Moving Earth

Even in error, it took the Ocean to see clearly the calling of the Desert. Again, I embarked on a road trip, across the country with BBC Radio and NPR News acting as infrequent companions, thankfully they lasted in Texas. McD's, Starbucks (for free wifi, of course) and gas stations occupied the trip's process. I can name the top 5 artists on pop radio (Justin Beiber, Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars, Flo Rida and Nicki Manaj (who, in particular, I'm really tired of by the way, but that's another story)) and I still managed to make it through the tumbleweeds of New Mexico's flat scenery. State by state, I cruise controlled across I-10 west with no real destination than the Pacific and frankly what choice did I have? Once you hit the Ocean, you don't exactly want to drown. 

Then again maybe it takes being held underwater to realize how bad you really want what you're after...breath. That which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."**

It's true -it seems time and fate can make one appear ill advised, unimportant and the mission a dead-end. Rather, I would argue, perhaps, every method has its madness and maybe, the strongest will see the end-goal to fruition, even it means an unexpected format. Sometimes, that's just how it works. Sometimes, it's all worth the risk.

So there I was, running along the sand with the nothing but the waves in my ears, bare feet and the morning air keeping me from breaking a sweat: it made sense. Time to double back.  

And back I went - across the the tumbleweeds - and weekend radio talk shows, gunning it through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana & Mississippi - made a pit stop in Birmingham and back where I needed to be...for today: Atlanta. The long drive exhausted me, but there were moments, when the sun peaked over the horizon, I thought, it might just be alright. 

To the nay-sayers and the gloaters, time hasn't been long enough to show you what you're missing out on. For the yay-sayers and cheerleaders, don't worry, keep pushing. It's all has been, is and will be worth it. That which we are...we are. We cannot change. I won't, so I'll fight to keep going and go again. 

Recently, while talking with a friend about mud racing, we watched the motivational promo for the Spartan Race. The video shows participants struggling through the ropes obstacles, paraplegics accomplishing the impossible and underneath is a track from a motivational speaker who tells the story of a man who sought out a guru in his pursuit of success. 

The guru told him, "When you get to the point where you want to be successful as bad as you want to breathe, then you'll be successful...," this after leading him to deep waters and holding his head under. 

Sometimes, that's just how it works, sometimes, that's just the way of it. The open road gave me an avenue, the open ocean was my guru - and at the end of the day: this first year isn't over and I'm still working. I hope you'll keep following.

**This is the poem 'M.' recites in the new James Bond film, "Skyfall" while answering an inquiry from the British government on the relevancy of secret agents.

Special Report*: Beirut’s Flower Children

(Beirut) I heard her crying on a corner of the street as I walked back to my hotel after dinner. It was 11pm at night and the girl looked no more than 10 years-old. She wiped a dirty tear from her face with the sleeve of a dirty pink sweatshirt and was holding onto a bunch of roses - sitting in yellow water of a used water bottle.  As roughed up as she looked, I could tell she had been outside for a couple of days.

I didn’t know whether or not she would understand me, but I squatted down and asked anyway, “Are you ok? What’s wrong?”

She could tell I was trying to help. She spoke quickly - in Arabic - and pointed to another bar down the road. I didn’t quite understand, but almost immediately, a young man noticed the girl speaking to me and came over to help. He translated, “Apparently, she says, some guy smacked her in the face with one of her roses.”

He walked toward the bar where the girl was pointing. I held out my hand to help her up. The man asked a group of three standing outside what happened, explaining in Arabic what the girl told us. After a back and forth, he turned to me and said, “They’re blaming her.” According to the trio, the girl knocked over a cocktail glass and broke it. I was horrified; she is just a kid, that didn’t give him the right to hit her. The translator agreed, but said there was nothing to be done. By the time I turned around, the girl was running back down the street.

She wasn’t the only child I encountered in Beirut, selling flowers.
They’re out every night, around the bars and streets, asking for money, giving people roses. One boy, I saw almost every night, 6 or 7 years old, maybe, understood me a little better than the girl, enough to sell a rose and say thank you when I bought one. He was short, shaggy hair, always in a jeans and t-shirt and a light jacket, he had pudgy cheeks and a shy smile. He seemed to be well known on Gemmayze Street, several bartenders and store owners spoke to him and waved when he walked by. He would sell his roses, hail a cab and move on.

One night, on my way back to the hotel, a tall lanky kid, he looked about 12 or 13 years old, walked up to me with a little "gangsta-swag" in his step, a huge grin crossed his face and he handed me one of the roses, "you want one," it was statement, not a question. I raised my eyebrows, smiled back and asked, "Shouldn't you be in bed?" He scrunched his face and retorted back, "Aw, c'mon!" I only had 10,000 Lira in my purse, I pulled it out and gave it to him and told him to keep his flower, give it to his sister, whatever. He face gleamed as he said, 'Merci!' I walked away shaking my head and smirking. Cute kid. He was with an older boy, probably late teens, drinking a beer and watching the kid like a hawk.

It was my soft spot, the small moments I let my guard down, just a little. They were kids. The one place I had no strength to say, 'no.' And yet this was common place. You won't find, really any, reputable news articles on these kids, NGO statistics seem to be scarce and what little I could find were a few testimonies of others who have met them: some reacting to children who acted out violently, others describing how the kids would talk about their 'boss.' Some of the Beirut locals I spoke with said the kids were Syrian, others from poor families, and others kidnapped - raped and/or forced to work. 

I kept wondering, how many of them will end up criminals? Picked by gangs, extremists groups or enter sex slave trade?
The Ministry of Social Affairs in Beirut released a commercial video earlier in 2013 noting the money often given to the young kids on the street don't go to them or their families, rather adults who are abusing the children's vulnerability. What more they are doing to prevent the children from being in the streets is unclear. And for now, without the help or sufficiency of aid organizations, rescue efforts from the government seem to be far from in place.

In retrospect, I wonder if my attempt to help the girl I met did any good. I never saw her again. Although, I wish I had.

*This story happened during the fall 2012, it was later updated to reflect the video mentioned in 2013. 

Syrian Stories Part II

Getting him to tell me his story was a little like pulling teeth. But I was understanding, I don't know if he saw it that way. The only thing that mattered was the story, right? Well if he was the story, then he is what mattered. He believed me enough.

He fled from Syria, at his father's request. He was from Latakia. And for the most part, so it seemed, it was a city that had yet to be bombarded by the civil conflict. But he didn't realize that even the Human Rights Watch recently reported government forces torturing male victims in the city's detention centers. He thought his family had nothing to worry about, but he didn't know that victims from Latakia were reporting their families were threatened and beaten. 

Initially he wanted to connect me with 2-of his friends, who he later said in a text message would refuse to give talk about their story. He didn't think his own was significant, but after assuring him I wouldn't use his name, he agreed to tell me more. Then he was afraid his English wouldn't be good enough. He tries hard and often looses the words he wants to communicate. I told him to communicate in Arabic. He did. 

He told me that he had money to get through the border, that someone he knew was able to get him across without any trouble. But he is continuing to borrow money from his father and doesn't know what he'll do next. He's been here a month, he said, and was staying at a hotel that he only had to pay around 300 dollars a week, but it was getting tiresome because he wasn't always eating. He got up and often wonders the city, walks by the Sea and then off to bar where he can get a beer before going back to his room. He thought about going to a church where they were helping Syrians and feeding them everyday but he didn't think God would like for him to be in a church. He only liked Jesus when things were ok, and right now? They are not. Going to the UNHCR frightens him to, no amount of assuring would rescue his anxiety. What if they were to send him back, he asks me. He's not sure he can go and ask for their help. 

He was waiting, he told me, for an invitational letter from his relative to France. Once he received this letter, he could apply for a visitor's Visa to the country. But it had not come yet, and he was starting to debate whether or not he wanted to go to France. What would he do there? What if he stayed longer than his Visa and got caught? He'd be deported, he would be forced to fight in the war. He doesn't want to, he's terrified. He's never been attacked, he's never been in trouble with authorities. Even so, he's afraid, more than he's ever been. 

He's a refugee without status, without a job, without hope, and time is running out. 

Seeping Cedars

"The land mourns and languishes; Lebanon is confounded and withers"

Being a beatnik in Beirut is a task not left for those who conform easily. It means managing your own while still being able to blend in, or at the very least, with the expatriate groups around you. It's a fantastic place to people watch and pick out the tourists, the locals and the wanna-be somethings. On occassion, there is serenity in the bustle and when the old man who sits on the street to smoke nods your way, you find yourself returning the courtesy not realizing it is the kindest thing you could do for him all day. 

The main drag is a torn specimen of remembrance for old things. Graffiti, bullet holes and cracks in the wall; even a trash pile at the edge of a construction site, it's all there along the street they say has the night life going for it, but the deprivation in the stone is evident. Remnants of war, conflict and high intensity are everywhere. The internal security forces, military minders all up and down the road ways, weapons in hand, watching, waiting and for the most part playing it cool because frankly they don't want to start a fight, they don't want to return one, they'd rather just watch. 

"Escapism" is only word that comes to mind while watching the Lebanese rummage through it's daily life. The women souped up in make-up, cheekbones and heels. The men light up one cigarette after another and since there is now a smoking ban inside, they're all outside, on display. The Sea is at their fingertips but as the days slip into winter, they hardly realize it's even there. The fresh air is just laced with smoke and chatter. 

I've heard some call it the 'Paris of the Middle East,' yet, I cannot agree. What I do notice is a desperation for Paris' return - or maybe they're hoping to keep the benefits while chiseling away its influence. Stores and boutiques are French. License plates are written in numerals and Arabic. 

Street signs still remain in both Arabic and French and most children start learning the language in grade school. Elders often start and finish their sentences in both tongues. While communication is efficient; it seems their tendency to slip from one to the other is an organized clutter of thoughts. There is pride in being an Arab, even a distaste for the French, yet they are marked with colonialism.

The distress of the city sticks. The struggle comes from within, but it is affliction from the outside invading their core refuge. The cedar tree is dried up and there are things masked among young locals who want to leave. Others revel more in their ethnicity and still they cling to a nationalistic spirit without any cognitive way out. The city stands as a hub and a place where people gather only forget the war next door and in some cases,3-blocks away. 

Standing in Beirut, what I see- is a downcast relic of extraordinary beauty desperate for a place to belong.

Syrian Stories

The stories below are from Syrians I have met in the last month, all of them different but all with similar perspectives on the conflict. They stay away and search of better. I have omitted their names and specific details for safety. Each paragraph is only a window to people who each want one thing in their country: peace. Please read on.

the U.S.

---He turned to me in the cafe and asked about my computer. I noticed his thick middle eastern accent and politely asked where he was from. He told me, Syria. He was from a small city near the Mediterranean that is majority Al-Awite, though he and his family were Shia. He said he didn't speak to his family about the conditions or their concerns in Syria for fear of their safety. He anticipates, though beyond the mountains in Syria, his region will eventually be affected by the conflict. We spent a significant amount of time discussing the conditions in the region and even why his cousin stepped down as a reporter. He told me he had come to the states nearly 15 years ago to pursue his Ph.D. in bio-medical research. His focus started on cancer, but now he is working stem-cell research from Lipo Suction for patients whose tissue and blood cells are deteriorating due to Diabetes. He hopes to be able to bring good to the world, still trying to be proud of the country he came from. 

In Turkey

---He sat in an office waiting to be paid for the work he did. He had acted as a translator and fixer into Syria and his work, regularly funded by foreign governments often included translation and training for other Syrians. We stood on the balcony and sipped over tea while he told me his story. He had grown up in Damascus - he loved it there, he never thought he could leave and then...he was forced out. Having been detained on several occasions for supporting protests in the city and questioned at various times in his life, it got to be too much, it got to be dangerous. So - he fled. A close friend of his, a commander and defector was chasing down Jihadis that would other interfere in what he called the revolution, often kept him informed on the latest inside Syria. I asked him when it is all over, if he thinks he would go back to live in Syria again. He told me, "When you've been forced out from something, it's hard to ever go back." There was definitely sadness in his voice when he said that, he lit another cigarette, looked over the main square. He was incredibly intelligent, knew Syrian history - knew his own and wants nothing more than the conflict to end in peace. He worries for his family and friends still there, but will do what he can to help push the revolution to completion. 

Beirut

---She is from Syria, a town that has yet to be affected and the same town as my contact in the US, in fact. Her fiance, from another country. He told he would meet her half way, and they would get married, they would get her a Visa. So, they waited, toured the country, made new friends and convinced her relatives this was all for the better. She worries for her family and her sisters. The fighting hasn't reached her home yet, but she fears it will soon. She is glad she is finally joining her fiance, she's glad to leave Syria for now. But she hopes it will subside, she hopes to return. She misses home...the good part. She great up in an Orthodox home, largely unaffected by sectarian disputes, open to everyone, embraced by everyone: Christian and Muslim alike - teaching English and working with her father at his store. She's a movie buff: likes comedy, horror and romance. She wants stability. Her mother came to visit her and her mother says, she hopes the fighting will cease soon. Her mother said to me, "the Syrian people don't deserve this."  

---Terrified of going back to Syria. He said he knows they'll force him to fight, whether it be FSA or the Government forces, he says, he knows they'll force him to pick up a gun and he says, he'll die. Mid-20s, he spent time in the army several years ago post secondary education. He's able bodied and young; they've threatened him, he's only wants to leave. But, he doesn't know where to go. He can't get in the United States, he doesn't know anyone and he feels hopeless. He doesn't want to die in Syria, but he jokes of suicide. He's scared, no motivation, no way way out. Right now, he says, he only smokes weed, but other drugs look appealing - trying them is a trip, an experience he says. 

---She's only half Syrian, and it's in her name, but it's also her passport - and she can't get anywhere. She didn't grow up in Syria. She grew up in Saudi Arabia, the United States, Lebanon and around the world. Her father's business took them places and they frequented the U.S. - particular during college, back and forth her studies were in New York and Los Angeles. Her history shows very few visits to Syria, yet getting a green card or a Visa long enough work is near impossible. At this point she says, it'll benefit her to get a passport of another country under her mother's name. But even that is a long process, because in the Arab world, things take time. She told me about being questioned at the university for nearly 6 hours because the administration was confused by her name or why she changed majors several times...though, this is not uncommon for the majority of college students. She's frustrated. She wants to return to the States, have a steady job, a more consistant life. She'd even like to work in hard-news again, misses her pursuit in it, but it would be too dangerous because of her name, she tells me, because it cause trouble for family members still in Syria. Canada she said, is helping Syrians. She doesn't want to go to Russia. Hong Kong looks promising, but I could tell, she loves New York. If only it were a little easier for her to be there, stay there and work there. 

Walking In Place

“I can’t believe I ate that whole thing,” I exasperated. I had just eaten a rather large personal pizza at a little Italian/Japanese Café in the Souks in Beirut.

“Eh, Enjoy it, you can eat whatever you want, here, because you walk everywhere.” Jamjoom smiled.

He was right, of course, only leaving out the running across streets and dodging cars that would otherwise run you over. The exercise was “all natural” in this city by the sea.

Having finally seen a familiar face, a dear friend; it made my day. I felt like I was really here, after nearly 5 days.  Somehow the possibilities got bigger and it just seemed to settle that I right where I wanted to be…in Beirut.

Only a day before I had walked down toward the Presidential Palace to see the remnants of demonstrations that didn’t seem to have any traction in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the work-week. Even so; Lebanese security forces were everywhere, though, they didn’t seem too concerned.

I ran into a team from local affiliate, Future TV, who had a tent set up, a satellite truck and were waiting for the call to do LIVE coverage if anything developed.  Ali, the cameraman, was a kind man; he offered coffee, juice, snacks and cigarettes. He told me stories about going to Ol’ Miss in the States during the 80s. He told me how Syria was affecting the land he owned and Ali even told me if I ever needed anything, to give him a call (Because, well..let's face it, I stick out like a sore thumb). 

The camp, itself, had several tents, Lebanese flags hanging everywhere and of course security had the area blocked off. If you didn’t follow the news, you may have never known there had been thousands in the square or tear gas released on the crowds just days before. The camp was quiet and there weren’t any more than about 8 or 10 people standing around. Mohammad Saad, one of the leaders of the protest told me they had been there for 11 days. He said he and the protesters were against the current administration, he thinks President Sleiman should resign and how it was all actually helping the Syrian regime stay in power – so to him, they were indirectly helping the Syrian people and of course, themselves.

Walking on, I thought, Beirut, so it seems, is a place hanging in the balance. They wait for peace, for the Government to hear them, they wait for war and they wait to see what will happen next. In truth? I am following suite. What will be tomorrow - I can only wait and see. 

Lebanon's Friendliest, First Days & a Walk-About

Law & Order re-runs, dubbed in French and shown on Lebanese TV. My evening at the hotel room was rather entertaining. And it was only night two. 

When I arrived on Sunday, a driver was at the airport, waiting for me, ready to whisk me away to the hotel. A quaint place in downtown Beirut, international flags displayed outside and the front desk manager was kind and accommodating. I was set up for the next several days, and with that; I was also ready to get in and take a nap. I never sleep while traveling. My layover had been a rather pointless in Amman, but the flight was cheap because t was the middle of the Muslim holiday: known as Eid. 

The small room was cool and clean and contained everything I needed: a bed, a desk and a bathroom. I unloaded my belongings and sat down on the bed, though almost immediately, I laid down and went right to sleep. After a couple of hours, I decided I needed to explore the block. I would touch base with my friends later. Most places were closed both due to Eid and because it was Sunday, explained the afternoon hotel manager. But he gave me fine directions to a small market that *would* be open. 

Making my way down the street, I thought it might be good to have a little cash, in Lebanese pounds, rather than just my credit card. So walked a little further to see if I could find an ATM. I circled around one of the small streets and headed toward the port, thinking I would come up on a main road. I did. Turning to my right, I saw a security guard who caught my eye and asked if he could help - at least, I assumed that is what he was asking in Arabic. I asked him if he spoke English and he answered back that he knew some. He showed me to the ATM right inside the building he was watching. I didn't know the currency exchange at the time, so I made a guess and pulled out Lebanese pounds as well a dollars, just in case. 

Back around and to the market, I picked up a few snacks and headed back to the hotel. If I thought I was lost, I simply asked someone on the street. Everyone was kind and helpful. Later that night, looking for a restaurant or bar open, because a woman does have to eat, even on the holiday; I found a place that had lights on just down the street from the hotel, but of course when I walked up the stairs to the restaurant, I discovered it was a Chile's - ah, an American restaurant. Nevertheless, I was hungry, so it was - I ate and had a couple of deserved Margaritas. Of course, it didn't matter much. I sat at the bar and with only a few people in the venue watching the Manchester United-Chelsea football match (ManU won, sadly), the bartender and one of his *server* friends eagerly talked to me - what to do in Beirut, how to navigate around and then, you know, the conversation diverted to Lady Gaga and why she made for great Halloween costumes. 

Day two would be a bit like the first, walking to one of the shopping centers for a local phone and well...a hair-dryer (yes, truly an American girl). But without any trouble, I was able to ask for assistance and folks were able to help. Even if they didn't speak English well, or at all, they could understand and were more than willing to point and show me where to go. 

In all the hours of my work, research, writing and inquiries: the one thing I found in my first days here: people are attentive and willing to share what they know with someone who is obviously...not a local.

Photo Essay: (Turkey) Haiga Sophia

Notes: The Haiga Sophia, also known as the Saint Sophia was once an Orthodox Christian Church under Constantine who had it built and it was an important monument during the Byzantine Empire and later it became a Mosque after Ottoman Turks conquered the region. It was incredibly fascinating to see such exquisite design and the additions that were seamlessly made. I was often amused at the obvious influences by the Catholic on the Orthodox structure of the Church - but in all my observance during the self guided tour, I kept thinking, What actually happened here? Was there bloodshed? God, were you here? Perhaps strange to some, but it was an awe satisfying experience. Stained glass windows, Arabic script, alters and pathways - even burial sites. It was Holy ground that welcomed more than just one group of people. And though it is run as a tourist museum, it had an essence that reminded people - this was a place of worship and prayer, perserved for centuries. The European had been met with the Arabian - and the remnants  to me, were quite extraordinary. 

Istanbul Mornings: from Buyukdere to Taksim

There's something about the rain here. As night falls, so do the drops and they pour, and it doesn't stop. Just off the coast of the Black Sea, in a fishing village called Buyukdere, there's something peaceful - far from Istanbul. I can see why the legendary Margaret Moth kept her home here. 

The morning run was often peaceful, quiet and surreal. The fishing boats were in, the fisherman selling their catch from wooden carts and my walk down to the path often followed the smell of the poor dead fish waiting to be cooked up and consumed. But not matter, the bright sun over the Sea, the Mountains that rose above them and all the village roof tops made the mornings ever so picturesque. After good physical exertion and serenity, I enjoyed stopping by the market to pick up fruit and a pastry for breakfast before going back to the old house for a shower. 

The local Taxi manager knew my face every morning, and that I needed a quick ride to the Metro. He always smiled as he waved down one of his drivers for me. He could say hello in English and understood me when I'd bow slightly and say one of the few Turkish words I know, "Sal" - which is actually, "Sag Olun" and and is often used in gratitude. 

Taxi, Metro and Taksim Square, it was a daily ritual for my two week stay in Istanbul. Constant views of the Mosques all over the city, cafes for Turkish tea in the morning...oh and in the afternoon and at night with colleagues, new friends and strangers. Lunch lasted a few hours, and there was always room to drink more tea in a cafe open to the outside with an adopted cat that sat in the doorway. 

In spite of the Mob moving through the city (nearly 16 million people mind you), Istanbul had it's own ora, rhythm and movement that made it unique to any other place I have been. But simultaneously, it's modern jive that Turks never fail to call attention to - though, I would recommend if you're in a department store, ask the manager to communicate with you on Google Translate, be prepared to dry your clothes on a line, if you take a Taxi: don't watch the drive and if you walk, make sure to watch OUT for the drivers...and oh, don't forget to try the Simit with your Turkish tea. 

Moments of the Sacred: Part I

The Call to Prayer, it happens 5-times a day in the Muslim world. And at least that many times, on each and every day is a call to acknowledge the Sacred. 

I have often woken up in the morning to the sound of the Mu'adhin calling out - it's the noon call, the Mosque in Buyukdere is only a few blocks from where I stayed. They call out on intercoms that are attached to the Minuets. There have been days where the gentleman sounds like he has something stuck in his throat and has to clear it before continuing. Though amusing, in it's own form, he is dedicated to a call for Prayer, Holiness, reflection,...at this, many Muslims will drop to their knees - facing the most holy place they know and seek Heaven. 

I remember the first time I heard it, a cup of coffee in hand, waking up, standing in a garden in my favorite sweats, the cool morning air and the Call itself beckoned my own prayer, my own thankful surrender to God. The moment demanded my attention, compelled my mind to hold still - just for a moment. And so on I went. 

I imagine, like any other human, the Muslim believers ask for help, they ask for blessings, they pray away their sins, they ask for direction, they look find what else they can do live a better life. Are they so far from anyone else? No. Five times a day, they pause for a moment, they look to Reverence and ask for better.

How often, in the Christian world is this done? On Sundays? During a Bible study once a week or a holiday? How often is it done anywhere else - among those with or without any kind of faith? Yes, it begins to sound like a ritual, a regulation of the Religion. But I have found, watching, in only 2-weeks, that this call is precious. The ground they stand on, for so many Muslims, immediately becomes an alter. There is nothing else that matters or makes more sense than that moment. This, truly, is fascinating. It is so because it is necessary. 

How often do we each focus what is truly important? Those from the West and more specifically, the US are always in such a rush to be satisfied and right and right now, ahead of the game and above all else, there is no surrender, God is not *really* factored into the equation, only human worthiness and who is in or who is out of the "Club." Religion is on a fast track, it has become a self-righteous *political* statement and the practice of cleansing isn't even a recognized. There is no meditation or focus on the pause that needs its moment, the quietness of Soul and Spirit. 

This is the beauty in the Call to Prayer. It is, like the word "Islam" itself, a call...to genuine surrender. 

Sunday Protests: Animal Activists & The Turkish Gov't

It was the day for protests in Istanbul. 3 different groups organized and chanting.

But it was the animal rights activists who were the loudest. Whistles and bazookas, they marched down Istaklal to Taksim square with one angry message: "5199 No More. " 

The Turkish government is currently considering legislation that would clean the streets of its stray animals in exchange for what they say would be better conditions for the animals by potentially putting them in parks, and it may encourage citizens to adopt strays. 

But many Turks argue the government is looking to sweep the strays from the street only to leave them to starve in enclosed locations. Seemingly, as a cultural practice many restaurant owners and store vendors often feed cats and dogs in the streets, adopting them in the neighborhood, thought they don't take them home. 

A local professor, I met the other night, comes out every evening with mixed food and bowls for local neighborhood kitties. Rumor has it that another woman keeps a separate apartment for the cats she collects and a local tea vendor I watch the other night played peace maker with two stray dogs that wanted to bicker over a bone. 

When the protest began a few weeks ago, the government issued a statement stating that the law would provide protection against animal cruelty and it was to ensure the safety and welfare of the animals.

But the people's protest continues. They are afraid the government will repeat an incident which occurred in 1910, where officials shipped off dogs to an island, clearing streets in attempts to "modernize" the country - the dogs were ultimately starved to death. And it was said that citizens could hear the dogs howling. Activists are insistant the new legislation violates animal rights and their right to care for them. 

Ironically, though, one thing I noticed on Sunday - of each of the protest groups that came through; more people crowded the streets to fight for animal rights than to protest against a war with Syria. 

They Bought The Farm, all of it...

They “bought the farm,” Ray laughed. He and his wife, Dhara, friends of my host, invited us, literally, to check out the farm they had put money on – in the mountains that rise above the Black Sea. When we arrived, we jumped the fence, gained permission from the residents living behind the house and wandered the property. Apples from apple trees, Grapes, from vines, Persimmons from persimmon trees - the fruit was plentiful and incredibly delicious. The children ran the field and through the garden, climbing trees and picking ripe peppers. It was amazing.

Ray, a yoga instructor and artist, mentioned that he wanted to make the place his weekend getaway and perhaps, eventually a permanent residence for the family. He hopes to renovate a run down gazebo in the back for a Yoga, Asian-style studio. They want to be able to grow their own vegetables and to be honest, it was the most peaceful place I have been yet in the past few days. 

The villager neighbors came out to talk with us and while I didn’t necessarily understand all of the conversation, which was mostly Turkish, I enjoyed listening, watching and finding the small ways to communicate.

An elderly gentleman, who I picked up was about in his 60s – stopped me at one point, while I was sitting on the swing to ask me to take a picture, of course, I obliged. The small boy who lived there led Ray and Dhara's children around, showing them the field, playing games and participated in the apple picking. He was so young, maybe 5 or so and had the most stunning features. He often stopped to stare at me, and even tell me something, he would peer at my camera and finally even, sat still enough, for me to capture his beautiful young face. Ray & Dhara's children are already trilingual - speaking Turkish, French and English - knew to speak to the boy in Turkish and the three kids played endlessly around the land. 

The land was so beautiful and the warm afternoon sun, the high view and cool breeze made the visit truly worthwhile. It was a day that turned out just...Perfect.

Istanbul or Constantinople?

At 2-a.m., driving through Istanbul, I couldn't really see more than what the city lights had to offer. But my "Taksi" driver talked me through some of the landmarks anyway. His English was broken but he knew right where to go, as he often drives my host around the city as well as the CNN staff. He is married, has a son (15) and a daughter (10), loves football too much and visits the Mosque regularly. We arrived and I was exhausted, but glad I had finally made my destination. Frankly, I was just looking forward to a bed I could stretch out on and sleep. 

This morning I woke up in an old house in Buyukdere, near the Black Sea. The sounds of Istanbul were quietly calling me to get up. It was already 11a.m. I woke up to my friend making coffee and graciously accepted a cup. He and the cleaning maid commented about how cold I must be because I was bare foot walking through the kitchen. They offered me slippers to cover my toes and I denied. I told them, I'm perfectly comfortable, not cold at all. The morning was perfect, a slight breeze in the air, slithering in the old house, and the warm sun peeking it's way through.

From a Mosque just a few blocks away, I heard the Call to Prayer. Standing in the Garden behind the house, I closed my eyes for a moment and sent heaven my own. It was a moment of Sacred ritual, an appreciation for blessings, a moment of peaceful reflection, even surrender.

After the morning settled in, we showered, dressed and headed out for breakfast. We went to a small cafe near the CNN bureau space and enjoyed tea and potatoes and other such things. Unlike the City, the neighborhoods and villages make Istanbul what it is, the culture is thick and everyone is looking out for someone and trying to get where they're going. The Views are magnificent and while many apartments and houses sit on top of one another, there's always a community buzzing in its own rhythm. 

Ironically, the global chaos that seems to exist in every major city - are bad drivers. But here, they rarely pay attention to lanes, turn signals are used rarely, if ever and people move in and out of traffic like they were all heading to the hospital in labor. Even still, the city of Istanbul has it's own tune and right now, I look forward to navigating my way for a few weeks.