tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45984550711730126482024-03-06T10:34:13.534+03:00The Bluest İVeliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-9154974626480005152016-09-15T14:53:00.004+03:002020-11-30T22:25:01.904+03:00In Bed with Claudine
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<p>
The French are not like you and I – if there was ever any doubt. The French are so much better at so many things – wine, sophistication, the art of love. We have underwear, they have <i>lingerie</i>. If, in fact, you needed a specific example by way of proof. It's been a long time since I've read any fiction – and a long time since I've read a French writer. (I've been writing and I haven’t wanted the intrusion – however delightful – of another authorial voice in my head.) But I've been wanting to read – and I'm taking a working vacation by the sea. At night here in my little studio, I wanted something to read and as Providence would have it, <i>The Complete Claudine</i> fell into my hands. I had a copy in Brooklyn – in my storage unit – because my life, like my bookcase, was too full (and not full of pleasure, by way of explanation.)
<p>
So now I am on the north Aegean – on a breezy but marvelous morning, drinking tea in a tea glass shaped even more like a woman's body in a strapless gown than usual. What's all this allusion, Alba? Is it because during the day, you've been trying to settle into a ‘vacation way of life’ – swimming, tanning, enjoying your absolute freedom from schedules? Yet, all the while, you’re obsessively organizing, cleaning the sand off the floor and the sea out of your swimsuits with the red shower gel whose smell – if you’re to go by the package, is the smell of red diamonds? At night, you’re living in fin de siècle Paris and it's somehow rubbing off?
<p>
Ah, yes, the French, the Claudines and mostly, my adored Colette. How I love Colette! Another day I'll write and tell you about how we met and how deeply I love her and why. This morning, though, I'll tell you a bit about the Claudine novels. Written between 1900 and 1907 when Colette was 27 to 34 years old, they form, as a series, one of France's greatest bestsellers. It's not hard to see why – Claudine as a character is marvelous – full of contradictions and desires – so full of life. It's easy to see how scandalous these novels were – heck, they’re scandalous now! Colette's touch is so light – for me who has some familiarity with her work, I can see and sense Colette becoming Colette and this is a delight on par with being in Claudine's head. The series begins with <i>Claudine at School</i> and after graduating, it’s <i>Claudine in Paris</i>, where she meets and falls in love with her (soon-to-be husband) Renaud. The third novel, <i>Claudine Married</i>, details her early married life in Paris and the lesbian affair she has with the irresistible Rézi. All of this happens (please refer to the first line of my post) with the approval (if not outright encouragement) of Renaud.
<p>
I've always been a very slow reader, but in the last 10 days, I've inhaled the first three novels. I've only slowed down because I am actually having an aversion to Rézi, even though she's described so sensually, so attractively and so something else that I want to slap her face. I have several weeks left – but only <i>Claudine and Annie</i> left to read. The final Claudine novel, <i>Retreat from Love</i>, isn’t included in my book. How will I fill my nights after Claudine goes off? Where will I find my delight in the sights and smells of Montigny,s countryside? The buttered bread? The corsets and the silks? The colors and the consciousness that is Claudine?
<p>
(P. S. A man with Renaud’s moustache lives in my building. He may believe I'm looking at him, but it's that moustache come to life that I'm admiring!)Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-32989289143126008592016-07-10T18:25:00.000+03:002016-07-10T18:39:14.366+03:00Today: A Photo EssayI was feeling a bit sad about my writing this morning and where I want it to go. So to shake off my blues, I got up and went on a walkabout. I knew I wanted to go to a bookstore and I also knew which bookstore. I began walking in Gayrettepe and was deep in my thoughts, asking for signs. I was thinking to myself, I just need to know where I want to go and think positively. Sure enough. (Graffiti translation: Ok. God willing.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSHAC1afWSGTYE0VUbS2GG1OTYu0TCLbUo3aZg7SO6RxAmqf-Lg1LPXy0F3u_zvszQSR8TC7YIfZNz4jCeH79tMRq2BsknKLsSjpyb6kJma3ZtQQCF__xTwu2d_B0QoBbY0pgNdNQ64k/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSHAC1afWSGTYE0VUbS2GG1OTYu0TCLbUo3aZg7SO6RxAmqf-Lg1LPXy0F3u_zvszQSR8TC7YIfZNz4jCeH79tMRq2BsknKLsSjpyb6kJma3ZtQQCF__xTwu2d_B0QoBbY0pgNdNQ64k/s320/001.JPG" width="320" height="240" /></a></div>
And when I got to the bookstore, Oscar Wilde and Orhan Pamuk. Two great tastes that taste great together.
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In I went.
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Bookety book books.
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Contrary to my recent experience, I got this.
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But this is the one meant for me.
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People, lemon meringue pie!!
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And coffee wisdom.
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Turkish books, but really it was the look in his eye.
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Dior, Avedon, Alba
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My essay, Suited. (Pardon, I need a saucer that matches my file folder and can the tea match the table? Thanks so much!)
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The check came in <i>One Hundred Years of Solitude</i>.
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I was entertained everywhere.
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Tiles
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And more tiles. (Actually, this is going to be the cover of my book, <i>In Another Norway</i>.)
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I'm way too lazy to line these up, so there you go.
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Going down...Coming up.
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John Fante!
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Oh, Istanbul!
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Akaretler
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Feather
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Beşiktaş, just kidding.
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Say it with me, everybody, Gümüşsuyu. (Silverwater)
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My hill, my tree.
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My love of tomatoes, picnic style.
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Feeding the Divine
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View
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Petey
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The End
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtAQRASSb42q7IexWGTRwtBfuRCSqg3DP-Tgd26JmR5ILr_nPHKz1Nr1lcwpr2odqmAd9yvY_e9owbc77ymxXL15KPZaU6Bgnbei_J93qRzJPtDZYeOU1gS3sVF48-HI_9muEV_inX7E/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtAQRASSb42q7IexWGTRwtBfuRCSqg3DP-Tgd26JmR5ILr_nPHKz1Nr1lcwpr2odqmAd9yvY_e9owbc77ymxXL15KPZaU6Bgnbei_J93qRzJPtDZYeOU1gS3sVF48-HI_9muEV_inX7E/s320/043.JPG" width="320" height="240" /></a></div>Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-51204660282232626762016-02-26T16:37:00.001+02:002016-02-26T16:54:18.529+02:00Bring a Book to Bed Day! 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX57lIp8Y_ffMDl2mPCjphrru-fULqgq-AhzhcwS9TnaZAR5ngaAJ5408X6TowRDuphZkrQCi18Fu8_vtEwJLBWLpf1JdfS3zCqrlsI89iclUPsesEAcSfvFCaWfeMG3VUg4Q17ZNAhkY/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX57lIp8Y_ffMDl2mPCjphrru-fULqgq-AhzhcwS9TnaZAR5ngaAJ5408X6TowRDuphZkrQCi18Fu8_vtEwJLBWLpf1JdfS3zCqrlsI89iclUPsesEAcSfvFCaWfeMG3VUg4Q17ZNAhkY/s320/003.JPG" /></a></div>
Guess what?
<p>
Tomorrow's the big day! It's time to unplug, relax, and curl up with a good book. It's Bring a Book to Bed Day! 2016.
<p>
Get ready with a cozy cuppa something and a book that you love. What will you be reading?
<p>
This year, I'll be diving into Lena Dunham's <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Not_That_Kind_of_Girl" target="_blank">Not That Kind of Girl</a></i> - special big thanks to my dear friend Sally K for suggesting I read it and for lending it to me as well. She loved it, I love it and maybe you will too.
<P>
If you love reading and books, then join our Facebook group <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/328777189917/" target="_blank">here</a> for year-round fun.
<p>
And read about this year's special mission on <a href="http://yabangee.com/2016/02/reading-bed-paying-forward/" target="_blank">Yabangee</a>.Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-90290093899150479522015-02-26T16:12:00.000+02:002015-02-26T16:15:58.126+02:00Bring a Book to Bed Day! Celebrate with Us on Saturday!It's that time of the year again! It's time to curl up with a good book. I've picked my top ten reasons why you should come celebrate with us.
<p>
10. It's grey, it's raining (snowing, yucky, fill in the blank) AND it's cold.
<p>
9. You've already stocked up for Snowmageddon Part 17.
<p>
8. Pajamas are much more comfortable than regular clothes.
<p>
7. You retain more info when you are lying down (yeah, I made that up just now.)
<p>
6. That book, Kindle, reading device is full of interesting stories and life is all about stories.
<p>
5. The kids have something quiet to do.
<p>
4. You've always wanted to read <i><strike>Fifty Shades of Grey</strike></i> <i><strike>Twilight</strike><strike></strike></i> <i>War and Peace</i>.
<p>
3. Because you can! (You're a grown up and this is what being a grown up is all about.)
<p>
2. Everything is better when you do it in bed.
<p>
1. You don't have to read alone.
<p>
Consider yourself invited to Bring a Book to Bed Day! on Saturday, February 28th. You can join us for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/1568617906727292" target="_hplink">the event here on Facebook</a>.
<p>
Don't forget to sign up for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/328777189917/" target="_hplink">our Bring a Book to Bed Day! Facebook group</a> as well. This is where we chat about books and other fun, book-related things all year long.
<p>
If you want to share your love of reading, please consider funding a book project, if you feel so moved at <a href="http://www.donorschoose.org/" target="_hplink">DonorsChoose.org</a>. It's one of my favorite organizations and helps students across America have access to needed books and other school supplies.
<p>
Last but not least, don't forget to tell us what you'll be reading in bed this year!
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Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-71775500923161856082015-02-14T19:13:00.000+02:002015-02-14T19:13:44.270+02:00Honor Thy BodyI saw again what I had been taught to ignore, the power <i>in</i> the body. The cultural power <i>of</i> the body is its beauty, but power in the body is rare, for most have chased it away with their torture of or embarrassment by the flesh.
<p>
It is in this light that the wildish woman can inquire into the numinosity of her own body and understand it not as a dumbbell that we are sentenced to carry for life, not as a beast of burden, pampered or otherwise, who carries us around for life, but a series of doors
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and dreams
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and poems
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through which we can learn and know all manner of things.
In the wild psyche, the body is understood as a being in its own right, one who loves us, depends on us, one to whom we are sometimes mother, and who sometimes is mother to us. - <p><i>Women Who Run With the Wolves</i> by Clarissa Pinkola Estes.
<p>
I've been so busy with to do's and projects and writing and work that my body has been aching for attention. What better day than a day celebrating love? Honor thy body by loving it. Honor thy body by using it. Honor thy body by being grateful for being you. I'd gotten a bit lost - today I saw the way. Honor thy body.Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-48434837611146478412014-10-30T10:49:00.000+02:002014-10-30T10:58:25.830+02:00A Trip to Meryem Ana KiliseiWhen I first returned to Istanbul I had read about a church in Vefa – Meryem Ana Kilisesi (or Ayın Biri Kilisesi – meaning the Church of the First of the Month) – that had a sacred, healing spring or <i>ayazma</i>. On the first of every month, people came to make a wish and that wish was symbolized by a key. I had wanted to visit this church for a very long time. More often than not, when the first of the month came I had work or something else to do, but usually it just slipped my mind. The last two weeks of August of this year had had more than their usual share of Istanbul drama and I knew I needed a break – and also, a blessing.
<p>
I searched online for info about the church in English and about what the rituals were for the first of the month. Oddly, I came up empty. I found a few articles in Turkish, but even with Google translate they weren't very helpful. I posted on a Facebook group for foreign women living in Istanbul and got some helpful info that set me on my way. I'll share with you what I experienced, but since there was no literature available and the priest that did speak English asked me to make an appointment another time to speak with him, I'll just let you know what my friend and I experienced and hope that I intuited and understood everything correctly.
<p>
My friend Sayora and I took a bus from Harbiye to Taksim and then on to Unkapanı. You should get off at the Unkapanı bus stop and backtrack a bit to cross Atatürk Boulevard. You will find an underpass filled with shops and when you come out on the other side of the boulevard there is an ICM mall. Go straight on through the mall to the other side – you'll see the tiniest of mosques on your left and just proceed straight up the main street, Atlamataşı Cd. You'll walk a few blocks until you see an A – 101 supermarket and then, turn right (you will see a Turkcell across from the A – 101 supermarket - and you should proceed down this street.) You'll feel like you've stepped into an Ara Güler photograph of Istanbul in days gone by. It's charming, filled with vendors and old stores, but I was glad my friend was with me because there weren't very many women on the street. At the end of this cobblestone street, we came to a fork in the road and a kind man pointed out the church to us – a little up ahead on a slope across from another ICM market. Outside the church people were selling Turkish good luck charms, but I knew that inside the church they would be selling the keys needed for the ritual.
<p>
As soon as we passed the entrance, a woman came up to us offering us candy – we declined, but later we learned that if your wish had come true you were to come back to the church on the first of the next month and offer either cubes of sugar or some kind of sweets to the people who were visiting. Had we known, we would have accepted the offering and participated in celebrating the desire that had been fulfilled. We did later – even sucking on cubes of sugar as we waited for the tea man to bring us tea from the nearby shop.
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9HjB_BkdeW3mKMBfzQFl_8wBTmy8fCddLoImCLc2GHjjYAFa-YMrNSZVW5TLfQoK77KC06fS2hGCxxpIgu-NMF74DrAkTjonXovdm4_4QQTL8TwHWMrrQfze_EoUbLtmCfwYAhsPL7o/s1600/primo04-1024x682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9HjB_BkdeW3mKMBfzQFl_8wBTmy8fCddLoImCLc2GHjjYAFa-YMrNSZVW5TLfQoK77KC06fS2hGCxxpIgu-NMF74DrAkTjonXovdm4_4QQTL8TwHWMrrQfze_EoUbLtmCfwYAhsPL7o/s320/primo04-1024x682.jpg" /></a></div>
The church offers blessings from 8:30 am to 12:30 pm. Though when we were leaving, there were still people coming (though much less than earlier in the morning – we had arrived about 11 am or so and left at about 12:30.) We bought keys in the church. Each key was 1.50 TL and symbolized a desire. I bought six keys – three for me and one each for three of my friends. Next, we waited in line to visit the icons both on the first floor and on the lower level where the sacred spring (<i>ayazma</i>) is located. We followed the people in front of us and circled the glass-covered icons counterclockwise with each key. Then, we pretended to open the case with our keys. We stopped to fill our water bottle (I bought mine for 5 TL but you can also bring an empty water bottle from home) at the holy spring. Next, we went upstairs and lit our candles. I had bought a smaller candle for 1 TL, but there were also larger ones for what I am assuming sold for 2 TL (but please check, since I am assuming.) Then, we lined up for a blessing by the priest – he asked us our names and covered our heads and said a blessing over us. I replied 'Amen' at the right time and the priest, assuming I was a Christian, gave me the wooden cross to kiss.
<p>
The energy in the church was very powerful and Sayora and I rested with the other visitors in the garden/plaza area. We ordered tea from the local tea man (1 TL) and partook of the sweets and candies from the people whose wishes had been granted. I found out you're also supposed to return the key to the church when your wish has been fulfilled.
<p>
It was beautiful to see how many people offered us sweets and had returned to give thanks and to share their happiness. It was a lovely beginning to a new month and a new way of being. I hope to return soon with sweet thanks giving of my own.
<p>
Directions:
Unkapanı Atatürk Bulvarı
Vefa Katip Çelebi Caddesi <br>
Google maps has it at: 41°01'06.8"N 28°57'33.2"EVeliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-6991232362186598442014-10-12T20:58:00.000+03:002014-10-12T21:18:41.243+03:00Only the Sky Was GreyI needed a day away from the computer, so off I went. Then I came home and tried to make a slideshow. It didn't work. Just click on the picture below, then click slideshow to take a photojourney with me.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5tpWP8Ey-wVJlJkdoCWQJdQJKGw9CSbYSHMhYWhQxYo56aiytv0OuWtKs_v2g3ahhBSbljtRPQ6uNE350Gmabj-ZXj70Xio9P-ADwxoA3DZ37j5CgcjED99gzQgIEuXHXMJAdRMZ8rY/s1600/IMG_2260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/+AlbaBrunetti/albums/6069361956344229809/6069361961945761778?pid=6069361961945761778&oid=117402681075869854723&authkey=CPC29eLv_JHhfA"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5tpWP8Ey-wVJlJkdoCWQJdQJKGw9CSbYSHMhYWhQxYo56aiytv0OuWtKs_v2g3ahhBSbljtRPQ6uNE350Gmabj-ZXj70Xio9P-ADwxoA3DZ37j5CgcjED99gzQgIEuXHXMJAdRMZ8rY/s640/IMG_2260.JPG" /></a></a></div>Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-58328455821678300052014-07-07T23:11:00.002+03:002014-07-07T23:19:12.459+03:00A Love Story and a Lucite TableI was in a different place on love's wheel when I wrote this 2 years ago. Now I am asking different questions and seeking different answers. Still, I found this today and thought I'd type it up.
<p>
I want to tell you a love story. It's not the usual kind, boy meets girl or girl meets girl or even boy meets boy, they fall in love and live happily ever after. Honestly, that's the kind of love story I've always wanted. Meet that special someone, fall in love and all that other stuff that makes for fairytale endings. In fact, that's just the problem - your eyes meet that special someone, assorted trials and tribulations of varying degrees happen and then the settling into castle (or suburban home), maintaining the family chariot (SUV), and the raising of the kids and sending them off to school (Harvard, Yale, Hogwarts.) But what happens when you wait for your Prince Charming (yeah, that's me) and when he doesn't show up go looking for him (yeah, that's me too) and all along the way realize that there is another love story happening, but it doesn't involve looking into someone else's eyes or getting a 2-carat diamond in a Tiffany setting or co-signing a mortgage.
<p>
This is the one where you look into the mirror one day and after all the ups and downs in the dating world, in relationships and in relationship with yourself say, wow, what beautiful eyes you have. And you know what? Those 15 extra pounds are totally ok and you can still dance like a 19-year old and did I ever tell you how cool I think you are?
<p>
Yeah, it was kinda like that for me. Though falling in love with myself didn't happen quickly (or maybe it did, like those people who claim it took them 15 years to be an overnight success.) It was in that 15-year overnight way, I fell in love with me.
<p>
The first time I knew I was in love was about a year ago. I was staying in a friend's apartment for a couple of weeks while she was away. Up against the wall next to the bathroom was a small lucite table where she kept a few things. Every time I went to the bathroom, I bumped into it. There was plenty of room to maneuver around it, but day or night - crash, right into it. One night, I woke up, went to the bathroom and of course, I walked right into the table again. Annoyed at myself for having once more knocked into it, I asked myself on the way back to bed why I kept crashing into it.
<p>
"Because it's invisible," was my wise-ass answer to myself. It was about 4:20 in the morning and I must have laughed for about 40 minutes. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't. I was too busy laughing. It was then I realized I truly enjoyed my own company. I had always wanted to share my gifts with someone, but that night I realized sharing them with myself was enough.
<p>
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<p>
Does that mean I have given up looking for that person I want to share my life with? No, not at all. It's just that now I cultivate my most important relationship, the one with myself. After all the ups and downs of relationships that never took hold - and blaming myself and what I thought were my insufficient gifts as a person and as a woman - I am now at peace. I am now in love. I am now ready to tell you my story because you who are waiting for your love story to begin or have had your love story end and don't know where to begin again, I am here to tell you. Begin with you. I promise you, you have beautiful eyes. Just look into them.Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-57984736587682393052014-05-11T19:04:00.001+03:002014-10-02T22:58:10.986+03:00Another Type of Mother’s Day Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLtPnJc15aH3rfaqeS1Qj-9mU-hMFIDsTIILGWlZ4RRVCK2lgktVfqHfqXzHEc76AyTNI4QCUUWsNiRxyl9Y7U8SQoYknKwCLIPwcj-2B7UiyvbOCg5aYgForx1Zel0bFyySHqrSVztNc/s1600/bel2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLtPnJc15aH3rfaqeS1Qj-9mU-hMFIDsTIILGWlZ4RRVCK2lgktVfqHfqXzHEc76AyTNI4QCUUWsNiRxyl9Y7U8SQoYknKwCLIPwcj-2B7UiyvbOCg5aYgForx1Zel0bFyySHqrSVztNc/s400/bel2.jpg" /></a></div>
As everyone is joyously celebrating Mother’s Day, I would like to share with you another type of Mother’s Day story. A story where I and my family need your help. On May 22, 2013, my sister-in-law, Ivanna Soto, took my then-19-month-old nephew, Octavio, from their home in Eastchester and for no other reason than she no longer wanted to live in New York, boarded a plane to Panama en route to Uruguay. My brother, Guy Brunetti, came home from work to find my mother anxiously waiting for him. Ivanna and Octavio were to have gone to the library earlier in the afternoon and had not returned home. My brother started calling his wife’s cell phone and was worried when he could not reach her because she was 4-months pregnant at the time. He called hospitals and police stations, searched the house and the computer. He filed a police report and with the help of police and her credit card, tracked her to a local taxi company. The police discovered that she had taken a taxi to John F. Kennedy Airport where she had first flown to Panama, and then on to Uruguay the next day.
<p>
My brother and Ivanna had lived together in both Valencia, Spain and Montevideo, where my sister-in-law owned an apartment. They had married in Uruguay and my nephew Octavio was conceived and born there. In August of 2012, they decided to move to New York. My brother is not fluent in Spanish and there weren’t many opportunities for work for a non-native speaker. After some discussion, they decided to move and to make their home in the United States, where my brother would have more – and better – options for work. In order to do so, Ivanna applied for a marriage visa, which took 5 months to finalize, and then in late June of 2012, she was approved. They started to make the final arrangements to return to New York and when they did, they took 15 suitcases with them. One of those suitcases contained all of Octavio’s old baby clothes because they wanted to have another child so Octavio could have a brother or sister. The situation they moved to was not ideal. They needed to live with my mother while my brother looked for work. It was also decided that Ivanna would stay home and care for Octavio. As they lived in a lake-side community outside of the town proper, my brother Guy bought a car for my sister-in-law Ivanna so she could get around on her own whenever she wanted. My sister and her family lived nearby. My 9-year-old niece and 6-year-old nephew delighted in meeting their new cousin. Ivanna’s sister was visiting often from Florida with her 3-year-old daughter. Ivanna’s sister met my brother’s best friend and they began a relationship. Soon, they moved in together and began their own family, welcoming another little girl into the world. Life was flowing and things were coming together even though it took some time for my brother to find work, the economy being what it was. Even so, they had already begun looking for houses in Westchester when my sister-in-law abducted my nephew and fled the US.
<p>
Under the Hague Convention for Child Abduction, one parent cannot unilaterally take a child from their habitual place of residence, in this case, New York State. Before my brother flew down to Uruguay to begin the process of bringing his family home, Guy filed police reports, listed Octavio with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and completed his application for the Hague Convention. At first, he appealed to Ivanna’s sense of love and reason and then, it became clear that he would need an attorney to begin court proceedings. The first trial began in mid-August of 2013. It was during that trial that my sister-in-law was caught in a series of lies about her life in NY, but in spite of this, the judge ruled in her favor for “the benefit of the family” in direct disregard of Uruguay’s acceptance of the Hague Convention for Child Abduction. The case was quickly overturned on appeal and Octavio was ordered to be given over to my brother so they could return home to New York. But in a series of legal maneuvers and delaying tactics, the date for the return of custody to my brother was put off week after week. Every last bit of wrangling that my sister-in-law could do was done, including filing a complaint against my brother for raising his voice in the street and then dragging his name through the mud in the local press accusing him at this late stage of the restitution process, of being abusive. Nothing could be more further from the truth. My kind and gentle brother had been my father’s caregiver in his last years. My brother’s steadiness and patience was something that went above and beyond what either I or my sister would have been able to do for my father during that difficult period. Time and time again, my brother has demonstrated his concern and kindness in this situation for his wife, her pregnancy and his son, considering that he would remain in Uruguay to assist in the birth of his second child before finally returning to NY not only with Octavio but with his entire family. Guy had often told me that it was not his intention to ever deny Ivanna any of her dreams, but it was financially necessary for them to live in the US so he could support the family and provide for their needs. However, at the final stage of the restitution process and under order to appear in court with Octavio on November 8, 2013, Ivanna once again fled.
<p>
My brother’s nightmare was now really beginning. Since October 2013, he has been caught in a bureaucratic maze trying to find help locating his wife and now, two sons. Although the birth of his second son was imminent and although Ivanna availed herself of government-funded medical aid, no alerts were placed at hospitals even though she was considered a fugitive. In addition to her now long list of lies regarding her life and circumstances in NY, her fabricating stories about my brother’s character and her initial abduction of Octavio , she also did not list my brother’s name as the father on my new nephew Luciano’s birth certificate – a crime in Uruguay since the father was known. Then, she became a fugitive from the Uruguayan authorities taking both children with her. Guy, at this point, sought help from the Uruguayan press. His first foray was a bit strange – even for someone like myself who has lived abroad for a number of years and is attuned to cultural differences. My brother was interviewed and only the general aspects of the case were reported, which opened up an opportunity for much online debate and speculation about the case. My sister-in-law’s name, description, the description of my nephew and possible locations were never mentioned, nor was a photo of Ivanna even shown. If that experience seemed odd and somewhat bungled, my brother’s second foray into the press was a full-scale disaster. With no media skills and less than 5 minutes preparation, my brother found himself on a television show where he had to defend himself. Instead of helping to locate Ivanna and my nephew, my brother, the victim of my sister-in-law’s actions was now on trial because of the underlying question to the reason of why my sister-in-law had fled. The general assumption was that a loving mother would only flee with her child to keep her child safe. The truth of the matter is that this assumption is just that, an assumption, because mothers, like fathers, can both abduct their children out of an exaggerated sense of entitlement and grandiose view of themselves. This is true in my sister-in-law's case. She is a “mother”, but being a “mother” does not give one complete and absolute control over your children lives – and also, your husband’s. Nor does it mean that one can make decisions based solely on one’s own desires.
<p>
Now, more months have passed, Ivanna Soto still remains at large with my nephews. The police and Interpol both seem unable to locate Ivanna, even though she has used the Uruguayan state medical system to vaccinate and have well-baby visits for Luciano. That a mother of two small children can easily thwart detection from both police and Interpol seems beyond comprehension, especially in this day and age of computerization, cell phones and the Internet.
<p>
My brother, Guy, is constantly doing what he can from his small hotel room where he has lived for close to a year. If you think that both the US State Department and the US Embassy in Uruguay are lending their support and a steady stream of help, you would be sadly mistaken. Rather, Guy is in an unending loop of crushing bureaucracy. Each hard-won step ahead in finding leads in the case seem to rest squarely on his shoulders and his own know-how. He is the one that tracked down the lead of Luciano’s vaccinations, not to mention discovering Luciano’s birth from his own legwork. He has plastered the small towns he believes Ivanna has lived in with fliers describing Ivanna and Octavio.
<p>
I can no longer remain silent. My heart is breaking for my family. My brother is spending Mother’s Day as he has spent every other holiday for the past year, alone, without his family. My sister-in-law seems to believe that the children are her possessions. But children are never possessions, but rather parts of families. Families that love them. Parents nurture children so they can grow and be part of other families and part of their society as well. My sister-in-law does not see that she is robbing them of their families because of her own need to be in possession of them. If she was unhappy in New York and had wanted to return to Uruguay there were many other routes she could have taken and choices she could have made. She is arrogant to believe that just because she is a “mother,” she has rights over the children and my brother should have none. She is immature in thinking that just because her life did not turn out the way that she had planned that she also had the right to do whatever she wanted without discussion or mediation or anyone’s approval but her own. The fact is that my sister-in-law sees herself above and beyond the law, any and every instance of the law – US law, Uruguayan law and international law because she is a “mother”. This is not what good mothering is, nor what a good mother does. A good mother prepares her children to be a part of society, not above its laws. If the laws are unjust, then as a society, we all work together to change them. Good mothering does not only mean feeding and bathing and loving your children, it also means giving them the opportunity to love and know the family that loves them. Has my sister-in-law even thought about the pain she has caused to my niece and nephew and her own nieces in New York? Has she even considered what depriving her sons of their father means to my brother and even more importantly, to his sons? Not to mention, my mother, myself and our entire extended family? This is selfishness in its extreme. It is unhealthy and not even remotely the kind of example anyone should set for their own children.
<p>
I must also again return to Ivanna’s many choices, each one she herself made when others were available to her. She married and had a family with my brother. If she had she wanted to have children and have complete say over them, then as a single woman, she could have adopted or sought out a sperm donor. Yet, she chose marriage and to create a family. Families, do fall apart, sadly, that happens every day, but in the coming apart, care should be taken and laws should be followed to allow each member of the family their rights to allow for a just outcome. By first denying my brother a voice and then deliberately flouting the laws of two nations, my sister-in-law shows the world exactly who and what she is. Every action she takes in the guise of “mother” is really something else, and that is “criminal”.
<p>
I am reaching out now on Mother’s Day to get my brother’s story told because we need help to find Ivanna Soto and my two nephews. We need this case of maternal parental abduction to be taken seriously in the press, both in the United States and Uruguay and everywhere else in the world. We need this case to be investigated by the police and Interpol in a completely unfettered and focused way. We need help from the US State Department and the US Embassy in Uruguay to work in diplomatic ways to bring Octavio and Luciano home. We need your help, citizens of the world. My sister-in-law, Andrea Ivanna Soto Garcia, is a fugitive and we do not know where she is. She has fled with her sons, Octavio Gabriel Brunetti Soto, now 2 1/2, and Luciano Sebastian Soto Garcia, 6 months. Please help us spread the word and find them. Please help us unite our family.
<p>
<p>
<b>Ways to help:</b> <br>
Please share this post and if you are press or have press contacts, please share this post with them.
<p>
Please tweet to the US Embassy to Uruguay asking to them help with the parental abduction in the #BrunettiCase. <p>
<a href="https://twitter.com/usembassyMVD" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/usembassyMVD</a>
<p>
Please post to US Embassy to Uruguay’s Facebook page asking for their help in this case.
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/US.Embassy.Montevideo" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/US.Embassy.Montevideo</a>
<p>
Or please write or tweet to <a href="https://twitter.com/JohnKerry" target="_blank">Secretary of State John Kerry</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/RepEliotEngel" target="_blank">Congressman Eliot Engel</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/SenSchumer" target="_blank">Senator Chuck Schumer</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/SenGillibrand" target="_blank">Senator Kristen Gillibrand</a> about parental abduction to Uruguay in the #BrunettiCase and bringing Octavio and Luciano home.Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-71695943368232530312014-02-04T20:04:00.000+02:002014-02-04T20:07:43.503+02:00What I Did This AfternoonI thought I was over the whole show biz thing. I've done a few commercials and crouched down by Daniel Craig's tight pants - I mean <a href="http://thebluesti.blogspot.com.tr/2012/11/bang-bang-vroom-vroom.html" target="_blank">really tight pants</a>, what could be better than that? Don't get me wrong, it was fun, but there is so much editing here to be done. Tons and tons of editing. Academic books and emerging markets presentations. I have big important decisions to make - should I go with bio-gas or biogas? And in Turkey, an editor's work is never done, even if I have already edited something from 'man' to 'humanity', my clients like to re-edit me so it says 'human' on the next go round so the sentence makes no sense. Yes, exactly like the labors of Sisyphus.
<p>
Yesterday, in the middle of editing some exciting statistics about Turkey's regional dominance in 'white goods' (that's major appliances, America.) I got a text that read, "Hey Alba, I called you for the movie of Russell Crowe. They wanted to see you for supporting role. Call me when you see this. Thanks."* I replied, "Oh, that Russell Crowe...why doesn't George Clooney ever call me?"
<p>
Was I free today? Well, no, I now needed to find out what 'brown goods' are (that's small appliances) and edit 30 slides by Wednesday. And it takes me a long time because I may not be an editor so much as someone who quite possibly has obsessive compulsive disorder in regards to the English language.
<p>
But show biz had called again. I would be playing a nurse who works in a hospital here in Constantinople immediately after World War I. I would have three lines that I would deliver to my co-star, Russell Crowe. Yes, this Russell Crowe.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheVfpGzUVToSFUn7BiL8nffu8k8xPdb_DuWd8Kkciz5mHB159y5UUaZYkxkC-oykRNFLljIkZ9XtO-tHeEbBZ641x7kbY0rcUFXTGX6KhPWHh-cxAcJsXtMEkdHQeGCM5bQ5WM-HT69Y/s1600/russell-crowe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheVfpGzUVToSFUn7BiL8nffu8k8xPdb_DuWd8Kkciz5mHB159y5UUaZYkxkC-oykRNFLljIkZ9XtO-tHeEbBZ641x7kbY0rcUFXTGX6KhPWHh-cxAcJsXtMEkdHQeGCM5bQ5WM-HT69Y/s400/russell-crowe.jpg" /></a></div>
So I really wanted to nail the audition and get the part (Seriously, I know there are a ton of jokes that I could make here, especially using the word 'nail' and 'piece'. Go on, be creative and make your own jokes.) I got my lines and began memorizing them in between the GDP and CAGR and a bit of TUBİTAK, but only once in a while. I gave a hundred million line readings to the lines, but I kept forgetting things. As a kid I had a photographic memory, where the F did that go because now I could not remember "forwarded relief packages" for the life of me. There were only three lines. I read them before bed and when I got up - all the while sweating my 'white goods' deadline.
<p>
At 3:30 off I went to Cihangir. Why was the Harbiye Military Museum covered in banners that needed editing? Why was the verb 'are' not in title case? Why was 'commission' misspelled? These were the things that were running through my mind along with the lines. When I got to the studio, a series of tall, handsome men led me to the audition space. I was asked to fill out a form with my measurements. OMG, why is 'shoes' misspelled as 'shouws'. I have to stop this. I am an actress now. But really, 'shouws'?
<p>
On tape they wanted me to do two line readings, one of a soft and gentle nurse and one of an angrier nurse. After 5 takes I still couldn't get the lines right for 'gentle nurse'. The 'angry nurse' I nailed in one take. I guess my year of the bitch project is rolling right along.
<p>
As I walked home, of course, I re-wrote the scene in my head.
<p>
In the bowels of a hospital in Constantinople, Russell Crowe and I are talking.
<p>
Bitchy Nurse: World War I happened. Get over it.(beat) I know this cute little restaurant here in Sultanahmet. They rent rooms upstairs. We could grab a bite and then I could help you forget all about the big, bad war.(Holding the top of one fist to my ear and the other to my mouth...wait, no...I love how your dirty little minds went there, but that's how phones worked back then...and mouths.) Call me.
<p>
This is a movie I really want to see. In fact, I could edit out movie completely and enjoy it a whole lot more.
<p>
*Only uptight people edit text messages.Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-61075397139362105612013-11-17T15:53:00.000+02:002013-11-17T15:53:48.373+02:00The Djinns of SultanahmetIt’s true; the djinns are everywhere, not just in Sultanahmet. You’ll see them walking around, the air of otherworldliness surrounding them. Your eyes will be drawn to them or perhaps, away. They are unmistakable, strange. There is one who lives in my neighborhood. When I see him his hands are always up, palms facing away from me. That is his message to me. Hands. Create.
<p>
Not all djinns grant wishes, not all djinns are tricksters. They sometimes are reminders. They point the way. I guess you would say the djinn you find depends on you. And they come to you unexpectedly, perhaps even unwanted.
<p>
They are everywhere in Sultanahmet, it’s something the guidebooks don’t tell you. But I will tell you. You’ll be distracted, tired from waiting on line at the Haiga Sofia or rushing to meet your friends by the tram. The djinn will be your waiter or selling tickets to the Sufi theatre or the rug merchant or would you like to see this beautiful necklace, it’s as beautiful as you are.
<p>
My djinn came to me at Christmas time in the Spice Market. My friend D and her daughter L were visiting me. We’ll buy spices and presents, D said. L would take photos. The Spice Market itself is a magical place teaming with people and colors and smells. You come in and from large, lit cases honey drips from the combs. Sweets are piled, high guaranteed to be aphrodisiacs, figs crammed with walnuts, long staffs of molasses filled with nuts. The metaphors act on your eyes and your mouth and your imagination. Sacks of spices flood your senses in vibrant colors and heady smells. Everyone is welcoming you, telling you to come in. Your voice mingles with the other voices and all the languages and all the people and all the fruits of the earth.
<p>
D buys little bowls, L wanders ahead taking pictures and I’ll show them the place where I buy cotton scarves. They're lovely ones for 5 TL, but it is hit or miss, and we find nothing there to buy. We walk slowly talking about evil eyes and key chains. I am holding packages and just looking at everything, when D and L walk into a store together. I am tired among the spice grinders and shiny cellophane packages.
<p>
When someone says to me, “I have rose tea for you.”
<p>
I politely turn and smile. It does not surprise me that he is not much taller than I am and thin. He is wearing white pants and a grey shirt with turned back white collar and cuffs. Perhaps as he keeps talking to me I am not surprised by his smooth dark skin or light goatee. His hair is shaved close to his scalp and has two lightning bolts on one side. There is something soft about him. He is over groomed, his eyebrows two dashes above his eyes, the lines of his beard almost geometrically precise.
<p>
“I have rose tea for you,” he says again.
<p>
I don’t think I have rose tea at home, but smile and say, “No, thank you.”
<p>
“Ah,” he says, “but this is special rose tea.”
<p>
I smile.
<p>
“This is rose tea for you.” he says a third time. I am distracted, not paying attention that three times he has told me that the tea is for me. But my mind is on other things, where will we go next, should I suggest a place to eat in Sultanahmet?
<p>
“I will invite you to my home,” he says, “I will make you rose tea.”
<p>
I am still listening, not paying attention. “And we will…” he says, “and we will…” he says, “and we will…” he says. And even then I do not realize that what I am hearing are my desires listed one by one. It is a bit strange, but the thought is fleeting. He is smiling at me his strange smile. His co-workers smile at me too.
<p>
“It isn’t like other rose tea. It is different, it is special.”
<p>
I didn’t have rose tea at home. I had gotten a small brown package from Safran in my neighbourhood, but I had finished it.
<p>
Rose tea is not what you would expect, or at least, what I expected. It is not a cup that smells like a thousand roses in full bloom – the water pink or velvety red. Rose tea is not like that. When you make rose tea, the small clenched blooms open just a little, giving only the slightest hint of themselves to the water. It does not smell like roses, though somewhere there is a hint of that. Mostly, the tea smells green – and new – like the earth, like something from the earth. Drinking rose tea is all subtly. The water is infused with the lightest color green. Sometimes a trace of something you cannot describe crosses your palate. And then again, the taste of green, the new, a rosebud floating on warm water. Do I like rose tea? I’m not even sure I can say I like it – it is an experience that goes beyond liking. And it was wintertime and I had no rose tea at home.
<p>
But D and L now are smiling at me with their new packages.
<p>
“I am sorry,” I say, “I have to go.”
<p>
He smiles at me again, wistfully. A co-worker hands me a dried purple flower from another type of tea. I smell it and put it in my pocket hoping that it brings me luck, for remembrance, I’m not sure.
<p>
It’s been nine months now. I remember this because I met another djinn in Sultanahmet, with another message. Of course, it took me time to understand that message, too. So when you are in Sultanahmet seeing the tourist sights or in the Spice Market trying to find presents for the family or here in İstanbul among the magic and her wonder, I recommend you pay attention. I recommend that you say yes, because the djinn are everywhere, waiting.
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-20884531519038766602013-09-25T16:35:00.000+03:002013-09-27T14:00:31.514+03:00FallingWell, it's been quite a time since I last posted here. Revolutions everywhere - and I'm still not sure how it will all shake out. It's been good to be on break - from blogging, not from writing. I'm gearing up for some new things and more clarity on my direction. I love blogging, but I also want to write bigger, more literary pieces. Those take time - not to mention the time it takes to figure out that that is what I want to do. I've been putting my work out there - some of it has been enormously fun to do, especially my work for Ramp 1885 where I picture myself as İstanbul's answer to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYqiLJBXbss">Bill Cunningham</a> (or <a href="http://www.humansofnewyork.com/">Humans of New York</a>, for you crazy kids on Facebook out there.) Besides that I am trying to live a bullshit-free life (not taking it anymore), which I am thinking might just be the path to happiness that the Buddhists don't talk about. So now I am off for a walk in the park and hope that I can grab onto the kind of inspiration that got hold of me the other day as I was lugging my groceries back home, because it was beautiful, but I could not write it down and then I forgot it after I got home. Anyway, net-net - revolutions, writing, no bullshit. Yep, that's it for the last five months.Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-32342039911260290462013-04-18T11:54:00.000+03:002013-04-18T11:54:17.134+03:00All About Alba (Ok, not all.)<center><a href="http://www.expatsblog.com/articles/1527/born-in-italy-raised-in-nyc-expat-in-turkey-meet-alba"><img src="http://www.expatsblog.com/images/badge-featured-expat-150.jpg" alt="Expat Interviews" border="0"></a></center>
<p>
And something fun I wrote for them <a href="http://www.expatsblog.com/contests/261/my-top-istanbul-things">here</a>!
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-90514710249652580772013-04-12T20:24:00.002+03:002013-04-12T20:41:33.912+03:00Translating İstanbulIt's Friday night and this is what I do to amuse myself. İstanbul translated.
<p>
Beşiktaş = Best game in Tash.
<p>
Yıldız = Get up that hilldız and you'll see them yıldız.
<p>
Fulya = F-ya
<p>
Bomonti = BoMo
<p>
Taksim = Taksi (Taksi dude is our designated driver.)
<p>
Beyoğlu = Obey you - that's the current vibe.
<p>
Cihangir = D'you hang here? (I find it too full of itself.)
<p>
Galatasaray = Gotta lotta sorry.
<p>
Galata Tower = Gotta lotta tower. *Message me for the joke I didn't write here, NSFW.
<p>
Karaköy = Carry your (self down for some Namlı yum yum.) (Güllüoğlu too.)
<p>
Nişantaşı = Me-chi-chi-auntie-say
<p>
Çukurcuma = Cute kooky junka.
<p>
Sarıyer = Sorry you're here?
<p>
Cınaraltı = Six Sycamores (It's all gone with the wind or view from the bridge.)
<p>
Kuruçeşme = Could you text me? (When the band comes on?)
<p>
İstinye = Is it in ya?
<p>
Tarabya = Terribly far, ya.
<p>
Eminönü = Ms and Ö, Üs
<p>
Fatih = Faith
<p>
Balat = Buy lot (or buy now before it costs a lot.)
<p>
Kuzguncuk = Gesundheit (Thank you, Rich Altman for this one.)
<p>
Üsküdar = You skirt daring (at the knee.)
<p>
Acıbadem = Agita from the bottom (of my heart.)
<p>
Kartal = Cart y'all (We've got a metro!)
<p>
Fenerbahçe = (No f'in way, Ezgi and Tülin will kick my sweet, smart a$$.)
<p>
And this is what other people do on a Friday night.
<p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_QsVHMIHCFM8ibWKQJWCVI8CGonK18cTkKwxOTeN8dvdyQ3cuku9eB26etXm8I8G-xRyr3O3aZzKOiE92t8xosxE5BR8OV94Aitd-pLsVgcUlu-8YPOG5DkFFOkptBUI6tXhfNCmM6Q/s1600/istiklal_at_night.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_QsVHMIHCFM8ibWKQJWCVI8CGonK18cTkKwxOTeN8dvdyQ3cuku9eB26etXm8I8G-xRyr3O3aZzKOiE92t8xosxE5BR8OV94Aitd-pLsVgcUlu-8YPOG5DkFFOkptBUI6tXhfNCmM6Q/s320/istiklal_at_night.jpg" /></a>Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-35865275640184549432013-04-09T12:04:00.001+03:002013-04-09T12:04:26.806+03:00The Secret In Our HeartsSomething happened to me on Sunday night and as I write this I am not exactly sure what I feel about it. I had a lovely lazy morning and then cleaned and organized the apartment all afternoon. I needed to get out, I just can’t be indoors and in my head all day. I wanted to go out when it was still light, but I am a putterer. I’ll organize the things in my nightstand or look for some notes and then root around the kitchen cabinets for some tea or hot cocoa mix. Sunday was no exception. It got dark and I still needed to go out. I decided I wanted to buy colored cleaning cloths at Bim (pink, yellow and blue, they make me happy), but I just couldn’t get out of the house. I had to pee 500 million times. Then I was out the door and remembered I needed to get some money. Then I got outside and it was raining and I needed to go back in and get my umbrella. Finally, I was on my way. I had so many thoughts swimming in my head – or, maybe no thoughts. I was walking along the street and noticing the rhythm of my walk. Down passed the parking lot, straight to the gas station, then on the long, re-paved sidewalk passed the luxury car dealership. On the road across from the Real Supermarket a woman stops me. She is asking me something in Turkish and usually I say I do not speak Turkish (in Turkish) and keep walking in that New Yorker way I have of stopping/not stopping. But there is something in her face and she immediately and fluently switches to English as so many people do here in İstanbul.
<p>
She is taking a workshop she explains and needs to tell a stranger a secret. She and the stranger should then exchange numbers and if the stranger wants they too can share a secret. Can she tell me her secret? I look at her and in a fraction of a second so many thoughts flip through my brain and my instinct takes over. I look at her face and my answer is yes.
<p>
She explains a little and then tells me her secret. Her secret comes from a place of pain and fear. I listen to her. Because of the work I used to do in New York I know her fear is a real one and statistically the odds are on the side of her fear being realized. Her face is soft, wounded, open. I do not know if I should offer my thoughts – perhaps she only needed to be witnessed.
<p>
I am not sure about any workshop that asks you to take your deepest fear and confess it to a stranger on the street. Perhaps this is something better suited to the person who loves and understands you most or a highly trained and skilled professional. But what I have noticed is that there is such a thirst here in İstanbul in people from all walks of life for spiritual growth and healing. Everyone, everywhere, all the time. I don’t remember New York being like this, although it is true that you attract who and what is energetically like you. Perhaps this deep-rooted fear, this courage to face it and trust in a total stranger is what I am seeing now reflected in her face.
<p>
I ask her if I may offer my thoughts – and I do. She closes her eyes and opens them. The fear is still there, but there is also relief. Then she asks me a question that in the past would have felt like being pushed off a cliff. When I answer it I am in a place of peace. I guess I have faced this fear enough times to be close to accepting it. I guess the more and more you face your fears, the less fearful it becomes. Perhaps it doesn’t matter who you face your fears with - stranger or friend – as long as you face them.
<p>
Now she asks me if I will share a secret with her. Yes. I will. And when I do her face blooms like a flower. It is not a smile, but a look of peace, of acceptance.
<p>
“But this is wonderful,” she says.
<p>
“Yes, I know. Thank you.”
<p>
We exchange numbers and then I ask her name. Both our names have four letters and begin with an ‘A’. I put her number in my purse and she does the same with mine. We say goodbye and I keep thinking of her and our exchange. I go to Bim to buy the colored cleaning cloths and on the way home it stops raining.
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-7693711619409689632013-03-15T11:30:00.000+02:002013-03-15T11:30:44.232+02:00Scenes from İstanbul<center><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshBIeN-rmXho-9Gke8epoSe8vSRBb6vAdf77Rk8UAxejaqzRJm5aJz2yXvKsN7TzZGm8QuUZPoPYPxGWKGdIvMIgccf3AtM0s1qbZ6wPWORoZsbDSin4FbwjnzMgQuONxExHuXPBQ0-8/s1600/2013-03-11+08.57.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshBIeN-rmXho-9Gke8epoSe8vSRBb6vAdf77Rk8UAxejaqzRJm5aJz2yXvKsN7TzZGm8QuUZPoPYPxGWKGdIvMIgccf3AtM0s1qbZ6wPWORoZsbDSin4FbwjnzMgQuONxExHuXPBQ0-8/s320/2013-03-11+08.57.48.jpg" /></a>
<p>
Japanese Wind - connotation, denotation - and yet you insist that you don't need a good (copy)editor.
<p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdX-KS1bUJPAp5wbCI1STgMo_qeB3f3ip3n1WSLPEN2VtdEj8W-98n5ORpmLlod35pD6a_Gweu_YhEHNUYq8aVdH2XZ4ej1jydqlsJ56lBf6J_uBkP55QVG1ncztQ90wSyr5UKFzAYew/s1600/2013-03-11+09.29.23.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdX-KS1bUJPAp5wbCI1STgMo_qeB3f3ip3n1WSLPEN2VtdEj8W-98n5ORpmLlod35pD6a_Gweu_YhEHNUYq8aVdH2XZ4ej1jydqlsJ56lBf6J_uBkP55QVG1ncztQ90wSyr5UKFzAYew/s320/2013-03-11+09.29.23.jpg" /></a>
<p>
Passion, for sale.
<p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepdpr9-Z-gvYCjJMCAPGMmaPHLhv4KMxoKOqjsBzgm6vBHSMzypzK5d6JAykwGb-IWqQObk8fNvFFrNvP_-NviLCvZ1x_Qu5io6BXCDc-DWkIAWsmYjQuR4hzaF4sH0eU8xJR2fj64mk/s1600/2013-03-12+10.55.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepdpr9-Z-gvYCjJMCAPGMmaPHLhv4KMxoKOqjsBzgm6vBHSMzypzK5d6JAykwGb-IWqQObk8fNvFFrNvP_-NviLCvZ1x_Qu5io6BXCDc-DWkIAWsmYjQuR4hzaF4sH0eU8xJR2fj64mk/s320/2013-03-12+10.55.10.jpg" /></a>
<p>
Holy Coffee, Hot CoCo, Herbal T, may you give us our daily cakes.
<p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrBbZPqR0xWdUEq6-2wMEnRZPMPWb6yGsQJFexKqxf4ckQAyU46UzGu4eDj5LyFTqunuGSEwFM2KL1krqQq3frkfK57rci6rxkyvzXuKuXsTLasp0dvCV9L8Kb3LBCDcvVnKcOZtgsnc/s1600/2013-03-14+15.46.14.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrBbZPqR0xWdUEq6-2wMEnRZPMPWb6yGsQJFexKqxf4ckQAyU46UzGu4eDj5LyFTqunuGSEwFM2KL1krqQq3frkfK57rci6rxkyvzXuKuXsTLasp0dvCV9L8Kb3LBCDcvVnKcOZtgsnc/s320/2013-03-14+15.46.14.jpg" /></a>
<p>
The Society of the Hercule Poirotists secret member ring.
<p>
</center>Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-36889387981032773632013-02-21T12:34:00.001+02:002013-02-21T13:55:47.866+02:00You Mean I Wasn't Supposed to Laugh?A friend tweeted <a href="http://guysamericankitchenandbar.com/" target="_blank">this today</a>.
<p>
<center>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_L9Zvalb5KVIEl97Z5WUlDCj17GTr79VYE8vrsSrMaD9PxU_sgiE8enbuC3EQN8wzNgu_8wZpUrLT-4pkcQLdsi24EXpPqy4PTt8XQ0HuaxlImFPDJhAs0TaSgzwT0KXN1UAaeFtNwk0/s1600/guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_L9Zvalb5KVIEl97Z5WUlDCj17GTr79VYE8vrsSrMaD9PxU_sgiE8enbuC3EQN8wzNgu_8wZpUrLT-4pkcQLdsi24EXpPqy4PTt8XQ0HuaxlImFPDJhAs0TaSgzwT0KXN1UAaeFtNwk0/s320/guy.jpg" /></a>
</center>
<p>
A satire taking its cue from this amazing restaurant review for Guy's American Kitchen and Bar in <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/14/dining/reviews/restaurant-review-guys-american-kitchen-bar-in-times-square.html?_r=0" target="_blank"><i>The New York Times</i></a>.
<p>
But what do you do when people write like this (<a href="http://www.theguideistanbul.com/news/detail/1071/Mikla-Food-As-Art-" target="_blank">Mikla</a>) and are dead earnest?
<p>
I guess you mine it for those beautiful, I-could-never-make-this-stuff-up phrases like phantasmagorical tentacles; or euphoric visual and palatal counfoundment*; or the ‘Birdshit’ ice cream.
<p>
I guess in the spirit of transparency I should mention I interviewed with <i>The Guide İstanbul</i> - and well, let's just say I did not get the job. You are all bright people, you do the math. Also, in the spirit of transparency, this was the first review I clicked on. I don't believe it was just dumb luck. Fortunately, the 'birdshit' ice cream looks yummy and if I weren't deathly allergic to pistachios I might even try it.
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<i>*confoundment, maybe? And maybe that's not just my palatal;-)</i>Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-58985877360852630722013-02-08T19:46:00.000+02:002013-02-09T10:15:48.309+02:00Rakı, The Knockout ChampI believe every tourist visiting İstanbul should get a card when they land. On that card should be the saying my wise friend and bff, Ezgi, coined about rakı. A glass of rakı is like a breast – one is too little, three are two many. (Implying, of course, that two are just right.) Now I know all across İstanbul Turkish men are saying two? Really? Two? Yes, more than that and you’re in trouble. (Goes for breasts too. Take my word for it.)
<p>
The first time I had rakı was in Beyoğlu, somewhere around the Nevizade. My Turkish ex, who wasn’t much of a drinker, called and asked me to meet his friends. I lived high on a hill in Yıldız then and was already in my pajamas. It was raining. Hard. What can I say? I heard the siren call of l… meze, those sexy little plates. Who could resist? When I got there my ex filled my glass. Rakı, water, ice – something like that. I was too busy looking at the meze – or something like that. I had one glass that night. It was a taste I knew well.
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Italians and Italian-Americans both have an anise-flavored drink. The Italians have Sambuca, a sophisticated little cocktail usually served with three coffee beans floating on top that are called <i>mosca</i> (fly) signifying health, wealth and happiness. Sambuca is typically associated with Rome and is known as the Eternal City’s favorite drink. If Sambuca is a sexy Italian in mirrored aviator frames and a smile that can light up Piazza di Spagna, then Anisette is your old, bald grandfather in a dark grey suit and bow tie. (Just like mine was.) Anisette is found in every Italian-American home. It is usually served as an addition to espresso – the Italians would call it <i>caffe’ corretto</i>, corrected coffee, meaning that somehow the coffee on its own was terribly wrong – or, in a small liqueur glass alongside the espresso, usually after a large Italian meal and at least one shouting match. These were the anise-flavored liqueurs that had prepared my palate.
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But they did not prepare me for the first time rakı knocked me out. Because, you see, rakı is the champ. There may be others, but there is only one rakı, the knockout champ. One, two, three and you don’t know what hit you. Let me tell you about the first time rakı knocked me out. My roommates and I were leaving our beautiful Barbaros Bulvari apartment. It was my dream apartment. The Bosphorus as far as the eye could see. A terrace as far as the eye could see. It also had black mold as far as the eye could see. We decided to have a little going away party - meze, of course, and rakı. How many? Well, who counts when you are chatting and reminiscing and you don’t have to worry about getting home, just down the hall to your room. Here’s what happened the next morning. I got up and went to the bathroom. As I walked to the kitchen, it was the strangest thing, Istanbul was somewhat crooked. Everything was off by 45 degrees and as soon as I bent at the waist 45 degrees everything was ok. But when I stood up straight again, all of a sudden İstanbul started to spin, the floor began to rock like a ferry on the Bosphorus, and everything else was moving too. So I threw myself on the couch and stayed there 8 hours staring at the blank TV screen. My arms were too heavy to lift up the remote or even to cover my ears because the dust was falling so loudly. The next night I felt somewhat better.
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So you can say I had learned my lesson and when my friends came from New York, Ezgi had a new saying for all of us. Did I listen? I wanted to. Really, I did. I had two glasses, but we needed to finish the bottle. I had about a quarter of a glass more. I was fine until I got home to Yeniköy and got into bed. Round and round went my bedroom. Up and down went my stomach. I closed my eyes. Rakı had knocked me out again, because that’s the way rakı rolls. I’ve warned you now. Don’t say I didn’t. When you get into the ring with rakı, remember make it only two rounds or you’re going down, baby.
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Now if I had mad skillz (yeah, skillz), I would change it to say 'Gonna Fall Now - The Theme from Rakı', but you can imagine that for yourself, right?
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Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-62443603359485037702013-02-08T14:05:00.000+02:002013-02-11T12:06:55.868+02:00Dear Copyeditor,It’s time we had a talk. As you know, I have been writing a blog since May. That makes ten months that I have been struggling with your “work”. When I write a blog piece, I give it all I have. I want to make it funny and interesting and fun. Writing gives me a lot of pleasure and I hope it gives my readers pleasure as well. I also want my writing to be the best it can be. I check what I write, then I double-check it and triple-check it for mistakes. After all that, I send it off and you “edit” it. It’s not gone well.
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In my second piece, The Secret Garden, you decided what I had written needed quotes and you added them. Unfortunately, you added them haphazardly, using quotes in the first part of my piece and not in the second.
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Here is what I wrote to my editor D1 at the time:
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<BLOCKQUOTE>I see that The Secret Garden is now live and I have posted it to my Facebook profile. Unfortunately, I am not very happy because I see that quotes were added to the story. As I have mentioned it is important to me to see any changes to the story before it goes live - even if it is a matter of quotation marks, first of all because there are several errors that your copy editor [<i>sic</i>] made in using the quotation marks. And even more importantly, these are errors I would not as a writer/editor have made if I had decided to use quotes.
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I prefer that you remove the quotations marks that were added, but if you decide to keep them in please be aware that when using quotations marks within a quote that those quotes that are enclosed within the quote now have single marks, as shown here:
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"You go alone because if you go with someone they will say, 'Look at this.' 'Look at this.' You just go..."
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And by the logic of adding quotes to my piece, then this line should also be in quotes:
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"This moment makes me real, but just this moment not before or after."
<p>
Also, it would not be necessary to have each individual paragraph have an opening and close quote, since quotes can actually be more than one paragraph long.
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I am not averse to having my work edited because as an editor I know the importance of having another set of eyes on the work. As a professional I understand that, and I have asked to see the edits because it is important that my work look professional, especially since it has always been throughout the many years I have worked online.
<p></BLOCKQUOTE>
I knew that these kinds of mistakes did not bode well for me. My editors, both D1 and D2, allowed me to approve the edits before they went live. At one point, I got so frustrated with your “work”, I asked that my work go on the site unedited. I was told when I signed my blogger agreement I gave the company permission to edit my posts. While this is true, editing means you catch my mistakes and fix them, not add your own (as you have consistently done with your “edits”, which is a point I have had to make to both D1 and D2). Here are some mistakes I made in Turkish is Hard that you did not catch:
<p>
<BLOCKQUOTE>
1. A comma should be added OUTside the single quote of 'smile and point',<p>
2. A comma should go after the parenthetical phrase büyük and küçük (do you really want to know?), <p>
3. The commas after heels-over-head and masa should be taken out since my usage earlier in the piece does not follow the serial comma format - and the standard journalistic form is usally [<i>sic</i>] not to use a serial comma. (AP Stylebook)</BLOCKQUOTE>
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Recently, I discovered that you are, in fact, a native English speaker. Believe me, for all these months I had assumed that English was your second language. This information makes your mistakes all the more grievous. You need to do better.
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I’ve looked you up on social media. I’ve looked at your LinkedIn profile and from that alone I know you are not qualified to be a copyeditor or an editor. It’s true that you are young and we all have to gain experience. Unfortunately, you do not have a grasp of the basic rules of English. Any third grader can find the mistake in this sentence describing your work: “Edits breaking news content for the publications website.” A more experienced reader would take issue with your inconsistent and whimsical use of hyphenated adjectives throughout that page. This is how you present yourself professionally.
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That is why it is so galling to have this sentence:
<p>
On that card should be the saying my wise friend and bff, Ezgi, coined about rakı.
<p>
changed to: On that card should be printed the saying of my wise friend, Ezgi, coined about rakı.
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and then to: “On that card should be printed the saying of my wise bff, Ezgi, coined about rakı.”
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And have you insist that it is grammatically correct. (Not so, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/macbrunetti/posts/10151414162131250?comment_id=239297093¬if_t=feed_comment" target="_blank">check here</a>.)
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It’s been ten months of this kind of thing and I am tired. I write because I am a writer and I have a passion for writing. I am not paid for the work I do. I do it because one day I want to be paid for the work I do. Honestly, it’s been a struggle. I know I am good and have worked very, very hard to get to where I am. I’d like to have an editor who helps me look better. I cannot catch all my mistakes and I would like to look damn-near perfect in print. I have something to say. I want to say it well and in my own voice. When I looked you up on Twitter your quote says that you are a “[m]ultimedia journalist traversing the world, sharing the stories of those whose voices are struggling to be heard.” I find that really hard to swallow along with your inept “editing”.
<p>
Because when I write a line like:
<p>
Use that thing your <i>anne</i> gave you.
<p>
and you change it to:
<p>
Use that thing your mom gave you.
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It tells me two things. One, that you have no ear for voice and two, you have a tin ear for the vernacular as well.
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I am frustrated, I’m very angry and I am tired of doing my job (writing), then editing my own pieces, and then editing and correcting your mistakes. Does that seem fair to you? I’m not getting paid for this, but you are. That’s why I am telling you, you need to do better. You need to step up or step out of copyediting. Learn the rules of grammar and punctuation, check and double-check your work and be consistent. If you don’t know something, look it up or ask someone more experienced. You have a lot to learn. I suggest you start today.
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-82356008513785099372013-01-24T19:58:00.001+02:002013-01-24T20:04:05.506+02:00The Poetry of Little Things: Mr. Tarçın Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7CpO0wYWFPQFZ5yC4SxRlW-ODKk2jCBt_nTcVvM2HMXtck00sJ7-AX_oYNVuSoRCXIi9Zk74VHK0Kz_lORvEtqySEGVH4E-Y3B0Ec3Iknr4r3-6xTJbkiMX6T5yVraXhKtxiQsxVx9c/s1600/2013-01-24+07.26.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7CpO0wYWFPQFZ5yC4SxRlW-ODKk2jCBt_nTcVvM2HMXtck00sJ7-AX_oYNVuSoRCXIi9Zk74VHK0Kz_lORvEtqySEGVH4E-Y3B0Ec3Iknr4r3-6xTJbkiMX6T5yVraXhKtxiQsxVx9c/s320/2013-01-24+07.26.33.jpg" /></a></div>
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Ever since I discovered that you can make hot oatmeal from Lifalif cereal, I have been on an oatmeal kick. When I make it, I like to sprinkle in a little cinnamon and that was getting messy from the package. I usually had two tablespoons of cinnamon in the pot and it was getting ridiculous. So off I went to buy a shaker. I wanted an big, old-timey, diner-type salt shaker - but <a href="http://thebluesti.blogspot.com/2012/10/possession.html" target="_blank">you know me and shakers</a>, right? Never what I plan. That's how I found Mr. Tarçın Man. In the picture above he looks happy. Here is his more usual look.
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It's the little things that make me happy. The little gestures, the little day-to-day poetry of the ordinary that stay in my heart and make me mindful of life and all it's gifts. Mr. Tarçın Man makes me happy every day.
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-84978853511617138312013-01-07T13:58:00.000+02:002013-01-07T14:04:54.640+02:00New Years' YumI haven't blogged of late - mostly because the end of 2012 was challenging for me. Life was so life-like - full of to-do's and to don'ts and did I mention the challenges? I have turned the corner now. We all have. I think 2013 will be very lucky. I have been calling it 2000lucky13. My horoscope seems to suggest that earned money will be rolling in - I say let the good $$ roll! On New Years' Day the waiter spilled some of my tea in the saucer - he told Tülin to explain to me that it meant my luck was overflowing.
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"Maşallah and teşekküler!" (May it be the Divine's will and thank you!) I answered because it was all good.
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I haven't been writing a lot (I know, stunned silence) and I hope to say one day that life's challenges don't throw me so easily off-track - at the moment they do. I hope to reach that place one day soon. It's not happened in the last month - this month, I am doing better. And it also has helped me figure out a lot of things. I can write articles and blog posts and all manner of things competently and well and I get a lot of satisfaction and enjoyment from it. I love writing, but the writing I most love to do isn't like this - it isn't chatty and hey-let-me-tell-you-something. I want to write stories - long or short, it doesn't matter. Stories full of signs and subtext, poetry and heartbreak, that might be tinged with memoir, full of soaring realizations and wide horizons even if it is found in a tea cup. So I guess what I want to tell you at this late stage is that I am an artist, that I want to create something that no one has ever done before, that it should be beautiful and true - that it comes from my soul and fills my heart.
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Wow! Really? I had no idea this post was going to go this way. I thought I would write about - or eventually get to - how I had friends in town from New York. How much I loved seeing İstanbul through their eyes and how my friend Deborah (who many years ago hired me for my first important job) told me I should write about food. The following evening we met a journalist friend of a friend named Tom who also suggested I do the same - but that advice came with a precaution - if I loved it too much I shouldn't because I would have to think about it. (Instead of just enjoying it was the subtext I got from that advice.) I am an analytical kind of chick even on a good day, so I think I can do it.
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One of the writers that shaped me was M.F.K. Fisher and she wrote truly and beautifully about food. One of my favorite stories is "I Was Really Very Hungry" so much so that I lived a similar experience. I think few writers hold a candle to M.F.K Fisher in any genre, and she has set a bar for me - as with all things, I want the bar to be very, very high. So in this new year expect more food writing from me, expect me to drop out and not explain, expect the unexpected (from me and from life) and most of all enjoy it all. (Interested in M.F.K Fisher? Go big with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0764542613/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=bluesti-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0764542613" target="_blank">The Art of Eating</a>) Afiyet olsun!
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-32685164340390161062012-12-20T17:48:00.000+02:002012-12-20T17:55:48.123+02:00Snow Day in İstanbulI've had a challenging month. And today it's snowing, it's cold and I'm cranky. Last week I could not remember what Planck's constant was. It bothered me. Tally-ho, the internet to the rescue.
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Alrighty then.Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-90050959164489109792012-11-11T23:24:00.002+02:002012-11-11T23:24:37.180+02:00Bang, Bang, Vroom, VroomThe first time I saw Daniel Craig on the Skyfall set as James Bond he was coming out of a metallic Land Rover in a silver-grey suit firing a shiny gun. He was very sexy, surprisingly short and wearing very tight pants. For days my Facebook status was all about Daniel Craig’s tight pants. To be fair, the tight pants were part of a tight suit. I guessed Brioni (the suit just felt Italian to me), but I was wrong, very wrong. It was, in fact, Tom Ford. (And just an aside: Can Tom Ford do no wrong? I think probably not.)
<p>
The suit looked amazing on Daniel Craig’s James Bond. The silvery steeliness reflected something in his eyes and in his persona. The suit seemed to dance on his body, the fabric caressing and releasing his thighs as he walked. To me the suit seemed to balance the essence of James Bond – a loaded gun and a sensual lover.
<p>
I have been thinking a lot about fashion and style of late – how fashion is about desiring something and (your) style is about defining something, claiming something, saying it’s yours and that you are somehow what you are presenting. I don’t think the suit was a casual choice – how could it be? For me, it was a perfect choice and not only because I was crouched down only a couple of feet away from those pant legs. The suit gave structure to Daniel Craig’s beautifully muscular body, enhancing it in a way jeans and a t-shirt would not have done. It gave him a context too. I am not a crazy man firing into a crowd – I’m a man in a suit. I’ve got a job to do. Bang, bang, I am doing my job. Vroom, vroom, off I go.
<p>
I’ve also been thinking a lot about the difference between men and women. Why is it that women don’t write more about masculine beauty? (Ok, sure, romance novels, but I mean, c’mon.) Seriously, women, look at this.
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I know the first impulse is not to write about it (maybe not even the 192nd impulse.) I also know women are not as visually driven as men, but really, look at that man’s back. And also, c’mon, write about it. (This Bond Girl looks for cigarettes and some Scotch.)
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It’s all about beauty and desire, so back to the tight pants. I think every man should have a great suit and a pair of tight pants. For the record, Skyfall’s costume designer Jany Temime called the look ‘body conscious’. Yes, very. You may not want to go underwearless like James Bond – (there is a really slight chance he was wearing whisper-thin boxers, but I doubt it – I was crouched down by his legs a long time. I looked. I saw everything. I’m just not debriefing you on <i>everything</i> I know. So sue me.) But for the record, gentlemen, when you do get your tight pants, just make sure when I see you I immediately think bang, bang, vroom, vroom. Thanks.
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Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-15962605843255000582012-11-10T16:57:00.002+02:002012-11-10T21:44:08.771+02:00I Was A Bond Girl, Kinda SortaMy time on the Skyfall set was mostly fun, though I did moan a lot about my “costumes”. It all began with a little error in translation – I was told to wear ‘pastel’ to the set and to me that means baby blue, pink, maybe even coral. Soon I got a dressing down from the wardrobe mistress who threatened to send me home for my totally inappropriate outfit.
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“Have you never been on set before?” she asked angrily.
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No, actually, I haven’t and as often happens when people start yelling at me for reasons I don’t quite understand, I got all deer-in-the-headlights and froze.
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Erica, my soon-to-be on-screen wife, who had also been yelled at for wearing inappropriate clothing charmed the wardrobe <strike>bitchtress</strike> mistress and off we went to get our costumes.
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It was about 7 in the morning (and late by film crew standards), most people were already on set so all of the costumes were already picked over, but the wardrobe mistress noticing perhaps my dazed-and-confused expression decided that she would now be nice to me.
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“This is your lucky day,” she said. “You get to wear the Joseph jacket.”
<p>
The Joseph jacket was yummy, except for two things. One, I cannot wear the color stone (that’s beige, folks) and two, the extra 75 desserts I had had the month before prevented the wardrobe mistress from being able to zip it up. Goodbye, Joseph jacket, it was nice knowing you.
<p>
What I ended up wearing made me feel like a (male) New York City cab driver. I am not a girly girl by any stretch of the imagination, but really I need to feel at least a little bit feminine. Everyone assured me it didn’t look so bad, but I felt awful in it – but it lent itself to my first storyline.
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Erica, my partner in wardrobe inappropriateness became my on-screen partner. Here she is (out of costume).
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In the scene we filmed near the Halkbank, we were a lesbian couple from Brooklyn on our honeymoon. She was the Julianne Moore to my very macho Annette Benning. Our two kids (are all right) at home in Brooklyn. We stood on that street corner consulting a map as a Land Rover with Daniel Craig’s stuntman zoomed by. Here is a photo our fan John took of us.
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The next day I was called to the set I had gathered that what was meant by ‘pastel’ was actually neutral, as in beige, grey, black and brown. Since I have black and grey clothes, the next time I was able to act in my own clothes. In that scene I spent the afternoon with my former roommate Gennady. I told him to first look at the camera, then look at the zooming Land Rover. It was a word to the wise and he kept looking in the camera’s direction in all the shots. We, of course, had a backstory too. I was his professor’s younger wife and he was a Ph.D. student and we had run off for a romantic weekend in İstanbul. In the scene we were standing near a cart that had cleaning supplies and rope and other strange odds and ends for a pazar in the heart of Eminönü Square.
<p>
“Should we get some rope and a feather duster to take back to the hotel room?” I asked.
<p>
Gennady knows me well and didn’t answer, he knew I would just run with whatever he said so he just conserved his energies for looking at the camera.
<p>
I don’t have pictures from that day, and that was also the day that a seagull sent a load of good luck raining down on us – and our own, personal clothes.
<p>
This is how the Daniels (that’s Daniel Craig and the stuntman also known as Daniel – but is Freckles to me) remember me. By this time I had made friends in the wardrobe department – and since they liked me, I got to wear something that actually was feminine and gave me a waist. I wore this outfit when I was crouched near Daniel Craig's...well, more on this soon.
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The last outfit I wore was this one.
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And here I am with my on-screen husband James. (I am nothing if not versatile.) James was everything you could ever want in an on-screen husband – kind, patient and not easily thrown. We did the scene 50 or 60 times and he was always in character, good naturedly asking if I was hungry or if we needed to get anything else for our kids at home. (We had three. Will, 14 and the twins, Rebecca and Lisa, 12.)
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Really, there’s a lot of time between takes and standing around can get boring. That’s why it was fun to play fight with the Iranian stuntman behind me.
<p>
“Hit me. Hit me.” I told the Iranian stuntman.
<p>
“I cannot hit a girl,” he said.
<p>
“Dude, you’re a stuntman. Pretend to hit me and I’ll pretend to hit you.”
<p>
My on-screen husband patiently watched me karate chop and play kick the Iranian stuntman until they (finally) called a wrap for the day.
<p>
So that is a brief look at my time on the set as a Bond Girl. Now that you know what I look like, keep your eyes peeled for someone with short brownish-reddish-blonde hair somewhere in the opening sequence in Skyfall. If you see me, let me know.
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598455071173012648.post-9847467158988550432012-11-09T23:49:00.000+02:002012-11-10T00:20:46.611+02:00(My) Secrets from SkyfallOne of my very first posts from my <a href="http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/alba-brunetti.aspx?pageID=499&wid=15" target="_blank">Hürriyet Daily News blogging gig</a> was this funny piece about <a href="http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/007-things-about-skyfall.aspx?pageID=500&eid=21" target="_blank">Skyfall</a>. And now the time has come for me to tell you all the things I didn’t tell them.
<p>
First of all, you should know that I was picked up more than a cranky two-year old on that set. And for the record, no, I don’t want to see your tattoos, ride on your motorcycle, go to your house in Bodrum, protest something with you or hear your Michael Jackson cover band, but thanks for asking. Actually, the first three “offers” came from the same guy who called himself Eddy. When you’re working long hours on a film set with lots of people standing around waiting, chit chat is normal. I was chatting with a lot of different people, but Eddy had an agenda. I had only shown polite interest in him, but I guess he liked me – or more likely, wanted to get into my pants – so he proceeded to show me the tattoos on his neck and on his forearms. When I didn’t show enough interest, he showed them to me on his cell phone because, you know, in New York we never really get to see tattoos, do we?
<p>
Eddy had also chatted with my former roommate Gennady that day and Gennady is the kind of guy that can talk to anyone about anything. I kept trying to tell Gennady not to encourage him, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. When Gennady left to do his scene, Eddy gave me several backhanded compliments including how I did not dress like an Italian (Yeah, because this is my costume. We’re on a movie set, remember?) and the all-too-accurate guessing of my age, which I found less than charming. (For the record, a woman likes to think that she can shave 5 – 10 years off her age on a good day – and dude, if you want her to like you, feed her vanity. That’s like womanizer rule # 1.) He had told me he worked in the resort/hospitality business, which translates into a womanizer’s playground – but he was the absolute worst womanizer ever. When he insisted I take his phone number, I found it easier just to put it in my phone under “AnnoyingEddy” and not pick up the next day when he called and the next day after that. Thankfully, he got the message. And you know how it is when someone’s annoying they’re usually not just a little annoying, but a whole lot annoying? Eddy was a whole lot annoying. He couldn’t even just be normal in the scene, but had to ham it up with double and triple takes. The next break we got I went over to where Gennady was and hung out with Tom and Jeremiah who were grad students. Tom was reading Delueze or Guattari or quite possibly both. It’s funny they don’t come up more in real life (Delueze and Guattari, not Tom and Jeremiah) because they say things like desire is a machine. You know on a good day desire is a beautiful machine and on a not-so-good day (like around Eddy) desire is a bad, bad machine.
<p>
Actually, sometimes it is a funny machine, like the guy who wanted me to protest with him at the Hilton.
<p>
“What will we be protesting?” I asked him.
<p>
“Art,” he replied.
<p>
I kinda really like art, so I asked, “But what about art?”
<p>
“It’s a protest about art and it’s at the Hilton,” he replied.
<p>
And yes, the guy did have a good command of the English language, we had spoken at length the day before. If only he had said we were going to protest against Paris Hilton I would have been all over that in a hot second.
<p>
But my favorite guy was Kurdish Peter Lorre. Like his name suggests he was Kurdish and looked like Peter Lorre (Peter Lorre in M or Peter Lorre in Ninotchka, but most definitely not Peter Lorre in Casablanca.) When we met we had the usual broken English/Turkish conversation where he told me he was Kurdish and I was Italian and American. The next day for no explicable reason he started speaking to me in French. I know I did not mention I spoke French and yes, it is a Romance language, but not one that I speak. He went on and on and when he was done I smiled and said, “İtalyan.”
<p>
But he just kept speaking French. Unfortunately, everything I know in French just leads to french so that was of no use whatsoever. For the first few days I just smiled and nodded, but then after a while I learned the be-distracted-by-something-on-the-set-after-you-wave technique.
<p>
I met a lot of people on the set. Here’s a photo of some of the non-Turkish extras.
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Ok, and here is a contraband photo of the waiting area for the extras.
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And the restaurant at the Sirkeci train station – we all had breakfast there at 5:30am every morning.
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I took it as a good sign that we breakfasted under the watchful gaze of Sean Connery (even though it was in Murder on the Orient Express and not To Russia with Love) and there was also a picture of one of my all-time favorite actresses Wendy Hiller who was also in the movie.
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So stay tuned for my next two posts in the James Bond Series: Bang, Bang, Vroom, Vroom (or What He Wore) and I Was A Bond Girl, Kinda Sorta (or What I Wore) coming soon to an RSS feed near you.
Veliero dell'Albahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04539913342089454770noreply@blogger.com0