Today on the Bosphorus

We rode a big boat, a ship really, up the Bosphorus Strait to the place where it empties into the Black Sea. We ate at a restaurant on the dock: the prettiest salad of arugula, tomato, carrot and radishes with just olive oil and lemon. And fried calamari and whole bluefish (the head and all). Then we climbed up a smallish mountain to the ruin of a castle for a dramatic view of the Black Sea. I watched the colorful ships headed to their exotic ports and I found myself forming Lu-like questions: where are they going? What are they carrying? I even made up Mom-like answers: maybe they're going to Albania and they're carrying amethysts. On the boat ride home, we called Lu and told her we were calling from a SHIP and we'd seen a CASTLE.

Now I am back at the hotel on the rooftop restaurant. There's just a little dusting of sunset left over the Marmara. Jason was taking a nap, but the call to prayer (and accompanying barking dogs) woke him up, so maybe he will join me soon.

I can't believe I am here writing something you all will be reading in a place where it is lunchtime. I never stop being impressed with how big and small the Internet can make the world.

Turkish Bath: Not So Spa-Like

Jason and I went to world's oldest day spa yesterday: the ancient Cemberlitas baths. In the ladies' area, there's a giant slab of steaming travertine where you sit and wait (prudishly, if you're an American), wrapped in your table cloth of a towel, for one of the bath women to start your service. The bath women, regardless of their age, build or amount of body hair, where nothing but string bikini or thong bottoms. This shocked me, but put me somewhat more at ease with my own table cloth situation. My bath lady came over, roughly freed me of my table cloth and started scrubbing me with a dry loofah. She removed 34 years of dead skin, plus some that was still alive. Then she soaped me up and washed me like a dog. A well-loved dog, but without any ceremony or regard for my modesty. She rinsed me, then sent me to another lady who was wearing more clothes. This lady covered me with so much oil I could barely keep myself on the slab of travertine. The massage was great. I went back to the hotel clean, greasy and happy, if liberated of my dignity and some of my skin.

Sunset on the Sea of Marmara

We are sitting at the rooftop cafe of our hotel. The sun is setting on the Blue Mosque behind us. We can see across the Sea of Marmara to the Asian side of the city. It's so weird that we are here.

Istanbul? Constantinople?

Is hard to believe that in 15 hours, we will be in Istanbul. We will be gone for two weeks, traveling throughout Turkey. I don't know how we'll manage to be away from Lucy that long. I must have kissed her 42 times this morning. She was annoyed. "MOM, stop. I am trying to make wonderful music." She continued banging chopsticks on a pot.

Jason dropped her off at school, then called me as he drove. He said, "My heart hurts." Mine does too.

Tennis, Anyone?

When I was 12 years old, I took tennis at camp. I somehow managed to hit myself in the face with the racket, knocking the two front brackets of my braces off. It's a great way to meet people in the cafeteria in seventh grade.

Luckily, Lucy seems to be showing more aptitude than her mother. Ben and Mary Ellen took her to play tennis in the neighborhood this weekend, and according to Ben, she showed pretty good coordination and remarkable strength (ie, she held the racket). Come on, scholarship!

A Bad Idea

This afternoon I found Lucy in her room. Holding a golf club aloft. As near to the ceiling fan as she could get it. Standing on tiptoe. As though to stick the golf club in the ceiling fan. Which was turned on.

Some questions came to mind:
1) Why did she have a golf club?
2) Why did she want to stick it in the ceiling fan?
3) What would have happened if she'd been 4 inches taller?

Oh, and why wasn't she being supervised? All I know is, when I was little, I played with dolls and books. When her dad was little, he cut his leg open with a saw and set the desert on fire. You be the judge of whose genes are winning.

Outside at Night

We went outside after dinner to catch bugs, but we ended up lying on the grass looking at the stars. We didn't see the moon. "He's going to get his pajamas on, and then he'll show up," Lu said. We also didn't see any fireflies. She said, "They must be fast asleep."

Big Decisions

Lucy can't decide if she wants to be a doctor or a princess for Halloween. I am trying hard to play it cool.

Did YOU Ride Your Bike to Work Today?

No, I bet you didn't. At some point, I will do this often enough that the shiny self-righteousness will dull a little, I promise.

Granddaddy Juice

My dad, Jim Donaho, is settling into old age with not nearly enough to do besides watch TV and smoke. He comes up here from the Valley to visit us once a month (and more importantly, have his poker game, go to pub trivia, see his shrink and play the occasional game of bridge). When he comes to visit, he brings liters and liters of Diet Coke, which he drinks about one of every day, as well as this V8 Fusion stuff, which could be dismissed as sugary, horrible juice except that is like a V8, only sweet. As in, it has the nutrients of 8 fruits AND vegetables. Or something. But it is the most nutritious thing he ingests on a regular basis.

And Lu loves it. She calls it Granddaddy Juice. She is allowed to have one sugary, nutritious serving every day, even when he is not around. She also loves her granddaddy, and when I see him patiently play with her, I remember the dad he was to me as a little girl. Always a man of indulgent juices, he let me drink heavily doctored “coffee milk” on Sunday mornings starting around age four. When he and Mom divorced, we’d go on Tuesday night dates to the Hunan Restaurant, then rolling skating (i.e., I’d rollerskate; he’d read a book, smoke and wave every single time I rolled by and said, “Hi, Daddy.”).

This is a man who lives to be ruled by women (there’s a long and storied history of them in his past, my mother, stepmother, grandmother, sisters, and me, most notably). Lucy can tell this, and she orders him around more fiercely than anyone. Plus, she worries about him: why does he smoke? where is he right now? where does he live? why doesn’t he live here all the time? maybe we should call him.

Tonight, when I kissed and hugged him goodbye, he said, in classic Lu style, “Wait, we forgot to high-five.” Poor guy, he is taking orders from a whole new generation of women. And I think he’s lucky for it.