On the roads of Norway, where driving is quite boring, we continue on our way through beautiful towns that all look alike after a certain point. Uğur rests his eyes, tired from the day. I count the cars coming from the opposite lane in order to pay attention to the road and get rid of the monotony. But after a point, I get frustrated with the purchasing power of the country. Seeing cars that aren’t Teslas or Volvos becomes bewildering after a point.In one of the towns, a white, well-maintained, cute church catches my eye and a memory from my student days in Rome resurfaces in my mind.***In the extremely hot summer of 2007, after walking every street I could in Rome, I was staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering what to eat for dinner. The door of the hostel's dimly lit room suddenly opened. In walked a guy with what people would call a "clean face,” glowing and healthy skin, long blond hair, blue eyes, black tight pants, a crisp shirt, old Walkman headphones in his ears, looking very cool and probably from Northern Europe. Since I still haven't found a tasty solution to my primary concern, feeding myself, I'm looking for the right time to dump the dust I've gathered in the Roman Forum and go to the shower. Because the showers are the cleanest in the afternoon due to the midday cleaning in hostels. When I return, our bright young man is lying on the bottom floor of his bunk listening to music. I greet him based on the unwritten hostel rule #37 ("immediately get to know the people you share a room with, mingle, if you get along, get drunk together and do all kinds of shenanigans in the city.")&nbsp;Since he is a civilized person, he takes off his headphones and we start chatting.The first question people ask in hostels usually is "Where are you from?" As a man who respects rules and regulations, I start with this question. My guesses are right. After our friend, who I learned was Norwegian, answered a few questions and made pleasant conversation, I thought of asking what profession this Viking was engaged in. Because you can generate endless questions based on a person's profession and prolong the conversation. He answers my question with a haughty expression,&nbsp;"I write poetry." I realize that the conversation will get more and more interesting and I start to dig a little more into this young man's life. He says that he is an amateur and that he has never published a book. As a Mediterranean person, I am not satisfied with this answer at all. Because a poet, by our country's standards, would be happy if he got three cents in his pocket. He can't even go to the neighborhood grocery store because of debts, let alone come to Italy from Norway. As these thoughts swirled in my head for the fraction of a second, the curious Mediterranean auntie in me prevailed and I immediately asked the real question:&nbsp;"So, dear Viking, what do you do for a living?" I regretted it when the answer came. It turned out that our dear friend earned his living by ringing bells in a church in a quiet and peaceful town outside Oslo. Faced with this answer, of course, I can't react in a healthy manner. First of all, I think he said something wrong or that I misunderstood.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/7/1/1659968290583.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.75" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">&nbsp;☁️ A village in the Norwegian countryside<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">As far as I know, Norway is not a place where there are many devout Christians. In fact, it is known that the rate of atheism and agnosticism is quite high in society. I ask our dear bell-ringer friend about his working hours. Our lucky friend replies, "Only on Sunday mornings because the congregation is not big." Probably realizing that I was getting angry with him because of the way I was looking at him, he added, "I also play on Saturdays if there is a wedding or something like that." I try to make it make sense.All joking aside, this is how I meet the reality of Norway, and the hipster Norwegian who listens to medieval music in his hostel room, lives in a church where he writes poetry in peace, and carries the fashion of the 60s to the streets of Rome in his tight pants and leather shoes in the summer heat. I don't remember his name or have a photo of him. But he shows me how people survive in the world and how differently they can choose to live. I remember how surprised I was at such a life when I was young.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/7/1/1659968431809.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.75" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">🤳 Kerimcan in Oslo<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">I am in a land where people are allowed to dream, and to chase those dreams. I am trying to understand Norway, where a man who works as a bell-ringer while pursuing his dream of becoming a poet, can exist, how a society can move into the future if oil revenues are used properly, and how a peaceful country based on trust can be created.Meanwhile, the gas light of the car comes on. I enter the first gas station. We hand over our crowns to pay for the gas at the cashier inside. The gas station attendant says with great ease that the nearest bank is 30 kilometers away and therefore he cannot accept cash. We look at each other, amazed, and laugh. We are in Norway and every day we are confronted with civilizational saturation and well-situatedness like this.

Ruta

A memory stretching from Oslo to Rome

🔔 Poet, Bell-ringer, Viking

Araba kullanmanın oldukça sıkıcı olduğu Norveç yollarında, bir noktadan sonra hepsi birbirine benzeyen muhteşem kasabaların içinden geçerek yolumuza devam ediyoruz. Uğur günün yorgunluğu ile gözlerini dinlendiriyor. Bense yola dikkatimi vermek ve tekdüzelikten kurtulmak için karşı şeritten gelen arabaları sayıyorum. Ancak bir noktadan sonra ülkenin alım gücü karşısında sinirlerim bozuluyor. Tesla veya Volvo dışında araba görmek bir noktadan sonra şaşırtıcı bir hâl alıyor.Kasabalardan birinde bembeyaz, bakımlı ve sempatik bir kilise gözüme çarpıyor ve öğrencilik zamanlarımda yaptığım Roma seyahatinden bir anı zihnimde beliriyor.***2007'nin aşırı sıcak yazında, gün boyu Roma'nın yürünebilecek tüm sokaklarını yürüdükten sonra tavana boş boş bakıp akşam ne yiyeceğimi düşünüyordum. Hostelin loş odasının kapısı bir anda açıldı. İçeri halkımızın&nbsp;akça pakça gibi&nbsp;diye tabir ettiği cinsten; parlak ve sağlıklı ciltli, sarı uzun saçlı, mavi gözlü, siyah dar pantolonlu, tiril tiril gömlekli, kulağında eski walkman kulaklıklarıyla pek havalı görünen ve muhtemelen Kuzey Avrupa semalarından olan bir arkadaş girdi. Ben hâlâ öncelikli derdim olan karın doyurma mevzusuna lezzetli bir çözüm bulamadığım için Roman Forum'da bünyeme topladığım tozu toprağı dökmek üzere en doğru saati kolluyor ve duşa gidiyorum. Çünkü hostellerde öğle vakti yapılan temizlik nedeniyle akşamüstleri duşların en temiz olduğu saatler. Döndüğümde bizim parlak genç ranzasının alt katına uzanmış müzik dinliyor. Yazısız hostel kuralları #37'ye ("aynı odada kaldığın insanlarla hemen tanış, kaynaş, seversen beraber sarhoş olup şehirde her türlü rezilliği yap") dayanarak selam veriyorum. Medeni bir insan olduğu için kulaklıklarını çıkarıyor ve muhabbete başlıyoruz.Hostelde tanışılan insanlara sorulan ilk soru genelde&nbsp;"Memleket nere hemşerim?" olur. Ben de kurallara, kaidelere saygılı bir adam olarak bu soruyla girizgâhı yapıyorum. Tahminlerim doğru çıkıyor. Norveçli olduğunu öğrendiğim arkadaşımız, birkaç geyik soruyu da hoş bir muhabbetle cevaplandırdıktan sonra benim aklıma bu Viking'in hangi meslekle iştigal ettiğini sormak geliyor. Çünkü bir insanın mesleği üzerinden sonsuz soru üretip muhabbeti uzatma imkânı yakalayabilirsiniz. Yönelttiğim soruyu mağrur bir ifadeyle&nbsp;"şiir yazıyorum" diye cevaplıyor. Sohbetin giderek ilginçleşeceğini anlıyor ve bu genç adamın hayatını biraz daha didiklemeye başlıyorum. Amatör olduğunu ve hiç kitabının basılmadığını söylüyor. Bir Akdenizli olarak ben bu cevaptan hiç tatmin olmuyorum tabii. Çünkü şair dediğin, bizim ülke standartlarında cebine üç kuruş girse bayram eder. Değil Norveç'ten İtalya'ya gelmek, borçtan mahalle bakkalına bile gidemez. Bu düşünceler kafamda saniyenin bilmem kaçta kaçında dönerken içimdeki Akdenizli meraklı teyze baskın geliyor ve hemen asıl soruyu soruyorum: "Peki sevgili Viking, sen yaşamak için ne iş yapıyorsun?" Soruma yanıt geldiğinde pişman oluyorum. Meğer sevgili dostumuz geçimini Oslo'nun dışındaki sessiz ve sakin bir kasabada bulunan bir kilisede çan çalarak kazanıyormuş. Bu cevapla karşılaşınca tabii zihnim pek sağlıklı tepkiler veremiyor. Öncelikle söylenen şeyin yanlış olduğunu veya yanlış anladığımı düşünüyorum.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/7/2/1659429668347.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.75" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">☁️&nbsp;Norveç kırsalında bir köy<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">Bildiğim kadarıyla Norveç, bolca inançlı Hıristiyan'ın yaşadığı bir yer değil. Hatta ateizm veya agnostizm oranının toplumda oldukça yüksek olduğu biliniyor. Bir kısım eski metalci efsanelerine göre gençler CV'lerindeki "hobilerim" bölümüne kilise yakmak falan yazıyorlar. Büyüdükçe bunun bir şehir efsanesi olduğunu öğreniyoruz. Neyse, bu bilinçaltı kirliliğinden kendimi kurtardıktan sonra sevgili zangoç dostumuza mesai saatlerini soruyorum. Şanslı dostumuz&nbsp;"Cemaat büyük olmadığı için sadece pazar sabahları" cevabını veriyor. Herhalde, benim bakışlarımdan kendisine sinirlendiğimi fark edip kendini acındırmak için&nbsp;"Düğün falan olursa cumartesi de çalıyorum" diyerek ekleme yapıyor. Dinlediğim hikâyeyi anlamlandırmaya çalışıyorum.Şaka bir yana, hostel odasında Orta Çağ müzikleri dinleyen, huzurla şiir yazdığı bir kilisede yaşamını sürdüren ve yaz sıcağında daracık pantolonu ve kösele ayakkabılarıyla 60'lı yılların modasını Roma sokaklarına taşıyan hipster Norveçliyle ve Norveç gerçeğiyle böyle tanışıyorum. Ne adını hatırlıyorum ne de bir fotoğrafı var. Ancak dünyada insanların neler yaparak hayatta kaldıklarını ve yaşamak için ne kadar farklı yollar seçebildiklerini bana gösteriyor. O genç hâlimle böyle bir hayata ne kadar şaşırdığımı anımsıyorum.***<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/7/2/1659429702835.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.75" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">🤳 Kerimcan Oslo'da<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">İnsanların hayal kurmasına ve o hayalleri kovalamasına imkân verilen topraklardayım. Şair olma hayali için zangoçluk yapan bir adamın var olabildiği, petrol gelirleri doğru kullanılırsa bir toplumun nasıl geleceğe taşınabileceği ve güvene dayalı, huzurlu bir ülke yaratılabilmiş Norveç’i anlamaya çalışıyorum.Bu esnada arabanın benzin ışığı yanıyor. İlk benzinciye giriyorum. İçerideki kasada benzin parasını ödemek için elimizdeki kronları uzatıyoruz. Benzinci büyük bir rahatlıkla en yakın bankanın 30 kilometre uzakta olduğunu ve bu nedenle nakit kabul edemeyeceğini söylüyor. Şaşkınlık içerisinde birbirimize bakıp gülüyoruz. Norveç'teyiz ve her gün bunun gibi medeniyet doygunlukları ve tuzu kuruluklar ile sınanıyoruz.

Oslo'dan Roma'ya uzanan bir anı

🔔 Şair, Zangoç, Viking

I am not yet fully awake. I take the elevator down to go to the buffet near my hostel which doesn’t serve breakfast. The lobby is populated by people trying to get stuff done on their computers, young travelers asking about rewarding experiences to the receptionist, the woman whom I decide is the manager of the hostel from watching her ordering people around for the last couple of days. Even though the individuals change, the roles remain the same, a morning just like any other… I nod to the fellow patrons who have extended their trips like I have as I see myself out. Chaotic Mexico City has its own unique air and scent. The traffic on the main avenue where I am is quite calm. I think the avenue that is usually filled with claxon noises and a sea of exhaust has not yet started its day.As I leave the hostel, I take a look around as if I am trying to decide on something important. In fact, I know where I’m going, what I’m eating. I will eat a hot cheese and meat sandwich and drink some juice at the buffet that’s about 400 meters away, and get coffee from the cheap place. I like creating routines in the cities where I stay for a while. It enforces my bond with the city. At the same time, I love the irony that I was traveling to escape my routines in the first place. The grass is always greener.I smell something familiar on the way to the buffet. It’s a smell I am familiar with from Istanbul, but I can’t quite place it. I sit down on a sidewalk stool at the buffet and my brain starts working as I take my first few sips of juice. I notice two people dressed as cowboys a few stools away, with horses right behind them. As I start to wonder what they are doing in the middle of the city, I see hundreds of horsemen touring the avenue. I then name that familiar smell, horse feces,&nbsp;a smell that I remember from the Prince’s Islands of Istanbul.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920314567.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">I quickly devour my sandwich and start wandering around the avenue. I learn that on the third week of November, people come from all over Mexico to the capital to celebrate the revolution and that they are waiting for the parade in the biggest plaza of the city. Men and women are dressed in beautiful local clothing. From in between the most beautiful, well-kept horses, a young man calls out to me as I wander among the horsemen. We start a conversation with my broken Spanish and his broken English. This is how I meet Angel, whom I learned came from the&nbsp;Tlaxcala region. He tells me that they came to celebrate the revolution as a family and introduces me to his whole family. Then he asks if I want a ride and puts me on his horse. All of a sudden, I find myself riding around the streets of the capital among the traditionally dressed Mexicans. After a while, Angel hands over the horse's bridle to me and disappears. We are left alone with “Turbo”, with whom I wander back and forth on the street. Meanwhile, other horsemen from other regions come along and we take pictures together. They seem happy about a "gringo" plunging into the middle of the revolution celebration on horseback.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920346431.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">In a little bit, Angel returns with an opened cardboard juice box and hands it to the horse. "Vodka," he says, laughing when he notices me trying to figure out what it is. "A good morning," I say to myself. When traveling, a person doesn’t know they will remember a moment for a lifetime while it’s still happening. But this moment is the opposite because everyone would know that they will remember the moment they drank vodka with traces of fruit juice among Mexicans in traditional clothes celebrating the revolution in Mexico City – on a horse. As we sip more vodka, we start shouting Viva Zapata. There is a sense that if I continue drinking and riding for a little longer, I might receive honorary citizenship. After a while, I look at my watch and realize that I have a meeting to catch. It's time for me to come back from being Lucky Luke to my real life. I say goodbye to Angel and his family, stroking Turbo's head and thanking him. While I was thinking I woke up to an ordinary morning, I mingle with people trying to catch up on the streets of the giant metropolis with a smile on my face with this strange memory presented to me by Mexico City.<img src="https://images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920361324.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">

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