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Baby Tragos and I spend a lot of time not working out together at the gym. We stroll around the track, check out some basketball downstairs, and generally tell each other stories. (Hers tend to me less vested in narrative than mine, but are way more fun.) I’ve reported before the sartorial regulations I’ve suffered since moving to Turkey. I’ve now been reprimanded for committing another infraction. I often swim after Baby Tragos and I haven taken our tour of the stepping-up-and-down machines, the Pilates rooms, and the places where big people, “push their heavy toys,” as I phrase it to Baby Tragos loudly when passing the weight-lifting areas. It never fails to get a rise. So, most often, I wear my street clothes while Baby Tragos and I perambulate away. Last week, while making a round on the “running” track, I was informed by a polo-shirt wearing gym employee with a sleek ponytail that I was not allowed on the track while wearing street clothes. I pointed down to my shoes. Asics. Designed for running. I know not to scuff a gym floor. He shook his head again. I was confused. Baby Tragos and I might not be likely candidates for the gold this summer in London. But when on the track, we keep up with all the other (always) walkers on the track, even passing some on the outside lane. (Many of the exercisers are talking on their cell phones, so this isn’t a grand achievement, really.) The gym guy shook his head again. I wondered: What was I doing wrong, other than being a bat-crazy foreign man who puts his baby in a sling-device and wanders around a gym for hours at at time? I asked the gym guy: what was I doing wrong? The explanation: By not wearing gym clothing, the clientele did not feel sporty enough while walking around the track. Baby Tragos and I had tragically and cruelly undermined general feelings of sportiness. Baby Tragos felt awful too. After all, she has worn dresses on multiple occasions. As a duo, our powers to sap sportiness-feelings are surely unmatched. Crime and punishment in Ankara. True story.

Baby Tragos and I spend a lot of time not working out together at the gym.

We stroll around the track, check out some basketball downstairs, and generally tell each other stories. (Hers tend to me less vested in narrative than mine, but are way more fun.)

I’ve reported before the sartorial regulations I’ve suffered since moving to Turkey. I’ve now been reprimanded for committing another infraction.

I often swim after Baby Tragos and I haven taken our tour of the stepping-up-and-down machines, the Pilates rooms, and the places where big people, “push their heavy toys,” as I phrase it to Baby Tragos loudly when passing the weight-lifting areas. It never fails to get a rise.

So, most often, I wear my street clothes while Baby Tragos and I perambulate away. Last week, while making a round on the “running” track, I was informed by a polo-shirt wearing gym employee with a sleek ponytail that I was not allowed on the track while wearing street clothes.

I pointed down to my shoes. Asics. Designed for running. I know not to scuff a gym floor.

He shook his head again. I was confused. Baby Tragos and I might not be likely candidates for the gold this summer in London. But when on the track, we keep up with all the other (always) walkers on the track, even passing some on the outside lane. (Many of the exercisers are talking on their cell phones, so this isn’t a grand achievement, really.)

The gym guy shook his head again. I wondered: What was I doing wrong, other than being a bat-crazy foreign man who puts his baby in a sling-device and wanders around a gym for hours at at time? I asked the gym guy: what was I doing wrong?

The explanation: By not wearing gym clothing, the clientele did not feel sporty enough while walking around the track. Baby Tragos and I had tragically and cruelly undermined general feelings of sportiness.

Baby Tragos felt awful too. After all, she has worn dresses on multiple occasions. As a duo, our powers to sap sportiness-feelings are surely unmatched.

Crime and punishment in Ankara. True story.

entregulistanybostan: Orhan Pamuk, nd -by Erzade Ertem. chagalov Orhan Pamuk, nd -by Erzade Ertem A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man – or this woman – may use a typewriter, profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I have done for 30 years. As he writes, he can drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time he may rise from his table to look out through the window at the children playing in the street, and, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or he can gaze out at a black wall. He can write poems, plays, or novels, as I do. All these differences come after the crucial task of sitting down at the table and patiently turning inwards. To write is to turn this inward gaze into words, to study the world into which that person passes when he retires into himself, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy.— Orhan Pamuk, in ‘My Father’s Suitcase’ (Nobel Lecture, 7 Dec. 2006) photo from Orhan Pamuk

entregulistanybostan:

Orhan Pamuk, nd -by Erzade Ertem.

chagalov

Orhan Pamuk, nd -by Erzade Ertem

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man – or this woman – may use a typewriter, profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I have done for 30 years. As he writes, he can drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time he may rise from his table to look out through the window at the children playing in the street, and, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or he can gaze out at a black wall. He can write poems, plays, or novels, as I do. All these differences come after the crucial task of sitting down at the table and patiently turning inwards. To write is to turn this inward gaze into words, to study the world into which that person passes when he retires into himself, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy.
— Orhan Pamuk, in ‘My Father’s Suitcase’ (Nobel Lecture, 7 Dec. 2006)

photo from Orhan Pamuk

Merhaba Bebek!
Over the entire row.
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The book advertised in the placard pictured above is titled, “Hello Baby!” Its subheading reads, “This book will give your baby, your partner and you a good start!” [My translation. I can’t vouch for its accuracy.]

And yes. This is a men’s bathroom. And yes. That placard is placed over every single one of those urinals.

Want to know how baby crazy Turkey is? There you have it.

— Tragos, reporting from Ankara.

Exposing Yourself to Foreign Experiences

This morning, Mrs. Tragos, Baby Tragos and I headed down to a big indoor mall in Ankara. It was time to get some more serious toys for Baby Tragos. It was also time for Mrs. Tragos to get a haircut.

While Mrs. Tragos sat down for the above-mentioned haircut, I took Baby Tragos for a walk around the mall. Normally, I would put her facing out in the Baby Bjorn, which she loves. She gets to encounter the world that way. Unfortunately, we forgot the Baby Bjorn. So instead, I just held her in my palm so she could still meet and greet the world.

Now, I am not a very strong man. I’m a normal guy. So the tax on my biceps was pretty severe. I had to keep switching hands to hold Baby Tragos so that I could give each arm a rest in turn. Baby Tragos was loving our venture, talking up a storm with whomever we’d come across. Toward the end of our little perambulation, we wandered into a home furnishings store. Why? Because they had a whole row of different colored bright candles that looked like a gigantic crayon box. Perfect for entertaining a four-month-old.

As we drew near this wall of candles, two older women — grandmother-aged — approached. They took to Baby Tragos immediately, telling her she was “çok tatlı” (really sweet) and “çok güzel” (really beautiful). It was a really nice moment. Except my right arm was just killing me.

[Brief interruption for a sartorial detail: I was wearing a long sleeve snap-down-the-middle collared shirt today.]

I needed to make an adjustment, but the women were nowhere near finished cooing over Baby Tragos. So I went for it. As Baby Tragos swiped across my chest from right to left, she took one side of my shirt with her, unsnapping me completely.

So there I was, in Ankara, Turkey, in a quaint home furnishing store, bare chested in front of two grandmothers.

I nodded, grunted a quick, “Afedersiniz,” (hopefully the appropriate “excuse me” for the occasion), turned around, and with my free right hand, snapped my shirt up while Baby Tragos yelled out at the shiny mirrors on the shelf in front of her.

I turned around. The grandmothers were gone.

Ulysses, the Turkish edition
Ulysses, 11
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Mrs. Tragos, Baby Tragos and I happened to discover a new bookstore in Ankara (Arkadaş Kitabevi for the folks in town).

As I was strolling among the aisles, this Turkish edition of Ulysses caught my eye. What would it look like in Turkish? Now I know.

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okimago:

I’m back! With new pics of baby Iona from this week…she is nearly 3 mths now. This weekend we went to Istanbul, by train, just as we did when she was pickle-sized in my womb…
1 Chilling with my toy at home 2. Resting with Mommy before our big trip 3. Playing with Daddy on the train 4. Daddy found amazing Italian treats, Iona stretches out on the hotel bed 5. The mini bar area becomes a diaper/nappy changing area! 6. Crossing between Europe and Asia by ferry 7. Covered in one of the many plaid blankets from the train…
Iona also said her first words this weekend: “Oh boy!” ;)

Footnotes on the above post from Mrs. Tragos.

Baby Tragos (Iona) was a champion the entire trip. While Mrs. Tragos was hard at work at a studio in Istanbul, Baby Tragos and I walked around the city for hours. You can be a flaneur, sure. But you can also be a flaneur with your baby, which is a hell of a lot better. (Admittedly, thanks to the Baby Bjorn. I was skeptical at first, but I’ve been won over completely.)