I will never apologize—you have one day

Ah. Readers. Yes. Been remiss I'm afraid, sorely remiss! Frightfully
sorry too. Especially given my solemn promise that it would be
otherwise. Do you remember the covenant I solemnly whispered to you
two months ago while on my pit stop in The Stamboul, when I said that
I my briefings would be earnest and consistent and faithful? Ha!
Wherever you see bluster, ladies and gentlemen, just look underneath
and you will find deceit. Never trust a promise given in the false
intoxication of dawn. Especially never trust words that fall
glistening from a silvered tongue. They are counterfeit specie that
only captivate at the moment of utterance—the twinkling pageant you
see is the coins spinning their way to the floor, which is where all
dawn promises inevitably end up. On the floor the light quits them,
and they gather dust, losing all value in cash and kind. Think of the
promise I minted that misty October dawn overlooking the Bosporus as a
ploy akin to that of a government desperate to buoy consumer
confidence, but lacking the means to back the glut of promissory
notes. Of course, consistency never has been the chief virtue of this
humble blog. You don't read it as a predictable and harmless tonic to
go with your morning coffee; you don't come to it seeking the
considered counsel of a level-headed man. Far from it. You pay your
subsciption fee to my corporate backers because you secretly want to
chug a gleaming shard of glass with your morning coffee, and because
there is nothing as boring as a level-headed man. Most of all, you
want the mystery of a man secretly on the move. I think my kind of
currency is still good here, don't you?
Let me begin by assuring you—no, promising—that you have not been
waiting in vain. Your correspondent, you see, has been busy following
a course of self-improvement. While you were fearing for my life these
past weeks, worrying about the hazards that lurk in whatever
godblasted place I might have washed up in—while you thrilled to the
vicarious prospect of stormtossed seas and spindrift and bullet-singed
badlands, I was in fact safely at my anchorage here in Istanbul. Far
from adventuring, I have been firmly rooted to the same spot for most
of the last three weeks. Some days I've hardly managed to leave the
house. I'm again staying with my friend Darren, whose apartment and
view are as lovely as ever.
What of these works of self-improvement, then? Well, other than
reading, which is always edifying (you may access my reading list via
ftp for $12.99 plus shipping and handling), I've been busy studying
Turkish. About a week after getting back here it occurred to me that I
was unable to do so much as introduce myself, or ask the all-important
question how much? That needed to change. I picked up Darren's hefty
book of beginner's Turkish and set to work. Fast forward ten days or
so, and I am having a flesh and blood conversation with a store owner
saying that no, you don't need to open that bottle of wine for me
here—what was he going to do, share a glass with me there?—no, Sir, I
can open it at my house. That happened earlier this evening, and I
still haven't come down from the high of having surprised myself with
how much I'd learned. Not that I'm any great shakes at it. It just
feels nice to have shed the feeling of God I hope this person doesn't
try talking to me that haunted me for the first weeks. There is also a
shedload (to borrow an Dorset usage) of Arabic in Turkish, which makes
it easy for me to guess at the meanings of many a word. It's a
pleasing language to learn.
Other than that, it's been more of the usual. Writing. Which I
consider to be an act of self-betterment, even if it gets me nowhere.
Tomorrow I fly to Sweden to spend Christmas with relatives. I am
looking forward to another gander at Istanbul's impressive duty free
shops on the way there. Sweden should also be nice, of course—provided
that there is some snow on the ground. I know our age is globally
warmed, but it's Sweden for God's sake! The least the weather gods
could do is to grace the lightstarved days with a bit of snow, don't
you think?
After my 8 days or so in Sweden—where I hope I'll be able to fight
off distractions to keep up at least my study of Turkish—it's back to
the Stamboul. Darren is leaving for Montana shortly after the new
year, and the plan is to ask his landlord to let the apartment to me
in his place. I would like to continue the anonymous productivity I've
been experiencing here for a bit. Then, in February, my erstwhile
traveling companions are going to roll through Turkey. I am thinking
about joining them so that I can see more of the country than just the
metropolis. So you see I'll be taking my time in getting back to
Africa, and that suits me just fine.
Apropos of very little, did you know that the Turkish army is
conducting an operation in northern Iraq? My strong impression is that
Americans are not very popular here. I usually fall back on my spare
Swedish identity if I get into a discussion that feels like it might
have a concealed political or religious edge to it, but I've been
thinking of trading the Swede in me in for something a bit more
exotic. Darren, for instance, goes around Istanbul passing himself off
as a Mexican when the situation demands it. Turks don't know a damn
thing about Mexicans, he says. I like that.
Maybe a Christmas item is in order, it being the season. All my life,
there have been certain Swedish people whom I've only seen around
Christmas, or on other occasions of note. I'd long viewed these people
as existing in a sort of vacuum of carefree jollity. It was the
ritualized merriment of my meetings with them that did it, of course,
but for the longest time I had this idea that Swedes were by nature a
festive, carefree bunch. At some point I started reading Swedish books
and watching Swedish films, and the illusion dissolved. And I learned
from personal experience about the cycle of papering over misery with
drink. Foreigners who come to Sweden either around Christmas or
midsummer can be forgiven for coming away with the impression of
Swedes as a jovial folk. I know better. But however deep my
disillusionment, here I am, convincingly in my adult years,
entertaining a Christmas fantasy about schnapps and Swedish ham and
the bliss of kin—I confess it. I will let you know how it is.