. . . very odd: Ive never been south of the equator. What's up with that?

. . . 200 people vote in this poll it isn't going away. Be honest. If you aren't interested, please vote. No hard feelings. Believe me. But if you are, then please vote as well. We really want to try this and you can help make it happen.

Update: Ok, so some of you have asked for more info. That's a valid request. Here's what I got. For starters, I posted this poll on purpose during a week when Ian wouldn't be around (I firmly encouraged him to take the week off for two reasons, one: he deserves it and two: well, I don't want him to burn out) because if Ian knew beforehand I was posting this poll he would have opposed it. He, like me, really dislikes asking our readers for anything. You guys give us a lot just by being here and contributing with your comments and commentary. We can pay some bills with our ad revenue but for a project like this: well, I just had to ask. That being said, Ian and I have only vaguely discussed a project like this. I know he is willing, but I don't know where he would want to go, or see or experience. But more than anything I wanted to create (and give to him) an opportunity for a few reasons: mostly cuz I am just grateful for his presence here and he deserves a reward such as this. I'm working on the assumption he would want to see Syria, Lebanon and Palestine/Israel (maybe Jordan too). I also would want it to be his trip. His plans. His ideas. His desires. After all, he deserves it and I trust he would deliver on the goods. Also, I seriously doubt Ian would need, or even want, a fixer. He's a tough, independent and resourceful traveler--living in India as a child will do that for you. So, my thinking was, just throw it out there for the readers and see what they decide. If there is enough interest then we can will propose a more formal plan. Does that help?

So, I would ask you to seriously consider pledging $25 to the cause by voting in the poll. I, personally, would be grateful. And yes, I will be ponying up my share as well.

I'm ashamed to admit it's been a long time since I just sat and watched a sunset. But this evening that is just what I did. I forced myself to sit still for 30 minutes and watch the sun set over Old Constantinople. It started its descent just above the Sulimaniye Mosque. Twinkling golden ripples on the water, the half-circle of the sun dipped below the pervasive cloud cover of the last few days. Ferries cut lines through the reflection on the water.

As the sun set deeper I saw lights on a container ship far off across Sultanhamet in the Sea of Marmara. Swallows darted in and out of the alleys, turning around buildings like a school of fish.

Sulimaniye's mosque cast a long shadow upon the water of the Golden Horn, barely perceptible minarets rippled in the water.

When there wasn't but a sliver of the sun left it seemed to rally, as if it could turn the entire motion of the planet around. I cheered it on.

Rise, rise up old sun, just a little while longer.

But then Istanbul, a city already pink, fuses into a seamless fiery magenta as the sun sets.

A cannon fires in the distance signaling the end of the fast. Let the feast begin.

. . . photos in my Flickr account, including some food photos. Enjoy.

As a side note: I hate black cats and have always had an irrational superstition of them. Call me crazy, but if I saw a black cat back home crossing a street I would turn my car around and go the other way.

No such luck here in Istanbul. Black cats abound. And the streets are far too narrow and tricky and unknown to me at this point. I am unable to backtrack successfully. On top of that, the last three months of my life have been so hellish that no black cat crossing my path is going to make it much worse. Mind you: I know not to say, "it can't get any worse." Cosmic rule number 3: life will get worse shortly after you utter that phrase. And that's not what I am saying here. I'm just pointing out that whatever reality there is to my irrational superstition is going to be dealt with like anything else. I can't control the cats in this town. And lord, are they legion!

Next time I will talk about the dogs, which are quite numerous themselves.

. . . of putting pistachios in salami? Crazy, yeah? But it's good.

Yesterday, on my way to Sultanhamet, I crossed the Galata Bridge, over the Golden Horn, looking out on the wine-dark sea of the Bosporus. The sky was mirror to the sea, cloudless and blue as far as one could see; in the water rose the Bosporus Bridge--oh what Darius would have given for a bridge such as it--and ferries, fishing boats and container ships moved like a symphony written on water. It really isn't until you are here, looking out at the harbor and around the straits that you realize just how strategic Istanbul remains.

But strategy and politics were far from my mind yesterday as I sped across the bridge. The sights were intoxicating. I luxuriated in the travelers sense of 'seeing' of being a part of something a little bigger than myself, of doing what so few others every really do. Considering the recent past, I felt liberated from the stultifying expectations of home, at last. Plus, my muse was waiting.

She sits at the highest point in Sultanhamet, the Hagia Sophia (picture here and here), glaring at the Blue mosque--interloper that he is--she defies time. She, this church, built while the emperor Justinian reigned in the 6^th century, remains the most splendid architectural achievement I've ever seen--and I have looked upon more than my fair share.

But seeing her is always bittersweet. No longer a church, her stones, pillars and piers have forgotten the silences of holy places. They've lost the memory of the sacred. And this is a pity.

But then, standing under the huge, semi-flat dome, gazing at the massive pendentives that allow a circle to be supported by a square I am in awe. Chills run up and down my spine as I shudder in gratitude. If but to see, not once, but anytime I wish? I should be so lucky.

After the personal vicissitudes of the last several months I never thought I'd have the chance to live in such a place. For that and for finding my muse once again, I am truly grateful.

Turkish days begin late and this is a wonderful quality in a people, if you ask me. Of course, I am certain there are businessmen, bankers, brokers and other assorted rat-race types who get up like I used to at 5:00am and in the office by 630. But not me. And not the vast majority of Turks. I am sitting in a coffee shop, using the Istaklil Caddesi's free wireless, drinking coffee better than that of Starbucks by a million years for a fraction of the cost. That being said, there is a Starbuck's right up the street, by why go there when I can sit here and people watch? It's almost better than the Rue Saint Michel in Paris, but not quite.

Many men are pushing strange three wheeled flat-topped contraptions, some filled with old electrical equipment, others with waters bottles, knife sharpening equipment and all are yelling something. Hawking their wares or skills I assume. I even saw one man with a 20's style phonograph, among other assorted curios. The tram, running down the middle of this grand 19^th century boulevard, passes by full, although there are no young boys hanging on to the end as they were in the afternoon yesterday. Delivery trucks pass by, spill out their goods and disappear back down a side alley. I see women walking dogs, stray cats amble and prance, depending upon the weight (and I saw a really fat one yesterday) up and down the street, fearing nothing but the occasional out of control moped. School girls walk by in uniforms, but without the veil. This is, after all, a secular country, and proud of it, as I was told several times yesterday when inquiring about Ramadan.

We're a few days into the Fast and I haven't seen a sign of it, unlike whilst in Iran when my father and I would have been frog-marched into a religious prison for so much as drinking water in public in the heat of an Iranian day. The great news about Ramadan is that I'll have several days off at the end of the month when a public holiday of epic proportions ensues. Where will I go?

Something else I see here in Istanbul is men and women interacting and mingling with each other as near equals. Just this morning at breakfast I saw a man touch a female co-worker on the shoulders in camraderie. This would never have happened in Iran, much less in the country of our 'allies' Saudi Arabia, as I remember the day I introduced myself to a young woman in Yazd, Iran and offered my hand to shake. She was mortified, but gladly accepted as no one was watching. She told me, "be more careful in the future."

Working in a gorgeous 19^th century mansion on the main avenue of what was once called Pera, the Genoese colony founded in the 11th century, has its benefits. And every night I fall asleep dreaming of the soft red shades of the Hagia Sophia (the greatest church ever built, bar none). It is a sight of sights, my friends and a city of cities.

I've arrived. The hardest trip I've ever made; 36 years and starting over in life is far from easy. But the drama is in the past. The future? Well, from where I sat yesterday it looks good: lunch looking over the Golden Horn, the greatest natural harbor in the world.

There was nothing easy about getting here; far too many times I felt like wandering Aeneas, in the underworld, or when he was trapped by Queen Dido, fruitlessly searching for a home, and yet there I sat watching tugboats, ferries and sailboats glide across the rippling, reflective surface of the Golden Horn. I found myself, for the first time in weeks not pining for home. I was right where I was supposed to be.

The view was a raucous collage of pastels, not remotely Middle Eastern at all, but far from European. Powder blue houses rising three stories up the hill sides, standing next to yellows, oranges, greens and the occasional pink. The streets crowded with people, fishmongers, chimney sweeps (right out of Dickens!) and all kinds of other assorted jobs we've outsourced as Americans, or worse, don't need because we just throw so much away. Clotheslines wave in the breeze from countless balconies. The hillsides and streets are filled with signs galore--some crazy, neon flashes, others more subdued, banners, but the Turkish in them is exotic, except it's not because it is a Latin alphabet.

The sounds of the language, now there is a story, but that's for another time. At this point I know three words: yok (no), tesekuller (thank you) and merhaba (hello).

From where I sit I can see 14 mosques, but the azan, or call to prayer isn't really audible like in Sultanhamet, Beyoglu is so loud, cosmopolitan and modern. But the toothpick minarets blare five times daily regardless.

It's been a hard personal journey getting here. But it is done.

As the great Polish travel writer, Ryszard Kapuscinski wrote in his last book, "Is not our first thought to go on the road? The road is our source, our vault of treasures, our wealth. Only on the road does the ‘traveler’ feel like himself, at home.”

I'm home.

Nota bene: Istanbul has free wireless. Go figure. Turkey: free wireless, but San Antonio HQ of American's largest telecom company ATT does not. What does that say about America's vaunted innovation and our skewed priorities?

Nota bene 2: If you are interested in a more personal version of my experiences in Istanbul and what made me pack up my life in America visit my personal blog from time to time. The Agonist just isn't the right place for me to discuss personal matters. Just do know that all of you, your emails, your support and encouragement has meant the world to me. It has sustained me through this very difficult time.

. . . is their constant refrain to 'small town American values.' You know what I'm talking about, Mom, little league baseball, apple pie, families out walking their babies, safe streets, community, friends helping out and the like.

But we never get any of that real community in America. One of the main reasons is that there is no safety net in America. Sure, conservatives love to call the European safety net 'the welfare state' and all the negative bogey-men and women, like welfare queens, that it conjures up. But it's a lie. Here in Denmark for example, there is an extensive safety net. And one of the main results of that safety net is that people feel, wait for it, it's coming: safe. They spend time engaged in their communities, they walk the streets at night, they greet each other, even as strangers, they have community festivals that all participate in and there are tons of mothers with newborns walking their strollers in the streets. (Look, Denmark does have its share of problems, but not on an American scale, not by a long-shot.)

But in America it is literally every man and woman for him or herself. We are taught, indoctrinated, that at 18 you leave home, go to college (if you are lucky enough) and then when you graduate you make your own life. You don't borrow money from your family, because you have a career, no matter how empty or hollow it is. You don't, or can't rely on friends, and of course you cannot rely on government.

It's sad. No wonder Americans are so lonely, so many of us are in therapy, on anti-depressants, and or abusing prescription medications. Life in America is devoid of all those things that make life worth living: family, friends, and community engagement. Aren't those the values conservatives espouse?

. . . to never, ever use the phrase deus ex machina when it comes to my life, ever again, ok? The gods have a way of punishing mortals for mocking them. Yes, this is a cryptic, tantalizing hint at events that have occurred in my life the last two days. Let it also never be said my life isn't interesting. But to be honest: I am growing tired of interesting at this point. Boring would be nice for a change. More soon. In the meantime pray to the nine muses, Calliope is my favorite but Euterpe will do in a pinch, for happy endings and plead with the fates, busy spinning their web, that I catch a effing break. I wonder how you say that in ancient Greek?

It appears as if no freak deus ex machina has arrived and thus, I am off this afternoon to Europe, with a short stopover in Denmark to see a friend, and then a train ride to Istanbul. I won't be around much in the next two weeks but once I get settled in Istanbul you'll be hearing from me on a regular basis.

^{“Is not our first thought to go on the road? The road is our source, our vault of treasures, our wealth. Only on the road does the ‘traveler’ feel like himself, at home.” ~Ryszard Kapuscinski}

Barring a last minute, freak deus ex machina next Wednesday I'll board a flight that will eventually find me in Istanbul. There I will stay for at least a year. No, this is no GBCW post, not by a long shot.

I'll spare you the lurid, self-indulgent details of what happened to whom and when and how and what led me to choose this course. I'll do worse: subject you to cliché. Life has tossed quite a few obstacles in my path lately, not all of them lemons, although I've managed to catch--er scramble for--amidst one hell of a variegated assortment of flying debris, all the lemons it has tossed at me and make a better, newer sort of lemonade.

However, piling Pelion atop Ossa the last week and a half I've been extremely sick. At one point I feared my plans to relocate overseas wouldn't come off. But as of today the flight is booked, I feel stronger physically and I am ready. I'll be around a bit the next few days, but I doubt you'll see much of me until mid-September.

The Agonist will change. But you knew that. Things always change. If all goes well Ian will take over the day to day responsibility of managing the front page. God willing Tina and countless others will keep the Newswire fed. Rick will still do Friday Cat Slagging, Doug will do cartoons, Stirling will stimulate our thoughts and Quiet Bill will continue to keep the back end humming.

What of me? Well, I can't say just yet. I plan to be an active presence--call me Editor at Large--but I'm not quite sure what role I will settle into once Istanbul and I find a modus vivendi. As I imagine it my presence will consist of commentary on the nexus of the markets and global economics, Middle Eastern affairs (duh) and comparative notes on which ever locale I happen to be in at the time. I've a great schedule in Turkey: 6 days working and 5 days off.

I'd be lying if I told you I weren't sad, grieving deeply. The last month has been the hardest I've ever lived through--and I have seen some bad ones. You can trust me on that last assertion.

And yet, I'm excited. It's not every day a young man gets a second chance. Okay, okay, I'll leave off with the maudlin, mawkish crap here and just say it's nice to be looking forward once again, instead of looking back (I know, more cliché, sorry). There is far too much to see, too many friends still unmet and so much to do to wind up wasting life looking backwards. So, here's to looking forward.

. . . while I wait for my bus. I'm trying to google Oaxaca right now. But since I am in Mexico I cannot google anything in English, as I can only use google.com.mx for some reason. I've tried just about everything I possible can, so I'm just reading all the Spanish news coverage of Oaxaca. What's it they say about forced acquisition of language?

I still don't know where I am going today. Maybe Michoacan, maybe Oaxaca. I'll decide when I arrive in Cuernavaca later.

. . . so I'll probably be out of pocket until tomorrow.

I wish I knew more about my father's side of the family. A lot of drunk, crazy Irish from what I know. And Lord knows I've pestered him about more info for years. But here in Taxco family signifies something altogether different. Here history is staring me in the face. And his name is Charles, or Carlos J. Nibbi, and just about everyone with whom I have spoken expressed surprise and awe that I was here and deep pleasure to know one of his descendants. As one former employee of the hotel, a gorgeous Taxco native named Fabiola, "it's such a pleasure to know someone from the family. We've all grown up on such stories."

Fortunately the walk up to the Hotel Victoria was nothing compared to the walk from the bus station to my hotel. Alas, I need the exercise. Several flights of switchback stairs lead up to the Hotel Victoria--once the crown jewel of Taxco and a world renowned hotel in the 30s and 40s. Built by my great grandfather Carlos J. Nibbi the wealth derived from the hotel created insuperable divisions in the family, including a death bed change of will that cheated my mother and her sisters out of a great deal of money. (Money will wreck families faster than adultery any day.)

I've uploaded some photos at Flickr, enjoy. Click aqui!

After 26 hours of bus travel--much easier than the bus I took from Golmud to Lhasa in 2003--I've arrived in Taxco. Taxco climbs up the side of a mountain, all white-washed homes crowned with Saltillo tiles. Walking up the hill to my hotel with 50 lbs of stuff strapped on my back wasn't much fun, but the shower after a full day on the bus was reward enough.

Clean and refreshed I searched for my cousins--cousins I've not seen since 1983. I'm doubtful I'll find them, but I'm mostly doubtful so as not to get my hopes up too high. I walked up and down Calle Carlos J. Nibbi, the street named after my great grandfather last evening, stopping at each shop to chat up the owners, hoping they knew where Carlos y Laura Nibbi might be?

. . . from overseas last night, who are in town visiting so my Mexico adventure will begin tomorrow. That's the great thing about bus tickets: if you miss the bus you can always take the next one.

Wednesday or Thursday, dependent on the bus schedule I'm Mexico bound. First stop is Taxco; to search for my long lost cousins. Long story and I'll fill you in the further south I get. Suffice it to say I haven't seen them in 20+ years. After that I'll probably do a reprise of December '06 and see Oaxaca again, in light of the recent unrest.

I might then head further south into Guatemala and Honduras, or I may head north to Mazatlan and the Sea of Cortez. I'm undecided. But it's a low budget and lo-tech affair: just me, the camera, a guidebook and several journals, kind of like the old days. There's no return date, either; I'll come home when it's time to come home.

More details tomorrow.

I need to get busy. I've only seen two of them so far. Care to guess which ones I've seen?

. . . a travel article that succeeds in the best way possible: he makes me want to visit, Idaho, of all places. He also writes a sentence that might someday be remembered as a classic of zen travel writing:

When you expect nothing is when you find something.

Or, as my father and I say before we hit the road: don't take the trip, let the trip take you.

Check it out.

There were nine of us on the trip to Iran which had already been postponed once because of the Iraq war. We flew from Tehran south to Kerman and boarded the big yellow bus surrounded by grey desert on all sides. Whatever the others looked forward to , for the three Architects in our group some of our destinations evoked the fervour of a pilgrimage. One of these was the medieval complex on the Old Silk Road known as Arg-e-Bam, the "Ark of Bam.“ More than thirty years had passed since I first saw an aerial photo

Of the Bam Citadel and determined then that one day I would go down its narrow streets, When the first bright green palms of oasis villages flickered on the horizon I knew an Odyssey had begun.

Self is a travel writer living in Northern Cyprus. This article originally appeared in the Cyprus Observer. Continued after the jump.

The highway south from Aleppo to Damascus, passing through Hama and Homs resembles many arteries in the Middle East where the ugly necessities of modernity are grafted onto a timeless cultural landscape. Electricity pylons march across the countryside framing Bedouin tents, oil stained filling stations separate groups of simple stone dwellings. Sheep flocks graze sparse roadside vegetation; the edges of every town present an unchanging pattern of car workshops, wind driven plastic rubbish, red keffiyahs and broken down buses. But this dusty, weed fringed route was used long before Alexander the Great returned on it from reaching Siwa, the furthest point in his Egyptian campaign. Rome’s engineers demarcated it among a network of straight roads, for centuries it linked rest stops for pilgrims travelling from Constantinople to Mecca. Turn off to the east and the flat, featureless terrain soon becomes endless desert.

After hidden valleys and rivers to the west mountain ranges hide the Mediterranean. Syria’s geography is its history.

The previous day we had travelled in the opposite direction along part of the highway after visiting two of the so called Dead Cities about 100km south of Aleppo.

Self is a travel writer living in Northern Cyprus. This article originally appeared in the Cyprus Observer. Continued after the jump.