Eric in a Can

Do you have Prince Albert in a can?
Yes, we do.
Well you'd better let him out.

Bwahahahahaha! Personally, I can't believe this joke was ever deemed funny - momentarily fleetingly clever (maybe) - but never actually ha-ha funny. Unless you are 8-years old.

Having said that, that so-called gem has been running through my head for the last few weeks and I can't seem to get it out. I am days away from sticking industrial-size tweezers through my ear and trying to pull Prince Albert and his freaking can out of my cerebellum.

And the reason why Prince Albert and his freaking can is racing through my cerebellum? It is can erik season and I am consumed with the desire to call a grocery store here and ask if they have Erik (as in a Viking) in a can. Thus far, I have resisted the urge but only because I don't want to waste my phone credits.

So can erik (or can eriği, plural). What is it? (or what are they?) Take a shufti at the above photo. Can erik is a shiny green fruit. According to those in the know, they are a member of the plum family (prunus cerasifera) - which accounts for the erik part of their name (plum, in Turkish). They are rather small. Take a shufti at the hand in the above photo. See?

But they look like apples! you cry. And you would be right. They remind me of crab apples.

In Turkey can eriği are a harbinger of spring - not unlike our crocuses. For this reason, Turks have been gushing/praising/celebrating/extolling this David vs. Goliath of fruits ever since the first fruit man was spotted last month pushing his wooden cartload of the little green eriği down the main drag of Izmit - and every other city town or village in Turkey for that matter. The result was a stampede of can erik-crazed Turks.

I saw the wooden cartloads of eriği in the streets, shining pyramids of them piled outside neighbourhood fruit markets, and cellophaned packages of them in grocery stores, and had no clue what they were. So I asked my students. This is pretty much when I first became aware of the gushing/praising/celebrating/extolling this David vs. Goliath of fruits. I was told that erik meant plum and that can meant green but not in the sense of the colour. I raised an eyebrow at this, but having had far too many can eriği by now, I can only assume that can means unripe. A cursory check of my dictionary contradicts this theory and offers instead lifeblood and esprit - which in any language does not mean green.

Reader, they are as much a plum as synchronized swimming is a sport. They are face-sucking sour and hard not fleshy not juicy like a real plum. Even the peel is like an apple peel. Their stones are half the size of the fruit. Aficionados often eat them with salt - which I tried and would go to great pains not to recommend doing. They have zero nutritional value. To hell with science: I swear to God they're crab apples. In any other world, my mother would caution me against eating one.

I don't doubt that they are an acquired taste - after all, this is the country that also swoons over unripe almonds. But given that it's cherry and strawberry season as well, I intend to focus my taste buds elsewhere.

Students bring bags of can eriği to class, chomping on them - what, is gum not good enough for them? - throughout their lessons and, because Turks are nothing if not hospitable, keep pushing the fruit on me. Occasionally I take one; most often I don't. I make up some lame excuse - I've had 32 today already - and tell them what they want to hear, that can eriği are truly a gift from God.

They are not.

Murder on the Orient Express

In a world (i.e., my world) where the bar is already set considerably low, this is by far my least aptly named blog because what I am about to bitch write about has nothing to do with:

a) Murder
b) The Orient Express
c) Hercule Poirot (implied, not stated)
d) Agatha Christie (implied, not stated)

... although to be fair, there is a Turkish connection with all four, for we know that:

a) There are many murders in Istanbul every year - I don't know how many but probably a goodly number
b) Three of the four routes which the original Orient Express followed connected the cities of London and Istanbul
c) Hercule Poirot boarded the train in Istanbul
d) Agatha Christie wrote the novel in the Pera Hotel in Istanbul.

But let me just say one more time: what I am about to bitch write about has nothing to do with:
a) Murder
b) The Orient Express
c) Hercule Poirot
d) Agatha Christie

On Friday, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I decided to pop into Istanbul for the day to do some shopping. Normally we take the bus to Istanbul to sightsee because the service is frequent and, more importantly, the bus drops us off at the ferry terminal from where we can take the ferry to the European side of the city. Having said that, the shopping district is a just 10-minute walk from the train station on the Asian side, so the train it was.

Our colleagues look at us in horror. Why are you taking the train? they ask - to which we respond, the shopping district is just a 10-minute walk from the train station on the Asian side, so the train it is. How difficult can this be? And what's so truly awful about the train?

Off to train station to buy a ticket. Unfortunately, unlike the Istanbul bus which leaves every hour, the train prefers to pace itself throughout the day at a far more slow, lethargic comfortable rate. So we sit and wait. Tick tick tick. Time passes but soon the train will be here. Suddenly the loudspeakers on the platform crackle into life and a Voice farts out a string of words which are totally incomprehensible to us. To be fair, the Voice repeats the string of words but they are still totally incomprehensible to us.

What lo! - everyone on our platform is getting up and heading towards the stairs! It appears - although we're only guessing - that the Istanbul-bound train has changed platforms. Sheep that we are, we follow the crowd and emerge onto Platform Two. Just to be sure, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad shows our tickets to a Train Employee who points to Platform Two and nods his head.

So we sit and wait. Tick tick tick. Time passes but soon the train will be here. Suddenly the loudspeakers on the platform crackle into life and a Voice farts out a string of words which are totally incomprehensible to us. To be fair, the Voice repeats the string of words but they are still totally incomprehensible to us.

What lo! - everyone on our platform is getting up and heading towards the stairs! It appears - although we're only guessing - that the Istanbul-bound train has changed platforms. Sheep that we are, we want to follow the crowd and emerge onto Platform One but we are not completely stupid sheep - we have learned a bit in the last 5 minutes - and we feel a need to be certain. So just to be sure, I approach the Train Employee but he is talking on his cell phone and will not make eye contact with me which is odd because I am wearing a tight top. And so just to be really sure, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad shows our tickets to a man waiting on the platform who points to Platform One and nods his head.

We are about to head towards the stairs when suddenly the loudspeakers on the platform crackle into life and a Voice farts out a string of words which are totally incomprehensible to us. To be fair, the Voice repeats the string of words and this time we catch three words in Turkish: Istambul (Istanbul), peron (platform) and iki (two). We stay put but watch in amusement as everyone on the opposite platform gets up and heads towards the stairs! We are not completely stupid smart sheep after all!

The train arrives (on peron iki) and we wrestle little old ladies struggle to find seats together. It shudders and shakes and we pull out. Rather slowly. It seems that it's a milk run. Of course it is.

All in all, the train makes 10 stops on this 100 kilometre hop skip and a jump trip and there is no complementary tea service, no cookies, no water, nada and it takes almost 2 hours. But to be fair, a simit-man - simits are bagel-like bagel-things which are sold on every street corner in the country - enters our car bearing a mammoth wicker basket of simits and we buy one. And while I am being fair, we also have in-train entertainment: a product demonstration. Yes, somewhere between Gebze and Tuzla, a man pops into our compartment with a bag of fruit and an assortment of colourful plastic juicers - disappointingly not Jello-shots as Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad first thinks - and proceeds to demonstrate the ease and convenience of these little juicing-gadgets.

I buy one.

We arrive in Istanbul and spend far less than we had anticipated. In a few hours we are set to return to Izmit. We buy our tickets and find the platform. I am a little concerned because as the first train enters the station, I notice that there is no announcement and nothing on the pixel board - which makes sense since the pixel board isn't working. How will we know which train to take? I ask Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad. Look at the front of the train. The commuters have the destination written on the engine window. And he is right. And a few moments later, when a long-distance train enters the station, he says - anticipating my question - And the long-distance trains have the route marked on its sides. And he is right.

But then a train enters the station which bears neither a front sign nor a side sign but rather, bears a billion people. And of course, we have to ask one of the passengers who is crammed into the doorway of the car and of course it just has to be our train.

So this is pretty much where the murder component of today's blog figures. Every seat is taken, every car is standing room only, and even the doorways/vestibules of each car are chock-a-block with passengers and their bags. We stand and crouch on our haunches and sit on the crappy-sticky floor the entire way. There are No Less than 14 People with Bags in the doorway/vestibule of our car the entire way which, compounded with the general low standards of personal hygiene among these No Less than 14 People with Bags, make the trip homicidal and alternately suicidal. And ultimately homicidal.

Reader, everyone stinks. The bags, for the most part, do not.

Of course, among these No Less than 14 People with Bags are the simit-men who, every 15 minutes or so, pass through our throng from car to car bearing their mammoth wicker baskets of simits. And the water-boys who, every 15 minutes or so, pass through our throng from car to car bearing their mammoth wicker baskets of water bottles. And the pişmaniye-men who, every 15 minutes or so, pass through our throng from car to car bearing their mammoth wicker baskets of pişmaniye - the local confection made from sugar and sugar with the tip-top secret ingredient of more sugar.

Did I mention that on this return journey, not only does the train stop at its designated 10 stops but also slows down at another 15 seemingly random indeterminate locations so that people in the doorway/vestibules - or rather those who have to elbow their way from the cars into the doorway/vestibules - can open the doors and jump out of said moving train onto the tracks? No? Oh. Did I mention that the handle to one of our doors falls off and out onto the tracks at one point, never to be seen again? No? Oh. Did I mention that the door banged open and shut for most of the trip - constituting what just may be a safety hazard? No? Oh.

So there you have it. Not quite an Agatha Christie novel but a tale with a few elements worthy of the Queen of Crime herself: the very least of which was the overwhelming desire to murder everyone in our doorway/vestibule, the itinerant simit-, water- and pişmaniye-men, and anyone else who, quite literally stood between us and a couple of seats.

To recap: Our colleagues look at us in horror. Why are you taking the train? they ask - to which we respond, the shopping district is just a 10-minute walk from the train station on the Asian side, so the train it is. How difficult can this be? And what's so truly awful about the train?

Angels & Dolphins: a Rather Long-Winded Cinematic Adventure

There's something decidedly dark & squirrelly about my character that compels me to seek out that which I despise - just so that I can despise it a little bit more.

Such did I scribble 28 months, 3 days ago (I counted) in my then ongoing/thwarted/futile attempts (note my use of the plural) to find a copy of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code in Rabat. In English. Given that it was a pirate I was in search of - a DVD not Bluebeard - in what was a veritable pirate's cove of illegal films, my ongoing/thwarted/futile attempts (note my use of the plural) appear even more pathetic when you consider that I hate Dan Brown and I hated the Da Vinci Code. The book, not the pirate and not Bluebeard.

Fast forward a fistful of months (no need to be pedantically exact any longer) and Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I are in Madrid and I am reading Dan Brown's Angels & Demons, because it is in English and I am in Spain and I will read anything including refrigerator manuals if they are in English and I am abroad which I was (and am). Having said that, it is still woefully pathetic that I am reading Angels & Demons when you consider that I hate Dan Brown and I hated the Da Vinci Code. It behoves me to say that I didn't actually hate Angels & Demons quite as much as its sequel but little gems of Brown's - for example, referring to Islam as the religion of Arabs - did succeed in setting my teeth on edge and provided a timely and helpful reminder of why I hate Dan Brown.

Fast forward several fistfuls of months (no need to be pedantically exact any longer) and Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I are in Izmit and Dan Brown's Angels & Demons -or rather, Melekler ve Şeytanlar - opens in a theatre near us. And because it is in English (its Turkish title notwithstanding) and I am in Turkey, I will go to any film including Dan Brown novel adaptations if it is in English and I am abroad which I am (and I still am).

So it's off to the Dolphin Sinemasi - because nothing evokes the image of going to the movies like a prancing dolphin - for an afternoon matinée. As the ticket girl clearly does not understand our attempt to order two tickets for Melekler ve Şeytanlar, we request two tickets for Angels & Demons, and then point to the pixel board. She in turn points to a screen embedded in the ticket counter which has a schemata of salon 6 - what will be our theatre - and gestures for us to select our seats. As no one else has purchased tickets for Angels & Demons - or Melekler ve Şeytanlar for that matter - we have the pick of the lot. Seats 9 and 10 it is.

With ticket in hand we pass what, in retrospect, we think must have been the theatre's ticket taker - we're not really sure since he's wearing a polo shirt, jeans and running shoes - who stamps our ticket as if he were validating our parking.

It's on to the concession stand - my favourite place in any theatre - which, in my opinion, tells you more about the theatre than anything else. Here I buy the world's smallest box of popcorn. Given that my wont is to buy popcorn in industrial-size oil drums - and I try to frequent theatres which offer unlimited free refills to boot - when I say that here I buy the world's smallest box of popcorn, I really mean that I buy two: one for me and one for Mr This Cat's (Not) Abroad which he knows is not for him but for me. In a world of judgmental movie-goers, he is my popcorn beard. We also buy two cans of Coke which are grievously warm.

I am somewhat surprised that we are allowed to bring aluminum cans into salon 6 and I have a brief but blissful flashback of movie-going in Madrid where the concession hombre insisted on pouring our beer into paper cups - apologizing all the while - as theatre policy just didn't permit cans into the movie theatre proper. If eating your popcorn and drinking beer (beer was cheaper than Coke in a movie theatre) from a paper cup isn't slumming it, I don't know what is.

We move on to salon 6 but alas! the door is locked. The film starts in 20 minutes and we are confused. We look around for an attendant (I am already halfway through my first box of popcorn) but see no one. What ho! What is this? A gaggle of teenagers wearing polo shirts, jeans and running shoes. One of them sees us and comes running - well walking briskly - over. It seems this is the standard issue Dolphin Employee Uniform. He unlocks the door, and we duly take seats 9 and 10 - rather plush and comfy I might add - and I deposit my empty popcorn box under my seat and begin work on Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad's my other one.

The film begins! Huzzah! Or at least the trailers have and interestingly, the format of the trailers - i.e. the aspect ratio - does not fit the movie screen so our on screen actors appear to have watermelon heads. This does not bode well. Will Mr. Tom Spanks also have a watermelon head? Well actually, in real life he does have a bit of a watermelon head but will his already lumpy head look even more watermelonish? Why does everyone look like Oompa Loompas?

The film begins! Huzzah! And this time, it is the film. We settle into our rather plush and comfy seats and prepare to mock the film - bear in mind that this is a film adaptation of a Dan Brown book and I hate Dan Brown.

Time passes. Huzzah! Flashing colourful images which emit the English language entertains us beyond words. True, the dialogue of the first fifteen minutes of the film is in Italian - serious Italian scientists et al. creating life in a Swiss lab - and that the Big Brains at the Turkish Subtitling Organization elected to cover the English subtitles of these crucial/key/critical scenes with Turkish subtitles vexed me a bit. After all, if we hadn't read the book, we would have had no clue what was going on. It was only the premise of the entire fucking movie.

Time passes. Huzzah! Flashing colourful images which emit the English language entertain us beyond words. What ho! The movie has stopped! We are in mid-scene. Mr. Tom Spanks is in mid-speech. Or rather, was. The screen flashes: it is intermission! It seems that in Turkey, at the exact one-hour mark in the film - regardless of whether Atlanta is burning or a knife is slicing through a shower curtain in mid arc - the film stops. I can only imagine that the Turkish screening of Lawrence of Arabia had 12 breaks. Everyone gets up and stretches their legs and I send Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad back to the concession stand for more popcorn.

Time (i.e., ten minutes) passes. Huzzah! The film resumes. Flashing colourful images which emit the English language entertain us beyond words. The film's riveting storyline builds and swells and bursts into an implausibly ridiculous crescendo and it is over. Finished. And because Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I actually enjoy reading the credits, we sit back to fill out our metaphorical comment cards. Did the Dolly Grip do a good job? What about the Best Boy? Was Rafael E. Sánchez the gaffer? - because we really admire his work. Who catered it? What ho! The projectionist has turned off the film. There are no credits. There is no more film.

I would like to add that I took advantage of the intermission to reflect a little - and perhaps that's why Turkish theatres offer their movie-goers a break. Just to mull things over, to digest those pivotal first 60 minutes of the film. Anyway, as much as I hate Dan Brown - and I do - I would personally like to thank him for bringing so much joy into my life. And in so completely an unintended manner. Thanks Dan.

Music of the Night Early Morning

I am going insane. Or more accurately, Allah is driving me insane. No, that's not true - it's Allah's henchman who is driving me insane. Yes, it is our neighbourhood muezzin who is driving me insane. And if it isn't our neighbourhood muezzin per se, it's whoever it is who pops the Call to Prayer cassette into the tape deck of the mosque around the corner. And presses play.

Confused? Welcome to my world. I'm not very coherent these days because I am going insane and regardless who the guilty party is, the simple fact is that I am not sleeping.

Until a week or so ago, it wasn't a huge deal, that 5 a.m. Call to Prayer. I heard it, I rolled over, I fell back to sleep. But now that overnight temperatures are hovering around the high teens, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I are retiring with our windows wide open and our sleep is being invaded by the music of the night. Or early morning. And Lord Thundering Jesus, isn't that pre-dawn wake-up call a doozie! To say that it's a is-it-live-or-is-it-Memorex? moment would be the Mother of All Understatements. Imagine that the cat at the foot of your bed is purring louder than usual. Now imagine that your cat is really God, and he's standing at the foot of your bed with a megaphone in his hand, screaming into it. Wakeup! Getup! Wakeup! Getup! Wakeup! Getup! Loveme! Praytome! Loveme! Praytome! Getup!

Now, thanks to whoever it is who pops the Call to Prayer cassette into the tape deck of the mosque around the corner and presses play, falling back to sleep is, in a word, impossible.

Besides jarring me out of a good night's sleep, the 5 a.m. Call to Prayer also has the unwelcome affect of waking up Izmit's colony of seagulls - some 2 million strong by my reckoning - as well as the city's entire population of feral cats and dogs. In fact, it's fair to say that pretty much everything is awake except possibly the Faithful. I can tell - they don't have dark circles under their eyes.

Given that Allah must know - he is the Omniscient One - that I have no intentions of pulling out my yoga prayer mat - let alone, hauling my infidel backside to mosque for morning prayers - I can't help but question why this is happening to me, why he is allowing this to happen. And yes, I am taking it personally: two years living in Morocco, the pre-dawn Call to Prayer never disturbed me outside of Ramadan (when pretty much everything disturbed me). In fact, I never even heard it. But then again, there are easily sixty-seven mosques in Turkey for every one I ever saw (or heard) in Morocco. The odds are clearly stacked against me here. Thank God this isn't a Muslim country - I'd never get a moment's rest.

In any case, I believe there's a bigger issue at play here but I can't figure it out. Until then - or at least until I can learn to block out the 5 a.m. Call to Prayer bwhahahahahahahahahaha!, the good people of Izmit will be able to recognize me by the dark circles around my eyes.

By way of closing, I would add that I've always believed that nothing, including the detonation of a nuclear warhead, could wake Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad from his sleep. Now I know differently. So thanks Allah, for giving me this extra insight, for allowing me to know my husband a little better. Thanks a lot.

Ice Mosques: Coming Soon to a Theatre Near You

Impossible as this may seem, I occasionally exhibit moments of spousal support wherein I suck up my better judgment, keep my mouth shut, stand by Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad, and smile sweetly. Or in the case of today, suck up my better judgment, keep my mouth shut, stand by Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad, and skate.

Skate? you ask.

Indeed. Several weeks ago, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad had introduced a sports theme to his elementary class - a class which still just barely manages to produce sentences (although admittedly without verbs, articles & prepositions) - and the topic eventually turned to hockey. We are, after all Canadian, and are therefore expected to know everything there is to know about hockey. Which fortunately we do.

It turns out that there is an ice rink (a buz salonu) in town and because it is almost impossible to say no to your students' request for an extra curricular activity (although I have learned how), a skating outing was penciled in with Mr. Cat. I say penciled in because he had successfully blown these students off for the past five weeks because a) he didn't want to spend an unpaid afternoon with an elementary class - a class which still just barely manages to produce sentences (although admittedly without verbs, articles & prepositions) - and b) he cannot skate at all very well.

In fact, he thought he had dodged the bullet when the class ended and they moved on, assigned to a new teacher, but no, they found him and cornered him. A date was chosen. In ink, as it were. And they invited me as well.

Shit.

So this afternoon, we threw a pair of socks into a bag, trekked out into a gloriously sunny mid-20 something degree day, met the elementary class - a class which still just barely manages to produce sentences (although admittedly without verbs, articles & prepositions), and hopped on a dolmuş - a veritable stuffed grape leaf on wheels - and set off for our 20 minute bus ride in the area of the Police Station - a.k.a. Another Place in the Middle of Nowhere. A short walk from the bus stop led us past the "old" buz salonu (the ice salon) - an arena - to the "new" buz salonu which was an inflated dome (like a humongous kiddie play castle).

In the shadow of the neighbourhood mosque.

The "new" buz salonu was a beehive activity with some two dozen people in various stages of falling down on the ice, with the exception of a Polish man (whom we would later meet) and his 4-year old granddaughter who actually knew how to skate. They were given a decidedly wide berth by The Tumbling Turks on Ice.

We went to the rental counter and received our skates. And by skates I mean impermeable space-age plastic Frankenstein boots that undoubtedly see double-duty as ski boots for the (nonexistent) Turkish National Ski Team except for the fact that they have strips of railway track - no one in their right mind would call them blades - attached to the bottom. They looked painful. They were.

A whistle blew and a zamboni took to the ice - and not a second too soon because, as it was a gloriously sunny mid-20 something degree day and the salonu was a terrarium an inflated dome (like a humongous kiddie play castle) the ice had been reduced to soup. The whistle blew again and it was showtime.

For the next 45 minutes, we skated, deked past The Tumbling Turks on Ice - for lo! their number was legion - and sweated in our t-shirts. I swear I saw mould (black and green) growing on the sides of the terrarium buz salonu. After 15 minutes, my feet were in tortuous pain from the impermeable space-age plastic Frankenstein boots that undoubtedly see double-duty as ski boots for the (nonexistent) Turkish National Ski Tea. On top of that, the strips of railway track - no one in their right mind would call them blades - attached to the bottom were so incredibly dull that you couldn't penetrate butter the ice. It soon became apparent that the toe picks were just for show.

Apart from my feet's excruciating torment, it was enjoyable in that for most of the 45 minutes, the elementary class - a class which still just barely manages to produce sentences (although admittedly without verbs, articles & prepositions) - clung to the boards texting their friends on their cell phones, posing for photos, and, from time to time, doing their best to uphold their cultural ice skating heritage among the other Tumbling Turks on Ice by falling down a great deal. Mr. Cat and I just skated around and around and lost three kilos in the heat & humidity.

And because he is a polite man, after we returned home, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad texted one of the ringleaders of today's outing to thank her for including us. She texted back with, and I quote: Your welcome. I thank you for came.

Ladies and gentlemen: that's one & a half verbs. Not a wasted day after all.

Post note: just a word of apology to Turkish skating champion & Olympic hopeful Tuğba Karademir who is anything but a Tumbling Turk on Ice. Of course, she's been living and training in Canada for the past 13 years. Interestingly, she had been a member of the sports club here in Izmit and well ... let's just say that she's probably enjoying the ice - rather than the soup - of Canadian skating rinks.

Warm & Fezzy Thoughts

I must confess that I'm getting a little tired of the rampant Atatürk-a-palooza in this, the Land of Turkish Delight. It's not that I question Atatürk 's bigger-than-god contribution to the development of the modern state of Turkey but, considering that many critics feel that recent "reforms" here have only turned the clock back to pre-Atatürk times, I am surprised by the plethora of Atatürk paraphernalia floating about the country. Indeedy - pretty much everything from fridge magnets (which I want) to t-shirts bearing the likenesses of Atatürk and his passport (which I don't want) can be picked up for a song.

Among his gazillion reforms was to ban the fez: that iconic red felt hat with the jaunty tassel, beloved the world over by Shriners, monkeys and bellhops. Seeing the fez as a sign of backwardness, Atatürk ensured that it be consigned to hat boxes throughout Turkey thanks to the "Hat Law" of 1925. Although the "Hat Law" sounded its death knell, no doubt it was worn clandestinely for a while - a fez does look pretty natty with a pair of silk pyjamas. The "Law Relating to Prohibited Garments" (1934) was no doubt the nail in the - albeit jaunty - tasselled red coffin.

Considered to be of Greek origin - the word itself comes from the Greek Φέσι (fesi), rather than That City in Morocco - the fez was the chapeau du jour among the Ottomans once they quashed the Byzantine Greeks in Anatolia (modern "Asian" Turkey). Besides being decidedly dapper, the fez also had the advantage of not preventing The Devout from touching their heads to the ground during prayers as might, say, a Stetson. Or a sombrero.

Although the fez was deemed "modern" in the 19th century, Atatürk - just to recap - would have none of this and discouraged it, banned it, and insisted that men wear European hats instead (just in case you skimmed the previous paragraphs). It seems that Atatürk himself was partial to the Panama hat. Personally, I like a nice deerstalker cap, but to each his own - unless, of course, it's a fez.

In any case, walk down any street in Istanbul's more touristy areas and you will find fezzes. Towers of fezzes. And who buys them? - tourists of course. I confess that I myself bought one many years go in That City in Morocco but - in my defence - I just wanted to say that I had bought a fez in Fes. It's like having a chianti in Chianti, a rioja in Rioja, a bordeaux in Bordeaux, or champagne in Champagne. (Why are so many of my examples alcohol?) And it was a gift.

So I am relieved that if the fez has indeed staged a comeback, it's at least not on the heads of Turks but rather on gormless tourists. But as Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and myself were walking the streets of Sultanahmet on Thursday in search of a pre-dinner drink (about one block away from the Atatürk fridge magnet gift shop), I was compelled to reject his suggestion of having said drink on the sunbathed terrace of the Best Western St. Sophia Hotel - which not surprisingly enjoys stupendous views of the Hagia Sophia church mosque. Why? you may ask. Because the only available table was next to a pasty dork of a tourist wearing a fez. I mean, really.

I have no doubt that Atatürk would have approved of my righteous indignation decision. If I can briefly indulge in a WWAD (What Would Atatürk Do?) moment, I'd like to think that he would have snatched the fez, ripped off its jaunty little tassel, and stomped it into the dust of that terrace bar. Or perhaps not. Atatürk, who died from cirrhosis of the liver - Turks don't like to talk about that - seems to have been a bit of an elbow bender in his day.

Having said that, maybe, in retrospect, Atatürk would have turned a blind eye a eye to the pasty dork of a tourist wearing a fez and just enjoyed his drink on the sunbathed terrace of the Best Western St. Sophia Hotel - which not surprisingly enjoys stupendous views of the Hagia Sophia church mosque.

Damn.