Zoe Goes on Birthright

People tell me all the time that I am "exotic" looking. Personally, I think it is a nice way of asking if I am a minority. But it's not all bad-- my "unique look" (read: nice way of saying ugly) helps me blend in in many different cultures. In Egypt, the hotel staff spoke to me in Arabic until the Hookah I was smoking caused me to hallucinate and cry about being sold into Middle Eastern sex slavery (um. what?) and they realized I was American. In Providence, the man at East Side Pockets used to give me free Baklava because he thought I was Armenian (I never had the heart to correct him). Now, when I go to the bar, people often ask me what ethnicity I am. I tell them if they get it right, I will buy them a drink. In three years, I have yet to buy someone else a round. Or one for myself, for that matter. In the past week, I have been asked if I was Israeli, Spanish, Brazillian, Lebanese, Asian or Canadian... I am none of these things.

This is irrelevant, but I look tan exotic and skinny. 

This weekend, I decided to take a vacation to one of my many homelands: Istanbul, Turkey. I somehow convinced three of my friends to come with me by telling them we would be able to go to the beach. It was 40 degrees and rained the whole time. Finding flights was a nightmare, and we were pleasantly surprised when we got to the airport and found that Pegasus Airlines had an actual plane, not a fleet of flying horses. When we finally landed, there was a lot of confusion about where the hell we were. Europe? Asia? The Middle East? I actually still have no idea. Once we got through customs (which was identifiable only by the white 8 1/2 x 11  cardboard sign that said "VISAS $20" in black permanent marker), we were met by a driver holding a sign with my name on it. I have never felt so famous.

The next morning we woke up and went to the Grand Bazaar, where we quickly became very popular. The men were extremely aggressive, and kept shouting at us to ask if we were "Charlie's Angels, "The Spice Girls," or, my personal favorite, "Angels from Paradise." Is this what the rest of the world knows about American culture? The vendors also obviously all stopped me to ask if I was Turkish. The whole thing made us all pretty nervous, and we pretended we either didn't speak English or were from Canada, which apparently they are far less interested in than the USA. Later, we went to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Of course I was dressed "inappropriately," and was asked to put on a head scarf, shoulder wrap and floor length skirt. Typical.

#worldsbestjew

Just some galz offending some Turkish people

After dinner, we went to a hookah bar near our hotel. This experience was better than the one I had in Egypt, but only slightly. The manager repeatedly offered us drinks with "special ingredients," and called us racist when we declined. Um no thank you Mustafa, I'm not really in the mood to get roofied tonight. But it's not because you're Turkish. One of the girls tried to explain to him that we were not racist because we came from the most diverse country in the world: the USA, which was extremely awkward because we told him we were from Canada. At this point, I tried to remedy the situation by convincing him I was Turkish-- and it worked. He brought out his guitar and serenaded us to "ONE" by U2, and offered us a free meal if we ever came back. It was time to get the hell out of there. On the way home, we bought Shwarma and were proposed to with a bouquet of Parsley by the cashier.

My parents arrived in Istanbul on Saturday morning, and I decided to blow off my 2 star vacation for their 5 star one. This also marked to commencement of the game: Where is Daddy? My dad has recently gotten realllly into photography, and often gets distracted and left behind for the sake of the cause. He also makes us pose every time he sees something remotely interesting, to the point where my face starts to hurt from smiling after an hour. The game was especially fun in the Grand Bazaar, which has 4,000 shops and 400,000 people. Eventually I ran away and drowned my frustration in Turkish Delights. At least we got some good pictures out of it. And some new jewelry.

Next, we will harvest your organs with a rusty butter knife.

On Sunday morning, I had a Turkish Bath in the hotel spa. Considering my shower in Copenhagen is literally on top of my toilet, this was a real treat. When I scheduled my appointment, I assumed it was going to be like a massage with some light exfoliation. Not at all. A Turkish woman literally took me into a room and gave me a bath. I laid down on a huge marble slab, wearing what might have been a loin cloth, and she poured huge buckets of water on my face and scrubbed me. The happy ending came when she washed my hair. With Pantene. The whole thing felt like a combination between a human sacrifice and a sexual assault.

Betweeen being repeatedly called beautiful, openly offered the date rape drug and getting borderline molested by a massage therapist, I guess my "unique" look really works in Turkey.


And just to clear up any confusion -- I am: Polish/Russian/Lithuanian/Irish/French Canadian/Native American. I think.