Scotland is For the People

We left Istanbul at the right time. On our last day, I noticed increasing military presence while we were walking around Taksim and left the area sooner than planned. Later, I saw that street on the news as a site of a mass protest because another set of political opponents (the secular ones) were arrested. A few protestors were also arrested. International news channels were off the air, and there was an attempt to take the local news channel I was currently watching off the air as well. We flew to Edinburgh the next day.

Edinburgh is as I remember it from almost 15 years ago. The sand-colored bricks and sloping, interwoven layers that define the topography of the city are still incredibly beautiful. It still has the spooky aura I loved so much when I was last here. 

Scotland has been "for the people" longer than many other places in Europe, and you can see traces of this everywhere. When I spent an unexpected extra hour at the National Library, I learned that the Scottish government provided funding for Frederick Douglass, Moses Roper, Josiah Henson, and other American abolitionist writers for their contributions to the struggle for freedom. They also funded Beth Junor, Yellow Gate Camp, and other feminist activists.

I learned that the first printed works in Scotland weren't religious texts--they were poems and stories written by Scots. 

Later, at the National Gallery, I learned that by the mid-19th century, Scottish artists were painting scenes of the everyday life of working people, and selling this art to middle class folks in addition to aristocrats and royalty.

The paintings with more dynamic movement really stood out to me:

The Schule Skailin, by Sir George Harvey, shows the end of a school day.

The Curlers, by Sir George Harvey, shows the newly popular sport of Curling, which was starting to eclipse golf as Scotland's most popular and socially inclusive sport. This painting shows people of all social classes playing together. It had also been recently introduced in Canada by Scottish emigrants.

Selling Fruit, by Walter Geikie, is one of the many snapshots of life he drew on his regular walks around Edinburgh. He was deaf, and is known for his powers of observation, especially expressions and gestures.

Topkapi Palace

"I love this. Humans have been the same for so long," I coo, pressed against a glass cube protecting the 18th century sherbet jug inside. Its scalloped, geometric pattern reminds me of the millennial pineapple... or art deco stained glass... or 80s furniture.

"There's another dissertation for ya," Kendon says. 

I laugh.

"You could put it on your bloOoog," he adds, trying to convince me it'll be fun.

"Can you imagine? Blogging a dissertation..." I say, laughing again, "although honestly? What a flex." 

Kendon likes to do things together, and since he's been writing a dissertation for 3 years, he wants all his friends to write dissertations too. Getting us to start playing Simcity was an easier sell.

We're exploring Topkapi Palace, the former home of Istanbul's Sultans and now a museum with a very diverse collection. So far we've seen Ottoman clothing, libraries, household items, weapons, religious relics, and are currently in the kitchen exhibits. I'm learning a lot, and grateful they don't have the comically biased messaging we saw at the exhibits at the Blue Mosque ("while we acknowledge that this technology/technique was invented by so-and-so in Asia/Europe/Africa, it was only because of this particular tweak by our beloved Ottoman man that the technology became useful, so really he is the most important.") Topkapi Palace shows the interconnectedness of Istanbul without the need to posture itself. 

As I browse various food vessels, many of which were gifts from international diplomats over the years, I'm struck by how familiar their styles are.

"This one reminds me of the whimsical ceramics Gen Z loves. Like those cake mirrors."

"And what about this? Tell me you haven't seen this at Olive Garden."

Trends come in cycles, and microtrends come in faster cycles, but these cycles seem to have always existed. I don't say this so you'll agonize over whether "original" creative ideas can exist. I think it's beautiful that everything we make connects us to people throughout history and cultures. Forms and shapes don't have to be original to be valuable. 

Besides, so much of what we create is inspired by patterns we see in nature anyway. If letting nature do more of the thinking gives us more time to enjoy baklava, I'm not complaining. 

Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque

"Well now it looks huge!" Kendon says, "why does it look bigger when you're further away?"

I'm too distracted by the smell of roasted corn to think about scale factors right now. Roasted corn is my favorite monsoon snack but it's way too hot to eat right now. Right? Right.

We are walking back towards the Hagia Sophia after visiting the museum nearby. I decide not to get the corn because it really is too hot to enjoy, and our conversation eventually returns to the complexities of repatriating artifacts, especially in places that are politically or geologically unstable. I share that what happened to Khaled al Asaad still rattles me, and that it reshaped how I made sense of the preservation and restoration of historic artifacts. 

We talk about this as we read about the cycles of destruction and rebuilding and destruction and rebuilding of this very building.

The Hagia Sophia was an Eastern Orthodox Church, then a Roman Catholic Church, then an Eastern Orthodox Church again, then a Mosque, then a museum, then a Mosque again. In many of these eras, it was looted, artifacts were destroyed, and an earthquake destroyed the roof and made some of the arches lopsided. 

Inside, it very much feels like a duomo. Many of the mosaics are different, and the aisles have been repurposed to be walkways to observe the nave, now the prayer room. The dome has words from the Quran where the portrait of Jesus used to be. But you can tell where the pews were. The frescoes of Mary and the disciples on one of the domes are covered with a white cloth. The building feels like it was retrofitted to reflect the changing community that surrounds it.  And I'm grateful that some of the art was preserved, even if its covered up.

  

The Blue Mosque, on the other hand, has very clearly been a (very beautiful) Mosque the whole time. Depictions of flowers and reeds cover the mosque's interior almost entirely. Detailed patterns in baby blue, mustard yellow, and burnt sienna cover the walls, columns, and arches. The stained glass shows the same in vibrant steel blue, kelly green, and amber. 

If you're wondering, sometimes huge objects like mountains and buildings can look bigger when you're further away because of the relative distance between your eyes and the things around it. Let's say you're 1000 feet away from a big building and 20 feet away from a roasted corn cart. If you walk 20 feet further, you're 40ft away from the cart and 1020ft away from the building. The distance between you and the cart has doubled, making it look smaller, but you're only slightly farther away from the building so it probably looks the same. Because the cart looks smaller while building doesn't, it can make the building look bigger in comparison.

Istanbul: First Impressions

"Is it possible..." THUD "...potholes..." THUD "...tarmac... airport?" I type into my phone as my plane prepares to take off. 

Generally not, but sometimes. 

Cool.

I was warned that this airport would disappoint me. Perhaps even infuriate me. But Frankfurt's airport has confused me.

Our second security screening took over an hour to process about a hundred people. The only place to fill a water bottle on both floors I had access to was out of order. I couldn't take the risk of looking on the third or fourth floor because I would miss my flight if I had to go through security again. The yoga rooms I was excited to stretch in after 10 hours on a plane are on the third and fourth floor. I walked several laps of the first and second floor instead.

The first (and only?) time I remember being at this airport is when I was moving to the US. I remember telling my dad this was the best airport ever because I saw a Toblerone for the first time. Triangle chocolate distracted me from there being only one water fountain.

No matter, we take off soon enough and a short three hours later, I see a familiar kind of  sunshine that jolts me back to my childhood. Istanbul is bright. 

A taxi in to Istanbul from the airport takes 60 minutes, and the Havaina bus to Aksaray will get you there in 68 minutes with better views. The transit system is pretty easy to figure out, with the added bonus of prices being transparent.

As we gently putter across the Turkish countryside, I see familiar evergreen trees dotting the rolling hills, and layers of red and purple silt where it's dry enough. 20 minutes later, there are clusters of tall, silver buildings. Condos, rooftop lounges, office buildings, with an occasional dome peeking through. All under the very bright sun. I can't wait to explore.

Aksaray Station in Istanbul 

Luxembourg

"Is this... banker humor?" I mutter skeptically at a shirt that says: I'm scared. All my friends got liquidated.

We're in a cafe in Luxembourg, a city and country whose banking and finance services are the majority of its economic output, on our second unsuccessful attempt at finding a hot breakfast.

"What else could it possibly mean? My friends got liquidated like... they're broke? Is this finance humor?"

Is this the finance equivalent of your niche interest going mainstream? When so many people who have similar jobs suddenly become neighbors? I grew up in one of those types of places (scientists, not bankers) and don't remember anything like this when I was a kid.

More importantly, why is it so hard to find a table anywhere? It's a weekday, aren't these people supposed to be doing finance?

We came here today so that Kendon and his family could finalize their citizenship in Luxembourg and get their passports. It was a touching moment to witness, and I'm happy to celebrate with them. We did eventually find a great spot for breakfast, and explored the city.

Before heading back to the Netherlands, we stop at the Eglise Catholicque Archevêché, and I felt a familiar tension as I watch groups of people enter for a few moments, take photos of the stained glass and ornately carved confession booths, and leave without reading any of the signage.

I felt the familiar, "Wait! Don't you want to know why this place is important to the community? Don't you want to know the ways its different from other, similar-looking places? Did you see this cool painting in the corner?"

For as long as I've felt this, I've also seen the differences in condition and upkeep in places that are accessible and regularly used compared to ones where only certain ways of engagement are allowed.

I know this is better than if this cathedral was micromanaged. I just hope more people see these paintings in the back.

Koffie & a Pile of Old Rocks (Nicely Arranged)

"Is there a way the Dutch prefer to take their coffee? I was just going to get a cappuccino but..."

"They love hot chocolate here," Kendon says.

I glare. 

There was a series of winters almost a decade ago when I would be very excited to drink hot chocolate but only get as far as acquiring hot chocolate mix, and subsequently giving it to Kendon because food I couldn't finish usually went to him. He is lactose intolerant and was doing me a huge favor. Ten boxes worth of favors. Now I don't hear the end of it. 

(Understandable.)

"What's this? Koffie Verkeerd?" I look to him for translation. He shrugs. 

I point my phone's camera at the menu to translate. 

"No... this can't be right."

"What does it say?" Kendon asks.

"Wrong coffee?"

"Try zooming out, sometimes it needs the whole phrase..."

"Um... it says... wrong coffee."

We laugh. Our best guess is that it's a play on words about the process of making the drink itself (a macchiato). Maybe adding espresso last is incorrect.

A few hours later, we are winding through the city of Maastricht, Netherlands. We briefly explore their Christmas market, but decide to walk around the city center instead because we can't hear each other. 

We talk about life and research projects and the buildings around us and our shifting styles and how I'm holding up after my dad's death. I tell him about how all my energy is going into holding myself together, how much I miss my dad, and how grateful I feel to love and be loved by my friends. 

Eventually we end up in a place I have a homing beacon for--a pile of old rocks. This one was arranged in the shape of a cathedral. 

The Basilica of St. Servatius is a major pilgrimage site for Catholic people, and has a collection of holy relics. It also has two Michelin stars, but not for their basement cafe (which I was happy to see is wheelchair accessible). I learned that heritage sites can also get Michelin stars, though I couldn't in good conscience rank world heritage sites.

We wandered again and found another one. The Basilica of Our Lady was built in the 11th century and was possibly a Roman temple to Jupiter before a church was built here. It seems to have been a "rival" of the Basilica of St. Servatius, and because the latter seems to have been favored by the emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, there haven't been as many resources dedicated to researching and recording its history. It was overtaken by the French army in 1794, and restored in 1917 by Dutch architect Pierre Cuypers. I wonder if he had access to any paintings or texts about what this cathedral looked like when it was built to guide the restoration.

Heiligabend im Flugzeug / Christmas Eve on a Plane

"Oh man I'm so linguistically unprepared," I type into my phone. "This is the first time I'm linguistically unprepared after knowing I should be prepared."

I didn't know I should be prepared in 2011 when I went to Greece not knowing how to read or speak in Greek. The consistent feeling of not truly being able to engage with the people or environment around me made me commit to knowing at least the basics of the language whenever I travel. So I've practiced Italian and Polish and Japanese and Korean. I've kept up with Italian because I like it.

But my trip to Germany is sort of last minute, and I don't have the time or mental energy to learn German on my own.

"This is the first time you're traveling to another country like a normal person," Adi responds. Julia's "like a true American" hits my inbox soon after. 

I settle into my seat and prepare for my 9 hour flight to Munich. I want to try and sleep now even though it's only 4pm because it's after midnight in Germany. But I also need to eat dinner, which will take a couple of hours. 

I decide to watch "Das perfekte Geheimnis", a German comedy from 2019, on the plane. Periodically, when words are repeated enough, I rewind a few seconds and practice them under my breath.

Unfortunately they're words like scheiße, danke, nein, kuss, and "spektakuläre anekdote" said very sarcastically.

No matter. Progress is progress.

 

I'm somewhere over Coral Harbour and Igloolik in Northeastern Canada. Soon I'll be above Greenland. 6 hours from now I'll be in Munich.

***

After a long nap, I begin looking for a German TV show with English subtitles. Finding one becomes increasingly frustrating as I realize subtitles aren't available in any language even when the German dubs are avaliable for English shows. So, I watch the one thing I know almost word for word:

Water... Earth... Fire... Luft.

Luft? Huh.

Kendon's hand-written notes for language practice 

Art & Psyche

“Okay since we don’t have time to see everything, let’s play a game,” I say, pulling off my jacket. “We’re going to look for art that best fits certain categories. My proposals are: most ridiculous… prettiest… and most likely to succeed.”

Connor laughs, and we step into the National Gallery. I’ve had a lot of fun in this museum, and I’m excited to share it with Connor and see how it resonates with him.

“This is ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous,” he says, squinting at a painting of a an imaginary ideal gallery of a collection of paintings, sculptures, and tools. I throw it in the ring for prettiest. (What? It's pretty!)

Cognoscenti in a Room hung with Pictures, by Unknown Flemish Artist, about 1620

“I want to add a category. Most contented.” Connor says.

“What does contented mean?”

“A piece of art that is most comfortable and confident.”

“Mmm, gotcha.”

Connor knows this game is helping me re-engage a dormant part of my mind, the part that notices and shares details. When we were in Brixton, I realized I had been filtering out details recently. Then, somewhere between dinner and walking a few days later, I realized it was deeper than that.

"I think this is the most contented painting I've seen so far," I declare, looking at a painting of ruins being overtaken slowly by plants, peppered with people comfortable in their tasks. I'm sure it's depicting a myth I can't identify, but that's okay. What's important is that it's making me feel relaxed by looking at it. Connor moves next to me and nods. He likes it a lot, too.

Landscape with the Rest on the Flight into Egypt, by Pierre Patel, 1652

"I want to add another category," Connor begins, "most self-serious." The painting he's pointing to looks staged. It looks like these people held this pose for a very, very long time to look very, very serious.

A Woman Playing a Lute to Two Men, by Gerard ter Boch, 1668

We laugh.

A few days ago, when Connor and I talked about how I think my detail-filter was deeper than I anticipated, I began to grapple with cognitive dissonance in a way that felt like I was loosening a ball of yarn in my brain, massaging it so I can see what's hiding inside.

Paying attention to details is something I love. It’s something I’m good at. And when I went on  international trips before, I was a college student who leveraged this skill. When I became a teacher, I had to stop. I had to force myself to stop.

I had to stop paying attention to every part of a lesson plan, so I could get enough sleep at night. I had to stop paying attention to every individual thing I learned about every person I interacted with, because it overwhelmed me. I had to start practicing noticing the salient things—what are the things that have the largest impact? Notice that. Dig into that. Everything else needs to be glossed over. My work is not sustainable otherwise.

And, with practice, I became good at honing this filter. I became good at looking at huge piles of student work and noticing the most important trends. I became good at noticing the most important feedback I could share with my colleagues when I was in their classrooms. I became good at looking at lesson plans and revising the most important portions. I became good at reading hundreds of student letters every Friday and remembering what felt most important about each one.

I can tell you something about every student I have ever taught. I can tell you what they’re good at. I can tell you what their goals were when they were my student. I can tell you what many of them are up to now. I can’t tell you every single thing they’ve shared with me, but I can tell you the most important things. This filter was how I could still be the kind of teacher I want to be without being so overwhelmed that it drowns me.

But I didn’t realize that this filter started bleeding into everything else. I don't want to be like that all the time—I don’t want to listen to my close friends tell me about their day and only remember what I think is important. I want to know everything they want to share with me. I don’t want to walk in my neighborhood and only notice what helps me get around. I want to notice what’s in the cracks, I want to notice how time shifts and who occupies which spaces. There’s a joy in taking as long as you want looking at a thing and noticing what resonates with you. What surprises you. What makes you feel weird.

I haven’t felt that kind of joy in a long time. I cried when I shared this with Connor, and then we cried together.

But, now, I feel a kind of hopefulness I haven’t felt in a long time. Now that I know, I can do something about it. I don't have to wait for things to get better on their own. I feel grateful.

Connor calls me over urgently. He's gasping in the National Gallery for the first time. "Grishma... look at this."

The Adoration of the Kings, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1564

"I don't get it. It just looks like a Christian painting."

"No Grishma, look closer."

"Oh, ew."

The Adoration of the Kings, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1564 (Detail)

"Read the description," he urges.

"The tiny, naked Christ Child seems vulnerable among the heavily armed men. He recoils from the gift of myrrh, a spice used to prepare bodies for burial, forseeing his future death?? What??"

Connor continues where I left off: "By contrast, the spectators, one wearing glasses, are blind to what is before them, the son of God made man to redeem fallen humanity."

"Most ridiculous. Most self-serious. This is so bad. It's so good."

The Adoration of the Kings, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1564 (Detail)

We laugh about this one for much longer than the other ridiculous ones.

“I’m going to add a category. Best dog," I say.

The museum closes soon, and we didn't actually decide on paintings for any of the categories, and that's okay. We found some great dogs in those last minutes.