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“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” ― Albert Einstein

This is true!  I had college level reading skills in grade school, but I took remedial math my first year of college.

I’ve been feeling a bit stupid lately, as love can make you do stupid things.  It can turn you into a person you don’t even recognize.  A stupid one!

But love is stupid, anyway, and I’m starting to feel better.

My incognito gig

I was working with an agency, doing from 1-3 belly dance gigs a night in Bodrum, Turkey this summer, mostly in hotels, but occasionally at a wedding, nightclub, or circumcision feast.  However, I still wanted more gigs, more money, and more excitement, so when a “friend” (not really a friend)–an artists’ manager and event organizer who we’ll call “Nur”–breezed into Bodrum from Istanbul and asked me if I’d be interested in picking up some extra gigs, I was all for it.

Nur, who I still considered a friend at the time, asked me to audition to perform at the Catamaran, a disco that’s actually a ship and sets out to sea at about midnight every night.  The owner of the club is a friend of hers, and Nur was helping her out as a favor.  I didn’t mention the audition to anyone.  The policy for taking work outside of the agency had never been discussed, but I had a feeling there could potentially be some conflict, so I kept it to myself.  After my agency gigs were finished for the night, I sneaked a costume into a handbag and slipped out of the the complex where I and all the dancers lived, passing the agency bosses, who were all having their late night tea in the courtyard.  I figured I’d check the place out, decide if the hours and the pay worked for me, then tell the agency.  No sense in bringing it up at all if I wasn’t interested in taking the job, I rationalized.

I met up with Nur at the Catamaran, and we were treated like VIPs–ushered to the front of the line, first passengers on the motorboat that shuttles party-goers to the Catamaran, free cocktails, excellent table.  While my audition was supposed to be a short solo, the other belly dancer (a transsexual who wears many hats) protested, saying that her performance was coming up, and suggesting we both perform at the same time to her music.  The owner asked me if this was okay, and I agreed, so as not to cause waves.  The performance turned out pretty ridiculously–the other dancer pushed me out of view and launched into some bizarre and acrobatic floor work about 30 seconds into the 2 minute song.  It was as if I wasn’t even there.

Nur spoke with the owner of the club about the audition (the owner hadn’t really been able to see me, but by what she had seen, she decided she wanted me to work there), pay, and hours.  The owner wanted me to come back to start working the following day and we would “work out the details.”  Nur relayed this information to me, and I told her that I wasn’t interested.  The pay was too low, the hours were too long, and I was not going to come back the following day for another performance without an agreement.

Nur assured me that she’d discuss payment and hours with the owner, and that it really was worth my time to come again.  Nur called me after having spoken with the club owner to tell me that she sent her apologies for wasting my time, that she really wanted to work with me, and that she would increase the pay and give me a set performance slot for every night.  She just wanted me to do a solo, without the distraction of the other dancer performing by my side.

I was totally against the idea.  I was skeptical that I was actually going to get the payment and schedule I’d requested, and I didn’t want to sneak out of my complex again without letting anyone know where I was going, and without telling the bosses that I was considering taking additional work outside the agency.  Of course, Nur begged.  “Please, Lara!  This is an excellent place to work!  And Müslüm Gürses will be there tonight!”  Müslüm Gürses is a famous Turkish arabesque singer.  I wasn’t impressed, because he’d been contracted to perform a few weeks in the spring at the venue where I dance in Istanbul, so I’d already met him.  A few times.  He’s cool.

Against my better judgement, I agreed to give performing at the Catamaran one more try.  I packed my purse, sneaked out, got whisked onto the ship VIP-style once more, and waited until it was my time to perform.  When the time came to get ready, I grabbed my bag and headed to the dressing room.  On my way down, who should I see but Rahman, one of my agency’s drivers?  He was waiting there with 3 of our Russian go-go dancers.  The Catamaran had contracted our agency, and they were starting that very night.  “Lara!” Rahman exclaimed.  “What are you doing here?” My secret was out.

“I’m dancing here tonight as a favor to a friend,” I confessed.  “Don’t tell anyone.  I want [the boss] to find out from me.”

He bit his lip. . . .  “Okay. . .  he won’t find out from me. . .  But if he finds out, he’ll be mad.”

What could I do?  I had already given my word that I’d perform there, so I changed into my costume and performed (it was a packed house, and if I do say so myself, the crowd went wild).  After I performed, the place went dark for an instant, then a spotlight lit upon Müslüm Baba, and he began to sing.  The crowd went even wilder.  I changed back into my street clothes, watched our go-go dancers, then rode home with my pal Rahman the driver and the Russians and awaited the consequences.

During my performance, I did notice that there was a cameraman basically lying on the floor directly beneath me.

The following day, I confessed to [the boss] that I had performed at the Catamaran.  He acted like he knew already.  (He was lying, but that’s his style.)  He punished me by reducing my shows to one performance a night for four days.  (Jerk.)  Nur didn’t call me back with the renegotiation of my agreement with the Catamaran, and then, in the evening, 3 friends called me to tell me they’d seen me on Show TV performing at the Catamaran.

So, for the price of free, the Catamaran got a performance from the best belly dancer in Bodrum for their televised event, and I learned the policy on picking up gigs outside of the agency.

Skunked again.

Nomadic musings

patriot (n): a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion

I love my country.  Not in a patriotic way.  I love my country in the way that I love other countries–I love the quirks and predictability of the people, I love speaking the language, I love the things that are common here but can’t be found elsewhere.  I miss it when I’m gone.

Recently, I woke up and had no idea which country I was in.  It took a good few minutes to realize I was in my tree house-like attic room in DC and not a new apartment in Istanbul.

My lil tree house

It was kind of disturbing, as is the recurring dream I’ve had since University, usually when I’m  homesick in another country, where I find myself in the States for a weekend having a grand ol’ time, and then realize that I don’t have any way to get back to where I’m supposed to be for the the next day of class/work/performance.  Last night, however, I dreamed I had returned to Istanbul early.  I realized in a panic that I’d cut my trip short and missed everything I have planned here in the States for the next two months.

What does it mean?  Could I be homesick for Turkey?

Guest House Chronicles-The Scandal

Living at Garden House is never dull.

Realized one of our guests used our address to fraudulently enroll her children into school when we received the invitation to Parents’ Night.

She asked our permission first, was told not to do it, and went forward with the scheme anyway.  A bold and unfortunate move, particularly in light of what happened to this Ohio mom, whose case made national news.

The school is on to her now.  Lives will be disrupted.

Back in Town! (For awhile.)

I’ll be working in the US from now until late November, and being home has been amazing so far.

Last night I performed at TurCuisine in Herdon, VA.

There was a wonderful crowd.  Not one person tried to cop a feel under the guise of giving me a tip.

And I got to dance with a sword for the first time in months!

Then, this afternoon, I received an email notifying me that I’ve been chosen to participate in Lotus Niraja‘s performance DVD.  On to the daunting task of selecting music for the show and obtaining legal permission to use it. . . .

Home for Now

I left for the airport in Istanbul, headed for DC, by way of Amsterdam, at 4 am Turkish time on Wednesday, which was 9:00 pm Tuesday night in DC.  About 23 hours later, I arrived at my house in Takoma Park.

Trying to get accustomed to being back home.

Every time I hear people speaking English as they walk down my street, I go to the window to peer at them with curiosity.

Then I realize that most everyone who walks down my street speaks English.

Poffertje (mini-pancakes) at Schiphol

The airport in Amsterdam is a wonderland.

There are giant bronze sculptures that serve as benches.  They’re shaped like overweight men, with lots of lumps for the comfort of the seated.

The shops are good–an upscale, traveler-specific, shopping mall comes to mind.

Usually when I travel, I’m either equipped with a great sack of food purchased and prepared at my place of departure, or I’m mentally ready to survive on nothing but the nuts and fruit I’ve managed to stuff in my purse before rushing to the airport.  As a person who is extremely discriminatory in terms of food selection, I can safely say there is almost never anything worth eating in the airport (despite the exorbitant cost of the food.)  The fare served on the plane is even worse–I usually just ask for water instead when they bring the food down the aisle.  (Water and/or wine.)

However, at this airport, there’s a wonderfully innovative restaurant called Dutch Kitchen Bar & Cocktails that serves tasty, organic food that’s not terribly expensive.  Some of it’s even vegetarian!  I think I saw the lady who prepared my poffertje scratching under her wig, but I turned a blind eye.  You can’t win everything. I also didn’t get a chance to sit in Dutch Kitchen’s giant teacup area and take a photo–too many kids.

But I digress–this is the best airport.  There so many things to do–there may not be any “special coffee shops”, but you can test-drive new gadgets, use the free, public wi-fi, enjoy a real meal, get a manicure, pedicure, and massage, even leave for a three-hour tour of Amsterdam.

On thing I noticed during my two and a half-hour layover at Schiphol was an announcement directed to passengers who had checked into their flights, but never made it to the gate.  I heard the message at least three different times, and it went something like this: “Passenger George Jones, your flight is ready to go, we’re waiting for you.  If you don’t get to the gate immediately, we’ll begin to remove your bags from the plane.”

Then, once I boarded my own flight, takeoff was delayed 15 minutes.  The explanation came from the pilot, and sounded like this–“We’re ready to go, but one passenger never showed up.”  (Pilot sighs.)  “We’re just unloading his bags from the aircraft, then re-loading yours, and we’ll be off.”

I guess some people get so enticed by the offerings in the airport, that they decide to detour through Amsterdam.  I can’t say I wasn’t tempted myself.

How I Almost Missed Showtime

In Turkey, I work with a few different talent managers. One evening, one of them called me to find out if I was free for a gig the following Friday at 11:00.

While I do speak Turkish, as most people who speak a foreign language will agree, talking on the phone in a foreign language can still be a challenge. Not to mention, this phone conversation took place while I was backstage at Cirque du Soleil. Needless to say, it was hectic and noisy back there. It is, after all, a circus.

Still, I think I understood about 80% of what the manager explained: that at 11:00 on Friday, I would be picked up from Mecidiyeköy by servis (shuttle bus) for a television appearance. I was to arrive no later than 11:30, but preferably by 11:00, just in case. I wouldn’t have to worry about anything–hair and makeup would be taken care of at the TV station, and payment would be transferred into my account within two weeks. Despite any communication difficulties, one thing was clear: This was a very important gig, and if I were late, the client would be furious.

I did, however, misunderstand one vital detail. I found this out the day of the gig when, while easing my way out of bed, the phone rang. It was the manager.

“Lara, is everything okay? Are you running late?”

“No, I’m fine. . . . What do you mean. . . ?”

Then it dawned on me–THIS WAS A DAYTIME GIG!

I was out of the house and in a taxi–albeit with my hair still in matted mess of frizzy tumbleweeds–in 5 minutes, and I made it to the meeting place just before 11:30. . . AM.

Below is my performance from that day.

Angry musicians!

There’s an established musician in the US, popular for his playing, and known for his “interesting” personality.

Another dancer and I met with him and his partner once for a lesson, and for reasons of my own, I decided that I would not continue to study with them.

This seemed to upset him, because after that, while he hadn’t actually seen me perform, he began bad-mouthing me to employers–he actually got me fired, sight-unseen, from two gigs.  One was a grand re-opening of a venue, and another was a venue where I’d danced for about a year, but was now under new management.

Sometime after I’d learned what he’d done, I ran into him at a show.  I greeted him, performed, and afterwards, I said good-bye and left.  I wasn’t keen on sitting down for a chat with someone who had maliciously and repeatedly sabotaged me.

I’ve just had news that he was talking about me again–apparently, the last time I saw him, I didn’t pay him enough attention.  I just “walked right by” and “didn’t speak” because I “think I’m Michelle Obama or somebody.”

I find this hilarious!

Night Out with a Belly Dance Legend

I slept in this morning after a late night out with party animal Sema Yıldız.  A busy dancer in Turkey, Europe, and throughout the Middle East in the 70s, 80s, and into the 90s, Sema is retired from regular performances and now teaches workshops in Europe, Asia, and North America.  Still, to see her flirt and party on a Saturday night, you’d think she was 22 years old. . . .

She invited me to a late dinner at Gar Gazino, where I had the privilege of watching Gül Nihal and two other dancers perform.  After that, we headed to Sultana’s to meet Didem, who is certainly recognized as the most popular dancer in Turkey, and known as an icon to dance enthusiasts around the world.  I’m a big fan of hers, myself.  To my delight, I found out she is pretty cool in real life.

The three of us headed to the Parisienne after that.  Another dancer, Kumsal, performed a pop-and-lockish, Asena– and Rachel Brice-inspired (at least from our point of view) belly dance, which was followed by a racy Russian revue show.

After that, the party continued.  Didem was tired from a round-trip flight to Bodrum earlier that day and couldn’t hang, but for Sema and me, the night was still young.  We stopped at a nearby club, but didn’t stay long (apparently, it wasn’t happenin’ enough for us), then headed to a swankier place with a band and singer performing beautiful Georgian and Turkish music.  We danced to a few songs and hopped in cab.  In my naivete, I thought I was being dropped off at home.  Nope!  Off to Beyaz Bar, where Sema pushed me onto stage for an impromptu performance to live music.

I dropped into bed at about four.