Carpetblogger

Airline Passengers as Explained by their Pants: Istanbul Edition

One thousand apologies to McSweeny's for ripping off its post, Airline Passengers as Explained by Their Pants, but it was too America-centric for our taste. As the primary hub serving Crapistan, Istanbul's Ataturk airport (IST) deserves its own list.

Red tracksuit: Will vomit in the aisle.

White hiphuggers with gold pinstripes, matching sport coat, jheri curls: THY 365 to Tripoli is now boarding.

Pleated shiny slacks, with Hugoe Bose label, pointy toed shoes: Will applaud upon touchdown in Erbil.

Cargo pants and a polo shirt with a corporate logo: Checked a stun grenade, two tasers and steroid powder.

Nothing but a white towel: Checked six liters of Zamzam in Jeddah. At carousel, retrieves two litres and two empty plastic jugs. :(

Low rise jeans, muffintop: Fell in love with her waiter, sobs the whole flight back to Manchester.

Dirty white shalwar: Will leave footprints on the toilet seat.

Clean, light blue shalwar: Asks flight attendant which direction is Mecca, does ablutions in the toilet.

Leopard skin capris with rhinestone seams, stiletto heels: Did not pay for her own ticket.

Stonewashed jeans with matching jacket: Passport has “stan” somewhere on the front cover.

Quik-dry travelpants with 7+ zippered pockets, white running shoes: Loved the food, is no longer afraid of Muslims.

Pleather jeans with a camel toe: Checked 75 kilos of red Chinese-made bras.

Baggy cotton trousers, floral: Put a lamb in the overhead bin.

Baggy cotton trousers, striped: Aspriational busker, put a juggling kit in the bin (Thanks to @AJKhn.)

Any we missed? Do add in the comments, or send via twitter @carpetblogger1

 

Carpetblogger Ponders Advances in Soviet-Era Technology

While in Tbilisi for the annual post-Soviet Thanksgiving bacchanalia, we ran across something in a friend's apartment building that we have never seen before: a pay elevator.

We are the first to admit that, as a resident of a fourth-floor walk up, we have elevator envy. Envy became self-loathing as we carried 50 lbs of Georgian wine and pork up those stairs last night. We're always in the market for new ideas when it comes to mechanical ascension techniques.

The pay elevator, however, has some pros and cons. Borko, ever the Reagan-era free-marketeer, praised it as a market-oriented solution to the vexing problem of elevator maintenance in buildings where no one is obligated to pay for upkeep of common areas. We agree!

However, this elevator charged 1 Tetri (about one penny) per ride. We're not very good at math, but if a six-floor building has 2-3 apartments on each floor, we're not convinced the economics of the idea work out. We also failed Reagan-era economics so maybe we're missing something.

Furthermore, nothing about the elevator suggested that its upkeep was anyone's priority. Maybe the proceeds from the box funded the upkeep of the elevator repairer's vodka supply.

Perhaps a pay box in the elevator acts as a potential barrier to entry to never-do-wells. But who is more likely to carry around a pocketful of 1 Tetri coins? A never-do-well or Carpetblogger? We would probably walk up four flights of stairs just as often as we do without any elevator at all, if using it was contingent on having a 1 Tetri coin in our pocket.

So, the debate on the pay elevator has yet to be settled. But when we saw it, we said, "finally, we're home." Gone from the FSU for too long.

 

 

Carpetblog Weighs in: Georgian Food in Istanbul at Cafe Euro

You've heard the old saying about dining in Istanbul -- "There's all kinds of cuisine here as long as it's Turkish." Perhaps you've argued that Istanbul is the biggest city in the world without a real Pakistani restaurant. People come to Istanbul for a lot of reasons -- many of them good -- but not for its selection of international food.

So, when we read a FB post by the writer of the lovely Delicious Istanbul blog about Cafe Euro's Georgian food, we got our hopes up, just a little. She appears to be of some FSU provenance -- not sure which, don't want to offend! -- so we viewed her as credible. And, that the restaurant is located in Aksaray -- which is known locally as Devushkastan --suggested that there is a built-in clientele who knows their satsivi from their tkemali.

Georgians are sort of like Soviet Mexicans. They moved around and set up restaurants all over the Soviet Union to serve their hungry workers needing a taste of home. Every FSU resident we've ever met craves the occasional Georgian meal, even if they've never been to Tbilisi. Georgian food, like Georgia, is unlike anything found anywhere else in the world. We have long moaned about the lack of the real thing in Istanbul. Georgia is so close! Why can't you get a Borjomi and a decent khingali here?

After reading DI's post, we put on our devushka boots and gathered up the famous but also charming Rutherford/Tomasetti Partners and plotted a route into the dark heart of Aksaray. Did you know there is a giant bus station right there in the middle of it that serves exclusively the Caucasus, Russia, Romania and Moldova? We had no idea. There must be a lot of workers coming to Turkey from those countries! What sort of work they do here do you think? Globalization is awesome.

And there it was, Cafe Euro, with Georgia's UFO-script and photos of khingali on the outside walls, conferring a legitimacy that could not be faked. We were so excited. We stepped down into its dark bowels and felt like we had stepped into a bus station in Batumi. Cheap cafe decor in Turkey is white molded plastic chairs. In Georgia, and Cafe Euro, it's rickety metal-backed chairs with pleather seats. It's also bleached hair, cigarettes and drunken dancing to Russian pop at 7 pm. We were home.

We have found that the only time we can speak Turkish is when we want to speak another language in which we know 50 words, like Russian. The waitress, who was Georgian, got excited by our efforts and, in violation of traditional food service norms in her homeland, became super friendly and helpful. Sadly, 7 pm is not the hour to go if you want lobio or khinghali. The only things available were khachapuri (yay!) and kebab (less yay). We speculate that if you want access to the full menu (keeping in mind there is no menu), you need to come when the buses are arriving or departing.

We ordered up some Adjarian (the kind with an egg, and not our favorite, but it will do if a Minghrelian is not available). It was fine but we really wanted khingali, particularly since we had talked it up to the RT Partners, who had never had Georgian before. And there was Efes, not Kazbegi. A real Russian speaker might have been able to rustle up some homemade wine or even some chacha, according to Istanbul Eats (which, consume at your own risk).

Our review: Hopes still high, we're going to go back at a different time. Georgian in Istanbul deserves all the support we can give it.

Cafe Euro is at the entrance to the heretofore unknown to Carpetblog giant bus station in Aksaray, on Kucuk Langa Cad.

 

 

Ask Carpetblogger: Where Are the Ukrainian Cougars?

It's a fact that, many years ago, Carpetblog established itself as the go-to internet source for devushka fashion, to the point where we became known as the Wikipedia of Slutty Dressing. Those were the salad days of Carpetblog. They represented the height of our influence.

Since then, we left Ukraine and, to the detriment of this blog's SEO, delved into topics such as Turknology and importing booze and pork. Like the Ottoman Empire, Carpetblog went into a long, sloppy decline. Furthermore, on the aging lady scale, we inched away from Devushkastan and slid closer to, some have (uncharitably) argued, Cougartown.

Do you not know what a Cougar is? Do you live under a rock? Have you heard of Google?

Some have speculated that there's a precipitous drop in the physical fortunes of Ukrainian women post-age 35 (more accurately, we less genetically-gifted sisters -- ROWR! -- speculate). Surely there must be an intermediate stage between devushka and babushka! So we set out to answer the question "Where are all the Ukrainian cougars?"

We recently found ourselves in Cherkassy, which is the dead center of Ukraine, about two and a half hours south of Kyiv. It is a provincial, very Ukrainian city -- and we mean that not in the way Ukie nationalists mean it (a model European Ukraine that looks westward) but in the way Ukraine is now. It sits in the black-earth prairies, frozen for the winter, alongside one of the Soviet Union's largest hydroelectric reservoirs. Russian-leaning eastern Ukraine is just over the next snowy hillock and European western Ukraine seems pretty far away from here. Its slushy downtown is a grey post-war Soviet time capsule. Pulling out the Ukraine cliche handbook (shelved next to the Istanbul cliche handbook) it is the borderland where Russia and Ukraine melt, and residents speak a mix of both languages.

Also, there be Cougars!

Not only were we lucky enough to find ourselves in Cherkassy in the middle of winter, it happened to be "Old New Years Eve," or the Orthodox New Years. This meant that the town was decked out as if Christmas was just last week (it was) and everyone was looking forward New Years Eve celebrations instead of a cold Thursday night in the Dnipro Hotel, like we were.

Most restaurants that serve Ukrainian food are decked out like rural cottages, with fake thatched roofs, farm implements on the walls and lots of red and white embroidered schwag  draped across flat surfaces. This would be kitschy if it wasn't how every traditional Ukrainian restuarant -- even Ukie fast food places  -- is decorated. They also usually have a series of intimate dining rooms and small alcoves for private parties or uh, other activities. We had an early reservation at Taras Bulbas, a model specimen of the type, expecting a quick meal of salo (pure pork fat, pictured), swine shashlyk and a bit of vodka with colleagues.

If you seek Felis Concolor Ukrainis, head to Taras Bulbas in Cherkassy on Old New Years Eve. There were several tables of them, well-lubricated by sweet Ukie shampansky (which they freely shared) and ready to burn the place down. By 7:30pm. Taras Bulbas' house band consists of a young, crewcut, acned Ukrainian accordion player and an African tambourine player (welcome to heaven, here's your tambourine. Welcome to hell, here's your accordion) who whipped the place into a frenzy of anticipation for Dede Moroz (father Christmas, the Orthodox Santa Claus) and his trusty...wait for it...Rabbit of Good Luck.

The Cougars, dressed to kill in too-short skirts and tight shirts, writhed and wriggled to 70's western and eastern Ukrainian pop songs (our colleagues taught us how to tell the difference) and Russian  favorites (different still), just like Cougars in Americastan would to Donna Summer. Later, at least one of them was caught in a sex act in one of the private alcoves (memo to self: don't go exploring other dining areas at 9:00 pm in Taras Bulbas on Old New Years Eve. Also, be careful of the cougar sitting behind you.)

Having had three shots of "rye and honey" Ukrainian vodka before the first plate of pickles arrived, the evening was destined to be a short one for us. Since we're no longer in FSU championship fighting form, we stumbled into a taxi to return to the Dnipro hotel, relieved that Ukraine is big enough for both devushkas and cougars after all.

 

Carpetblog Claims Credit*: Everything I Know About Azerbaijan I Learned From Watching Deadwood

I wish I'd seen Deadwood before I went to Baku. Maybe another day I'll write a post on how watching the Godfather taught me all I needed to know about clan politics in Azerbaijan -- Carpetblogger, March 2007

Apparently, according to the Wikileaks, the former US DCM in Baku compared Ilham Aliyev to Michael/Sonny Corleone in the Godfather in a cable in September 2009. This has gotten a lot of play! Because it is true! We said it a long time ago! Must credit Carpetblog!

But it's more true that living in Baku is just like living in Deadwood, a boomtown in the HBO program of the same name, which may be the best show that has been on television, ever. We were slavishly devoted to it, just as we once were to Alias, Flight of the Conchords, Nurse Jackie, and most recently, Gavin and Stacey, which are all good but not as profane.

Way back in March 2007, we compared Baku to Deadwood, here. The Godfather is also an apt comparison, but Deadwood is much better. The DCM probably read our post and agreed, but had to choose a more culturally accessable reference point.  The brilliant dialogue in Deadwood, which has been described as Shakespearean and used the word fuck 43 times in the first hourlong episode, demonstrates the grammatic versatility of the word "cocksucker." It probably didn't get a wide audience in Foggy Bottom.

It should have.

*We're pretty confident that this is the only time Carpetblogger should have appeared in a cable from Azerbaijan.

 

 

This Just In: Scotland Reacts to Azeri Whisky Onslaught

SPEYSIDE-- Scottish whisky producers reacted switfly to news that Azerbaijan, known primarily as  the oasis between Iran and Chechnya, plans to begin distributing locally-produced whisky from the famed Tovuz-Baltiya distillery.

Presently, Tovuz-Baltiya is known primarily for its cognacs, which have been described by local experts as "the best in Ganja-Qazakh."

"We know that Muslims in general are known for the quality of their alcoholic beverages, and Azerbaijan, in particular, is noted for the "Seven Beauties" and "Karavansary" wine labels," said Scottish whisky spokesman William MacDougal. "We view this as a serious threat to our market share."

Recent reports claim the Azerbaijani distillery is going to target whisky drinkers in India and eastern Europe, where "they really know their single from their blended malts," said MacDougal.

Scottish whisky producers have adapted quickly to this shift in the marketplace. MacDougal, having recently travelled on Azal from London to Baku, added "peat and oak have become dated. We're exploring assfat and naptha, just to stay competitive."

 

 

A Conversation About Buying a Suit in the FSU

It only took a short visit to Tbilisi -- our first trip back to the FSU in a year -- to make us realize that the FSU is our creative homeland. We have DOZENS (well, ok, four or five) posts ready to go in our head that were inspired by actual events over a long Thanksgiving weekend.

Maybe Turkey isn't as hilarious or maybe long-term Turkey expats aren't as entertaining as those who have been wintering in Kyiv for a half dozen years or more, but holy crap, we have a rich vein of ridiculousness.

Anyway! Let's get down to it.

We sat down with Borko of Nenand's Murse, an up-and-coming blog that explains things about Europe that Americans don't understand. And to be clear, Borko uses the Eurovision definition of "Europe," which pretty much includes Kazakhstan. Eurovision, of which Borko is a world-reknown expert, sets the gold standard, other than soccer, for things about Europe that Americans don't understand (American seven year-olds understand soccer, though. No one understands Eurovision).

Borko has been living in the FSU almost since it was the regular kind of SU, and believe you me, you can tell.  Here's a transcript of a conversation, which took place at an outside table at a bar in Tbilisi's Old City. Alcohol *may* have been a factor, but it was after 11am, so no flag on the play.

Borko (B):  "I bought two Hugo Boss suits in Kyiv, but I noticed a tag on the sleeve that said "Made in Bulgaria." I had to rip it off right away. I can't believe I bought a suit made in Bulgaria."

Carpetblogger (CB): "Did you notice anything else wrong with the suit?"

B: "No, why?"

CB:  "How shiny was it?"

B: "It wasn't shiny at all! It's Hugo Boss."

CB: "Right. My bad. Hugo Boss became the favored brand of oligarchs from Donetsk, taxi drivers from Batumi and gangsters from Varna by skimping on the shine."

B: "You're wrong, CB! Hugo Boss is a very stylish brand for suits."

We mulled the statement for a moment, thinking of recent insecurity experienced while shopping for skirts to wear to Paris. "Is this stylish or retarded?" went through our head, after it occurred to us that we have no idea what 40+ year old consultants whose "work" wardrobe consists primarily of yoga pants wear in "business situations" in normal countries.

But maybe we have more self-awareness than Borko. We think that making a bad shopping choice in Crapistan could be like, in 1985, wearing the JC Penny's galloping horse on your Catholic school uniform polo shirt -- rather than the real polo player -- only you wouldn't be painfully, horribly aware that what you're wearing wasn't quite right in subtle but important ways. Borko trotting around in a suit with a bit too much shine not only would not know that people were silently mocking him ("Where's he from? Kharkiv?") he would think they were admiring him and walk about with the confidence of someone who is tres a la mode.

Sure, tres a la mode in Minsk. (Do you not remember the principles of FSU fashion?)

CB: "Has anyone who doesn't live in the FSU examined that suit for shine?"

B: "No! It doesn't make any difference! Besides, I paid $600 for two suits. They're not shiny."

CB: "Oh, I think it makes a difference. Did you buy shoes to go with it?"

B (getting increasingly agitated at the direction the conversation): "NOT SHINY."

CB: "OK, I believe you. They wouldn't make anything shiny in Bulgaria."

We decided that Borko was in too deep and wasn't going to arrive at the correct conclusion without some assistance.  If we didn't take action, he was going to wear that Bulgarian Hugo Boss on K Street in Washington DC. While we would find that personally entertaining, we decided to graphically present his choices using a tool we knew he'd understand.

A scatter graph!

Even after this, Borko fought and fought, and even revisited the topic later in the weekend ("Brown suits can't be shiny!" ORILY?) but we knew the battle had been won.

We received an SMS tonight: "OK, there might be the slightest sheen on my Bulgarian "Hugo Boss" suit."

Carpetblogger offers fashion consultations for long-term FSU residents. Hourly rates apply.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Update on THY "Wrong Runway Landing Pilot"

Newsflash!

Thanks to astute, Turkish-reading Short Blonde Neighbor, the "wrong runway landing" pilot has resigned, ostensibly because of withering mockery from this blog. Our Turkish isn't that great but we're pretty sure we're credited in that story.

Also, according to the unimpeachably accurate Trend News, "Reasons of this landing were connected with the pilot's mistake. The evacuated passengers are interested in this case and intend to file a suit to compensate a moral damage."

Carpetblogger is still standing by to negotiate on behalf of the morally damaged Kathmandu Correspondent. We'll aim much, much higher than the five kupati she might otherwise deserve due to pre-existing damage.

As big fans as we are are post-Soviet conspiracy theories, we're not buying rumors that the plane was filled with Ukrainian special forces (CKC says the plane was half full, mostly of Israeli tourists) or the former interior minister, with whom the government wanted to consult. They totally would have used AeroSvit for that mission then promoted the pilot.

Stalin's Carpets

Surprisingly, there aren't that many museums or monuments to Stalin anymore. I guess killing more people than Hitler and drawing national borders that are still causing inter-ethnic bloodshed doesn't merit as much admiration as it used to.

Except in Gori, Georgia.

Located about 80 kms from Tbilisi, Gori probably doesn't have much more going for it than it did when  იოსებ ბესარიონის ძე ჯუღაშვილი (Ioseb Vissarionovich Jugashvili. If you haven't noticed, I love the look of Georgian script) was born there in 1878. For example, a lot of people still don't have running water in their apartments. Still, you grasp the tail of fame where you can and Gori residents embrace their native son more intensely than ordinary Georgians do, which is to say, pretty intensely.

I had heard the museum was lame so I wasn't disappointed to find out it, in fact, was. I was much more disappointed that I had to pay $10 for a ticket. (Full disclosure: this was my second visit to a Stalin museum. The first was in Batumi in 2006, described here. I didn't like Batumi.)

Built just after his death in 1953, it's a typical Soviet-style museum, in which a bunch of uncurated, unanalyzed crap  -- newspaper articles and photos and random memorabilia -- is thrown up on the wall ("unanalyzed" is probably the kindest criticism of this museum. It's a lot like the Nixon Library in Yorba Linda, California in that sense).

Not only that, it's all in Russian and Georgian, it's freezing cold and museum ladies stop to stamp your ticket every time you enter a new room, even though you're the only one in the museum. Though you have to admit, their stamp is pretty awesome.

Neither of my Georgian colleagues had been in the museum before. One was excited to see it, the other less so. Naktia was particularly reluctant to have her picture taken in front of one of the multiple statues, suggesting that her hostility is a response to the repatriation of her grandfather.

"Repatriation?" I asked. "What does that mean?"

"Sent to the gulag," she responded. "No one heard from him again."

"That's a completely reasonable point of view," I said. "You're not cutting off my head in that photo, are you?"

But even she softened up a little when we got to the room with all the gifts Stalin received from his admirers within the empire Formerly Known as Evil. How could you not be impressed by carved chess sets from Tajiks? Ivory boxes from the North Koreans? Silk weavings from the Chinese? Wooden shoes with his and Lenin's face on them from the Dutch. Wait, what? The Dutch?

Naturally, I went straight to the personalized face carpets bestowed by Turkmen and Azeris. The Turkmen carpet was seriously beautiful, even if Stalin's features were oddly Asiatic.  As  gifts, personalized carpets really do stand the test of time, even for people who are not dictators. However, the going price for one these days in Baku is about $600 and I can't think of many friends on whom I'd spent $600 for a carpet. If they were dictators, maybe.

Disappointingly, the Stalin Museum has no gift shop. However, Tbilisi's flea market is one of the most reliable places for Stalin memorabilia, if you're in the market for that sort of thing. (Are you also in the market for Hitler memorabilia? That's what I asked myself after I bought a 1950's alarm clock with his visage on it in Tallinn. I told myself it will would add a bit of dictatorial balance, sitting next to my Mao alarm clock. But no, I am actually opposed to Hitler memorabilia. I realize this is incoherent. I guess I got a thing for dictators).

Soviet History in a Bottle

Knowing my taste for Georgian wine, my Georgian friend told me to watch out for a delivery he had sent over to my hotel. "Make sure they give it to you," he warned.

Having already purchased six bottles at my beloved World of Wine/Urine. I worried that I had already reached maximum capacity (Carpetblogger Travel Hint #1: half empty suitcases are convenient for transporting wine and carpets). If it didn't all fit, I figured I could always go local and drink a bottle before leaving for the airport at 3 am. Or on the plane.

A wine gift bag arrived and as I pulled the heavy, dark bottle out, dirty flakes of old label fell onto the bed. Capped with what looks like a heavy glob of dark chocolate, the bottle seems to have spent time in the ground or a dusty cave. A wood tag tied around the neck indicated the contents were vintage 1961 and "Rkatsiteli." The bottle leans slightly to the right.

From the Cradle of Wine, a blog devoted to Georgian wines, says this was one of the most popular varietals in the Soviet Union.

Rkaksiteli (pronounced "rkah-tsee-tely"; Georgian რქაწითელი; literally "red stem") is a variety of grapes grown along the Black Sea coast of Georgia, used to make dry white table wines of the Kakhetian style...

Rkaksiteli grapes are often blended with other grapes: with Khikhvi and Mtsvane to produce Rkatsiteli Khornabujuli wine; with Mtsvane to make the aged white wine Tibaani; with Chinuri and Chkhaveri for sparkling wine; with Saperavi and Cabernet Sauvignon for a semi-dry rose wine; or with Khikvi and Mtsvane for the fortified white port Kardenakhi. Rkatsiteli is one of the oldest varieties of grapes in the world; clay vessels have been found in Georgia with Rkatsiteli seeds dating from 3000 BC.

We can all agree that this is a pretty awesome gift.  I do think there are some pros and cons to consuming a bottle of 47 year old wine made during Soviet times, however. Not that I doubt the skills of the mid-century Soviet winemakers in Georgia, but there's a reason why you don't see a lot of 1961 Volgas or Zhigulis on the streets any more. Other, more tangible considerations than "quality" and "longevity" frequently guided production decisions in those days.

But I think the best reason not to drink this is that it is history in a bottle. The early 1960s were the era of the Khrushchev thaw, when it began to become more OK to say that Stalin had made a few mistakes. The Berlin Wall went up. Khrushchev gave millions of landless peasants the right to migrate to the cities and built millions of gray, poorly made five-story apartment blocks ("Krushchyovkas") to house them, shaping the psychological landscape of Soviet cities for decades. In Georgia, dissident and first democratically-elected President Zviad Gamsakhurdia began resisting Soviet efforts to Russify Georgians. There was a lot going on when the wine was bottled.

Where did this wine sit out the stagnation of Brezhnev's 70's? Why wasn't it drunk by a Georgian looking over the precipice of the '80s? How did it survive the chaos, civil war and hardship of Georgia's first years of independence?

I think it has too many stories to drink.

Instead, it will sit on the shelf, next to the "Za Karabagh!" ("To Karabagh!) Jubilee vodka I bought in Baku (on the left) and the limited edition Turkmenbashi vodka from Ashgabat (in the green cylinder).