Date:	2002-10-27 00:28
Subject:	Coming Down from a Busy Week
Security:	Public
Mood:	artistic
Music:	The Computer's Hum

i know it's time for a haircut when people start telling me that i look like frodo. from lord of the rings.

now, this wouldn't be so bad if they were saying i look like elijah wood.

but no. frodo.

so tomorrow it looks like i will go in search of a haircut.

i've had a busy week, starting with last thursday night, when i reacquainted myself with my gay male friends here in town. utnil that time i had only been hanging out with my "girlfriends"... so thursday night saw me with my friends (and exes) kerem and tolga; friday and saturday saw me with 'ro; wednesday and thursday most recent, found me at ben's house (also an ex, post kerem, pre tolga).

on monday i saw the movie "the ring" -- i highly recommend it. it traumatised 'ro and myself for two days.

tuesday 'ro and i went to uc berkeley so i could do some research on the qajar dynasty (iran) and napoleon's "oriental policy."

last night i stayed in, as i am doing again tonight.

i seem to have develepoed an interest in gay-themed animation lately. yaoi anime. i supose it simply goes along with my other artistic interests that tend towards the comic book/ anima/ manga world (of which i know next to nothing, actually).

i wish my life were organised enough that i could seriously produce quantities of art. and historical research. and poetry. and novels. publish publish publish. takes some time to establish one'self, unfortunately...

i've been working on my book. i will also be working on my layla and majnun poetry again soon, really spinning it out into a cohesive narrative, trying to explore and expand a few themes; complete unanswered questions (or emotions) developed by the poetry; arrange it in sensical order.

when am i going to buy my ticket back to spain? why do i keep delaying this? do i want to go back to spain? i like it in its particulars, but not so much in its generalities. (the complete opposite of the middle east, actually -- although, there, i tended to like both the generalities and the particulars (although barbed wire on the beach in lebanon can leave something to be desired).)

et voila, c'est ca. ma vie. c'est pas trop mal; pero tengo mis momentos de ... no se como explicarlos. just feeling not "up"... mash'allah i will feel better soon. my life isn't that bad.

i skipped out on the HUGE protest that took place in sf today. i felt kinda bad, but i was awaiting a friend's arrival and i've kinda seen enough protests... in some ways, i think i'm a protest snob. i only go to them if i helped organise them. and since i'm out of the grassroots organising circuit here, i did not go.

tomorrow. who knows what will happen. will i go to church? will i meet up with dario? he wants to meet in the morning, pero no es seguro. tambien quiero quedarme con jesus, y necesito afijar una hora para tomarnos algo... the afternoon will hopefully be spent with mimli, we may see a matinee at the castro (the seven samurai by kurasawa).

vamos a ver...

the knot slips
into place

silk rope kisses

my back expands
fresh sheets beneath me

i open myself
to what
may

come

(i really should do something about this sexual frustration... i can't keep writing snippets of poetry like this...)

I didn't go outside today. unless you count last night, when i stepped out onto the porch to see some of the fireworks that went off after the sf giants won the baseball game, which i inadvertantly watched (i didn't have control of the television last night). the fireworks were pretty. not as pretty as in pamplona, though, which were perhaps the most spectacular fireworks i have ever seen. then again, i had a better view of those.

i've come to the conclusion that spanish sleeping patterns do not mesh well with the normal north american lifestyle.

i did go out the other night and got cruised by the barback. i wondered if it was because i was fresh meat and he had tried the rest of the market already... but my intuitive sense was that he recognised me from the castro street fair (i flatter myself to think that i'm memorable when i dance and my hair (head hair) needs cutting).

i also decided i simply don't want to go home with anyone. just doesn't interest me.

found -- on the street -- a book that verena had recommended to me this past summer: what colour is your parachute. it is a type of career counseling book, and i have started doing some of the excercises in the book. apparently, my most favourite skill is: imagining, creating, and designing new ideas. that about sums up the source of my frustration in the few jobs i've had. no oppurtunities to create/ design new ideas and implement them.

woke up early this morning -- 8 something, after having awakened at 7 and at 6 (went to bed at 1, fell asleep around 2...). stayed up for an hour, read a little. then went back to sleep and actually slept well -- until 13.00...

tomorrow i have dinner with rick. tomorrow i go investigate tai qi (or t'ai chi) courses/ programs in the area. exactly one more month until my proposed departure date, my vuelto a espanha.

i feel my life is boring at the moment. apologies for not being more literary...

So... I don't get it. here i am in one of the gayest cities in the world. i'm 26, muscular (in that wiry bruce lee way), attractive enough, and love to dance. i couldn't wait to get back to the clubs in the states and canada (although the canada thing isn't quite doable from california, like it is in new york). and i have gone out dancing once in the past two weeks. not even. i stayed in all weeked. why am i not going out? por que no me interesan los hombres? son guapos, mas que los encontre en espanha... por que no busco al sexo? es que no es lo que necesito ahora, al momento in mi vida, o que?

is it because i miss verena, my dance partner in spain? is it because i don't want to deal with predatory objectification i encounter in the clubs -- although i love the attention (as long as it is only visual... i detest superficial conversation). or is it because i am not ready to go out until 1am, which is fine -- in spain.

so i'm at home listening to "rumpshaker"... ay senor, necesito lograrlo... (i suppose that roughly translates "i need to get some"...)

hm. i have 45 minutes before people really clear out of, say, badlands. maybe i'll stop by. the fresh air will do me some good -- i spent a good portion of the day in the attic looking for two specific books, which i did find (after finding about three other applicable and highly interesting books).

need to contact publishers this week. hung out with jasmine yesterday in the mission. que interesante ahora -- puedo entener la gente pasando...

finished painting some tiles in lou's kitchen. imitation iznik tiles, and another imitating a tile mural i saw in the museum of the american university of beirut. the next tile is going to be azulejos inspired. the portuguese really excelled at blue and white tilework... it lent an interesting feel to the country, to see blue tiles and mist and green hilly countryside...i think i write about portugal rather often.

okay, i'm babbling now. plan for week: work on book. paint more tiles. i'd been going stir crazy not being able to express myself artistically. finish labeling photos from last year's trip. dropp off film from this year's trip?

time to shake that culo...

Date:	2002-10-10 23:35
Subject:	...
Security:	Public
Mood:	pensive
Music:	silence

the night is lonely

breathes mist
into the street

lights shimmer
blur before me

if this fog
were passage

to another time

what shapes
would i desire

emerge

from time's shrouds?

what dreams
would i choose to walk

complete

the green valley of fergana
filled with steppe ponies
sea-born horses
swifter than the wind

the blazing heat
of the gobi

the phoenix in flames

the wars of the afreeti
the djinni and the marids

smouldering in the flame
of oil lamps

beside fountains
turkish palaces

the lapis sky
of circling vultures

a funeral
closes in tibet

land of medicine

red lanterns aglow
on ramshackle streets

fragrant smoke in shanghai

opium dens and whores cribs
on jackson street
the gold rush
of little china
in san francisco

would i play in the springs
of thessaly
the pristine waters of lake ohrid
lonely churches perched
on craggy mountains peaks

or lose myself
in the mists of asturias and avalon

taste apples

fruit of the other world

and would i return
from the fog of time

awaken from the dream
of other men's dreams...

Sunday was the Castro St. fair, where i saw the best "20 years of madonna in ten minutes" drag performance -- i don't know how many wigs, costume changes, songs, but this is the best drag show i've ever seen. (check it out at the Trannyshack next time you're in SF.)

the rest of the day was spent enjoying the sun bare chested in front of the latin music stage, watching amazing feathered samba dancers or latino go-go boys with bubble butts (check them out on www.latinjocks.com and www.latinguyz.com). baila morena!

sigh. love the dancing.

should have called jesus today to set up a time to get together this weekend. tried calling sami, for the same reason, but also so he can translate an arabic document a lebanese friend sent me. i could read a whole five words. wow. languages without vowels disturb me.

today was the first day of real fog, a cold day, the wind blowing from the ocean rather than from inland (i.e. oakland and beyond). it felt like october, and at times i was reminded of new york, both manhattan and albany... my mind also drifted to granada.

emotionally feeling much much better, tho' still anxious about work (lack thereof), but getting some work done on my books. trying to take my mind of certain frustrated areas of my life... but every time i sit down to write a poem, i end up back at square one...

the fog parts
your lips
open the night

let loose your tongue
carve words of poetry
on my skin

bring the night to me
let me embrace it

the city's lights stretch
across your shoulders

your skin the dark sky

i see my eyes reflected
in dark pools before me

enfold me by candlelight
beneath the foggy moon

the scents of oil and musk
mingle

let our bodies speak
let the fog cover us
and let your lips
be parted.


grrr. frustration. so... in other news... i have no other news. hung out with mimli yesterday. we went shopping in the haight. i didn't by anything. no, i bought maize. yum. native north american food (butternut squash, corn, and beans...)

ran into an old coworker, the singing dancing drag queen who worked for a venture capital firm with me back in the silicon valley days. we talked about how different the town is now, how much more community like, less free-wheelling and over the top debauchery... how he likes it much more this way, how i like it this way, and wonder why i should return to grana'a...

i return to grana'a because if i don't i will be disappointed in myself later. i do not believe i will be disappointed that i did not stay in san francisco. i am convinced of this right now. i have a life to finish creating over there. here... i feel confident i can return.

peace.

Saturday night in San Francisco. Listening to Dance music, Shakira, dancing around -- inside the house. Why I'm not going out tonight is a question I can't answer. I suppose I don't like going out dancing alone. Although I can't say it is because I have ever had a bad experience those few times I have done so. I usually end up making a new friend, or at the very least having a good time. No, I think I usually meet people.

So tomorrow is the Castro St. Fair. They will have a Latin music stage, which I am looking forward to spending hours at, dancing, of course. Looking at my body, however, I notice how much muscle I've lost in the two weeks since I stopped kayaking. Not that I was the Supremely Buff God or anything. Oh well. I still have my abs, and besides, my ability to belly dance seems to compensate for any lack of muscle. But I've learned that smiling is even more effective. Emote.

Ay Senor, I sound like a director.

Today I went to a Tibetean Buddhist seminar, and the speaker of the seminar -- a nun whose name I am forgetting (Tibetan names I can't recall easily, or maybe I'm being ...mindless? is that what the lack of mindfulness is called? mindlessness?) -- gave me the rose that was set next to her cushion during the talk. "An offering to be offered" she said as she gave it to me. I walked back to the Castro (the talk was on Franklin and Geary) holding that single pink rose. The number of people who smiled and seemed happy when they saw that rose was amazing. I feel like I should walk around with a rose all the time, just to see the joy it causes in people. I meditated on how much joy the nun gave people by giving that rose to me, who walked home carrying it.

the talk itself was good, and I definitely needed to be reminded of much that I had already known, having learned from my Christian (Orthodox and Catholic) tradition. I did learn a few new things, after the talk -- the symbolism of the Tibetan monks' robes, the relationship of Buddha to the primal sound Om... developed a day-crush/ attraction to one of the monks (who remembered my name, which thrilled me until I remembered that that mindfulness practise would have let him do that... actually, no, I was still secretly thrilled that he remembered my name. )

Not nearly as depressed today as I had been all week. In fact, today, I was smiling and ... not happy, so much as relaxed or content, or simply being. Ser. Mas, Estar. Me entiendes?

Ah, Prince is playing. "I'm a talented boy." Hm. "Cream"... Sometimes I feel like SF is a dangerous place for a certain mood... maybe I will end up going out after all... I just don't like paying a cover charge; I rarely need to, for some reason, and it seems that when I first came out ont he club scene, I rarely paid... setting up this precedent.

I did pay once, in Beirut. US$20. I figured it made up for all the times I never paid. Ah well. I'll be dancing enough tomorrow, inshallah. Still. I shouldn't go out... I will find someone attractive, or someone will find me attractive, and I will desire but not want to go home with them for a night of ... well. I'm trying to be ... considered... in my next choice of who I decide to... spend my time with. And what's the point, if I'm leaving for Spain in another month or so? At the same time, I need to occupy my time... Yet I should find a healthier way to spend my time... That's what this all comes down to. Health. Still...

tenuous hands stretching
across my body
the smells of the night
aching
my body tense
dark eyes searching
shadowed cheeks
rough with hair
salty lips
i draw a ragged breath

and release myself
to awaiting arms

Last night I went to see Baz Luhrman's new production of La Boheme. Amazing! The singers were all young; their voices hadn't yet matured -- lending the entire opera a more authentic feel of young bohemians in Paris. The sets, taken from 1950's Paris, including the token Algerian or Maghribi immigrants were utterly fantastic, especially the cafe scene in the second act -- everything was in black, grey, and white (except a clown and Musetta (gotta love her in a fabulous BIG and RED dress) lending it a feel of looking into an old photograph or watching television on an old black and white set.

And while I usually don't like La Boheme, I found myself appreciating some of the sentiments it expressed, about relationships, about life. Now that I've had a few relationships of my own -- and thus have a greater perspective on the topic.

I was still happy when the heroine died of tuberculosis, but then again, that's half the appeal of opera. The heroine *always* dies, usually of tuberculosis. (Except in Aida, where she is imprisoned alive in an Egyptian tomb. Gotta love the grisly side of high culture, you know? (and wonder how such unsettling topics became a part of high culture to begin with...))

Afterwards I wandered over to the Cafe, but not recognising anyone, and finding it to be filled with a much younger crowd of guys than I recalled seeing, I went to Badlands, where I ran into an old acquaintance, Jesus. He and I spent the rest of the night together, and the music was great -- I finally got to dance again (delighted that it was drawing admiring looks from several bystanders; that I was obviously talking with Jesus, a rather good looking (better looking than myself) guy, also meant that no one was going to come on to me, thinking he and I might have something going on... and so I could dance with impunity... Our conversation on Middle Eastern guys (how we are attracted to them, and what gay life is like in Beirut, Istanbul, the rest of Turkey, and Syria) segued (seg-way-ed) into a discussion on the Palestine-Israel question (over pizza (served/cooked by Maghribi Arabs)), a talk about Ottoman history, Religion as Source of Many Problems, and then the cult of saints in Catholicism.

A very light evening, eh?

In any event, the evenign put me in a better mood than I had been in during the day. Today was a further outgrowth of getting out of my depressive funk, a long conversation with two friends, a good meal, and then some astrological research. Still wondering about finding work here. I hate being unoccupied with scheduled work.

Discovered in my astrological chart that the Centaur Phoclus (in the tenth house, under the sign of Pisces) is conjunct with my midheaven, indicating that my destiny, career, vocation, and the way I am seen by outsiders, or more, the way to get there effectively, "necessitates" an hour of ceremony a day. That is, I need an hour to be alone or have some set "ceremony" or "ritual" in order to stay focused on my goals, or make them effective... (of couse there is much more than just this involved) Something I already knew, but was interested to find confirmed in the chart.

My life is as bizarre and disjointed as my journal entries.

Came across a new quote today:

"The Truth should disturb us." It is by a thirteenth century Japanese Buddhist whose name I am faulting at the minute... Hogen or something of the sort. I'll revisit the book in which I stumbled across the quote. Which means goign back to a used bookstore.

Ah, the daily fix. Feeding the addiction.

The smell of books (especially old books) is one of the pleasures of life. Even when I was in Porto, that city permeated by the scent of must, of dust and decay, to go into an old used bookstore and just look around gave me such a wonderful sense of... connection ... continuity... the dark wood of the tables and chairs, the worn pages filled with exotic looking Portuguese words, words that are understandable, inasmuch as Chaucerian English is understandable to Modern English speakers... a bit... bizarre looking at first... and of course I came away with one or two books. In Portuguese, of course, with Latin "originals" included. Emerging to face tile covered churches covered with grit, cracking, the river down the hill beside listing houses, the day's washing hung out to dry, pigeons taking to the grey cloudy skies... What an unsettling, but strangely attractive, drawing place. Haunting.

And on that note, I'm off to bed. I have to get up early tomorrow for a six hour Tibetan Buddhist lecture, which should be interesting, as I usually am pro-Taoist and critical of Buddhist philosophy. I try to remain open to challenges, and I figure attending one lecture would validate my skeptical attitude towards many Buddhist philosophies, instead of relying solely on various books and excerpts of Buddist scriptures that I've read -- or it could totally change my perception of Tibetan Buddhism. And anyway, if I am hoping to one day go to Daramsala, India, to study Tibetan medicine, I'd better acquaint myself with Tibetan Buddhism while I can.

Two weddings, a trip to New York, two trips to Boston, and several days kayaking on the lake outside my parents' house in Maine... and I arrive to a San Francisco preparing for the Folsom St Fair.

I didn't go. Having gone the past three years and found that it became progressively more and more boring, I decided a shopping trip to the Castro was in order. Of course, this might seem like a rather shallow way to spend my day, but I decided to spend it with an old friend, Mimli; she and I had plenty to catch up on, and together we enjoyed the day.

I found a shirt I had looked all over Granada for. It was selling for about the same price I would have expected it to sell in Spain.

I bought pumpkin fudge from the confectioner near the Castro theatre (Lawrence of Arabia is playing). It wasn't as good this year as it was last year. I'm not sure why.

Redid my resume today. Time to secure an inflow of cash again. My six month vacation is coming to an end. Hopefully Jasmine, Ileana and I can go out salsa dancing soon, to balance things out...

Am watching more Spanish language television here in California than I ever did in Spain. The nice thing about the shows here is that they usually aren't US television shows dubbed in Castillian, as seems to be the case in Spain.

Hm. I don't really have too much to say today, which is odd, considering that I haven't updated my journal in I-don't-know-how-long.

Copied out my cycle of Layla and Majnun poems yesterday, and worked on arranging them in proper order. Perhaps I will post them here... Am working on typing out the rest of my poetry, so that it is saved on a disk as well as in the little books I make to hold my poetry. I am coming to discover just how much bad poetry I wrote; but also how many of the same themes and poetic devices carried over or came to fruition in the Layla cycle. Of course, into those little books goes nearly all the poetry I write, good, bad, ugly or lyrical.

While I was at my parents' house I came across a pre-calculus notebook in which I had written my first rather gothic-schizophrenic-sexually repressed or confused poems, the ones which scared my mother enough that she and my father sat me down and interrogated me, with the predetermined end that I should go to a therapist (it didn't happen for another six months, but that is a whole 'nother story). Yet when one is sat down and asked if one has thought of killing oneself, of killing other people; if one does drugs, if one does cocaine (marijuana was too common or undecadent a drug for me to choose, I suppose (and it never did interest me, come to think of it, so my parents were on a more accurate track than I gave them credit for at the time)); and if one worships the devil, or Satan -- and then is told, despite negative answers to all the above questions, that one's parents think one should go to therapy...

That was eight years ago, I think. Happy Morbid Valentine's day! "As your Valentine's day present, we have bought you a three month pass to the therapist of your choice!" I was 17 and hadn't come out to myself or anyone else (although, of course, everyone else knew, and because of The Great Conspiracy, kept this knowledge from me...)

What a random flow of thoughts.

So, I don't think the Layla and Majnun poems are going to convince my parents that I need therapy, despite the fact that Majnun means "mad" or "possessed," and that his love for the absent Layla would prob'ly get him diagnosed today with Obsessive-Compulsive disorder.

But haven't we all been obsessed with some past love or lover? Going around in circles in our heads about what we could have done, or would do, or would love to do if we could get away with it?

I was rereading some of my journals last night (the handwritten, pick them up and carry them with me type of journals) and I came across some rather interesting views of relationships, borne of what sort of introspection, I can't say: shattering, disorienting, tears in the fabric of reality. Must've been focusing on those "negotiating a relationship" days... but all the same, I find the emotions generated by a relationship to be quite powerful, and perhaps for this reason I identify with Majnun...

Time to go. I'm not enchanted with my literary ability at the moment, and so off I go...

/J

One more week until i return to the states for two weddings and a six weeks of work... then back to granada... i suppose i am no longer the exotic slacker... now i am the journalist philosopher. :o)

i actually have been writing in my journal practically continuously... at least, when i´m not going out and socialising. marcha!

the other night at zoo was great ... i got to dance with one of the best dancers in the club, who of course was not from granada. alas. i am so looking forward to visiting the states again, just for the clubs.

today my friend verena leaves for germany. i will have only until saturday before i leave for either merida or madrid; i plan to visit toledo and see if i can finally attend that mozarabic mass i´ve been wanting to for the past five years...

not a particularly prosaic nor poetic email. alas!

Date:	2002-07-23 19:39
Subject:	Fragility
Security:	Public
Mood:	pensive
Music:	zucchero. baila morena

Friends breaking
Changing
Life shifts Years
pass
the salt i taste
on my lips

The season is full
pregnant changes

Now is not the season
for planting
but for careful cultivation
rougher than nutured seedlings
the ground drying
beneath the andalusi sun
cracking
thirsting

dust arises

olives and almonds mature
wheat turns golden

like What -
how -
will the harvest be?

Running with the bulls
Swimming in the Cantabrian sea
Excercising in the Basque Country
Turning my nose up at jet set San Sebastian
Exploring ruined monasteries
Inhaling the must and mildew of Porto
Reverencing relics of the holy
Wandering the winding streets of Toledo

Iberia is a diverse peninsula.

Soy. Y mas, estoy.

this is a line from a poem by jose guillen, celebrating the moment, the simplicity of being, and experiencing the vicissitude fo life.

it was an appropriate poem to end my seven weeks of spanish classes, an appropriate recognition of the various saliendos of my fellow students and friends from the school.

i leave and begin more journeys on monday. until then, debo ser. y mas, debo estar. i must be, and more, i must be in this moment. like a string, suspended in air.

i have written a good deal the past two days, both on email, continuing philosophical discussions, in my journal, examining the connexion between my coming out process and my spiritual and religious development, and noteworthy "other" events that occurred simultaneously with those. plus some freelance stories for magazines and a cover letter for a real actual job. wow.

i would wonder about what i will do after my trip north, save for my suspension of belief. i wonder how that works in life, to suspend belief -- would i then enter a fairytale existence?

anything is possible.

ser. nada mas.
es la absoluta dicha.

Date:	2002-06-05 18:54
Subject:	Eight Year Cycles
Security:	Public
Mood:	blank

When I was 8 years old I moved to Germany. I lived in Mainz until I was nearly sixteen; yesterday was my ten year anniversary of moving back to the States. At the time I called it my exile to the land of my birth. For years afterwards all I longed for was to return home to Germany, and I wondered if it would ever happen. At some point I came to the realisation that my "geographical life" seems to develop in eight year cycles, and I resigned myself to being in the States until the end of that cycle, which commenced last year (or rather, the year before, when I bought tickets to Greece). Now, I wonder what cycle I am in. Is it a cycle of working int he states during the winter months, and living in Europe or the Mediterranean during the summer months? Is it an eight year adventure of travel that I am embarking upon?

It would be nice if I could figure out a similar pattern with relationships. Hm.

So today in class we had to discuss what we do for a living, and what would be our ideal job.

Hm. How to describe my occupation in Spanish? And that done, what do I say about an ideal job? Traveling and studying is my ideal job, and this is what I am doing. But who do I earn a living? this question was asked twice today. The first time I said I have rich friends. Not entirely true, but i do an awful lot of couch surfing. (And dishes, I might add.) The second reply was that I live off the kindness of strangers.

I am not sponging off people, mind you. However, I have no problem accepting freely made offers. I do work, occaisionally, just enough to earn money to return to another country for a few months. Then I start all over again.

Today my professor said I look Latino. Well, my blood is more or less French, being Acadian and Quebecois, and the French are Latins. My professor, however, denied this, claimed I was American, and proceeded to ask me where I was from.

Well, I am from Germany (where I spent my childhood), New York (where I went to University), and California (where I spent a few years after University, studying Middle Eastern Dance), but I was born in Skowhegan, Maine, USA, and last year I lived int he Middle East (Beirut). This seemed to defeat his claim somewhat, so he changed the question: Where do I live? Por supuesto, I live in Spain right now. Does that make me Latino then? I´m not so sure.

I do use an American passport. If I had another one, perhaps I´d use that one, as the cost of visas might be cheaper. And I could visit all those forbidden and exotic countries that Americans can´t (legally) visit with their passports. Like Libya. It is difficult to take a trip across North Africa without passing through Libya. Kinda destroys my thoughts on seeing the entire Mediterranean world, you know?

Casillero is the Spanish word for pigeonhole. I find it somewhat more useful than the average person, I think.

Exotic slacking means taking a two or three hour siesta instead of studying Spanish verb tenses and vocabulary. It means listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack at an internet cafe near the beach in the South of Spain. It means paella and sangria on the terrace of one´s school as the sun sets.

It also means periodically wondering what one will do when one´s exotic slacking days must end -- and also wondering if it is possible for them to end. It means wondering just which exotic place (Istanbul, Beirut, Damascus, Granada, Grenoble) one would really like to live in at that point.

It means dreaming up one´s next big trip, but wondering if it is really worth it to stay put for that really cute and to die-for boy. (The jury is still out on that one. I´m sure we´ll hear more about this later.)

On the down side it means get haircuts that i could have done better myself, with an uneven cut line and a bizarre styling technique. On the other hand, the ´turkish barbers in Istanbul have always had a good reputation, and one should not base one´s thoughts of foreign barbers on one´s experience(s) there.