Carpetblogger

Dustup At Davos

Turkish Prime Minister Tayyıp Erdoğan returned to a hero's welcome in Istanbul last  night after delivering a righteous bitchslap to a yammering Shimon Peres at Davos. The organizers of this increasingly irrelevant schmoozefest must have been thrilled, since the event has attracted the creme of the second string crop and produced absolutely nothing newsworthy. Astute choice of venue, Tayyıp.

While we will always applaud a dramatic piece of political theater, wethinks the Dustup at Davos deserves a bit of context. Could mobilizing the base for upcoming local elections have had anything to do with it? Or could it serve as a distraction from increasing criticism about the way AKP has handled the Ergenekon investigation?  And, since when did he have a problem with leaders who kill people? This move was purely for domestic consumption.

 A Turk gesturing on behalf of oppressed Palestinians is about as politically courageous as an American advocating for a "democratic transition" in Belarus: There's absolutely  nothing at stake and everyone gets to feel good about themselves. Turkey has no aggrieved Palestinians occupying valuable political real estate. There's no chance of instability on its borders. And, it has a population (definitely not a tribe) that needs no excuse to wave flags and express outrage at perceived slights. We don't see any downsides to Erdoğan's outburst except, oh, perhaps a missed opportunity for Turkey to serve as a levelheaded mediator in the conflict, something that could actually help the Palestinians! Maalasef.

Prior to this event, we had planned to give this whole topic a pass. But have a look at the photos of AKP's district HQ/tea garden/smoke filled room, festooned with Palestinian flags. There have been more posters of dead babies around the 'hood than at a protest outside a Topeka Planned Parenthood. Banners and booths on Istiklal promote fundraising efforts on behalf of the Muslim brothers, the proceeds of which will almost certainly reach the poor Gazans, minus the necessary administration fees, of course.

Keep those crocodile tears flowing, Ankara.

Ask Carpetblogger: What are your options if your pet dies in Istanbul?

Because we like to answer questions you didn't know you had and we like to write about things we're pretty certain no on else has and because we wish someone else had written about this already, we're going to tell you what options you have if your dog dies in Istanbul. We're servicey like that.

The answer to the question "what do we do after?" created a pit in our stomach well before any dog headed that direction. We imagined having to put them out with the trash or futzing around with taxis and shovels in Belgrad Forest, the only sizeable piece of undeveloped real estate within an hour's drive of home. Neither option appealed in the least.

Thinking the worst and incapable of asking the questions ourselves, we tasked the able and Mo-loving Villa Luna with assessing the alternatives. We dreaded her report, but we were surprised when she told us we had three choices, not all of them awful:

• Istanbul has a pet cemetery. Who knew? We didn't care much for this option, but we were surprised to hear such a thing exists.  Someone who has more motivation than we do should look into the who/what/wheres of this. In a culture where keeping animals as pets is a relatively new phenomenon and dogs carry lots of theological baggage, this is sort of intriguing.

• Official burial in Belgrad Forest. Apparently you can get a permit to bury your pet in the forest north of the city, which is the watershed for Istanbul's water supply. This option didn't appeal either but it's surprising to know it exists. We have no idea where you'd go to get such a document or how long it would take or who you'd have to bribe or if it wouldn't just be easier to be low profile about doing it yourself. It's a big forest and probably there are lots of things buried there without a permit.

• Cremation. You may or may not know that, like many observant Jews and  Catholics, Muslims don't cremate. So, while pet cremation is pretty common in the US (our ancestors have boxes of childhood dogs lying around), it was hard for us to imagine cremation was an option in a culture where people aren't cremated. As it turns out, it's expensive, but possible. Seriously, we didn't devote much energy contemplating the logistics surround this process so don't ask, but his ashes were returned a few days later, albeit in inappropriate packaging. The Turkish Life sought out a more appropriate container, which turned out to be a cookie jar from the bazaar.

Carpetblog: Answering questions you didn't know you had for a couple years now.

A Visit to the Yabanci Subesi

Every yabancı with a Turkish residence permit dreads the annual visit to the Yabancı Şübesi (foreigner office) at the police headquarters (the Emniyet) for the renewal process. You look forward to it the same way you look forward to a visit to the gynecologist, only it's more invasive and there are a lot more Central Asians in the waiting room.

Today was our third annual visit to the Emniyet for this purpose. We approached it with confidence, given that we have a self-promoted reputation as a Bureaucracy Usta. Clearly, our skills have slipped because it took us two separate trips, approximately six hours of waiting and a side excursion to the bank just to file the correct paperwork. But those details are boring.

What's important about this story is this: Turkey is becoming more civilized before our eyes.

The first year we went, hundreds of foreigners of all nationalities scrummed at each of 17 windows, waving documents at sullen clerks who pointedly ignored Russians and Bulgarians. Every window looked the same but had a different purpose which would only be revealed after you visited every one at least twice looking for the stamp you needed. Our effort was inelegant but ultimately successful. Obtaining our residence permit without speaking one word of Turkish was probably our greatest achievement in 2007.

Last year at renewal time, a feeble number system had been implemented. Our Turkish was advanced enough to understand that even though we were given a number, it was little more than a meaningless gesture toward the concept of chaos reduction (recognizing this scenario requires far more than language skills, by the way).

This year, the 120 people ahead of us when we arrived waited patiently for their number to be called in a room specially designed for this purpose. In a nod to the comfort of children accompanying their parents, a Turkish cartoon looped on a plasma screen. After approximately 15 viewings over four hours, we knew the dialogue by heart. A policeman ensured that every new arrival received a number. His gun deterred potential violence inspired by the six hour-long wait facing the fools who showed up after 10am.

While we acknowledge that the new system treats everyone the same, the old system rewarded the aggressive, the highly emotional and the clever. And even though the Yabancı Şübesi was in dire need of Stalinesque order imposition, it's sort of sad to realize your skills have become anachronistic.

Still, it's reassuring to note that you can still be sent on a wild goose chase for missing documents, be forced to make at least two visits, obtain random stamps and spend a metric assload of cash to obtain a permit that, in the end, confers few meaningful benefits. That part is still refreshingly Turkish.

And really, all this new Yabancı Şübesi order means is that yabancıs are capable of waiting for their number to be called. Nothing suggests that Turks have developed these skills, so maybe all is not yet lost.

R.I.P. July 4, 1995 - January 19, 2009

After a long decline and a quick illness, our friend Mo left us Monday afternoon. Now we have only one carpetdog and she's as sad as we are.

You know how some people are about kids? That's how we were about this dog. He was also exhibit number one for why we should never have kids -- we openly favored one dog over the other, played them against each other, left them both for a year with a complete stranger while we traveled around the world and frequently let basic principles of obedience slide.

Mo was 14 and lived in four countries, as well as in San Francisco and Portland. We got him in August, 1996 from the San Francisco SPCA at 11 months old. He flunked out of obedience class twice and never achieved Canine Good Citizen status that would have opened all kinds of doors to him. A herding dog with no herding instinct, he was still always able to identify the "stupid sheep," the person in the room whom he determined needed a little extra supervision (Red State Sibling was the original stupid sheep). Despite being unnaturally attuned to the emotional state of humans, he was unable to distinguish between public displays of affection and aggression, and would loudly insert himself between people engaged in either, except, inexplicably, when the Producer had Deli Komsu in a headlock.

People who knew him in America would be surprised how much he'd slowed down over the last few years. People in Istanbul, Kyiv or Baku never saw him keep up with the greyhounds at the park, hike 12 miles a day or chase a tennis ball until he collapsed in a heap in the grass. Years of hard living left him crippled with arthritis but I have the sense he had few regrets. By the end, we held him together with baling wire and duct tape.

After bad vet experiences in Baku, we had deep reservations about the quality of vet care in Istanbul. Fortunately, Dr. Elif Turan at the Anipoli Clinic in Cihangir provided compassionate, highly competent care until the very end, even though I second-guessed her every step of the way. She methodically ruled out possible diagnoses and bird-dogged new treatments that she thought might extend his life. When he couldn't walk the three blocks to her office, she came to the house to keep him comfortable. She was compassionate enough to know when to quit and how, despite a cultural gap the size of the Bosporus, to communicate her thoughts to us.

Having gone through both birth and death here in Istanbul, we feel a profound sense of community and support. As the unthinkable became unbearably thinkable, dear friends stepped up to help coordinate details that neither of us could face. For this, we are grateful and indebted.

The whole experience was as awful as it always is, but probably not sufficiently so that, next time we see a cute puppy, we will remember how, in the end, animals always break your heart.