Below was taken from George Christensen's blog, George The Cyclist, a blog where he chronicles his world travels by bike (although his latest post was written in Chicago at a Christian Vande Velde talk. If you read that post you will learn that Vande Velde follows George's blog too)!

 

(I just realized this is a pretty long post, so if you don't have the time, you can scroll down to the bolded paragraph and start reading there, but I highly recommend you go back, or better yet, check out his blog).

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Flight Home

Friends: Though I was in transit for better than a day back to Chicago from Istanbul with flights of three-and-a-half and eight-and-a-half hours in and out of London broken by an 18-hour lay-over, I remained in Istanbul much of the time as I read "The Museum of Innocence," a novel about Istanbul set in the late 1970s by Turkish Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk.

It is written as the memoirs of a 30-year old wealthy businessman who falls in love with an 18-year old shop girl shortly before his huge engagement party to a woman of his social standing. It is a reflection not only on his torments, but on what Istanbul was like back then and how much it has changed.

Istanbul was just westernizing. A blender or an electric shaver was a rare luxury. The state greatly restricted the import of alcohol and foreign cars. The Hilton was one of of the few "civilized establishments" where a man and a woman could obtain a room without being asked for a marriage certificate. Women as models was a new, but still frowned upon, profession. There was a shortage of running water, requiring even the richest neighborhoods to rely on water supplied by private trucks.

Just having spent four days in Istanbul, the mention of any of its sites or geographical features immediately transported me back, whether to a bridge or body of water or mosque or neighborhood, affirming how well I had come to know the city. The book had me reliving my entire two months in Turkey, unleashing memories at the mention of Ataturk, the Feast of the Sacrifice, simits (sesame rolls), doners, headscarves, bleached blonds, the call to prayer, smoking and much much more.

The casual mention of such Turkey-true incidentals as cat-infested squares or stray dogs or tea also struck a chord with me, that I wouldn't have otherwise appreciated if I hadn't so intimately experienced Turkey. Though I was happy to be returning home, being reminded of some of Turkey's distinctive traits made me miss it a little bit already and had me contemplating a return to bike the one region I did not visit, its northern border along the Black Sea. That awaits Zekeriya, as well, in his quest to ride the circumference of his country. A ride with him has as much of an allure as riding around the Black Sea.

The insights and literateness of "The Museum of Innocence" had me eager to read more of Pamuk, especially his essays, and to immerse myself in more books on Turkey, especially a biography or two of Ataturk. I am particularly curious to see if all of Pamuk's books are as full of off-handed references to Ataturk. Nothing is more ubiquitous than Ataturk in Turkey, his picture on every note of currency and his statue in every town square. No office, business, hotel, school room or home is complete without a photo of him hanging on a wall. By the evidence of "The Museum of Innocence" he spills over into the country's literature as well.

I developed a fondness for Istanbul. It is a cross roads and portal to Asia. Part of its allure for me is all the touring cyclists who pass through. I would return just to connect with them and to share in their euphoria of being well into their "trip of a lifetime." On my ten mile ride out to Istanbul's Ataturk airport along the Sea of Marmara accompanied by Orlando, I kept my record in tact of meeting at least one touring cyclist a day during my time in Istanbul--all six days from my arrival and departure days and the four days I spent fully immersing myself in the city.

The latest was Bjorn, a young, short, bushy-haired German with an absolutely radiant smile, who was just entering the city. He had a huge load, well-prepared for the wintry conditions ahead. Amongst his gear was a violin. Although he was just a waif of a guy, his rear wheel from all the weight he was carrying was giving out on him and needed replacing. He was a long-time bike mechanic, so he only needed to buy a rim and spokes and would rebuild his wheel himself. We could tell him exactly where to go to find all the bike shops.

I had allowed loads of time to get to the airport, so we were able to have a lengthy conversation. Bjorn was headed to Iran and on to China. This was his second significant tour, the other a 9,000 mile ride around the circumference of Australia several years ago.

We were the first touring cyclists he had met since leaving Germany two months ago, so he was couldn't stop talking. We told him about the two other German cyclists in town who were headed the same direction as he was. He was eager to track them down. His glee and satisfaction of having completed the first leg of his trip sent my spirit soaring as well. It is always heartening to see that touring exaltation that I know so well shining in others.

Orlando chose not to enter the airport with me, as everyone had to pass through a metal detector and he hadn't brought along a lock for his bike. It was just as well, as I was down to less than three hours before my flight and I had to disassemble my bike and change clothes and set aside as many warm clothes as I could for my overnight in the cold outer lobby of Heathrow. I had overnighted there a year ago on my return from China, so knew what was in store for me. There was no line at the check-in, as this Christmas Eve flight was just a quarter full.

The Christmas Day flight out of Heathrow was a different story though. Every seat was taken, filled by passengers who had been delayed by the snow that had closed down Heathrow earlier in the week. My seatmates were a young husband and wife and their two infants, who sat on their parents laps. They were connecting from South Africa, where they had been missionaries for the past seven years. I thought I couldn't have had more interesting seatmates. It didn't look like I was going to get much reading down on this segment of my travels.

They lived in a small village on the border with Zimbabwe. They were the only whites in the village. They had initially tried to show their faith in the people by not locking their house, but after being robbed innumerable times, they now keep it locked. Not only does the husband serve as the minister of a church, he also teaches at a bible university that he helped found to create more ministers.

He was ready to move on though and was leaning towards taking his message to the four island nation of Comoros in the Indian Ocean. This former French colony is between Madasgascar and Kenya. The islands have less than a million inhabitants and are largely Muslims. There is not a Christian church there. He says it desperately needs a Christian missionary.

I thought he was having doubts about the good he was accomplishing when he said, "I want to ask you a question and you can answer honestly. Do you think my wife and I are wasting our lives.?"

"No at all. I admire anyone who devotes their life to some ideal other than trying to accumulate things and living a life of ease."

"Do you think there is a life beyond this?"

And then began the proselytizing. The guy may have been on vacation, but he was at heart a salesman and he saw in me a potential sale, and he went at it hard. He had somewhat won my favor, so I was willing to continue with the conversation for a spell, until everything became black and white with him. I told him I had just spent two months among Muslims whose religion was a more central part of their life than with most people, and had had to listen to them tell me their's was the one true religion, though none at least tried to convert me. This guy also saw his religion as the only one that mattered and couldn't accept any good in any other.

He told me I was a sinner and that he was a sinner and that everyone is a sinner and that if I didn't accept Jesus as my Lord I would be doomed to hell. I tried to reason with him, that maybe that isn't entirely true and that there are shreds of truth in all religions, but he would have none of it. I didn't immediately recognize this guy as a missionary when I took my seat beside him, but he did have an uptight, austere, somewhat weasley, almost corporate look that made me a little wary. I feared he might be some business executive who I would have nothing in common with. After he fully revealed himself, I could clearly see that cold, self-righteous, harshly judgemental demeanor that is common to those consumed by religion.

His harangue was giving me a headache. He was traveling home for Christmas. Couldn't he take a break from his job trying to save souls? I felt sorry for the guy, spitting out the same passionless refrain he'd regurgitated thousands of times. He had no sincerity, just a lot of threat. The poor guy was burdened with a world of guilt and implied life on earth was nothing but a wretched ordeal and he was a shining example of it.

His rhetoric was nothing but poison. I couldn't help but think about the dozen or more cyclists I'd met in Turkey, especially Bjorn, and how happy and fulfilled and at peace they were. If he'd had even a hint of their glow, I would have thought whatever he was selling, I'd be interested. But he couldn't have been more repellent or pitiable. He was absolutely miserable and wanted everyone he met to feel miserable. He was utterly devoid of joy or contentment.

I told him I preferred to be around people who were positive and not so negative. He said nothing could be more positive than knowing the kingdom of heaven awaited those who embraced Jesus. Listening to this guy was hell for me. I was shriveling up, wondering how much more I could take.

To divert him, I told him I was a missionary myself, traveling the world as an apostle for the bicycle, trying to save souls, though more by example than by preaching. "According to my gospel," I told him, "Anyone who drives an automobile, unless out of absolute necessity, is a sinner and is doomed to a hell of an eternal gridlock of carbon monoxide spewing cars."

I pointed my finger and proclaimed, "Driving a car is as immoral and offensive as anything you can dream up. It is the instrument of the devil, something God only allows as a test to his flock to whether they can resist its temptation. Driving a car violates in some manner or another each of the Seven Deadly Sins--sloth, pride, lust, greed, gluttony, anger, envy. In this modern world it is the root of all evil. Don't condemn me for my sins. I won't even ride in a car except under the most dire of circumstances."

When he tried to interrupt me I just plowed on, "Only those who renounce the car and embrace the bicycle can gain entrance to heaven. I don't go around though ranting and raving about the evils of cars. Rather than condemning the unenlightened and wayward, I simply try to serve as an example of someone worthy of emulation, proving that the bicycle brings joy, and mental and spiritual health, and keeps one physically fit and isn't hostile to the environment or its inhabitants and is a device one can easily do without. If I can bike across countries and continents, surely one can bike a few blocks or miles to go to work or to visit friends or to the corner store for the pack of cigarettes they can't do without"

I filibustered on so he would turn away from me as some sort of lunatic or devil, as I wanted to turn away from him. I spared him the insult of asking him if he drove a car or if he had a bicycle, not allowing him to get a peep in. He'd already confessed to being a sinner anyway and I didn't care to pile on.

When I saw I'd finally disengaged him, I apologized for going on so and told him I'd sure like to talk some more but I needed to finish the book I was reading, as I'd promised to give it to someone in Chicago who was leaving the next day. He made a couple of stabs at conversation later on when we were brought our meals, asking what I thought of Lance Armstrong and if I'd seen the movie "Quicksilver." I gave him quick inconsequential responses and returned to Istanbul, a much more hospitable place than anywhere that included this guy, real or imagined.

How wonderful it was to be back in Turkey, despite its many conflicts and simmering tensions. It wasn't exactly a relaxing place to be, but it certainly made for an interesting two months. As Pamuk points out in his book, Turkey is still evolving. It has made tremendous strides in becoming a more democratic, humane place, while continuing to grow in influence and importance among the nations of the world. Though I had my doubts at times, I am very happy to have spent so much time in Turkey to better understand a country that is becoming increasingly promient.

Later, George