Belaying

The feeling of being caught so securely in free-fall is viscerally reassuring.

Line Up

The Intensely Local

Some time back I saw a photo essay on the Yawning Bread site introducing the sights between Lavendar and Kallang MRT stations. It had 44 photos, and advised tourists covering the area to '[give] yourself an entire afternoon to do so. The area is that rich.' What, really? An entire afternoon for that tiny stretch? But actually, after reading the photo essay, I realise that's entirely possible, especially for travellers from far away who may not have seen anything like HDB void decks, mosques, shophouses and the like. An entire afternoon would allow one to take in and savour all the tiny little details: the subtle decor touches on the HDB blocks, the more unusual shops, the history of the local mosque and its attached cemetery, the diversity of the people on the street ... things that could very well, and do, pass unnoticed for most people going about on their daily business.

So, in a way, how much diversity a place appears to hold also depends on how deeply you are prepared to look and how receptive you are. Even a tiny red spot on the map can hold a rich wealth of different views---you just need to open your eyes and see them.

For Random "Frequent Flyer" Dent

What is this place?

Is it safe? Is it fun?

Oh, but it is!

What, are we leaving again already?

Irrelevant question of topical interest? Debate.

' ... but she added in a faint voice, "Now let me ask what follows from this."' (II: 23 [251])
Because the declaration of ideals too is only a beginning, not an end in itself. Whether Kamal failed to grasp this and stumbled, or quite simply lacked the courage to articulate the logical next step, his failure to respond satisfactorily doomed his ardent pursuit to lead to disillusionment and heartbreak.

Or music heard so deeply

That it is not heard at all, but you are the music / While the music lasts

?FTW

On Monday at approximately 12:00 p.m., JetBlue Flight 1052 barreled its way into JFK when one unruly passenger ... stood up before the designated time and began to retrieve his overhead luggage. Doing what all good flight attendants are required to do, Steven Slater made his way down the aisle, approached the passenger and told him it wasn’t time to retrieve his luggage.

Instead of following Steven Slater’s instructions, the passenger continued to retrieve his baggage which promptly hit Steven Slater in the head [and allegedly] told Slater to ‘F*** off.’

... Steven Slater then went to the public announcement system with a few choice words of his own. Speaking into the intercom and so that all could hear, Slater announced, “To the f-----g a--hole who told me to f--k off, it's been a good 28 years. I've had it. That's it.”

...

According to reports, Steven Slater grabbed two beers from the beverage cart, popped one open, grabbed his carry-on bags, then activated the emergency chute. Steven Slater, beer, bags and all, then proceeded to slide down the chute and make his final exit from JetBlue Flight 1052 (and most likely his 20+ year career in the airline industry). Witnesses say he then hopped onto an AirTrain but not before slamming his company tie to the ground.

And I thought this kind of thing only happened in Mr. Bean movies.

Just another myth

There's no such thing as a completely clean slate. Only degrees of denial as to how much baggage you're really holding onto. At one extreme there's (perhaps deliberate) amnesia, which is for all purposes practically indistinguishable from a clean slate. But at some level, it's still really a lie.

Read it this way

Too much moping. Focus on the positive.
Home is nowhere. Actually, it's everywhere.
I can't even hold on to my memories. That's why you are endowed with the faculty of memory. What's the use of memory that's not warm and living, anyway?
Life is mediocrity. Only if you insist. Give it your best shot, and who cares about the rest?
But what if I screw up? If you screw up, you smile bemusedly, shrug it off, and figure out how to fix things.
Does that work? Who cares?

Imagining Imperial Grandeur

The crowds at the Forbidden City and the Summer Palace were, as usual for China, overwhelming. A board at the Summer Palace (it was wise of them not to attempt to translate 颐和园 from the Chinese) estimated 42,000 visitors. It was not all that bad---for one thing, the tour groups that made up a large part of the 42,000 tended to congregate at certain spots and completely ignore others, leaving them as spacious and undisturbed as they were meant to be. Still it was quite a crowd.

Imagine when the gardens and the palace were still imperial property. When its serenity and grandeur were savoured only by a select few---and a large army of servants scurrying around, but it would have been part of their job descriptions to be unobtrusive. The halls of the 外朝 would still have seen plenty of court officials and their entourages, but they would be moving in an orderly, regimented way; the scene would have been vastly different from that presented by today's swarms of tourists, roaming around at will.

The Chamber of Petitions in the Topkapı would have been a very much more restricted, sanctified place, open only to the Sultan and his closest viziers, and only permitted to others with their express permission, instead of the general free-for-all it is today.

Thus Black, in Pamuk's My Name is Red, could be awestruck with wonder in the Second Courtyard, and be quaking with enthralled fear in the Third ... That atmosphere of forbidden rarefaction has probably been lost completely with the fall of emperors. But surely that isn't something we should be sad about, is it? It is utterly insignificant compared to the liberation of the masses.

I Tombstoned Off the Bouldering Wall

Except it wasn't out at sea. Instead of breakages you get superficial bruises.
But that's what the bouldering wall is for, no? To practise, fall off, and emerge stronger from. Not really to tombstone off, but let's forget that for the moment.

Master of your own destiny?

Don't you see? Nobody really is the master of their own destiny. Even after they've shaken off the legion of tyrants intent on denying their freedom, after they've unshackled themselves from the deadening restraints of societal constraints, after they've conquered their own ignorance and fear. Even then, they face the cold, hard realities of scarcity and humankind's innate limitations.
The best we can hope to do is to reconcile ourselves to the messy compromise we must make between our wishes and dreams, and the unyielding, basic constraints that lie before us. Some deceive themselves into believing that once they have achieved that, they really are the masters of their own destiny, and that nothing can stand in their way. But of course that is really not quite true. It's only that they've managed to convince themselves that they actually really, really wanted to follow that painful but necessary compromise, rather than their originally-charted path which may have run smack into obstacles.

Cotton Castles in the Air

It was a long three-hour bus ride from Selcuk to Pamukkale. An interminable procession of low mountains, small towns and cities, and fields. But it wasn't all boring. There were friendly local passengers who tried to strike up conversations and one who actually gave a gift (even though we were just about complete strangers!) And then there was the shining white top of Pamukkale glistening in the distance. It looked somewhat like a huge dollop of toothpaste accidentally squeezed onto that part of the mountains by a giant. Or a huge layer of icing sugar, perhaps.

There used to be a large Roman city and health centre on the top of the Pamukkale plateau: Hierapolis, it was called. The place was like a Roman-era spa resort, complete with hot springs and pools. The Romans sure knew how to enjoy themselves.

The next day, after having watched the Netherlands almost not get beaten 1-0 in the World Cup finals (and it was only 4 more minutes too! Though admittedly Spain was visibly in control of the game by then), we headed back to Selcuk to visit the ruins of another large Roman city. Ephesus, the capital of the Roman province of Asia and home to the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world. Some of the ruins were quite pretty---the restored façade of the Library of Celsus, for instance---but overall it wasn't really very impressive. Not even as impressive as Hierapolis---though that's partly because it wasn't as well-endowed geographically. It might have been partly, too, because much of the ancient city still lay below ground, undiscovered, unexcavated, unseen. (Off on a tangent: Istanbul has many ruins underground too; I wonder how many of its hills are not natural hills, but in fact made up of the ruins and rubble of its long history?) But mostly it must have been due to the ravages of time. The Temple of Artemis used to have 127 columns, impressively arranged in colonnades, resting on majestic foundations and topped with imposing roofs. All that remains today is a single, rebuilt column, standing in the middle of an overgrown field of grass. The forces of nature and history have claimed the rest.

Lütfen Dikkat

So you speak the world's new lingua franca. Perhaps you are entirely, or essentially, monoglot. But that doesn't matter now, does it? Because everyone speaks some English, don't they? Or enough people around speak enough of it to get around anyway. Why do I need to learn these other troublesome, pesky small languages?
Well if you would just care to observe carefully---the next time you speak to someone whose doesn't have native-speaker proficiency in English---how different they sound out of their native language. They usually sound hesitant, timid, withdrawn and a little defensive, no matter how extroverted, lively or, bold they may be in person.   If the conversation was initiated by the other person, in another language, you may well be able to feel the brief, but palpably awkward, slightly disappointed silence after you reply in English: oh, we don't share a language.
Of course you don't actually have to care about all this. As long as I get my message across, what does it matter? But you know, it would only be nice to take notice, and to at least try to bridge the gap.

Göreme

Apparently the name of the town meant "cannot be seen" in Turkish (gör root for "to see" + negative suffix -eme.) Because although the fairy chimneys were very much visible, it was very difficult for jaded military patrols who didn't know better to spot signs of human habitation amidst this surreal but entirely natural volcanic moonscape.

It was pretty cool. There was even a jandarma (police) station inside a fairy chimney. The only downside was that ventilation was always not very optimal. It was invariably comfortably cool inside, but a little stuffy with a few hints of mould. They should have worked on ventilation technology.
But then again, maybe they did have the technological know-how, but just didn't implement it in the fairy chimneys for some reasons. The underground cities---or at least Derinkuyu, which we visited---had very fresh air even seven storeys below ground, courtesy of an elaborate system of ventilation shafts and tunnels. These underground cities were truly invisible too: were it not for the concrete shell of an entrance built for the benefit of tourists, we would have been entirely clueless to the presence of the vast twelve-storey complex of tunnels we were standing above.

Can you imagine staying for weeks, months even, cooped up deep underground, or holed up in the mountains, cut off from the rest of the world and for all intents and purposes invisible to them? Life back then cannot have been fun.

It is I

I, Hasan the son of Muhammad the weigh-master, I, Jean-Leon de Medici, circumcised at the hand of a barber and baptized at the hand of a pope, I am now called the African, but I am not from Africa, nor from Europe, nor from Arabia. I am also called the Granadan, the Fassi, the Zayyati, but I come from no country, from no city, no tribe. I am the son of the road, my country is the caravan, my life the most unexpected of voyages.

Amin Maalouf, Leo Africanus 

Custodians of the Crossroads

In Istanbul we took ferries between Europe and Asia. Sometimes several in a day. Once we tried to take a bus from Asia to Europe too, but we missed it, so we settled for the ferry yet again.

Okay so that was a bit of a cheap thrill. But how many cities can boast of straddling straits and continents? And of a history so rich ... though perhaps that comes with the territory. Such a commanding position--- between the Black Sea to the north and the Marmara to the south, between Anatolia and the Levant to the east and Europe to the west---would inevitably have drawn empires and conquerers, eager to gain control of strategic and lucrative trade and communication routes.
So the Greeks came. And then the Romans. Then the Byzantines, and the Seljuks, and the Mongolians, and the Ottomans ... Also, along the way, latter-day Europeans, though not as conquerers, but only as visiting merchants come to do business in one of the world's great crossroads. Each left their trace on the place, some more than others. The aqueduct, the columns in the Hippodrome and beyond, the Hagia Sofia, the great mosques, the palaces, the bustling marketplace of Galata and Pera.

How much of that can really said to belong to the history of the Turks, to the modern, unitary nation-state of Turkey? Very little, I submit. Istanbul's history has been, above all, a long and rich discourse between nations and civilizations. The Turks can only claim it as part of history in the sense that they are now the custodians of that discourse and its heritage.

Space Most Sublime

Istanbul's grand mosques all looked similar from the outside: grey brick topped by a slightly-flattened semicircular main dome, supported by a pyramid of semidomes, flanked by one or more pairs of minarets. They all seemed to take after the Ayasofya. Actually, they looked rather similar on the inside, too---not entirely the same, though. The most strikingly different feature in the interior of the Blue Mosque was the set of four elephantine pillars that held up the main dome. Those were truly huge---far thicker than an elephant's feet, really---and divided the interior space into portions of quite quotidian dimensions. The most unique feature of the interior of the Ayasofya, on the other hand, was the immense, soaring sense of spaciousness. The vast main dome, with its gilded calligraphic ciphers is not directly supported by any pillars, large or small; instead a complex structure of secondary semidomes directs the stress away towards the walls and buttresses. A ring of windows just below the dome bathes the interior with light from above, adding to the sense of space.

The resulting sense of spaciousness was simply awe-inspiring. It might have been an enclosed space, but it felt just as open and unbounded as a vast plaza. It was grand, mystical, sublime. It was truly a piece of art.

The Workday Just Ended

Forget Amsterdam. The weekday evening crowds along İstiklal Caddesi bring a whole new shade of meaning to "every day is a holiday."

Ex aura

Is that what maturity amounts to today's world---understanding that mediocrity is the easiest and most rational way forward, and accepting its muddled path? What if I understand but refuse to accept ... would that still count?