Reads:

  • I know why poor whites chant trump trump trump The author connects her experience working in a shitty bar in Arkansas and living in a trailer park to today’s politics, and outlines the history of American wealth inequality from slavery to the civil rights era to Bush. I learned that many of the descendants of white indentured servants ended up in Appalachia, and also that a bunch of people camped out on the Washington lawn after King’s assassination in order to draw attention to ending poverty. It’s timely, in the wake of the reporting on the Panama papers, to revisit the history of how wealthy people in their bid to stay on top (or just plain greed) shaped the lives of millions of people. Was that sentence structured strangely? I’m rereading that last sentence and it was structured strangely. Maybe? Anyways side note where does the impulse to blame poor people and foreigners for problems come from?????

Jams:

  • TARANTA  epic drums/violin/choral/guitar jam from southern Italy made by a generation band and a composer
  • The Ballad of George Collins ballad with funky beat and a trippy modern dance video. the singer, sam lee, is an english folk singer who travels around to roma and ‘travellers’ communities to learn their songs, and then arranges them with modern and international instrumentation. has a background in burlesque and wilderness survival. probably a druid. read the article about him in the guardian. also check out his song blackbird
  • Stye albanian spooky poem set to sparse accompaniment of piano, drums and voice
  • All Star but everyone is playing at different tempos why would someone make this

Video:

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when you wake up hungover and want to write about destiny:

every word, so slow to come, is destiny to say

nothing can be unsaid until you scrap out the worst

parts but stop the cart keep rolling,

the only form, sounded out by tenzing the throat-singer, can

be a starstretched poem emptied out pouring quiet:

whether it’s good or bad it’s still your destiny and you’re still hungover.

go and find.

 

If you could not see me for seven years more

would you pop off facebook and leave me alone

would I have to seek you in the sage hollow fair

or would you just text me later

 

confront the ugly-faced gremlin who says everything you do is stupid

and wave your genitals at him in the crudest way

 

A half-eaten greyfut

it wasn’t very good

but then again, what did you expect? a grapefruit?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This gallery contains 14 photos.

Our first day in Bulgaristan we took the night bus up from Istanbul. It took us four visits and one phone call (conducted on our behalf a native speaker, no less) to make reservations with the bus company, find out the reservations had disappeared, figure out where they were picking us up, and pay for the …

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This gallery contains 17 photos.

As part of our weekend trip to Bulgaria (for visa renewal purposes), we stopped by an abandoned parliamentary building of the old communist days built atop a mountain. “The profits from Bulgaria for an entire year went into building this,” our guide and driver Velin told us. It had snowed the day before, and while …

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IMG_20160403_180020639Last Sunday we woke up and I had that Hozier song that’s in 5/4 stuck in my head. Jari was downstairs doing collage of course and I made the coffee, and I polled them for what the song was called. “From Eden,” Harriet said. “I don’t know how I know that.”

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this was almost a good picture and I blame myself

We listened to it, and then listened to it again, and Jari looked up from between the clippings of paper wreathing his presence, like shavings of wood around a mad puppet master. “I got invited to a picnic today by that cellist I met last night. She messaged me on facebook like “I guess you were too drunk to remember” and I was like “no, I was sober last night…” but anyways I don’t know what you’re doing today but we’re having a picnic.”

We readily agreed and packed in some of the Bulgarian wine and went to Validebağ.

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Anna, as a grimlock war-guardian of the palace of Gorgenspittle

We met Nur (Jari’s cellist friend whom he totally remembers meeting) at the Starbucks across from the entrance to the park, wandered inside, picked a tree, and laid our blankets out. She’d brought some wine from Bozcaada, and candied coriander seeds, and mastiha, a Greek liquor made from the sap of the mastic tree. (Damla sakızı in Turkish). And, a wacky little bouzouki she’d purchased from a friend of hers (who had MADE it) which had this great banjo-y sound. We brought the more workhorse foods of bread, tomatoes, labne, cheese, plus our own instruments.

And yesterday, on Monday, Orkun made some excuses and took the second half of the day off. I’d worked all morning on TOGY spreadsheets (this week, on Azerbaijan) so I felt entirely justified in going to the sahil with Jari and Orkun to have a beer and look at the dogs (link to dog video). I played “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park” by Tom Lehrer for Orkun and he loved it.

 

 

This is a short story about Brazil Coffee Roasters and Dry Goods (Breziliya Kurukahvecisi), a shop in Kadıköy.

When I was contracted to act in a miserably-organized ad shoot* at the beginning of Season Two, I was hanging out with the director of the shoot in the van and mentioned that there was nowhere to buy good coffee in Istanbul. Can you imagine, a whole year drinking instant? Miserable. He recommended a spot in Moda, a district in my Asian side district of Kadıköy, where they imported it and roasted it themselves. I was elated and the next day set out to find it. I was put off by the Aunt Jemima sign, but please remember this is Turkey and our race issues have a different context. 10456781_1708218709446294_2003148570279157791_n.jpg

It was a cheerful place staffed by a crowd of middle-aged dudes who bustled behind the counters like bumblebees. A birdcage in the corner housed a green songbird, merrily chirping away. Every shelf was packed with teas and coffees from all over the world, there were sacks of seeds and nuts open on the floor, basins of dried apricots and dates and chocolates, drawers full of powdered pistachio and jars full of blueberries. They had articles (in Turkish, naturally) proclaiming the health benefits of this berry or another, and one suggesting that four cups of coffee a day would lead to an extraordinary long life. IMG_20160331_160957063.jpgThey had two open canvas sacks of coffee beans, one dark and one light, sitting next to a roaster. I asked for a half-kilo of filter coffee (what you and I know as “normal coffee”) and they scooped up a scoop of the darker beans, poured them into a grinder, and the bright-eyed guy behind the counter chatted with me about my obvious foreignness and what I was doing in Turkey. My Turkish wasn’t great then, but he was genuinely interested and I did my best. I paid fifteen lira. (So back then about seven dollars a pound–a decent price for good coffee even in the US.) We didn’t have a french press or anything, so I used the çaydınlık (the turkish teapot) and just mixed the grounds and water direct. It was great coffee–the freshest I’d had all year. IMG_20160331_160918072.jpg

Jari and I, true to our Park heritage, must drink coffee until we pee out all our moisture and we become as dried out as corn husks. In those days I still worked at Bugün and copyedited from home, so in the mornings before the first articles came Jari and I would brew a pot and sit in the sunlight in the living room like lizards, playing computer games from the 90s, drinking coffee. It was a great and magical time. We made expeditions to Breziliya when we ran out, and they’d put on a muppet show for us when we arrived. “It’s been two weeks since we’ve seen you,” one of them says, and then one calls across from the other aisle, “Yes that’s right two weeks, two weeks, we expected you.” They were funny guys. The more Turkish we learned, the more we could communicate. They had been in business eighty years, and had been for sixty years in that spot–in Moda. I asked one time where the coffee came from and they deadpanned at me: “Brazil.” Duh.

What made the place stand out was that every place around it was a new bar or restaurant. This little store clearly had some accumulated character and history. They weren’t pretentious, just earnest.

They had a news article out front on the window with their story. In 1917 a soldier named Hacı Sıddık Ergincan finished his military service in Trabzon and bought a one-way boat ticket to Istanbul with the intention of starting up a coffee business. He stayed with his relatives and opened Merkez Kurukahvecisi in Kasımpaşa in 1920, a neighborhood on the IMG_20160331_160857809_HDR.jpgGolden Horn on the European side in Beyoğlu.** Business boomed, and he opened up a total of seven shops. He had a son, Mevlüt, who began to take over the family business as his father aged. He had a couple of neat marketing ideas, including printing the logo on coffee cups, and selling coffee in 50-gram bags like teabags. According to this story I’m reading now, the first coffee was from Indonesia and too hard for Turkish tastes, so they began importing from Brazil instead, and changed the name to Breziliya Kurukahvecisi.

The shops one by one were shuttered for various reasons, but the one in Moda still prospered. Mevlüt passed the shop onto his grandsons (not sure why his son wasn’t in the picture here) and those are the bright-eyed guys I know–Nejdet and Bülent.

(Now I’ve made you like the place, so I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.)

I got word they were closing. Some other Kadıköy resident put up a thing on Facebook saying they were closing because they couldn’t make rent. I was stunned and saddened. I went down to the shop yesterday to check. Some of the shelves were empty, a few of the customers or family members were talking to each other and sobbing. Bülent and Nejdet were still bright-eyed, intense. I asked if I could talk to them for awhile. Bülent came outside and sat down with me.

He explained that in 2014 a new tax law had come into effect, changing rent control laws. It made it possible more or less for property owners to dramatically increase the rent on businesses that had been renting for more than ten years. The Armenian Orthodox Church owns the entire block Breziliya stands on, and asked for double what they had been paying–30,000 liras. They refused and tried to take legal action, but no avenues were available.

“Whatever bar that comes here will probably be charged upwards of 40,000,” Bülent said. “It’s not just money, it’s character. They’re ruining the character of the old Moda Çarşı.” He pointed out a few places. “That place got closed ten years ago, that place closed in the 80s.” I asked if there were any others from the old days, and he said their shop was the last holdover.

And it’s true–there were no bars or rakı balık places in Kadıköy in the Moda Çarşı even ten years ago. It was just a quirky community mostly known to outsiders as a retirement home, a quiet place away from the bustle of central Istanbul.

“I’ve been working here since I was 13 years old,” he said. “I’m 42 now. Five families depend on this place.”

Bülent’s daughter (granddaughter? niece?), about five years old, ran outside the shop at that second and he swooped her up and started to tickle her. I took a few pictures and thanked all the guys inside and wished them the best. They were distracted but thanked me for being a customer. I insisted I get a picture with Bülent, and he directed us in front of the coffee roaster.
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I wanted this story to have a villain, but the truth is the Armenian Orthodox Church in Moda is dying. I checked out a service there and it only had two old congregants still chanting away. This government has not been kind to old institutions of all sorts, whether it’s churches or historical landowners, nor has it had any eye towards cultural or historical preservation. No doubt they need the money to take care of themselves. I don’t want to indict anyone here, not landlords, nor the government, nor capitalism–it’s just a bitter reality that places change and we lose the things we love.

*It was a Vestel ad. I appear in it for two seconds and the shoot took all day and drove me around needlessly to four different places all over the city. Fun, though. 

**Also, the birthplace of our democratically elected president, President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.

My source for the story is this post and my interview with Bülent, and if I screwed up any translations I welcome corrections.