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Turkey Leftovers

You know you're back in London when you're on the phone and the person you're talking to says, without irony, "oh, blimey."

There really must be tryptophan in Turkey. Four nights in Istanbul and I'm back at work but feeling oh-so-sleepy.

As soon as I get jAlbum loaded on the new Mac, I'll whip up an album and post some photos.

I've seen mosques and minarets, ate kebabs, and drank raki. I have been exfoliated, and pounded in a haman. Apparently Cemberlitas means slippery as shit. When it came my time to get off the big marble slab where I'd been sizzling like the a slice of bacon, I stepped off onto the floor, where my feet promptly slid out from underneath me on the wet marble. Much hamam hubbub ensued, with Turkish men yelling "shoes" at me. It seems the rubber sandals they give you aren't just for decoration, they can be life saving as well.

What's a good bath without a little bruising?

Undaunted, we cruised the Bosphourus with fellow tourists (Americans are the worst), danced with Turkish trannies (almost more plentiful as the mosques), and hung out with some new friends (New Yorkers, wouldn't you guess).

Now it's time for some Spring Cleaning. A little out with old. Perhaps a quiet little detox. Too much stress and too many colds during the past few months. I'm tired of feeling tired.

I'm going to find peaceful, zenlike, energetic balance in April if it kills me, goddammit.