Istanbul, Why Not?

Part one of a four-part Istanbul saga.

As we’re running a bit behind enthralling you with our holiday trip, I’ve been charged to catch it up by introducing part of our Istanbul adventures. We arrived at Sabiha Gokcen International Airport, allegedly within Istanbul and 30 miles from our destination of Taksim, a major shopping and hotel district in Istanbul. However we rolled into Taksim Square a stuffy 2.5 hours later, confused and disoriented by the hallucinogenic mega-heater aboard the bus, (which we found with relative ease after I sat in a fountain I mistook for a bench.) Our hotel was not directly across the street of our dismembarkment point as told, but a short walk away which became a lengthy hunt upon the discovery that there were two hotels of the same name within half a mile of one another. Seemingly unaware of this issue, the first hotel was unable to give us clear directions to the second. We have a helpful taxi driver to thank for our eventual successful arrival at the Golden Age 2, a hotel whose staff no doubt hated us before the two weeks was out. But I digress.

As it was late we kept close to Taksim while searching for my favorite Turkish “fast” food, the pide (pronounced pidah.) It is the best of all worlds, as it’s like a pizza but within a boat-shaped pita, complete with melty cheesy goodness and topped with a special, spicy sausage called sucuk. Stuffed with pide, traditional lentil soup, and vinegar-soaked tomato/cucumber salad, a common favorite, we wandered the streets, taking in our new location.

Touring Istanbul on a budget and independent of tourist companies is common and our practice for most of our stay. However, so many guide groups exist and have apparently all decided to offer the exact same tours (with the same titles) at the same prices, so picking the right company usually depends on recommendations. Being part of a group enables you to navigate long lines at popular destinations and for those who love informative tidbits, like us, tour guides provide tons of extra  information. Far too early the next morning I called one of these companies, Plan Tours, as I had had a good experience with them in the past. We signed up for the “Ottoman Relics” half day tour but were mistakenly placed on a mini-bus destined for the “Istanbul Classics” expertly provided in both English and German (because Kevin simply had not had enough of that beautiful language). C’est la vie, we thought, and carried on with our small group to tour the Hippodrome, Hagia Sophia, Blue Mosque, and Grand Bazaar.

Sultanahmet Meydani houses remnants of Constantinople’s original Hippodrome used when it served as the capital of the Byzantine Empire. Renovating a previously built hippodrome was a pet project of Constantine, who, like many ruling men throughout history, had a propensity for large-scale building projects. Along with the oval shape of the surrounding area, certain monuments from the bygone era remain. Mounting stolen spoils taken from conquered nations, either through war or colonialism, has been in practice long before our beloved world-class museums ever built halls to accommodate such relics. The Hippodrome provides excellent examples as its Serpent Column was separated from its base in Delphi, where it acted as a celebratory monument of the Persian Wars. An obelisk in Egypt was chopped into three pieces, all but one lost to posterity. The remaining piece was erected in the Hippodrome.

Today the Hippodrome is a much beloved tourist destination not only for it’s history and beauty but because it’s sort of tacked onto a number of the guided tours. Thousands of tourists are ushered in, take their photos, and promptly bound off for the Blue Mosque opposite. On this day we were two of those tourists, tagged as such by our little, red, circular numbered stickers. We  returned to the Hippodrome later in the week to spend some quality time with this important historic ground. As our tour was a partially German, it is worth noting that German Emperor Wilhelm II visited Istanbul in 1898 and to show that he had a hell of a time, swiftly commissioned a fountain in 1900, which is also located in the Hippodrome. Built in Germany and transported to Istanbul piece by piece, it was a gift that was also a fun puzzle. Quite awesomely the fountain features Abdülhamid II's tughra, or seal, along with Wilhelm’s very creative mark of “W.”

From the Hippodrome we crossed the street to the grounds of the Sultanahmet Mosque, known as the Blue Mosque due to the thousands of blue tiles adorning the interior. Built between 1609 and 1617, the architecture encompasses two centuries of Ottoman and Byzantine development. We wandered through the forecourt to a short line where we removed our shoes and acquired a brochure about Islam. Walking soberly into the Mosque, one is immediately hit with the vast central space and the sense of wonder created by the over 20,000 handmade tiles. These were of the tulip design made in Iznik. After spending two  weeks in Istanbul, it is impossible not to learn about historic tile production and appreciate the regional and craftsmanship differences. Well, impossible for me and those who share my affinity for preindustrial workmanship…I digress again…

From Sultanahmet Mosque, and shod once again, we ventured to Hagia Sophia. I’ll admit that on my last visit to the famous church-made-mosque-made-museum I was not impressed. Harsh, I know. I appreciated its historical context and religious importance, but it did not resonate with me. This time, however, I fell in love with the structure and its surprise-filled morsels at every turn. Perhaps the tour guide was better. Perhaps the crowds were thinned. I can pinpoint that this go-around included much more information about the use of the building, the special  seating arrangements for the Sultan and his wife, and better vantage points from which to spot the famous mosaics depicting Christ and Christian imagery.

The story of the mosaics is really one of survival. Finished as an Orthodox basilica in 360, rebuilt in 415, and again in 532 (resulting in its current architecture) the Hagia Sophia and its  mosaics have overcome their fair share of turbulence. Between 532 and its becoming a mosque in 1453, the church withstood five earthquakes, the destruction of religious icons under Emperor Leo, fires, and crusade-related ransacks.  Talk about a rough millennia.

A dilapidated Hagia Sophia was inherited by the Ottoman Turks and refurbished into a Mosque. During this time many of the mosaics were covered with plaster. Later, researchers were allowed to uncover and document the hidden Christian icons, which afterward were recovered with paint. The most iconic of the mosaics today might be the Virgin and Child depicted on the apse. A symbol of religious tolerance, the image is directly above the qiblah wall. A striking angel mosaic caught my attention during the entirety of the visit, appearing to my eye as both a proud and tragic figure within the walls and context of Hagia Sophia.

At this point we were itching to remove our tour-group stickers, burning into us like brands. But, one stop to go; the Grand Bazaar. Now I love the Grand Bazaar because I love to shop, haggle, and eat. Our tour guide provided us with some maps of the massive, indoor marketplace and some free Turkish Delight then abandoned us to our own devices. I had forgotten how massive the intricate system of allies and side streets is within the Bazaar. We were lucky to arrive during a lull in the roughly 350,000 visitors a day, and navigated quite easily due to Kevin’s ability to keep my lust for shiny things at bay and on target. An actual shopping trip to the Bazaar occurred later in the week; this was a purely observational visit despite the best efforts of the pitch-men. Surrounded by a spectrum of goods ranging from tourist chachkies to world-renown jewelry, it was easy to imagine that this covered bazaar had been in operation since 1461 in a city whose market culture is deeply ingrained.

At this point we met up with Atalay, the brother of the bride, and his American classmate, Anthony. After fulfilling his task of procuring more bath sets from a towel merchant inside the Bazaar, Atalay led the way to a köfte (meatball) restaurant. While in the Sultanahmet neighborhood, we had to visit a Sultanahmet Köftecisi. Like many regional eateries, there is no real menu but a general understanding of what is served. The meal consists of meatballs, green peppers, and bread. You are expected to eat and leave; not really a place for lingering. Atalay expertly ordered for the group and we were swiftly fed and on our way to the Basilica Cistern.

Having subsisted on canned-food and cistern water for an entire summer, I was excited to see a cistern done up in style. The cold, damp air was surprisingly welcoming as we descended the stairs into Istanbul’s underbelly. The large cistern was seemingly the size of a football field, eerily lit, and the sound of dripping abounded. Its size made me contemplate the engineering abilities of the 6th century. Originally constructed under a basilica, the cistern held the personal water supply of Sultans and others living and working in the palaces. With a cathedral-like ambiance, the cistern contains hundred of columns. Two mysterious Medusa-head columns are among this marble army, turned sideways and upside-down. Some might recognize the cistern as being a location used in From Russia with Love, because that makes total sense.

After our first full day in Istanbul, we met up with my friend Ebru at her parent’s house in Levent, another neighborhood, eventually making our way back to Taksim for some much deserved sleep. The next day was New Years Eve and with plans that evening to return to Levent, we took advantage of our free day and further explored Taksim. The main artery of Taksim is Istiklal Street, a long shopping center which eventually empties out in Galata, another neighborhood and our destination for that day’s roaming. We strolled down the main road, minding the occasional street trolley rolling by, and from time to time stepping out to explore a side street or two. Side streets host numbers of relaxing cafes where patrons from all walks of life enjoy a hookah and a friendly game of backgammon. At night these venues become crowded and popular. We quite happily ate lunch at an outdoor cafe amidst the sun and stray cats, enjoying what I call “real” olives. Our  wanderings led us to two somewhat hidden churches along the road, one of which was St. Antoine. I remembered going through this Catholic church during my last visit to the city and upon my return took obnoxious photographs with its Pope John XXIII monument, because who doesn’t just love a good Pope statue?

The street suddenly flushed out into smaller veins, allies running through Galata, a former Genoese settlement now characterized by numerous music shops and art studios. I grabbed a cup of fresh pomegranate juice, a must, and we headed towards Galata Tower. The market culture surrounded us; a knife sharpener had taken up business in the middle of a crowded street, döner kebab salesmen called out to the crowd while a man pushing a cart of carefully stacked eggs rounded the corner. The tower rose from the center of a small square in the heart of the neighborhood. From across the Golden Horn, its stark beauty dominates the skyline. On top of its nine stories one can enjoy a panoramic view of Old Istanbul. That is if you care to shimmy around a balcony made for tiny, tiny people with tiny, tiny feet while many, many oversized tourists smoking cigarettes decide to squeeze past you as you plaster yourself to the tower’s outer walls, searching for sweet salvation. That is why some of us enjoyed the view from the rooftop restaurant, drinking tea, and some of us were outside in the windy terror.

After leaving the tower, which was built in 1348 as part of the fortifications around the Genoese colony and from which an early aviator flew, using constructed wings, over the Golden Horn and was subsequently arrested for being a dangerous “threat,” we headed back to Levent to usher in the New Year and kick off the wedding celebration. However when we arrived only Ebru’s older relatives greeted us and we waiting in somewhat amusing silence for a family member who spoke English to aid us and translate. During this stare-off we mistakenly tried to convey our interest in learning how Turkish tea is made, but our confusing hand signals were read as either asking for cigarettes or the sad dance of complete fools. After many failed attempts, Kevin used his Blackberry to translate the question from English to French because Ebru’s grandmother is a former French professor. After staring at it quizzically for some time, as the translation was undoubtedly muddled and senseless, she understood that we in fact did not want cigarettes. Everyone had a good laugh and three Turkish women paraded us into the kitchen where we learned, through a mixture of hand gestures, pantomime, and broken French how exactly Turkish tea is made.

On the first day of 2010 Kevin and I split up, men with the men and women with the women, for the very unique experience of the authentic Turkish bath (please see future blogs on our individual experiences.) After a long day of wedding-related activities and a delicious and cheap dinner of falafel and hummus from a Middle Eastern restaurant, we returned to our beloved hotel with the single desire to take a relaxing dip in the pool. That would have happened, if the hotel didn’t make you pay for swim caps and special pool-only towels before allowing you entry to the tiny pool. Retreating into the elevator we adjusted our evening to include an early bedtime in preparation for the expected late night the next evening for the wedding.

The wedding day had arrived. Due to a harsh rain storm which included hail, we changed our morning plans to include a serious shopping trip to the covered Grand Bazaar. On the way we dined in a Turkish restaurant empty for all but us and a very overzealous matradee. Kevin enjoyed a ground-meat pide while I had a full plate of Adana kebab, rice, and grilled vegetables. The meal was completed by baskets of fresh pita bread and goat cheese. Returning to the Bazaar, we priced some beautiful hookahs and returned to a shop where we had bartered a bit with a salesman earlier in the week. We danced the bartering dance until all were happy. He invited us into his shop for tea and conversation, which inevitably ended with more bartering and the wrapping up of a tea tray (at a severely reduced price.) The Turkish are known for their hospitality, and enjoying tea while haggling is part of the market experience. The remainder of the evening consisted of navigating the hail, jumping in a cab, and enjoying the wedding.

My Funny Valentine

A valentine from us to you. (Click to enlarge.)

In the Name of Love

We interrupt your regularly scheduled weekly blog to bring you a taste of English Valentines Day.

Happy Valentines Week! This year, Kevin and I hope to celebrate this most special of special “holidays” by commemorating our love in the same fashioned as last year, by forgetting about it completely until the actual day, upon which someone will inevitably ask us our plans for the evening. But in spite of our pessimism for pointless celebrations and a light hatred of an entire day culturally and historically wrapped in a thin chocolate shell of anti-feminist banter and women-blaming, we decided to enthrall you with the Brit’s take on good ole romance.

Living in northern England amongst the salt-of-the-earth, we’ve discovered with delight the local love of taking a stroll, getting out of the city and enjoying the treasures of the Peak District, Britain’s first national park, within whose borders Sheffield resides. It is no surprise that a favorite Valentines activity amongst those of  Yorkshire and Derbyshire is a brisk walk in the countryside accompanied by a light dusting of historical curiosity.

Before the start of yet another semester we wished for an escape from the city, an expansion of our familiarity with local surroundings, and to spend some time together. The Peak District, with its 555 square miles encompassing quaint villages, breathtaking views, and thousands of years of historical relevance seemed a perfect location for such a romantic outing. But first, we had to clarify the definition of “romantic outing.” Such a term, in the context of the British countryside, summons visions of grand impressions, history, quiet moments, and out of the ordinary experiences. The British, however, have their own take. It seems, such a jaunt could qualify itself as “romantic” if the participants escaped with their lives while remembering those who were not as fortunate.

In this point of our tale we come to the “Top Ten Romantic Places” list created by the official Peak District tourism board. Within the arguments stating the abundant romantic features of each establishment, the list boasts of not one, not two, but FOUR properties connected to ghastly and horrifying deaths of those associated with the “love stories.” Perfect for a day out with that special someone, eh?

One such story reads as follows, (note: this lovely little morsel lists third on the romantic-scale), “Winntas Pass, Castleton. Dramatic backdrop for the brutal murder of ill-fated lovers Allan and Clara in 1758…” No, don’t ease into in by describing the beautiful surroundings, just dive right into the horrible-death-aspect of this romantic location. “The couple, who planned to wed in secret against the wishes of Clara’s father, were attacked, robbed and clubbed to death by four drunken lead miners as they negotiated the steep pass.” No, that’s OK, don’t spare us any of the gruesome details. I’m really glad I can picture this event in its entirety…occurring in the exact place to which you wish me to travel…you know…to celebrate my love. Oh wait, it’s not yet finished. “Unfortunate Allan and Clara were hastily buried nearby. Many years later, their bodies were recovered and given a Christian burial in St. Edmund’s churchyard.” I’m so glad it was a happy ending…for their wild-animal-torn bodies!

If the warm and bubbly feelings you got from that particular “romantic location” didn’t convince you of the oh-so-idyllic day out awaiting you, please, continue reading the list. The next stop on our love train of doom takes us to Stoney Middleton, a sleepy village and home to a “lover’s leap.” Who doesn’t just go bananas over a good, old fashioned, jump-to-your-death love story? Just when you think this one might have a happy ending, as “jilted Hannah Baddaley flung herself off the clip top, and was fortunately saved by her voluminous skirts, which acted as a parachute,” we are quickly reminded that the lovers-leap narrative demands depression as its toll, and “sadly, the reluctant spinster died of natural causes only two years later, still unwed.” Nothing like kicking a sister when she’s down.

If you are a lover of classical literature, why not head over to North Less Hall in Hathersage, possibly the inspiration for Charlotte Bronte’s Thornfield Hall in Jane Eyre, and absorb the atmospheric architecture. Now, if memory serves correct, that was one long book. A long book, in fact, with many memorable scenes taking place within Thornfield, such as Jane’s embarrassment at a dinner party, Bronte’s first description of Jane’s room, or Jane speaking with Mr. Rochester as his unattested equal. Clearly, none of these scenes would be as fitting in a guide to romantic places as the ONLY ONE depicted in said guide: “According to the book, Rochester’s mad wife sprang to her death from Thornfield’s battlements.” Good use of the term battlement, bad use of thematic example.

We come to the epic, historic, and final stop on our tour, the Manor Farm, which boasts itself as the site of Anthony Babington’s failed rescue plot of Mary Queen of Scots, which “cost him his head” and apparently lead to her eventual execution. Lovely.  Although the attempted rescue of Queen Elizabeth’s most pesky prisoner would no doubt get one a date with the ax, Mary’s fate was more tied to her status as a royal liability and less to some ill-conceived attempt to free her, (he “started to dig a tunnel from Manor Farm” apparently to another manor, “but gave up”), masterminded by a man with whom she may or may not have been associated. If that’s not a classic love story which should be marketed to lovebirds everywhere (especially the part about throwing in the towel), then please set me straight.

The main argument for visiting  five of the ten listed is their history as sets for popular Hollywood or BBC productions. Of course, I’m sure these movies had realistic views of love appropriate to win a place for their location on the ten top romantic places in the Peaks list! I’m as sure of this as I am that most men want for nothing than to spend an entire weekend touring the sets of their favorite movies and miniseries, you know such as Pride and Predujuce (both 2005’s and 1995’s), The Dutchess,  and The Other Boleyn Girl, while their girlfriends repeatedly exclaim “I’m sure this is from that scene, remember the scene where…”

Congratulations, Rudyad Lake, you are the only location of the esteemed ten without a harrowing history of horror (at least that we are aware) and which is also not a period film set. Although, the arguments behind your being chosen as a passionate and poetic location for lovers old and young is rather lame, as you are the namesake of Rudyard Kipling, beloved author of The Jungle Book. Yes, Rudyard Kipling was named after a lake outside of Manchester. A lake which he most likely never frequented or even visited in his entire, exotic life.

What have these travels through romantic northern England taught us? In order to market a destination as a romantic get-away to a segment of British tourists, connect it in some way to a brutal murder, suicide attempt, murder/suicide, or choose a movie set (extra points for positioning your destination as a former site of a double murder now used as a movie set). If all else fails, chose a spot special in the obscure annals of an author unfortunately unknown by the vast majority of contemporary society, but whose work is still recognizable and preferably has been tuned into a Disney movie. Next, exploit, exploit, exploit. Lastly, open a gift shop completed with branded carrier bags.

Do You … Fondue? We do.

  While in Switzerland we were lucky to be introduced (or reintroduced) to many cultural dishes by our local hosts. The Swiss love great food and are an par with the French and Italians for their artistry with wine and cheese. For a week we were privileged to join them in an homage to Swiss culinary art.

Although many may think it is fondue, the Swiss see themselves as a land without any one national cuisine. Although the country is small, it is diversified into regions and sub-regions which can be reflected in the food prepared and enjoyed by the Swiss people. Dishes have been created and perfected over centuries, drawing from aspects of French, German, and Italian foodways. One of our now favorite dishes was even imported from China.

Most dishes in Switzerland incorporate wine and if it is not in the food itself, it’s on the table and enjoyed by all. We enjoyed some of the more traditional Rieslings and local white wines. Also popular is cheese, because wine hates to be lonely, which finds its way into multiple meals.

Upon arrival in Zurich, Nadia whisked us away to St. Gallen, the capital of her canton, to experience the famous St. Gallen sausage.  Locals brim with pride over this favorite from the 15th century. Like any local treat (think Philly cheesesteaks or Rochester trashplates) certain norms must be followed when ordering and consuming the sausage, as vendors can easily spot outsiders. Eating the sausage out of a bag with a hard roll on the side (and of course without mustard) while standing on the street is the way to go. Afterward, we treated ourselves to deliciously thick Swiss hot chocolate. Hot chocolate offers more than one way to warm yourself after a day in the brisk Swiss air, a favorite option being a healthy dose of flavored brandy.

Starting the day on a full stomach is typical in Switzerland, with breakfast spreads similar to those in Germany, complete with fresh breads, butter, cheeses, and cold meats. Nadia impressed all with her Zopf, a traditional braided bread typically eaten on Sunday mornings. We enjoyed such a breakfast each morning complete with tea (although prepared in the British fashion to the surprise, and possibly chagrin, of all during our trip).

If I remembered one thing from my past trip to Switzerland, the Swiss do love their meat. This trip proved no different, especially on Christmas Eve while we dined at Nadia’s father’s house in Zuzwil. We ate beef, and beef, and more beef, marinated and served in a delicious sauce. That evening the meat paraded on with a traditional Swiss fondue. Meat fondue, or Fondue Chinois, was borrowed from the Chinese but over hundreds of years has become quintessentially Swiss. Small slices of meat are dipped into a fondue pot bubbling with a prepared soup-like stock. We had our choice of a number of dipping sauces and completed the meal with pickled vegetables. Before the dipping and eating commenced, I embarrassed myself by taking far too long to understand the simple meat fondue concept, confused at the prospect of raw meat on my plate. After a lot of laughing I was convinced that the meat would cook in the soup and I had nothing to worry about.

One aspect of Swiss culture (noticed the most by Kevin) was the lack of a substantial lunch. During free days most people eat little snacks or cafe-like treats and do not necessarily enjoy a full lunch. Such was our experience during most days. However dinners are lengthy affairs, especially when socializing with friends, and can last late into the night.

On Christmas day we enjoyed our first ever raclette, now my favorite dish. Found in historic texts from the middle ages, raclette has been a popular Swiss dish for hundreds of years. It  was originally associated with Swiss cow herders in the mountains. The meal is prepared by melting raclette cheese and pouring it over potatoes. Racler, the French word meaning “to scrape,” is the foundation for the dish’s name as the melted cheese is scraped onto the potatoes. Modern Swiss have a handy table-top  grill, much like our electric griddles, with a special hot plate below the grill for placing small pans filled with raclette cheese. Here the cheese is melted while above on the grill vegetables, bacon, and other meats can be cooked to accompany the cheese. Like fondue, a raclette meal is a lengthy, social event.

We were treated by Simon, who prepared Rösti for us. Much like hash browns, rösti is a dish made by shredding and frying potatoes. A cream and mushroom sauce with veal or bacon, fantastically seasoned, accompanies the crispy potatoes. Like at most meals we were offered wine or beer and mineral water. After almost three weeks with only mineral water as his friend, Kevin was happy to return to familiar, bubble-less tap water.

Switzerland’s  Appenzell is famous for its cheese, so naturally we traveled to the source and purchased Appenzeller Käse, the cheese that has been around for a millennia. Walking into the official shop a wave of cheese smell hits you, delicious perfume to some, the experience of 1,000 smelly feet to others. After a tasting we were happy with our choice, wrapped it for later, and retired to a small cafe for a salty slice of cheese cake (but not cheesecake.) Here we also tasted a sweet,  brandy-like liquor distilled locally. Simon also made sure we experienced an Appenzeller Biber, a gingerbread cookie filled with marzipan (almond paste) and special herbs. It was delicious and festively wrapped like a little present, and who doesn’t love that? After a week of cheese, wine, sausage, and potatoes we were off for the land of kebab, feta, olives, and köfte.

Travels in the Confoederatio Helvetica

Waking up at 4:00 AM in Cologne, Ashley and I quickly got all of our kit together and set off into the fore-dawn skies for Zürich, Switzerland. As in the Manchester and Cologne airports, the giant, multi-storey-tall, face of Kevin Costner endorsing Turkish Airlines met us again with that smirk and sparkling eyes from the sides of buildings in Zürich. In our tired early-morning daze, it was that much more off-putting.

We were met at the airport by Nadia – a Domm family friend. Nadia and her husband Simon invited us to stay with them for a week over Christmas while they showed us around the lovely and varied sights of the Swiss Confederation. Our base for this week would be the lovely town of Wil (pronounced “veal”) roughly a half-hour’s speedy drive from Zürich. I must admit that I had not spent too much time preconceiving what the Swiss countryside might look like leading up to the trip. And certainly before that my impression of Switzerland was that of a historian and pop-culture consumer of The Sound of Music and whatever that annoying yodeling commercial was in the 1990s.

It’s safe to say that the foggy morning of December 23 allowed me a much clearer view of Swiss agricultural fields and the basic economy, which is very much in line with modern and what some might consider that rare breed of “pure European” trends. Which is what, of course, people selling cars or trends or fashion tend to attempt to conjure up. And indeed, with Switzerland being the tiny, neutral though increasingly xenophobic microcosm of European cross-roads that it is, that’s not surprising. The history of the Helvetia Confederation is quite long, storied, and intriguing, but I leave that for further research on your part.

Suffice it to say that the county is tiny (really tiny. Driving across the whole thing might take you a long, though scenic, afternoon!) and is comprised of various cultural and ethnic groups speaking the four official languages of the country (French, German, Italian, and Romansh – an insular Latinate tongue spoken in a few valleys). However, it’s a country that shares similar ideals and their Alpine identity.

We spent the days eating (look for a blog from Ashley regarding all of the wonderful Swiss food we discovered and fell in love with), generally resting, eating again (We shared dinner on Christmas Eve with Nadia’s father and brother and their impeccable cooking), sight-seeing, and traveling.

During one such evening of rest, Ashley discovered her new favourite programme on Swiss television:

Das Traumschiff

Now, for those of us who don’t speak German (but do speak bad ‘80s television about Germans on cruise ships), this is a show that I believe has to be a soap-opera or just an outlet for a crazy director to force bad actors to stay together on a cruise ship for God-knows-how-long pretending to act. The title is literally The Dream Ship, and Ashley fell in love. Not being able to understand German (or perhaps, in spite of that), I was able to watch a few minutes while reading my book and came away with something about the cruise liner captain taking care of a randomly injured falcon, a lady passing out because she was taking too many diet pills, and a random German crew member falling in love with a sheik in the UEA. Yes, I think they actually filmed those scenes in the UEA. At least, Dubai looked convincing. It was at that point that I realised the show that I believed had to be from the ‘80s (horrible acting, terrible terrible grainy film quality, etc) must have been very very recent, given Dubai’s skyline. Someone should tell the show to stop blowing their budget on filming on a cruise liner and on-location in Dubai and buy a decent camera. But I digress…

We walked through the old-town Wil and fell in love with its character that comes from being a truly historic settlement in the midst of dozens of similar villages with similar stories of long histories and continuing relevance. We visited the nearby towns of St. Gallen, Lucerne, had a quick evening jaunt through Zürich, and drove out to the quintessential Alpine village of Appenzell.

It was in the abbey in St. Gallen that Ashley and I discovered the model for our future library. We couldn’t take pictures, so we bought enough postcards of the interior to have most of the angles covered for the future.

One of the richest medieval libraries in the world. World Heritage Site. All of the books available still for public use, though books older than 1900 must be read in the room. One of the manuscripts of Nibelungenlied. It’s a pretty fantastic library. Sorry: the best image I could find.

During this entire period, I was continuously at-the-ready to take advantage of any prime romantic-y/nerdy moments for Ashley and I that would allow me to propose to her. To whit, I had the ring in my jacket pocket at all times, and had spoken to Nadia and Simon about being ready to back away and give us a little privacy if I gave the sign. Alas, nothing ever presented itself to my satisfaction. The closest chance that came was on the famous bridge in Lucerne, but alas, tourists tend to just get everywhere and would have seriously cramped my style.

Unfortunately, our time quickly came to an end, and it was off to Istanbul for Ashley and I.