings prior to leaving for Israel and prior to getting to Spain.  In the former, I was in the mindset of going for an entire year.  I'd been there before and I had friends who I'd hoped to see much of.  Thus I had myriad expectations.  Looking back, I think some of these expectations, particularly regarding the level to which I'd see my friends, played a large role in affecting my first couple weeks here, in which I was often disappointed and unsure of my purpose.  Eventually, though, I think I was able to let go of these and just roll with it, and I haven't turned back since.  Now, approaching Spain, I'm hardly even thinking about it.  I'm excited, but due to the combination that a) I've never been there before and b) there's too much to do here to think about a different world, I have practically no expectations.  My man Ricky will be there on the same program, with his twin brother Matt, who's also a boss, so I'm excited about that.  It'll be a crazy year, and I'm not even halfway through...

I've started classes here.  Well, we're in the fifth or sixth week.  They're okay.  Meh.  The school-week is Sunday-Thursday because of Shabbat, but my schedule is such that I don't have class on Thursdays.  The classes I'm taking are: Foreign Policy of Israel (my favorite), Hebrew (required), Israeli Literature, Jews of the Greco-Roman World, and an academic component to the internship I'm doing, which I'll discuss next paragraph.  The material is overall pretty interesting, but the biggest difference between here and Michigan is the teachers; to put it bluntly (and accurately), they suck.  Wildly unorganized.  Sometimes torturously boring.  They're nice people, but they just don't know how to teach.  Thus, my classes have for sure been the worst part of my experience.  But they're easy, and my grades don't transfer back to school (only the credit), so I'm enjoying diverging from my studious nature and kicking back and living it up.  I must say, though, that it is rather incredible that in one day I'll learn about various conflicts and confrontations in and around Jerusalem between Greeks and Jews in 500 BCE, then two hours later learn about the battles over it in the 1948 Independence and 1967 6-Day War, then walk back to my apartment with a view of the entire epicenter right in front of me.  It's another one of the ineffable sensations that I've been experiencing.  

I'm doing an internship, facilitated by the Rothberg program, with the Ethiopian National Project, which is an organization that seeks to provide social and academic assistance to the Ethiopian Jewish population to help them assimilate into Israeli culture while still maintaining their own roots.  It's been a really amazing experience.  My role for them is to a) visit various youth centers and programs and write about them for the ENP publications, such as their blog,  and b) teach one of the guides how to speak English.  I've primarily done the latter; for the past couple weeks I've taken an hour+ bus ride to Ashkelon (just northeast of Gaza) to meet with Eli Melech, a 35-ish Ethiopian G, and give him English lessons.   He speaks the Ethiopian language Amharic along with Hebrew, so if he doesn't understand something (which happens often; I speak Hebrew better than he does English), we'll meet in the middle and I'll do my best to explain in Hebrew.  Last week we went over the use of "to be" in English, which is not used in present-tense in Hebrew.  It felt rewarding to hear Eli Melech's diction progress from "I teacher" to "I am a teacher."  Along the way, I've learned about his and others' epic journey from Ethiopia to Israel in the 1984 Operation Moses, trekking through the perilous Sudan desert with a group of 60 or so people, under constant threat of looters (seeking both possessions and women), lacking food and water, until ultimately being picked up on a plane from a dangerous Sudanese refugee camp, and transported to Israel in a completely gutted aircraft to fit the record-setting number of airplane passengers.  I've heard other stories, such as those of some of the teenagers to whom ENP especially seeks to assist in hopes that their children won't require the same programs, many of whom have come in the past ten years, leaving behind family and friends to arrive to where they feel their true home is.  It's amazing to be exposed to all of it; I'd been familiar with the phenomenon of the Ethiopian-Jewish immigrant, but the phenomenon is now more personal, more real.  It's an integral part of Israeli society and policy, and I'm getting a unique opportunity to delve into it.  

I've had some really great encounters with various saintly people.  My friend Mickey, from Jerusalem, has been in Germany the entire time I've been here (he's coming back November 30), but that didn't stop me from meeting up with his parents and sister and having a wonderful Friday night shabbat dinner at his house, and going out to town with his sister Jennie and her friends.  I also went back to Haifa and met up with a nice, elderly couple, Ruthie and Jacob, with whom I was set up by a distant relative in Michigan.  They were extremely welcoming and seemed to relish the opportunity to treat me like a grandson, feeding me to my heart's content and offering various life lessons, such as the dangers of cell-phone waves and using a water-bottle too many times.  Jacob took me for a nice ride through a mountain pass which he explained to be often ignored by tourists.  It was beautiful, sharply reminding me of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.  The next day, I met up with my friend Daniel, who I'd met two summers before in my first year working at camp.  I went around with him and his army friends to a beautiful park/garden and to a very chic area called Zichron Yakov.  We ate at a nice restaurant and all had a ball passively retaliating to the negative vibes we were getting from our admittedly hot Israeli waitress.  It was a nice weekend.

I also went to the Old City with my man Julian and, after taking in the unique scene of hoards of Hassidic Jews gettin' their prayer on (some with a groovy hip-swing), we were hooked up by the Student Center with a family who lives within the walls of King David for a bangin' Friday night Shabbat dinner.  It was a modern-orthodox family, a young couple with two young children.  The man, originally from South Africa, now studies Judaism at Yeshiva for his career, and the woman is a US emigrant.  The food was terrific and bountiful, and I took advantage of the opportunity to ask questions about Judaism and the lifestyle of an observant Jew.  It was interesting hearing his ideals and practices, and he answered many questions which could have perhaps offended a less progressive, open-minded man.  It didn't feel like proselytization, but rather a welcomed discussion and unique opportunity to learn about a lifestyle and ideology with which I was largely unfamiliar.  

I've received some terrific hospitality in Tel Aviv, particularly from my friend Ronen, who's let me use his place, two blocks from the beach, as if it were my own, and my friend Nir and his family, who have done likewise and have hosted me for multiple delicious dinners.  They're great friends and they've been nothing but family to me.  I'll miss them.  

Jerusalem's night-life I've found to be hit-or-miss.  On some nights, such as the last two, it's totally dead.  Particularly on top of the cold, which seems to affect the Israeli blood much worse than it does mine (they call themselves tough; psh, try out a winter in Ann Arbor), some nights even the often-bustling Ben Yehuda area is ghostville.  Other nights, though, you'll find a jackpot out of nowhere.  A couple friends and I went to a Black Party in an underground parking garage and had an awesome time grooving to good tunes (Balkan Beat Box) and had no difficulty to take notice of the plethora of beautiful Israeli women around us.  Another night, my boys Jacob, Julian, and I went to a concert at a bar and saw two very... curious bands.  Honestly, they were just so off-color and unique that I couldn't make up my mind.  The first band was almost overwhelmingly hipster.   The lead singer was an Israeli who sang in English with a British accent, reminding me of the band Caesars and their song 'Jerk it Out.'  At points he would say things which made us think that he thought it was English, but it just... wasn't.  The chorus of one song, for instance, was the repetition of something along the lines of, "Energy Mosserelator."  He was overtly flamboyant, too, at one point remarking, in Hebrew, "My mother thinks I'm gay... I'm cool with it."  After they left the stage, it was humorous seeing Jacob's reaction to it; he was simply the definition of bop – the bounce in his step was unparalleled by anyone's I've ever seen.  He loved them.   Not the next band, though.  This was a 3-man band, with an unreal drummer, a decent bassist, and a guy dressed up in an octogenarian suit who screamed phrases (in Hebrew) like, "I ALSO HAVE LEGS! (YESH LI GAM ET HA'REGLAYIM!)"  They were kind of terrifying, but also funny at points, as far as I could discern.  It couldn't have been more obvious that they needed a guitarist, though, as the bassist wasn't nearly good enough to carry the music himself.  Jacob's reaction turned a complete 180º, and at one point he even had to leave.  I still couldn't say how I really felt about the bands; confused, maybe?  Either way, it was a fun night with good friends.  

One weekend, about two weeks ago, I signed up for a hike in the Eilat Mountains, in the very southern point of Israel.  A couple of my good friends did likewise, and we together struggled to make it to the 6:30 departing bus Friday morning.  We were led by a fantastic guide, a late-20s Israeli who really loved what he did.  The trail we took was absolutely beautiful.  Breathtaking views of the contrasting colors of the granite, limestone, and sandstone made the steep ascents completely worthwhile.  At certain points, we could see the city of Eilat, with all their tourist hotels and buildings, as well as the developed Jordanian city of Aqaba.  Our guide explained that along the border, called the Jordan Valley, there was a large crack several eons ago, whose effects still prevail, with the Dead Sea in the middle of the country and the Sea of Galilee in the north, all along the same longitude.  It was a rather rustic trip; we made all our meals along the way, used mama nature for our bathroom, and slept outside (the desert is COLD at night!).  As we hiked, the paths reminded me greatly of my time in the snowy Rocky Mountains.  I really enjoyed straying a bit from the line, swinging out to either side, up a mountain-face or down around a slightly different route, similar to what you're able to do when snowboarding.  I got a kick out of the contrasting image of the snow-covered mountains in my mind and the hot, dry, yet equally beautiful ones in front of me.  It made me miss snowboarding a lot; it's gotta be one of my top-5, maybe even top-3, favorite things to do.  Hiking's up there, too, especially hikes like this.  

I was offered to join up with an archaeology class for a field trip to the Old City of Jerusalem, and ended up incredibly pleased that I did.  Piecing all the eras together, going back into the First Temple Period circa 800 BCE, up through more recent days, and having all this evidence right in front of you was really amazing.  Contemplating also how it all fit in with other eras around the world had a big effect on my opinion of ancient history.  I'd been thinking that it's just impractical and essentially useless, carrying none of the value of studying contemporary history.  But with this rare opportunity field trip, seeing ancient walls from 2700+ years ago, how the city has continually been built upon itself over and over, I was really interested and even amazed.  I'm in a great place to be studying ancient history, and this field trip really highlighted that, along with just the overall intrigue and prominence of where I'm at.  I've been saying for awhile now that I'm eager to see how I feel about Israel – the culture, the people, the history – once I'm gone.  It's things like what I've just discussed whose weight I feel will only be really felt and appreciated once it's no longer just a stone's throw away (with minimal gravity working against the throw.  But still, damn close).  

Mommy and Emmy are now gone, and we had a terrific time together.  I'll write about it soon and add pictures to this blog, particularly of the Eilat Mountains.  Tonight, I'm going to see Shotei Ha'Nevua (The Fools of Prophecy), my favorite Israeli band by far and arguably the best Israeli band ever.  AND Mickey comes home today!  So excited.  Going to be a terrific last month...  

Istanbul

I'd made it to the airport in Athens with plenty of time to spare (note: from this point forward I see myself arriving early to departure points to avoid situations like those which plagued part of my Greece trip. Should have just listened to my Dad!), and began leafing through a travel book I'd borrowed from my friend Hannah, flipping to the section on Istanbul. Reputed for it's "assault on the senses," as the book said, I learned the city was full of extravagant buildings stemming from the Ottoman rule (Istanbul was their capital from 1453 until their fall after WWI), oozing with decadent food, and radiating a lively ambience. The flight was short, and by the time I finished the book, I couldn't wait to step off the plane and experience the city. One of my teachers from Ulpan had lived in Istanbul for a year, so along with the guide book's, I had her advice. Apart from that, I was stepping alone into a completely new world!

I first learned that Istanbul was divided in parts. The Bosphorus Strait splits the city in two and marks the border between Europe to the West and Asia to the East. European Istanbul is further divided north-south by a strait stemming from the Bosphorus, known as the Golden Horn. Where I was to stay, the Sultan Hostel, is located in Sultanahmet, in Southern, also known as Old, Istanbul. After gathering my bags, I discovered that Istanbul was playing host to the International Monetary Fund and World Bank, and that they were staying in a classy hotel right near my less-classy hostel. Stepping out of the airport, per my teacher's advice I caught a Kavaş bus, and took it to the bustling Taxim Square in New/Northern Istanbul. English wasn't so common, but after asking for a few directions to Sultanahmet, I found that these people were different than Greeks. They were nice. In fact, they were perhaps the nicest, warmest, most helpful people I'd ever met. I descended the lively and illuminated Istiklal Cadessi (Taxim sits atop the long, wide street of Istiklal, almost like a lower-case i) and saw for the first time, what was to be reinforced later on, the refreshingly energetic nightlife in Istanbul. It was a Monday night, but as I walked down Istiklal I saw people everywhere, crowding the main street and leaking out into the side streets which bloom off the Cadessi (street). I could smell and see the common site of roasted chestnuts and corn-on-the-cob for sale from street vendors alongside the elegant and rich restaurants lining the street. This was clearly a westernized area, with Nike and Adidas shops, and even an NBA store, making appearances. Anyone and everyone I asked for help, even those who spoke little-to-no English, did their best to help me find my destination. My original intention was to walk the whole way, but I discerned that it was quite a ways away to my hostel, and since it was dark, I succumbed to the public transportation. After the long, but utterly enjoyable walk down Istiklal I eventually made it to the Tram, like a street-trolley, which would take me to Sultanahmet. This was my first exposure to the welcomed convenience of Istanbul public transportation, and I familiarized myself with some of the other stops on the Tram which I'd recalled from the guidebook. I got off at Sultanahmet, and sure enough there were more than enough people eager to give me directions to my hostel. After getting the general idea, I started the apparently-about-5-minutes walk, and took in my surroundings. Cutting through a large park flanked on one side by the beautiful Blue Mosque and on the other side by the breathtaking Aya Sofia (which was conquered by Mehmet the Conquerer in 1453 to overtake Constantinople for the Ottoman Empire), I could feel myself falling in love with the city. These structures, too grandiose to be called merely buildings, were unbelievable. I took a few snapshots and made a note to return soon. This would turn out to be a non-issue, as my Hostel was literally two minutes from the park. There was even a view of the buildings from the roof of my hostel, which I sauntered to after arriving. Upon check-in (of course the clerk was friendly), I made it to my 6-bed dorm-style room, and went to the free computers to check up on life elsewhere for a few minutes. While sat there, two girls from my program in Jerusalem, Jen and Rebecca, who I'd told about my plans to stay in this hostel, passed by, and explained that they'd been in other parts of Turkey and had two more days in Istanbul, and were in fact in the same room as I. It was a welcomed surprise. We sat outside our hostel and checked out the street, which offered a commendable scene of its own. After climbing to my bunk-bed, I was displeased to hear the old man across the room on the bottom bunk letting loose his gases and snoring loudly, but I was excited to explore the city the next day.

After filling up (to a modest extent) at the hostel's included breakfast, Jen, Rebecca, and I set out to further explore the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia. The structures were even more impressive by daylight, and I was particularly infatuated with the Blue Mosque. As we observed with awe, a bus side-swiped a car, and I was quick enough to snap an action-shot. Apparently on my toes, I was ready to move closer to the Mosque. Like all mosques, shoes were not allowed to be worn inside, and I must say that despite the buttery, footy smell, I was digging the vibe. Knees and shoulders were also to be covered, but my shorts were long enough so I was not subject to wearing the dress-like garment which both Jen and Rebecca had to don. I snapped a multitude of pictures of the impressive interior, and overheard someone explaining the floral pattern on the ground meant to guide worshippers as to where to place their knees, hands, and head. "Overhearing" tour-guides would become a common theme of my time in Istanbul. We then ventured across the street toward the colossally over-the-top Aya Sofia. In accordance with my entire trip, the weather was terrific, and I was feeling likewise. We entered, and, despite some reconstruction going on, again looked about us in wonderment, noting the huge black shield-like structures donned with beautiful golden Arabic calligraphy, the Sultan's quarters, and various other majestically adorned monuments in the once-functioning mosque (converted to a museum by Ataturk [translates to 'Father of the Turks.' Real name Mustafa Kemal, he helped steer Turkey out of the potentially disastrous post-WWI rebuilding period with Kemalism, focusing largely on secular and nationalist movements. He's like the George Washington except more recent, and therefore more palpable in a way, totally romanticized and adored by all. Plus the airport's named after him.]). I particularly liked the shield-like structures which served as artwork, and would have loved one of my own despite the inconvenience of stealing and the no-less-difficult task of carrying it back. Alas, I resisted. Unfortunately, my camera died midway through. I had to go back to the hostel to recharge it, but first the three of us sat together in one of the guidebook's recommended restaurants, and I enjoyed the rich Kebab-like meat with spicy peppers and particularly liked the red Chilly which was served on all tables as salt and pepper is served in the States and can be tastily served plain with bread.

I went back to the hostel and charged my camera for a while before heading back out with plans to go to Topkapi Palace, former stomping grounds of the Ottoman Sultans and officials. But it was closed on Tuesday, so I altered my plan and headed instead for the renown Grand Bazaar, a street market. On the way I stopped for some guidebook-recommended baklava, marking my first exposure to the exuberant decadence of Turkish desserts. Energized, I made the modest walk through town, heading northwest, but still remaining in Old Istanbul. I'd heard recounts of enormous proportion describing the Grand Bazaar, and I was eager to compare it to the balagan (Hebrew slang for 'mess') that is the Shuk of Jerusalem. Upon arrival, I noticed two glaring differences. First, the Bazaar is primarily indoor, with a labyrinth of tunnels housing all sorts of shops selling food, jewelry, clothes, houseware, and more. Second, it was way, way bigger, and way easier to get lost. I'd seen it before to a degree, but here I was thrust into the world of Turkish street-sales: tremendously aggressive, but comical in its own way. Every single time you walk by a restaurant, for example, the proprietor standing outside overtly assumes that you want to go there, and begins to shepherd you in, often disregarding all notions of personal space or free will. In the Bazaar, shop after shop seemed to think that merely looking at one of their products indicated I ardently wanted to buy it. This did serve me well in some aspects, though, as I was able to "sample" many times the gummy-like staple known as Turkish Delight which lined a large portion of the Bazaar. It was fun analyzing their thought processes: at one point I stopped over a display of lighters, and the proprietor gestured suggestively toward one styled with a howling wolf and another with an eagle. 'What's going through this guy's mind?' I wondered. 'What possibly could have led him to believe that I would be attracted to these particular logos?' Otherwise, I gained a certain appreciation for the Istanbulians' intelligence. For whatever reason, perhaps to attempt to establish some customer-rapport, the vendors all take stabs guessing where you're from. I was receiving Spain a lot, and eventually I took it and ran with it. Practically everyone with something to sell had sufficient Spanish skills, and I was able to practice. At some points I didn't follow, and I wasn't sure whether to chalk that up to my lack of understanding or their lack of proficiency. In either case, I really got a kick out of it. There were multiple stores selling sports jerseys, and I thought I'd see if I could get one for cheap. I was inquisitive and seeking a good deal. The vendor, too, had his methods, and basically handed me the bag with the Tracy McGrady Rockets jersey and matching shorts before I agreed to buy it, but I figured since it was very inexpensive, why not just rock the whole set. I regretted it slightly afterward, buying a basketball jersey in Istanbul, but at least now it's easier to take on an alter-ego on the court. Plus, I'd make up for it, later buying Turkish coffee and the Chilly I'd been seeing (and loving) on the restaurant tables, and sending it home. I left the Bazaar and explored a bit more around the area, sampling a grilled fish caught from the Golden Horn, which was right outside the Bazaar. Fishermen lined the bridge leading into Istiklal and New Istanbul. I decided I'd save this area for the next day (after, of course, getting a terrifically rich dessert recommended by my Ulpan teacher), for I had plans with Jen and Rebecca for dinner, and I'd learned that a bar near my hostel would be showing the Tigers-Twins playoff game.

We ate at another guidebook-recommended place, with modest prices and a terrific view of the Blue Mosque. The food was a fusion of various cuisine, and, of course, very good. At one point I recall contemplating the sources of the food, and amidst hearing Jen and Rebecca discuss Indian food, I for a second completely forgot where I was. It was an interesting experience, having my brain in limbo.

After dinner, Jen wasn't feeling well so she went to sleep, and Rebecca joined me for a caffeine-jolting Turkish coffee in preparation for the 12 AM start of the baseball game. I continued to be dazzled by the Istanbulian (Istanbulite? -buligan?) disposition, as the waiter was tremendously friendly and warm. Soon enough we found the bar that would show the game, and as the minutes ticked down I reached the pinnacle of excitement. A 1-game playoff. We play 162 games and it all comes down to this. I was able to watch the first 6 or so innings before the bar closed at 2, and I headed back to the hostel, hoping to connect with someone on skype to watch the rest. I succeeded, and proceeded to spend the next 3 hours watching perhaps the best baseball game I've ever seen. Alas, we came out on the wrong end, and the season was ruthlessly torn from my grasp. It was a sad, powerful, moment, but, being 5 AM, there wasn't much time for reflection, and I went to bed.

The following day I woke up in the early afternoon, somewhat depressed but determined not to let the game break my spirits, and decided to venture toward the spice bazaar (which I had thought was different but later found to be essentially an offshoot of the Grand version. But more Turkish delight!) and check out the Dolmabache Palace. Unfortunately the palace was closed for the day, so I sat at a coffee shop on Istiklal and read for a time. While sat, I heard loud, coordinated shouts, and left my seat to find an apparent protest march, with banners aplenty. I asked a man what was going on, and he explained it was the Turkish Communist Party protesting the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. Apparently Turkey owes them a lot of money. Later that day, as I made my way back, I saw a group of armored police, who I presumed were there to quell the protests. I'd had a long day of walking, and decided now was the time to be an uber-tourist/sultan-imitator, and check out one of the historical Turkish bathhouses.

Naturally, I referenced the guidebook, which offered a relatively cheap but famous and worthwhile recommendation. I entered the bathhouse, paid, and made my way to the changing room, where I was told to undress and put on a towel. There was a towel covering the cot in the room, and a type of rag on the table, so I put on the thing that looked more like a towel. Wrong. Bad start. Eventually I got it right, and was led to the main mens chamber, which was a cavernous, sauna-like dome with a large, white marble plateau in the middle, on top of which men were lying down in their towels. Surrounding the main chamber were several smaller chambers, which I later found to contain sinks of both cold and hot water which one is meant to throw on themselves before and/or after the washing takes place. I couldn't tell if there was a line or some kind of ticket queue or something, and it was kind of hard to breathe, quite reminiscent of Bikram yoga, in fact, so I felt a bit over my head. Adding to that the ostensibly painful yelps I was hearing from the man who was getting massaged/washed by one of the myriad burly, hairy Turkish men working there, also scantily clad, this was an experience indeed. Truly a bro-out. It was hot in this room which was apparently designed for the use of the Ottoman Sultans, so I poured cold water over myself as I sat waiting/hoping to be called upon. Eventually I was, and my guy, Ahmed, instructed me to lay on my back. He filled some kind of towel with very soapy water, and the vigorous scrubbing/massage sesh commenced. At one point I was sat up and he went at it on my head, and the soap got all up in my eyes, but the kindly Turk took notice and cleansed my face with nice cold water. After a quick turn lying on my stomach and receiving a nice back massage, the excursion was over, and Ahmed made sure to alert me where to leave a tip. Yes, sir. I made it back to the changing room, and this time I knew what to put on; after doing so, I bought a few bars of soap for gifts and departed, feeling minty fresh and looking forward to my final night in this city with which I was becoming more and more infatuated.

I headed back north on the Tram toward Istiklal Cadessi. Once I arrived, I went to a guidebook-recommended restaurant and had a delectable dish of lamb and eggplant. I then ventured to a dessert place, where, feeling adventurous, I experimented with a dessert which was apparently made from chicken breast. I wouldn't say it 'tasted like chicken,' for it was quite sweet and overall very tasty (not, of course, to say that chicken is not tasty). Now I was ready to do some in-depth exploring of the downtown nightlife. It was quite a different feel around Istiklal than what I'd experienced earlier in the day. Each side street was packed with lively people of all ages. There were nice, quaint bars all over the place, practically each one featuring live music. I sat for a bit and enjoyed an Efes, the staple Turkish beer, but for the most part walked around for hours and just dug the scene. This was when I came to the conclusion that Istanbul is a place I could live in, at least for a period of time. It was a westernized nightlife, no doubt, but it seemed more genuine, with people really enjoying themselves, and a sense of life being lived to its fullest permeated the air. I would have preferred to have been traveling with someone to share this experience, as it was one I will not soon forget. After making it back to my hotel in the early hours of the night, I made sure to prepare for my checkout the next morning and made plans for a full day before heading to the airport in the early evening.

Waking up on my final day, I headed northwest toward the Golden Horn. From there, I walked onto a boat which was to cruise up the Horn and into the Bosphorous, offering its passengers the unique opportunity to travel between two continents. As the last one on, entering from the bow, I was able to secure a spot in the very front and feel the wind beating at my face. It was a very cool experience; on my left sat Europe and on my right, Asia. I felt almost as if I was between two worlds. There were many sites to be seen, among them Dolmabache Palace, which I'd unsuccessfully tried visiting the day before, and a bumpin' castle which I presumed was built around the time of Constantine. The houses on the Asian side were intriguing, too, and I later heard that this is where the higher-classes of Istanbul reside. I also dug the kickin' view of the mosques, now, for the moment, not of such mammoth proportions. This experience overall was really beyond words; just the feeling of being there and thinking about my position on a global scale, while at the same time on a micro-level, indulging in the weather so beautiful and the wind so refreshing, was quite a sensation.

After disembarking, I got myself another fish sandwich, purchased a belt for around $3 (I've been wanting a backup), and headed for Topkapi Palace. I'd heard that this former Sultan stomping ground was grandiose and remarkably vast, which would certainly be in accordance with the rest of the city; this turned out to be the ultimate representative of the former might of the once-powerful Empire. Topkapi, too, was turned into a museum by Ataturk, but still retained its figure from times of old. I saw rooms where the heads would meet and discuss rules and governance over their vast empire. I saw the Sultan's private courtyard. And there were a plethora artifacts from Ottoman times: from the clothes of former Sultans, to battle equipment, to royal jewelry, dispersed throughout the various buildings and chambers which made up the palace along with four enormous courtyards. Unfortunately, taking pictures inside almost every room was forbidden, and there were security guards who seemingly worked for only this purpose. And they did a darn good job, especially considering the large number of people perusing the museum's offerings. At first, I was super smooth and held the camera right in front of my stomach, with the flash off, and stealthily snapped some cool shots of some of the Sultans' former threads (quite feminine robes) and weapons (quite kickass). One time, though, since I'd turned my camera off, the flash had turned back on automatically when I was ready to take another picture. I didn't realize, and soon enough I saw the bright light reflect off the glass casing, illuminating the entire room. A security guard scrambled over to me, hastily gesturing toward my camera, sharply instructing, delete! This particular guard was either a rookie who cared too much or a veteran with pride, and he diligently observed the display screen on my camera to make sure I deleted it. After doing so, the previous picture I took came on the screen, and the watchful guard again commanded, delete! I tried going forward or turning my camera off, but it just wasn't in the cards, and this sequence repeated itself about four more times, until all my illegal photos were placed back into oblivion. In line with my bad-ass persona, I had to take one more shot, and did so of a pretty sweet helmet which I wouldn't mind wearing on a daily basis.

Alas, the time had come that I needed to collect my bags and wave goodbye to the Blue Mosque and its splendid surroundings. I took a shuttle from the hostel to the airport, but of course not before bidding adieu to the select storekeepers and managers near the area who exemplified the friendly and hospitable nature of the Turks. Looking back, Istanbul was one of my best experiences to date. Looking forward, I'm eager to experience more.