Turkey time

There’s nowhere quite like Istanbul. It was by far the coolest place I have ever lived and the place I always think about returning to. It’s a difficult place to describe because there is no place in America like it. I’d compare it to New York City because of the energy and bustle but the people and lifestyle are totally different. You’d have to take Wall Street executives and place them in small shops, and tell them to do nothing but drink tea, smoke cigarettes and socialize with every person they see. Park avenue princesses wouldn’t define themselves by their Jimmy Choos but by their kebab and baklava. And taxi drivers would be, well, exactly the same, except that normal people would be able to afford them.

We arrived in Istanbul on a Tuesday afternoon, flying right over my first apartment. For the first time at Ataturk airport, my luggage was actually waiting for me after I deplaned but unfortunately my very hot former coach was not.

I settled in on the bus and watched my old city go by. I forgot how big it is. It took us over two hours to cross over to the Asia side so I rested my head on the window, totally in awe of the sea of apartment buildings that continued as far as the eye could see or until an actual body of water sprouted up. The city just kept going. Then I realized my shock came mostly from the fact that Istanbul is about twice the size of the last two countries I have lived in combined. You could even throw Seattle into that mix and Istanbul still doubles it up.

It was great to be back. The chaos felt totally familiar and I got pangs of nostalgia when I saw cars off roading from the freeway, through construction sites and into oncoming traffic or when an old man was walking (faster than we were driving) along the shoulder of the highway. People were spilling out of buses and sidewalks, overfilling the city like ants.

Finally we arrived at our very beautiful hotel, too late to make it to practice but just in time for dinner. I inhaled fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, figs and sharp Turkish cheese. I abstained from chai given the hour but did have some milk pudding with fresh pistachios. I so have missed Turkish food. It made me excited for breakfast.

I had my own room, which my manager informed me as if he expected me to be disappointed. One of our younger players wanted to room with our trainer and since the other two Americans are younger, he wanted me to brave it on my own. It was fabulous. I’m hoping the room assignments remain for all our trips.

Our trainer, Migle is 28 years old so, despite the fact that she is 5’4”, she’s basically another player. She is absolutely fabulous. I love this woman, probably mostly because she kept me company that first week when I couldn’t practice. She told me stories, taught me how to count in Lithuanian and massaged my foot.

Migle’s father is the most famous athletic trainer in Lithuania. He works with one of the top men’s teams as well as the national team and has been at six Olympics. He also went to Portland with Arvydas Sabonis, the Lithuanian who played for the Trailblazers. Migle’s father is her height, Sabonis is nearly 7’. When people in America would ask Sabonis who this man traveling with him was, he would tell them it was his father from Lithuania. I love this story. Mostly because it makes me wonder if confused Americans were picturing Sabonis’ mother.

Migle also told me the story of how she met her husband, our sports marketing director, Jostas. Jostas and Migle lived in the same apartment building when they were 3 years old and they went to school together. They were each other’s first love. But Migle’s family moved away soon after preschool, she changed schools and Jostas became just a memory.

Fourteen years later, Migle started studying at the university. There she organized an event between her all girls’ class and another class, made up of all boys. In the middle of the party, a tall handsome man, ignoring all the other women, walked up to her. They began talking and he asked her name. She told him her name was Migle and he proceeded to tell her that he’d only known one Migle in his life, and it was his first love from preschool. She said, “Jostas?” They began dating and got married eight months later and now have two beautiful children. I love this story even more.

I’ve digressed. My trip to Istanbul continued in the normal fashion: shootaround, pregame meal, nap and game. We played a strong Fenerbahce team solid until midway through the fourth quarter and ended up losing by about 8. We only play about 7 or 8 players and they kept rotating in players constantly but I think we have some serious potential despite not really having had much time together yet.

After the game my friends from my former Turkish team were there. Rasim, our massage therapist was waiting for me near the locker room, and handed me a box of Turkish delight as I walked in for our post game talk. Afterwards I walked out and got kisses from three of my favorite former teammates: Gizam, Mehtap, and Deniz, as well as their friend Ismail. I was SO happy to see them and told them secretly how much I miss them and living in Istanbul. That being said, I LOVE LOVE playing Euroleague and serious basketball.

I spent some time with my Turkish friends in the gym while my teammate got drug tested by FIBA. Later they came to my hotel and Crystal and I drove through Istanbul with them. We stopped at my favorite hookah bar, underneath the Galata Bridge and stared at the mosques lit up at night over the water. The host I know was working and all the bars around were packed with Turkish men watching their national soccer team play on TV so it all felt very familiar. The bridge was bustling with soccer fans as we settled into our beanbag chairs, drank beer and looked out over the water, the fishing lines from above catching the light from the neon signs. It was a scene I’d known countless times when I’d lived in Istanbul but to return after a long absence and feel that comfort of good friends and a magical night made it even more special.

My year in Turkey was not particularly good from a basketball standpoint. Its not that I didn’t learn and grow as a player, its just that I wouldn’t count basketball as the main highlight of the year. That being said, I absolutely loved my team. My coaches were more like guy friends than authority figures; my fellow foreigners were fun and interesting and up for anything; and my Turkish teammates were really my family in Istanbul. They would come over to my house all the time, I’d cook for them and we’d watch television. The young players from downstairs would come up to my apartment and we’d give foreign language lessons. We’d walk all over the city, eating kebab on the street, acting stupid in overcrowded Istanbul discos, and wandering around magical booths during Ramadan.

I feel so lucky to have called Istanbul home. Turkish people are amazing, Turkish food is hard to beat, and the chaos of the city provides eternal stimulation to keep life interesting. I’m generalizing and romanticizing of course; I’m failing to mention the times I was felt up on the subway or molested by a police officer or the countless times I saw my life flash before my eyes while trying to cross the street or the asinine road trip itineraries. But nostalgia has a way of doing that. I always remember things in a positive light. I’m a little worried about it actually, when I finish playing and live a more settled life in Seattle, I will have to remember how hard and lonely this life can be at times. I probably won’t though. I’m stuck with my father’s eternal optimism.

On the plane ride back to the Baltic, I sat next to Dominik, a London based German music agent, headed to Vilnius for the weekend. We had a nice long chat about London and the music industry and things to do in Vilnius. He was going to spend time with his friend, a female American Opera singer so we decided we all had to meet up for a drink.

Dominik and Marisol came over to my apartment on Saturday night. Marisol was so glad to be around fellow Americans and in particular, to complain with Crystal about being stared at because they are black. It was intriguing to talk to someone else living just as a magnificent, difficult, challenging, and privileged life as ours. She had the same sense of awe and wonderment of our careers as we did of hers. We traded stories, compared businesses and lifestyles, and realized how similar opera singing is to playing basketball.

I’m not sure you could find two activities as ostensibly different as singing and sports. Not only can I not sing, but I don’t even really understand it. I love music but it’s purely superficial, with no appreciation for subtly or nuances. It’s like wine; I can like the taste and feel all warm and fuzzy inside without describing it as layered or earthy or even know what that means. Music can move me emotionally but my main description would be simply whether I like it or not.

Likewise, Marisol quickly disclosed that she likes basketball but really knows nothing about it. She was a little confused as to why and when someone dribbles, who gets the ball when it goes out of bounds, and how they determine fouls, the latter question we assured her is quite confusing to us as well. I realized she looks at basketball the way I look at music, a deep appreciation for the work and dedication required, an excitement and energy from witnessing something practiced and coordinated but entirely original, and the ability to recognize the beauty in something fluid and ephemeral.

So we continued with our comparisons, excited by the juxtapositions of our similar challenges. We talked of music critics and sports writers, opera directors and coaches, tryouts and auditions, dressing rooms and training rooms. She just recovered from vocal cord surgery brought on by ignoring too many small injuries; we know all about that. She has rest days when she can’t talk; our days off consist of resting our legs.

There are some differences of course, she wears beautiful gowns made of Chinese silk and generally feels like she has to maintain an image off the stage by wearing nice clothes. We perspire even through our uniforms and sometimes embarrass ourselves by wearing sweats constantly, even when unwarranted. She has makeup artists and hair stylists; I throw on some mascara and tie my hair up in a way that assures it won’t hit me in the eyes. She gets primped up before hitting the stage; I get flex all rubbed on by my trainer.

Her life is more transient and unpredictable. She travels through Europe and the world for individual jobs, which probably makes her career more like a professional track athlete. As a team sport, a little longevity is beneficial in basketball. Marisol, however, signs contracts for various amount of time. For example, she is in Vilnius for five weeks. She has rehearsal for four weeks to perform in two shows. That’s it. Oh, and she isn’t paid for rehearsal, her contract is solely for the performances. So if she gets sick or injured and can’t sing, she doesn’t get paid. Oh my.

After our trip to Turkey, we returned to Vilnius and played in the Lithuanian league on Saturday. What a joke that was. We won by 60. Then we relaxed a bit over the weekend and began preparing for Spartak Moscow on Monday morning.

It was going to be our first Euroleague home game so everyone was excited. We practiced all week in Siemens arena, which is the largest venue in Vilnius and our home court for Euroleague. The season opener was a huge success as we kicked Spartak’s ass. They are the reigning Euroleague champions; they have by far the biggest budget, employ five Americans, countless Olympians, and numerous WNBA players. They are arguably the best team in the world. We were up by 20 at half time and won by ten or so. The best part was that no one acted surprised. Its always fun beating teams that think they are invincible.

The next week we traveled to Montpellier, France for another Euroleague match. Unfortunately, I saw nothing but the hotel, the airport and the gym. Kind of cool to say I was in Marseille France last week, driving through the Provence region but to be honest I don’t have much to report. We did win however, so the trip was great.

More soon.