Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

Mentions of Turkey might evoke dreamy thoughts of Turkish delight, kebabs, belly dancers and hookah. 

Last weekend, I jetted across the continent to spend a weekend in Istanbul. Though I added some basic research and much excitement to my basic Turkish knowledge, a feeling of minor culture shock could not have been avoided. That slight discomfort with a heaping side of thrill was exactly what I came to Europe to seek out.

The personas, the flavors, the colors, the architecture. Everything from the repeatedly impressive food (and a huge amount of it) to the beautiful sounds of prayer five times per day left me with an incredible admiration for the city and county. While trying to live in the moment, I still couldn't help but to compare each aspect to my experiences in Paris. Both are large cities full of diverse types of people. Both have a buzzing nightlife, as well as shopping and eating until your wallet is empty and your stomach is more than full. Both have distinctive personalities that residents ooze and tourists aim to get a taste of. 

It's those separate personalities that I continued to ponder throughout the weekend, and have continued to since landing back down in France. Beyond the easy traits that most could identify and even those values that only someone that has spent extended time in the city can pinpoint, the elusive magnetism of Paris, Istanbul, plus handfuls of other amazing places can't be merely described. It needs to be understood.

As each busy day goes by, I end the evenings thinking about the blur of events that went by. With every conversation with shopkeepers, non-verbal exchange on the metro, & hour on hour spent slowly sipping espresso, I'm delving deeper into my adaption to Parisian culture. In the same way that someone could never understand the culture of my central PA state university without seeing it themselves, becoming one with a new land can only be attempted with time, an open-mind, and a serving of patience. Once the bright-eyed attitude fades, it's only up to each individual to make their way.

Other than a fantastic weekend, a few more accessories to add to my collection, and a couple thousand extra calories consumed than healthy, I came away from Turkey with an even larger travel bug and craving to feel more of the world through my senses.

Definition

In the case of this blog, created for the Social Media and Digital Identity course, my audience is a narrow public. Including my professor and the classmates interested in reading their peers blogs, I don't expect more than 50 readers on this website. Since I have a personal blog, I market that one and don't plan to use this website for posts outside of my assignments. However, using some posts from Fashion Fille on this website might happen.

With that said, here is a link from my personal blog, Fashion Fille.

Disconnect

I spent the past weekend- both in and traveling to- in the Umbria region of Italy. My destination was a tiny town called Perugia, famous for Amanda Knox and Baci chocolates. I visited a good friend of mine from college, so the trip was planned with seeing her in mind more than being a tourist in Perugia. I was thrilled to taste small-town living after spending a month in Paris, and know that I didn't appreciate the break from my life here until I returned.

Having internet at all in Perugia is a luxury reserved for schools and businesses; never apartments unless money isn't an object. My French phone was also inactive in Italy. Thus, once I quickly ran an e-errand using my friend's school's facilities, I was out-of-touch for all friends and family. "Roughing it" is a term I heard tossed around over the weekend, referring to their barely-heated homes, limited access to full-sized grocery stores, and disconnect from the outside, internet-focused world.

As someone who's constantly connected at home, spending this time in Paris, with a weak WiFi signal in my apartment and no data-plan smart-phone, has been a break. Taking it one step further was a breath of fresh air.

However, as soon as I landed and collapsed on my bed in central Paris, I was emailing, texting, posting galore. I suddenly stopped myself and realized how much of my need for cyber connection is just instinctual at this point. Instead of scolding myself and taking the opportunity to attempt to wean myself to a lower attachment, I decided to accept and embrace this part of me. I'm using it for positives-- keeping in touch with family and friends and progressing my future by maintaining a strong online presence, not to mention the great enjoyment I receive from indulging in my hobby that has become a passion.

Slow-motion Nightmares

Just as I predicted it would, it happened. Even more frightening and worse-played out than I imagined, it happened.

I fell ill in Paris. It sounds minor, but doesn't it always? The process rolls out slowly, and it seems to be never ending until, finally, it is over.

I'll rewind.

Sunday- 20:00. The dreaded sore-throat that plagued my day persists and worsens. What I had blamed on an exhuasting weekend is now seeming to be more than that. I drag my feet and retreat to bed, unaware of what the night and morning is waiting to show me.

Monday- 4:00. Sore throat wakes me after a few hours of tossing. I stumble to the bathroom and throw back a couple of ibuprofen before falling back into twisted sheets.

9:00. I feel it. The eye-rollingly familar streptococcal pharyngitis, or strep as we've been known to call it, is sitting in the back of my throat. There's no question about it. I somehow, in my barely-awake state-of-mind, decide to find a doctor's number after a few more hours of sleep. I've done this dance before, and I've been dreading it's occurrence since months before my European arrival. I think to myself, "all I'll need is a dose of some amoxicillin, and stat." Return to sleep.

11:00. For the second time today, I stumble to the bathroom with a sickening light-headedness and swirling confusion. Halfway through my gentle tooth-brushing, punctuated with aches and gags, I throw the plastic tools back on my shelf and run to the W.C., ready to rid my intestines of whatever's left from the evening. Before I can even relieve my waves of nausea, I'm suddenly thrown against the door by my own body. First faint of the morning: check.

11:02. Frightened and shaken, confused and upset, I, once again, stumble to my apartment's living room to check for human interaction. I see my roommates, mumble something about feeling extremely sick, and they urge me to return to bed, unaware of what to do or how utterly confused I am. Within seconds, the situation takes another left turn.

11:02:30. I'm on the floor, again. Shrieks of concern, I hear from the living room, followed by my own voice meekly saying, "No...not OK..." My three roommates are suddenly standing above me, in an equal, yet different, state of shock as I am. We somehow discuss what just happened and I eventually am back in my bedroom, a glass of water by my side and my cell phone by my ear.

11:10. Once the situation has been explained to the proper CEA staff member and several phone calls have been made, a doctor is expected at my apartment in the next 4 hours. I retreat back to a distant sleep and wake up intermittently in confused, anxious tears, simply wanting someone to take care of me. Never did Philadelphia feel so far away.

13:11. A doctor calls me, speaking in speedy and garbled French that I can barely pick up. I try to explain to him that I can't understand him; he both gives and hangs up. With no caller ID to call back, I continue to wait.

14:26. Another phone call. This time, English communication is made. I go down to bring this man into my home.

14:30. After coat removal and hand-washing, the typical doctor's routine commences, but this time with a bit of French aggression. One look at my throat, and "Infection! You need antibiotic!" is cried out. I don't even question a lack of throat culture, as I'm just as confident in the diagnosis myself.

14:40. Four prescription write-up's, and a thorough explanation of what each medication does, later. I collapse, this time willingly and consciously, into the couch. A pharmacy adventure awaits, and the sooner the better. I need drugs.

15:03. I make my way to the nearest pulsing, green plus sign. I push the papers given to me earlier that afternoon towards the man working, and he continues to retrieve each packet of pills. While I watch him work, my mind dizzies again and the sound starts to drain from my ears. Here it comes...I find a chair just after retrieving my debit card from the counter, mumbling, "I need to sit down." The pharmacist reaches across and hands my bag of pills over, while I take deep breaths, holding my head in my hands, once again confused and frightened.

After 72 hours of 3/day horse-sized pills and hours upon hours of sleep, my healthy self seems to be on her way back. Continuing to wonder, "why me?" while hoping for it never to happen again, I now return to my Parisian life with an even larger, and more warranted, fear of fainting in the Metro.

Disclaimer: dramatization has been applied. Things always seem worse in the moment, oui?