![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Ramazan ukelele
Sep. 7th, 2008 04:25 pmAside from our long news-reading cafe sessions in the mornings and soup-stops at Hala (after a dangerous weekend early stop at Dunkin' Donuts, our neighbourhood's resident crack house), I've spent this weekend sorting through the accumulated detritus of the past 6 years. I have a lot of stuff. I've separated my illegal bootleg dvds from my real ones, to pass on to whoever feels like season 3 of House or 2 seasons of Sex and the City or heaps of movies from the past 4 years on badly dubbed VCDs. I don't feel like getting arrested for piracy upon arrival in Canada. I've taken my real DVDs out of their cases and put them into my thick zipped Cd holder, reducing the space they occuppy significantly. I've separated my books into 2 very uneven and rather heartbreaking sets of piles. The ones I will leave behind are loved but not irreplaceable. The ones I am taking are much loved and irreplaceable. It hasn't been easy and I'm trying to not allow second thoughts. Baggage restrictions are ruling my life.
I have packed the cat. This is Lola in her chic cat bag (IATA approved! With rhinestones on the handle joints!) inside my suitcase. And on the right are the books i will try to hand out to friends and colleagues and random people in need of English language readables. *sigh*
These are the books I will take. And my seagrass baskets to hold my breakables. All my mugs and Rachel's lovely blown-glass thingies are wrapped up in knee-high stripey knee socks.
In memoriam: that little cat, the orange one at the Ramada hotel about whom I mused that his life must be marvellous because of all the tourists stopping to pet him, was seen this morning on Dolapdere Caddesi, half-cat, half-splattered. I'm still quite shaken, though I shouldn't be. Istanbul is a city of dead cats, injured cats, and happy cats with bowls of kibble and water set out on the street by kindly shopkeepers and housewives. If you don't get flattened by a taxi, you do well here as a cat. Poor Ramada Cat.
I have packed the cat. This is Lola in her chic cat bag (IATA approved! With rhinestones on the handle joints!) inside my suitcase. And on the right are the books i will try to hand out to friends and colleagues and random people in need of English language readables. *sigh*
These are the books I will take. And my seagrass baskets to hold my breakables. All my mugs and Rachel's lovely blown-glass thingies are wrapped up in knee-high stripey knee socks.
In memoriam: that little cat, the orange one at the Ramada hotel about whom I mused that his life must be marvellous because of all the tourists stopping to pet him, was seen this morning on Dolapdere Caddesi, half-cat, half-splattered. I'm still quite shaken, though I shouldn't be. Istanbul is a city of dead cats, injured cats, and happy cats with bowls of kibble and water set out on the street by kindly shopkeepers and housewives. If you don't get flattened by a taxi, you do well here as a cat. Poor Ramada Cat.