Religious Rackets Racquets

Honestly, I don't know why this story amuses me so much but it does. And I have absolutely no doubt that it says far far more about me than anything else but, still, petty, juvenile, puerile amused I remain.

In the Anatolian town of Konya - one of the most religiously conservative parts of Turkey - the mufti there has announced that students taking a summer course in Qu'ranic studies will also have the opportunity to learn badminton.

Yes, students who opt to save their souls by taking the 8-week God-intensive classes and, of course, who express a modicum of interest in the game, will be able to "watch a CD on badminton and then participate in the sport." There is no mention of an actual instructor.

The roots (or feathers) of badminton can be traced back to ancient Greece and given the on-again/off-again hostilities Turkey harbours towards Greece (i.e., since the dawn of time Greece has stolen anything & everything it possibly could - including a few islands in the Aegean - from Turkey), I'm surprised that they even allow it played here, let alone in a religious institution. Indeed, one of my favourite games at school is suggesting to students that it was the Greeks who invented baklava or the döner. Money just can't buy moments like those.

Then again, besides producing stunning carpets and religious zealots, Konya is the final resting place for Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi, the Persian poet who was the founder of the Sufi order - of Whirling Dervishes fame. Maybe spinning mystics and flailing racquets aren't that incongruous.

In any case, I just hope the word shuttlecock translates into something equally prurient in Turkish.

Close Encounters of the 4th Kind

It's been a while (I think) since I've dipped my toe into the churning waters of political incorrectness so I think the time to stick my foot in it (i.e., those churning waters of political incorrectness) is long overdue. And to be fair, I wasn't even going to bother spilling any more ink on this topic (my previous vents are well-documented) were it not for the fact that a visiting friend, himself a Turk now living in Canada, raised the topic while we catching up in Istanbul recently.

What's with these women? he asked. Look at them! What's happening to this country?

My friends: I give you The Headscarf.

But not The Headscarf per se, but The Turkish Headscarf. (Or perhaps what fashionistas might call The Scarf à la turque.)

So while Presidents Obama and Sarkozy battle over a woman's right to wear a scarf - which itself is tied up with Turkey's future in the EU - and rather than airing my own feelings about covered women, or even commenting on the often volatile politics of the headscarf in this country tempted though I am, let me just say this: headscarved women here are weird-looking.

And by weird-looking I mean that those heads that are so modestly covered by shiny gaudy synthetic silk scarves look like they belong on a space alien or an 18th Dynasty Egyptian princess.

Seriously.

It just seems that Turkey is overrun by women with misshapen heads. Our friend, who had just returned from a trip to Saudi and the Emirates - where no women wore their scarves accordingly - couldn't get over it: they look like aliens he gushed. Yup. Took the words right out of my mouth.

I have lived and worked and travelled in enough Muslim countries to know that covered women needn't look like this. It is avoidable! And yes, I understand that there are different styles for different regions and for different ages and for different budgets: I have seen the so-called rapunzel-style, the Jerusalem twist, the simple ribbon style, the simple square scarf. But this?

At first I thought there might be a head bustle at work or a skull extender of sorts under all that rayon. Then I thought that perhaps women here are tying back their hair into a chignon of sorts, a chignon which juts out almost perpendicularly from the back of their heads. Once layered and scarved, the hair bump becomes exaggerated. Or maybe not. Of course, I could just shell out the cash for the videos How to Wear a Turkish Hijab (volumes 7 and 8) but didn't I find the links on youtube? - which is banned in Turkey because of anti-Atatürk comments made on the site, but, because this is Turkey and everything is possible, there are ways to circumvent the ban.

So I checked out the tutorial (don't bother unless you've already seen its sister video: How to Watch Paint Dry, volumes 2 and 3) and, for the most part, it was as useless as tits on a bull although I did appreciate the tip on hairspraying the scarf to keep it nicely arched. Then finally at the 8:12 point, the demonstrator mentions that the wearer should put her hair up in a high bun with a loose pony-tail which makes no sense to me because it's either a high bun or a pony tail, right?

Nonetheless ... bingo! Voilà: The grotesque head bump.

Of course, not all women look like they're packing a cycling helmet under their scarves: many don't bother covering their heads at all while others opt for the cocoon-like vitamin D-sucking full niqab. And of course some wear a normal headscarf and I-can't-believe-I-just-made-reference-to-a-normal-headscarf. But it does seem that the covering of female follicles is on the rise in Turkey where over 60% of women already wear some form of head covering.

Personally, I'm rather smitten with one of my alien-headed female students who came to class last week with a face piercing. Not sure how that fits into the whole ideal of feminine desexualization modesty but perhaps the Prophet Mohammed (pbuh) just wasn't all that forward-thinking. Ooops, did I just say that out loud?

When Om Means No

After I left Morocco, I swore that I would never work in a Muslim country again which, at the time, meant never ever ever again but which actually meant that I would never work in a Muslim country again unless the conditions were really really really good. Unfortunately, those particular Muslim countries which offer really really really good conditions either hold little or no appeal to me or won't hire me.

But when the prospect of gainful if not somewhat illegal employment in Turkey reared its wattled head, I paused and considered the matter. After all, as I said elsewhere, Turkey is not an Islamic country, its 99% Muslim citizens (and its gazillion mosques) notwithstanding. Turkey is a secular country, does not promote any one religion, and supports religious freedoms. At least on paper.

And while I'm talking about paper, let me toss up this little gem which recently saw the light of day in one of Turkey's English-language newspapers. Entitled It's OK to Stretch, Just Don't Believe, it outlines concerns that Ali Bardakoğlu, the head of the Directorate of Religious Affairs has about - wait for it - yoga.

Let me just say that when I saw that such an animal as the Directorate of Religious Affairs should even exist in a secular country, which does not promote any one religion, and supports religious freedoms (at least on paper), my head spun. Not in any Exorcist sort of way, but spin it did.

So here it is in a nutshell: Mr. Bardakoğlu is worried that people - presumably Muslims - who practice yoga will become extremists. Funny, I never equated the words yoga, extremism and Islam before but then again, I never bothered to read the 9/11 Commission Report. Anyway, as we all know, and he goes to great pains to remind us, yoga-induced extremism leads to the disintegration of traditional Islamic beliefs. These concerns were widely published in right-wingnut, conservative papers with the headline Yoga Warning from Religious Affairs. And I thought the only warning we needed to heed before assuming Downward Facing Dog was to consult our physicians before attempting such exercises.

Moreover, he adds, it is often loneliness that pushes otherwise Allah-fearing men and women towards yoga. And for him, the real concern is why these otherwise Allah-fearing men and women aren't finding the answers to what ails them in Islam. Because the answers are there. All of them.

It's probably because the poses aren't much fun.

According to Mr.Bardakoğlu, because its roots lie in Indian-oriented Far Eastern philosophy, yoga is at fundamental odds with Islam and its practitioners are doing nothing less than indulging in missionary (proselyting not the position) activities. By asserting that yogis are only relieving stress and acquiring flexibility by a Half Lord of the Fishes pose is, at best, disingenuous. And of course, at worst, it propagates a "religion" which is anti-Islam. And in the middle? - it's feeding a cash sacred cow, i.e., the yoga industry. He adds "The services in Islam, for instance, are free." Fair enough. One for Mr.Bardakoğlu.

Mr. Bardakoğlu's comments have instigated a flurry of responses from around the country ranging from wholehearted support to the more sane some head-scratching what-the-fuck?'s. Personally, I would like to pause and have a WWAD (What Would Atatürk Do?) moment. I would like to think that Modern Turkey's Founding Father would have a few shots of rakı (his favourite tipple) and remind Bardakoğlu that blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.

Relic Hunter 2009

It was announced recently that a certain Mr. Necat Selimoğlu has filed a petition to quash the serving - and presumably, the drinking - of alcohol from the Konyalı Restaurant at Istanbul's Topkapı Palace. In other words, he wants the restaurant's government issued & inviolably legal pre-existing alcohol permit torn into a million little pieces and strewn in the Bosphorous Sea. Or possibly the Sea of Marmara. Maybe even the Black Sea. I don't think his petition is quite that specific.

In any case, the Topkapı Palace is just one of many sparkling jewels in Istanbul's jewel-heavy crown - whether you're a historian, tourist, or a cat-lover (there is a formidable herd of well-tended cats on the Palace's sprawling grounds) - a visit to what was once the official residence of the Ottoman Sultans for some 400 years is de rigueur. But what may no longer be de rigueur is a nicely chilled glass of Efes beer after a day gawking at, among other things, thrones, calligraphic manuscripts, porcelain and more diamonds than you can throw a stick at.

And why, you ask, does Mr. Selimoğlu wish to snatch this not very guilty pleasure away from millions of visitors? Well, it would seem that among the sacred relics housed on site are:

* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) mantle
* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) standard
* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) sandal
* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) cup
* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) seal
* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) footprint on a stone (my personal favourite)
* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) swords & a bow
* the Prophet Muhammad's (pbuh) soil which he used for ritual ablutions, and
* the Prophet Mohammed's (pbuh) tooth

Do you detect a common theme? Moses' staff, the forearm of John the Baptist (the head would have been really neat), King David's sword, and Joseph's (He of the Technicolour Dreamcoat) turban (the Technicolour Dreamcoat would have been far more impressive) are apparently kept on the Palace grounds as well, but their proximity to gin martinis and nicely chilled glasses of Efes beer doesn't seem to be rattling Mr. Selimoğlu too much.

Nope, it's the Prophet's (pbuh) swag.

According to Mr. Selimoğlu, the alcohol permit is a "curse" on the Holy Tooth. I don't know if he expects some divine retaliatory action taken against Turkey on account of this juxtaposition of tooth and tipple - apart from granting Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and me residency permits - but he is seething with righteous indignation. The government is taking his petition seriously, (i.e., it's been officially received) presumably - and hopefully - because it has to. Turkey is not an Islamic country, its 99% Muslim citizens notwithstanding. And my limited understanding of all things Turkish suggests that the government likes receiving millions of tourist dollars tourists a year.

Needless to say, the restaurant's owner is less than enthusiastic.

I have my own opinion about relics of any faith - Calvin once opined that there are enough fragments of the "true cross" to build a sizeable ship - and I don't want this post to devolve into a fit of giggles debate about their authenticity and veneration. (Tempting though it is.) No, this is about something more important: it's about liquor. And given that the Prophet (pbuh) himself is said to have said (to have said) that there are rivers of clean water, fresh milk, and wine - "delicious for the drinkers" (Sura 47:15) in no less than Paradise, then perhaps Mr. Selimoğlu's petition should be filled away in a manner which would have made those ancient file-pushing byzantine bureaucrats of Old Constantinople weak in the knees. Like under a mile-high stack of paper.

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.