Philadelphia, how I love thee!

I’ve been to Philly three or four times, and until recently, I’d always kept it in the “friend zone.” Now, it’s official: I am in LOVE with that city. The way to my heart is mostly through my stomach.  

Clean, green, and bustling, but not crowded, Philadelphia is a finicky citygirl’s dream. Mostly, though, I loved the food–so many all-vegan places to explore! From fancy fare and and chic cocktails (Charlie Was a Sinner) to divey and delicious (Blackbird Pizzeria), this city is something of a vegan foodie destination. 

HipCityVegan was a bit pricey for a small takeout joint with no public toilet (?!), but I enjoyed my sandwich despite having to pee at the nail salon next door. Fries were so-so.  

Grindcore Coffee is full of vegan treats and rather dangerous for a dieter. They get extra points for being doggie friendly, and for their blueberry coffee cake. And their horchata. And their oatmeal cookie sandwich.  

Another cafe and juice bar on the healthier, more expensive side is PS and Co. Organic and gluten free everything. My pad Thai dish was scrumptious, but could’ve been twice as big. I had an avocado key lime macadamia custard cup (YUM) to cap my hunger. 

Capogiro, a gelato joint with a few locations in the city, while not vegan, has a whole row of sorbet, which is vegan. A scoop of it fortified my under-the-weather boyfriend, who was exhausted by my enthusiastic city crawling. Sadly, I was too full of other food to buy any–I could only sample a couple of varieties, and I’m still dreaming about that teaspoon of mojito flavored sorbet. 

Long distance relationships are challenging. Luckily, the drive from DC to Philadelphia is a short one. Philly, I love you. 

Forever yours,

Lara 

   Rittenhouse Square

 Cool looking building
 Buskers putting their hearts into it  

This photo is awkward, but I liked my outfit     Complimentary champagne at the Nail Bar

Secret garden-esque restaurant (no vegan options here.)

 Gloriously gay neighborhood
  

Istanbul Again, Part 2: New Gig, New Coworkers

I didn’t know what to expect dance-wise when I came back to Istanbul after being away for six months, but as it happened, I received a call last Wednesday from the owner of a venue in oh-so-chic Etiler. I started performing on Saturday and will be there for the next five weeks, which is when I go to the US for five glorious weeks, a trip of which the management is not yet aware.

I’ve performed at this venue before, including filming a video advertisement for them in the fall of 2012. They’ve since moved to a new location, with a bigger stage and a nicer dressing room. They’ve had a complete overhaul of entertainers, and one of the new ones is a zenne, or male belly dancer. (Name withheld.)

I’ll admit, he didn’t make the best first impression on me. When he started to light a cigarette backstage, I suggested sweetly that we not smoke in our small, shared dressing room, and although he protested, he put out the the cigarette. When I thanked him, he replied with a snooty, “Evet” (“Yes”) instead of saying “You’re welcome” or similarly appropriate remark.

I’ve found that with stuck up dancers, the best method is to be kind and complimentary, but not disingenuous. This worked well and fairly quickly with him. As he was the veteran dancer (I’d actually performed there before him, but he’d performed most recently and regularly), I made no protest as he planned the dancer order (dancers have artistic freedom there), and he seemed to relax and warm up to me after that. He quickly went from obnoxious to adorable. He even gave me a nickname “kara kız”–dark girl, which used to to describe a girl with dark skin, dark hair, or dark eyes, all of which I have, and no, I didn’t find it offensive, at least not coming from him.

He was having a lover’s spat with his boyfriend, a married man with two kids, who had apparently lied to him about going out drinking the previous night. He told me all about it. It seemed this incident was the last straw in their relationship. I put on my makeup and prepared to perform as he regaled me with stories about his lover.

My performance went well, but due to a DJ who was uninitiated in the art of spinning for a dancer, and an awkward ascent to the stage (there was no clear path through the audience, so my entrance was less than grand), it wasn’t perfect. Still, everyone seemed to rather like it, including my new gbff, the zenne. He performed after me.

I rarely say this about a Turkish dancer or a male belly dancer, but he was phenomenal. From his perfectly toned little body and to his precise technique and beautifully executed choreography, he gave my favorite zenne, a dancer called Diva, a run for his money. He danced as though he had been trained by Didem Kınalı, Turkish belly dancer extraordinaire. Usually, I wouldn’t approve of such a blatant resemblance to another dancer’s style, but his technique and stage presence were so superb, I couldn’t help but to enjoy his performance immensely. Not only was he an incredible dancer, he was also an accomplished seamstress–he’d made his own costume. Creative and thrifty, too–the costume was made from an evening gown of his sister’s.

So, he dances beautifully, he choreographs, he sews, he’s funny, he’s gorgeous, he’s fit, and he’s charming. When he came back to the dressing room and asked me what I’d thought of his performance, I could honestly tell him that I loved it.

At one point, he picked up his phone, and spoke into it using a speak-to-text feature to compose the final message he would to send to the lover who’d betrayed him. He then turned the phone to me and another dancer and had us check the text before he sent it off. As it turns out, he’s illiterate. He’s 24, and as smart and talented as he is, he’s never learned to read and doesn’t care to at this point. I was shocked! Reading and writing give me so much pleasure and convenience, I couldn’t imagine my life without literacy.

Right before we parted for the night, his phone rang. He told the person calling that because of the noise and the rush to get to his next gig, he was unable to talk and would return the call soon. Then he looked at me and winked. “Benim yeni kocam,” he said. My new husband.

I absolutely love the guy! I hope he’ll be happy with his new man.

A boy called Kerim

I have a gay acquaintance who’s in the closet.  He loves to dance and wants very badly to do it professionally, but he doesn’t have any training, and his father doesn’t approve of his becoming a dancer.  He’s always asking me to find him a job.  Unfortunately, there just aren’t that many (read: any) dance jobs for a person with his level of skill in the genres of dance that interest him (Romany and belly dance), but I ask around for him sometimes, anyway.

A few days ago, this acquaintance contacted me to tell me he was in love with me.  Madly, deeply, and hopelessly so.  Please!  I thought.  You and I both know that you’re gay.  Maybe you don’t know that I know–perhaps you don’t even really know yourself.  But I know.  You’re not in love with me, buddy.  So I brushed him off with a “thanks, but no you’re not.”

He asked me how things were going in Bodrum, and if there were any job openings for him.  I told him not really, but if he had any experience with Turkish folk dancing, one of the folkloric groups was short one dancer, and I would talk to my agency about the possibility of hiring him.

Two days later, last night, this fool showed up unannounced at my door.  Just flew to Bodrum with one small bag and no money, no plan and no place to sleep!  I talked to the boss, who said he could stay here for four days, and if he learned quickly, he’d be hired, otherwise, he’d have to move on.

The acquaintance didn’t mention being in love with me again.  He calls me big sister now.

Update:

So, in the 30 minutes since I’ve written this blog entry, the bosses have changed their minds and the boy has to go home.  And he’ll need some money to get there.  From me, of course.

Update:

So, the boy had been asked to leave after his first night and I’d given him money for the bus.  He was starting to get annoying by this time, and I was looking forward to his departure.  Still, we all felt bad because he was down on his luck.  One of our folk dancers offered to talk to the owner of a nearby pub to see if the boy could work there, so against our better judgement, the boy was given permission to stay another night.

That evening, while we dancers were at work, the boy stole my friend’s camera and disappeared.