What would Frodo do?

Little shops outside of the Grand Bazaar



The Grand Bazaar is one of the largest and oldest covered markets in the world. (It covers more than 58 streets and opened in 1461.) Those who travel to Turkey should know the countries three specialties – rugs, jewelry and leather.

As sophisticated as I’d like to think I am, all I know about Turkish rugs is if you have one, you're probably rich. On top of my lack of interest in leather products and carpets, I forgot to bring my million dollars, which makes buying myself a few diamond earings out of the question. Shucks.

So upon finding myself completely alone in the Grand Bazaar, I skip shopping and begin walking quickly toward what appears to be a Starbucks knock-off when I’m stopped by a Turkish man in his early forties.

“Are you Turkish?” he asks.

“No. American,” I reply.

“American? You look Turkish? No?” His question is answered with a bunch of “Yes, mmhmm’s” from a group of 12 old Turkish men that pop out of nowhere. I’m surrounded.

An example of what an old Turkish man looks like.

Cursing myself for not bringing mace, I politely smile and try to walk through the circle. (I naturally assume I am constantly about to be abducted. Thanks Liam Neeson for scarring me with your spectacular performance in Taken.)

“You are very beautiful,” the man I shall henceforth call ‘Creeper’ continues. “Olive skin like me.”

It's hard being so good looking. 

“Er…Thank you,” I say while walking away.

“I have three shop, I show you.” He is following me.

I wonder what the word for “rape” is in Turkish.

“Um, no I am meeting someone in 20 minutes,” I lie.

He grabs my elbow and begins to steer me down a street.

Shit. I could run but it looks like he knows everyone in the damn city. I assume this based on the fact everyone around is waving and smiling at me. Is this what happens to all his victims? They parade the girls to their death?

“You are scared. I no danger. Be happy.”

It takes every ounce of self-restraint I have not to shout, "STRANGER DANGER," kick the man in the balls and run, because when someone tells you they’re not dangerous that should be a cue to get the hell out of there.

But I'm an idiot.

The next thing I know, we're in a deserted alley. The only witness to a possible missing persons investigation is a cat.



The only witness...half sleeping.



He takes me in to a shop and introduces me to his cousin. I’m guessing it’s not the same cousin he told me lived in America five seconds earlier. One thing I learned through my experience with merchants is it doesn’t matter where you say you’re from – they “have a cousin who lives there.”

I’m in his jewelry shop looking at scarves I could buy from Forever 21 for approximately six cents.

 “Which one you like?”

“Um…this one,” I point to a blue embroidered scarf.

“$60.”

“No.”

“How much you pay?”

“I wouldn’t pay $20.”

“Ok, 20,” he holds out his hand.

“No. No 20, are you kidding? I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait…” he blocks the doorway. I imagine karate chopping him to escape. “How much you pay?”

“$10.”

He pauses. He thinks.

“Ok, for you, $10 but no tell no one I give you this price.”

“I’m telling everyone.”

I give him $10 and start to walk away. After 15 seconds of me walking forward without looking back, I turn on to a crowded street and breathe a sigh of relief. I am free.

“What you like?”

Damn it. He was right next to me.

“What?” I ask.

 “Here, come with me,” he holds my hand.

“Whoa. What? No I need to go back,” I pull away, in a rush to meet my invisible friend.

“Be happy, why scared?  I no danger,” he grabs my hand again. “Just hold my hand, look at everyone so jealous.”

I look around and it seems as though every man in the street is grinning at Mr. Creeper, giving him a thumbs-up. I pull my hand away and he grabs it within the second and reminds me to just be happy.

As I’m walking down a busy street in the Grand Bazaar holding hands with a 40-something-year-old Turkish man, I can’t help but remember my mom’s 10 second-long lecture before I left.

It went something along the lines of: “Don’t be stupid. And don’t go anywhere alone.”  

Going somewhere alone was inevitable. I wasn’t going to just stay in my hostel. The 'don’t be stupid' part is debatable…what she calls 'stupid,' I call 'something Frodo would do,' which is also known as 'adventurous.'

I base my decisions by asking, 'what would Frodo do?' I’m still alive, so it seems to be working for me…but I’m beginning to think holding hands with a random Turkish man may fall under the 'stupid' category.

We hold hands in to a coffee shop where he buys us two cups of tea. I wonder if it is poisoned.

“Drink one cup tea means 40 years friendship,” he smiles at me.

“On Facebook? Because I don’t live here, remember…”

“You are very cute couple,” says every stranger who walks in.

“He has no wife,” an old man tells me.

“Oh…I’m…sorry?” I say to Creeper.

“How long you stay?”

“I leave tomorrow,” I lie again.

Clearly this relationship isn’t going anywhere since it’s founded on a bed of lies.

“What time?”

“The morning,” I lie some more, trying to ignore the fact his friends are taking pictures of us on their phones. (Is this what celebrities feel like?)

“You come with me to meet my family? I like you much. Very beautiful.”

“What?” I look around to make sure he’s talking to me.

“You like Turkey, no? You stay here. You want ring? I give you ring. I take care of you. You live with me. What size finger?”

“I don’t know I think 6 – wait, what? No. I have to go,” I crane my neck in search of my invisible friend.

He writes down his email address, phone number and address on a paper and hands it to me.

“You write yours.”

“I … uh… you can have my email,” I write down a fake email address. For some reason, I feel guilty.

“What you do now?”

“I’m going to see the whirling dervishes soon.”

“I come with you, then we eat, drink, talk…” he makes hand motions as if I don’t understand what it means to eat and drink.

“Um I already bought my ticket so … I think it’s sold out.”

“I wait for you.”

“No, no that’s not necessary.”

“Ok. I wait.”

“What? No. Um, I will be tired.”

“I wait for you. You like Turkey, you stay you marry me,” he proposed.

“Hah, yeah…oookay.”

“Ok! What size ring?”

“You like gold?” another old man pops out of nowhere. (They have a habit of doing that.)

Suddenly I’m surrounded by men hugging me and kissing me on the cheek, giving me tea and clapping.

Creeper is smiling from ear to ear.

“Oh shit,” I get up and gather my things.

“You go to show and you call?”

“I have to go,” I say as I walk away and wave to nobody to wait up for me.

“I tell my sister she come, you meet!” he yells after me.

And that’s the story of my engagement to a Turkish man named Creeper.

Mr. Creeper giving me his contact information.

Later that night my room’s phone rings while I was Skyping with my parents.

“Hello? Gabrielle?” I immediately recognize his voice and hang up. I begin to panic. How did he know where I was staying? The phone rings again, I don’t answer. After the fourth call I ask the front desk to turn my phone off while my mom yells at me, “Gabby! You did exactly what we told you not to do!” Standard.

I think he must have seen me carrying the hostel's address because I may be an idiot from time to time but I'm not stupid enough to advertise where I'm staying. Him calling my room definitely creeped me out.

It's not like our marriage would have worked out anyways.

According to the CIA World Factbook, 99.8 percent of Turkey's population is Muslim. I assume if he found out I'm Greek Orthodox Christian, he probably would've dumped me. And I'm not particularly fond of being dumped.

But for all he knows, the engagement is still going strong. 

You're all invited to the wedding.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Creeper

God bless Americuh

Tourists, who are probably American, walking toward Hagia Sophia.

I have this problem where I assume every tourist is an American. They could be Asian and I think, “Asian’s! Maybe they’re from Irvine.”

…They aren’t. I make sure to ask all 500 of them.

I decide to take a group tour of Istanbul since I don’t feel comfortable wandering around alone – especially upon realizing that just because I speak English doesn’t mean everyone else is obligated to learn the language.

I’m sitting on the tour bus waiting for the guide and eavesdropping on conversations around me. There is a German couple, a Brazilian couple, an Indian family from England (I was confused about this for a good half-hour), the entire population of Japan and FINALLY an American couple who sits right behind me (jackpot).

They are in their late forties, early fifties and are both wearing a hat that says, “USA.” Not only are they loud (which makes my eavesdropping easier) but they are also unaware that since this is a tour in ENGLISH, the other passengers prooobbabbblllyyyy understand what they’re saying.

 “Look at all these Asians,” the man says to his wife.

“Yeah, I know! Weird, huh?” she replies.

Mind you, these Asians are sitting across the foot-wide isle. Their ears are literally inches away from the couple’s mouths.

“Where are we going first?” the wife asks her husband.

“I think that one mosque…” he replies.

“Oh where the sultan lived?” she asks, as if there was only one sultan who lived in the only mosque they could possibly be talking about.

“Yeah, with that woman.” (I catch myself making a, “What?” face.)

“Oh yeah, I read about her. Apparently she didn’t take shit from anybody. She would make him do things.” (I’m still making the face.)

“Oh, yeah? That’s unusual for that time, I think.” (I nod to myself. It really was.)

“Yeah, she probably caused a lot of trouble. I kind of respect her ‘cause she sounds like a tough bitch.”

At this point half the bus, including children, has turned around to stare at the couple.

…Ah, Americans. I am home.

That "one mosque where the bitch lived."

Lunch during the tour was sufficiently awkward. Since I was the only solo traveler, I had to choose my seat wisely…obviously I chose to sit by the Americans. I figured we need to stick together.

As I approach their table, I overhear their conversation. On purpose.

“She’s going on a boat to Mexico,” the man says.

“Is she trying to get pregnant?” his wife asks.

“What?! What does that even – why? What?”

I take that as my cue to step in.

“You – speak- English?” the wife asks me. Like I’m a cavewoman.

“Yes. I’m American.” I proudly respond.

“Oh well welcome, welcome!” she says, as though she’s the official spokesperson for Turkey. “You’re here alone?”

“Yes, I just wanted to see the country,” I explain.

“Well you are just the bravest - ”

“Wait, what do you mean?” the man interrupts, still talking about the boat impregnation.

“Well you’re American,” the woman turns to me. “What do you think about a single woman in her 40’s going on a boat to Mexico?”

I pause. “She’s going to get pregnant.”

“SEE! I told you!” the wife punches her husband triumphantly.

So there I am, thinking about Mexican pregnancy and domestic violence when lunch begins.

A Muslim couple I hadn’t seen on the bus sits by us.

After speaking in English for a good 15 minutes, explaining they had just visited Mecca but live in South Africa, the American woman leans forward, wide-eyed and mystified by their story.

 “Africa? Wow! So do you speak African or English?”

I choke on my food and from then on, I chew slowly.

The tour ends with the guide walking up to me and giving me this look where his shoulders are up to his ears, his head is tilted to the side and his face is scrunched like he ate something sour.

This can’t be good.

“We missed your stop, we’re going to Anatolia,” he says. Anatolia is the Asian side of Istanbul and I was staying on the European side, which is separated by a strait. If I cross to the Asian side, I’d have to swim my ass through the large body of water, avoid getting run over by a boat all while keeping my camera dry. I consider renting a bus.

“You have to get off here…”

I look out the window.

The view from my window.

“Wait…here?”

“Here.”

I decide to stare at the tour guide until he changes his mind.

He stares back, still scrunching his face faking sympathy.

The bus doors open.

...Damn.

And that is how I end up in the middle of a random intersection with cars honking at me and no sidewalk in sight somewhere in Istanbul.

Istanbul: Citi of rude taxi drivers




Photo by Gabrielle

Istanbul is the only city in the world that lies on two continents – Europe and Asia. (Needless to say, I was determined to find a way of being in both continents at the same time…so I could shout that I was in both continents at the same time…stop judging me.) The city used to be the capital of the Roman, Byzantine, Latin and Ottoman empires. I forgot everything I learned about the empires, but I’m sure they were important.

Istanbul’s old name of Constantinople came from the Roman Emperor Constantine the Great, who rebuilt the city on seven hills (like the famous seven hills of Rome).

Istanbul was the 2010 Capitial of Culture and is currently bidding to host the 2020 Summer Olympics.

Not only did the famous Trojan Wars take place in Turkey, it is also the birthplace of Homer himself, along with King Midas, St Nicholas (that’s right…Santa Claus), Herodotus (the father of history) and St. Paul (the Apostle.) Noah’s Ark landed on Mount Ararat in Eastern Turkey and Jay Z Julius Caesar proclaimed his celebrated words “Veni, Vidi, Vici” (I came, I saw, I conquered) there when he defeated Pontus.

Two of the seven wonders of the ancient world were in Turkey and it is said the Garden of Eden was too - which I find interesting since the first human civilization was in Turkey. (Part of Mesopotamia is in modern-day Turkey.)

As much as I’d like to pretend these fascinating facts were the reason I chose to visit Turkey…I can’t lie. I saw a commercial where this couple moves to Istanbul – it looked awesome. I was particularly interested in the whirling dervishes and spice market.

Turkey it is, I decided. Thanks Citi Bank.

I can't decide if the commercial worked on me or not. I didn't join Citi Bank... but I flew to Istanbul.

Right when I stepped off the plane I immediately started sweating. (Charming.) I don’t understand Celsius (frankly, it’s just un-American) but I’m pretty sure I could’ve cooked an egg or two  on the sidewalk.

Before I left Orange County I made sure to print out directions from the airport to my hostel (at least I think that’s what it was – the addresses in Turkey look like someone slammed on their keyboard and decided “aisgwp9oshafaw3ea” sounded reasonable enough.)

I find a line of taxis and being from California, I’m unfamiliar with taxi etiquette. Do I just step in the car? Do I wave? Do I smile and wait for their reaction? I felt like I was partaking in some type of mating ritual. Maybe if I show off my luggage they’ll like me and let me in their car. Finally I made eye contact with a driver who nodded, which I assume in taxi-mating means I found a match.

“Hi,” I say while rummaging through my bag for the directions.

He replies with a grunt. I couldn’t tell if it was in English or Turkish.

“Han Hostel North, please.”

He stares at me in the mirror.

“Er…here.” I say handing him the directions.

He continues staring at me in the mirror.

I put the directions in his face and point at the name of the hostel.

“Tsk tsk tsk tsk,” he replies as he starts to drive.

“Um…”

Silence.

I couldn’t believe I got tsk’d. It was the same tsk my dad gives me when I say a bad word or burp too loudly. And I still wasn’t sure if he knew where I needed to go.

“Do you know where that is?” I ask.

Silence.

Thus began my inner monologue, which went something like this: “Okay…did he hear me? He probably didn’t…He’s not answering. Is he ignoring me? He must’ve heard me. Did he hear me? I don’t know. This is awkward. Where am I going? It’s so damn hot. I think he’s mad at me. I bet it’s because I’m American. Why does everyone hate us? I should make friends with him.”

“So, how do you like being a taxi driver?” I ask, trying to make small talk.

He nods.

“Great. That’s nice. Me too,” I say. Apparently I’m a taxi driver.

At this point it’s pretty clear the man doesn’t speak English and in the 30 seconds of knowing him (which I assumed would become a long – lasting friendship), I managed to piss him off.

Little did I know this was pretty normal for taxi drivers. My experiences with them made me feel like a horrible person. My second time using a taxi, the driver sighed heavily from the moment I entered his car to the moment I exited. My third time using a taxi the man continuously “ay-yi-yi” ‘d entire time.

There was always a language barrier but the apparent disappointment I caused these men could be understood universally. I concluded that drivers either hate their lives or I’m just an asshole.

The West Bank and Haifa, Israel 2010

Locals told me Arabs are not allowed to refurbish their homes under Israeli law. Many houses are not in the condition to be lived in. The Arabs I spoke with believe this is another way Israel is forcing Arabs out of their homes.

The marketplace is called "souq."

A lifegaurd tower appears abandoned along the Mediterranean Sea.

Another building that could not be refurbished.

A graveyard in Jerusalem.

The Golden Gate in Jerusalem is said to open when the world ends.



Jerusalem



The Mediterranean Sea.

An Israeli checkpoint separates Arabs and Jews.

The Lord's prayer in different languages.

Haifa, Israel



Baha'i Shrine and Gardens, Haifa

Photos by Gabrielle



Life in Palestine

Student Battles Cancer

Written, Reported, Shot & Produced by Gabrielle  

Published: April 13, 2011

You may have seen her around campus – cheering next to you at a baseball game, representing you as president of the Resident Student Association, even sitting behind you in class. This soft-spoken, brown-haired girl looks like any other 21-year-old Cal State Fullerton student, but what sets her apart is her remarkable story.

Laura James has wanted to be a lawyer since she was six years old. She even dressed up as Judge Judy for career day when she was in the third grade. As she showed me her childhood pictures, I noticed something peculiar – the pictures suddenly stopped around seventh grade.

“I burned them,” said James. “I couldn’t bear to look at them.”

She held up a picture of herself dressed in green. She seemed shy, smiling politely for her school’s yearbook.
“This was the last picture taken of me before I was diagnosed with cancer,” James said. “I was 12.”

In 2001, Laura was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, a cancer of the blood and bone marrow that is expected to take the lives of 910 people this year in California alone, according to the American Cancer Society.

“A man I’d never seen before, my doctor, sat on the edge of my bed, crossed his arms, looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Laura, you have cancer. You’re going to lose all your hair, drop out of school and spend a lot of time in the hospital.’”

After three rounds of chemotherapy, Laura went into remission for two short years. Though she was fighting for her life, she never really grasped the gravity of her situation.

“I didn’t understand what was happening,” James said. “I was so young and I didn’t know what leukemia was. In the beginning I didn’t get sick for a while so I thought it wasn’t all that bad … I thought, ‘This was fine.’ It really doesn’t hit you. I didn’t know what a big deal it was because I was a just a child. It was probably a blessing in disguise.”

At the age of 14, Laura needed a bone marrow transplant – she had relapsed. The cancer came back. Doctors put the teenager through three days of intensive chemotherapy followed by three days of relaxing and three more of radiation. The goal was to rid her body entirely of bone marrow to the point where her blood counts reached zero, meaning she possessed no red or white blood cells. Following that was a four-month hospital stay including five weeks of isolation.

“I was so sick and on so many medications,” James said. “Then I was on more medications to help with the side effects of the initial drugs. I slept through most of it, but when I was awake I just felt like the walls were closing in on me. It definitely made me claustrophobic.”

Although Laura was in isolation, she was never really alone. Her mother, Ruthie James, spent every night in the hospital, never leaving her daughter’s side.

“One year, the whole family moved into the hospital room to wake up together on Christmas morning,” said Ruthie. “I had to do what I could to keep the family intact. I couldn’t sleep. I still don’t sleep well. I haven’t been able to since Laura’s diagnosis.”

Looking around Laura’s apartment, I immediately noticed two things – one, it’s meticulously clean and two, everything is pink.

“Being in isolation for so long made me OCD about things,” James said. “Even though my counts are normal, I’m still a freak about germs.”

An entire shelf was dedicated to her extensive DVD collection, a list of books she planned to read hung on her bedroom wall and an entire corner of the living room was devoted to arts and crafts, revealing her three favorite pastimes – watching television, reading and making cards.

“It’s all I could do,” James said. “It’s all anyone can do when they’re sick. Even if I couldn’t go outside and be an athlete, I could still be creative. Even though my life was on pause, I could still live through movies.”
As of now, Laura is cancer-free, planning to graduate next year and continue on to fulfill her childhood dreams of becoming a lawyer.

The seven-year cancer survivor admits her treatments left their marks, but she isn’t shy about her scars. Her roommate, Valerie Caseria, 20, believes what Laura went through shaped who she is today.

“If she believes in something, she will stand by it firmly with no hesitation,” said Caseria. “She is an extremely strong-willed and determined leader.”

No one can argue against that. Laura is currently a team leader for the upcoming Relay For Life. She’s one of the top fundraisers and plans on making her own thank-you cards for every donor.

Her team name? Pink Hope.

Please Stop Yelling at Me

Published: March 03, 2011

I’m one protest away from becoming a gun-toting NRA member.

On my way to class on Wednesday, I was bombarded with people putting signs in my face, telling me to do things like “cut from the top” and asking me questions like, “what about our future?” I let that slide; the protest was for a good cause.

Honestly, I’d have been out there marching with them if I didn’t have class. Then I wondered, don’t they have class?

It dawned on me that students were skipping their classes to protest a number of different things, one being the need for more classes. Is anyone else confused?

Cal State Fullerton President Milton A. Gordon addressed Gov. Jerry Brown’s call for a $500 million reduction in a state report for 2011–12 on the school’s website in January. He explained that CSUF students would face even more reduced classes and services.

Last year, Gordon announced that undergraduate fees would increase from $3,685 per year to $4,662, admissions would be reduced, salary and hiring freezes would be instituted and furloughs would be negotiated.

According to the school website, last year Gordon wrote that the budget deficit is the largest in the CSU’s history and is a result of the state’s lack of support to the CSU in the face of California’s $26.3 (now $25.4) billion budget gap.

Now, I’m all for freedom of speech. The First Amendment protects our right to peaceful demonstrations, and we should not take these budget cuts lying down.

So don’t get me wrong, I’ve been at the front of marches, and I encourage everyone to fight for what they believe in. But understand who your audience is.

When I see students marching together, standing up for their rights and taking a stand, I feel proud and inspired. When I see students waving signs and hollering on a campus filled with students and faculty who are all affected by the issue, it takes every ounce of self-restraint to keep me from grabbing one of their megaphones and telling them to get out of my face.

Because we know! We all know! I get it, you’re mad, but you’re preaching to the choir.

Maybe it’s just me, but trying to hear a professor lecture over foghorns and shouting got old fast.

Protests are taking place statewide. According to San Jose Mercury News, UC Santa Cruz protesters gathered to spell “Free Education” with their bodies. ABC 7 reports CSU Northridge students protested all of Wednesday and the Associated Press reports students are staging walkouts and rallies nationwide.

It’s all pretty mild so far; let’s try not repeating the 2010 budget cut protests. Last year, the New York Times reported that more than 150 people were arrested after stopping traffic along an interstate in Oakland. At the University of Wisconsin, 16 people were arrested when protesters tried forcing their way into administration offices while throwing ice chunks at campus officers.

Now is that really necessary?

It’s one thing to spread awareness; it’s another thing to disturb classes. Los Angeles Times reported incidents during the 2010 protests at UCLA where human chains blocked entrances to buildings. Way to fight for your public education while disrupting everyone else’s.

And walking out on classes to protest for public education seems a little ironic, doesn’t it? Sounds like a waste of money, much like all the taxpayers’ dollars spent on hiring extra shifts of police to monitor the demonstrations.

Frankly, protesting on campus is counter-productive. Quit telling students and quit skipping class. Missing classes hurts no one but you. Take your protest to the regents, the state legislature, our governor, anyone else. Write letters! March peacefully! Just not here.

Complaining about budget cuts to the students and faculty affected by them is like protesting U.S. occupation by marching around Afghanistan.

We know. We’re in the same boat. Please stop yelling at me