Dry white toast, anyone? 

Can city be a character in a movie? 

My answer is a resounding yes, and I recently sat down with Brian Babylon and Molly Adams of Vocalo Radio in Chicago to talk about some of my favorite movies about cities.

Listen in to our conversation here and enjoy!

Last year at my talk in Amherst, I met August Siena Thomas. She had submitted an entry to my writing contest and it was thoughtful, interesting, and contemplative.

Sometime later,  she reached out to me and mentioned she was studying in Turkey on a Fulbright. I invited her to submit a missive from her experiences abroad and she was kind enough to submit this dispatch.

Enjoy.

Tea and Hooves

In Istanbul at this time of year, Neoprene Santas flap in the Bosphorus breeze, and the vendors in an alley near the Spice Bazaar are hawking sparkly “New Year trees” and candy canes behind the Rüstem Pasha mosque.

It’s festive, but flimsy. Everyone knows the real holiday season came back in October, when the country closed down for Kurban Bayramı, which translates literally as “Sacrifice Holiday.”

Very literally, as I recall.

It was a sunny late October afternoon when I arrived at my friendŞengül’s apartment building for Sacrifice Holiday, the first I’d ever seen.Şengül’s family wasn’t able to sacrifice last year, but tomorrow morning they would do it in style: not a mere ram, but a young bull. It’s a sentimental ritual as well as a religious one, freighted with memories of childhood Sacrifice Holidays.

Our bull was white with black spots, like the doe-eyed inhabitants of the Three County Fair 4-H Tent. Except he wasn’t getting a blue ribbon. There had been a hullabaloo when he was delivered the previous night – 12 hours early – because there was nowhere safe to keep him. “Safe?” I asked blankly. “Do you think he’ll get cold?”

“A bull is expensive,” saidŞengül. “It’s like 6,000 liras standing down there overnight. Someone could steal it.”

I stared at her. “Who steals a bull?”

He spent the night in the shed at one end of the narrow, concrete-paved front yard, safe from roving bull thieves.

The morning of the sacrifice arrived.Şengül’s 3-year-old niece Defne was perched on the bed, watching Old MacDonald Had A Farm on YouTube. I pulled aside the third-story bedroom curtain. The mosque across the street wasn’t big enough to hold the worshippers; hundreds of them were prostrated on plastic prayer mats outside. Even the usually unobservant come to mosque to pray on Sacrifice Holiday, honoring Abraham’s willingness to give his own son as a sacrifice to God.

Prayer was over, we’d eaten breakfast, and tiny Defne had become addicted to the American candy corn I brought as a hostess gift.

The men–representatives of the seven families who have bought shares in the bull–led him out into the light.

I ran downstairs to see this huge and beautiful animal at eye-level, strong and alive. One of the little kids was scared of him. I told her, “Don’t be,” and felt a weight settle on my heart. I eat meat, and know where it comes from. Yet I caught myself wishing desperately for a miraculous Escape from Bullcatraz. What would happen if I tried to free him, made a run for it, and –

“Time to go back upstairs, children. They’re going to cut him now…”

The 10-year-old boys lingered to watch.

I had decided beforehand that I was not going to watch the actual cutting. Yet I followed the other women onto to the balcony. I’ll look away, I thought, I’ll look away in time…

Tiny Defne was fascinated. “Show me!” she commanded. I hoisted her up. She wouldn’t be allowed to watch the actual moment of cutting.Şengül told me she once saw a tear roll down the victim’s face.

The men blindfolded the bull. I thought, He will never see anything again. Watching from two stories up made it look like an Ottoman miniature, tidily enclosed by the concrete wall of the yard. They tied the bull’s legs and toppled him onto his side. He was frightened; his horn scraped against the wall. They chanted a prayer, to make the meat halal. They gave his neck a few gentle pets. And then they slit his throat.

This was months ago. I still feel physically sick as I write this. A red liquid wave flooded the concrete. It clotted so fast it would have to be scraped up later with a plastic dustpan, and hosed down. The bull was still snuffling. The knife went deep, impossibly deep into his neck. The bull’s legs kicked and trembled. How could he still be alive? There was no saving him now, and I wished for his suffering to be over. But still he moved and kicked and quivered.

Not every Turkish family can afford to sacrifice, or chooses to. Many of my Turkish friends have never seen a sacrifice, and are shocked that I have. Istanbul banned the doorstep sacrifices that used to make the streets stink with blood; you are technically supposed to use official sacrifice areas. Many outsource the messy sacrifice to professionals, or sidestep it entirely, donating to charities the money that would have paid for a cow or a sheep.

It took over four hours, an axe and many knives to butcher the bull’s beheaded carcass. Nobody wore gloves;Şengül’s sister’s wedding ring was caked in blood. The hide became a kind of natural tarp to catch the blood. Inside, I drew bunny rabbits for little Defne and her sister. I fought the impulse to draw cows. I looked out and saw a beggar approach with a huge plastic trick-or-treat bag of dead animal bits.Şengül’s family thought she was a faker, and gave her the freshly-skinned bull’s testicles. She took them.

The men weighed meat and bones, dividing them fairly between the seven families. A third of each family’s share, they tell me, would go to the poor, who might not otherwise be able to afford meat all year. Another third would go to neighbors and relatives; only a third would be kept. The valuable hide would be sold to raise money for the mosque.I began to understand the raw power of this important ritual.

It was 1 p.m. by now, and I was getting light-headed.Şengül’s mother appeared with meat sandwiches.

I gulped. “Is this…?”

“Yes,” saidŞengül. “It’s very good, the best kind of meat. Just don’t think about it.”

I stared at the sandwich. I was ravenous.I picked it up and ate.

August Siena Thomas is a 21-year-old writer from western Massachusetts. She is currently a Fulbright Fellow and grad student in Istanbul, Turkey. She also chronicles her Turkish adventures in illustrations.

In any major city, a half a mile can make a world of difference. It can be the difference between a great public school and one whose classrooms might have more in common with a minimum security correctional facility.. It can be the difference between a manse complemented by a gravity pool to a grim public housing complex. It is this confounding and messy mix that makes cities so compelling.

When I heard that the two men responsible for the Boston bombings lived on Norfolk Street in my former corner of Cambridge, I realized that we were neighbors of a sort. After they all only lived a scant half a mile away from me: just a stroll north on Berkshire Street, a 10 minute walk west on Cambridge Street and a quick right onto Norfolk Street.

I thought of the vastly different experiences we might have had, even though we inhabited some of the same spaces. Did they stop by the same bodega I did to pick up milk and other sundries? Might we have crossed paths at the Gold Star Swimming Pool? Perhaps we both found ourselves looking for a discount or two at the Family Dollar, once upon a Sunday afternoon. Ultimately, I am more convinced that we might have spent time together waiting in line (large iced, hazelnut, one sugar) at the Shell-cum-Dunkin Donuts right there at the intersection of Cambridge and Windsor.

This crowded stretch of urbanity is part of what makes Cambridge great, gritty, lively, and in general, a fascinating place for anyone who enjoys cities. I can’t help but wonder if they found anything compelling or wonderful about this particular corner of the city. Now the conversation in the area has turned to “controlled explosions” and hand-wringing about national origins, immigration policy, and a number of other matters that are little concerned with the details and nuances that make this corner of Cambridge such a gem.

I invite you to visit this stretch of Cambridge Street soon and find out what makes it such a wonderful place. 

I’m headed there now. 

It’s been a long, difficult day and an even more difficult night.

The events at yesterday’s Boston Marathon have left the Hub reeling and it’s hard to make sense of it all. No one knows exactly what happened, suffice to say that lives were lost, panic ensued, and the people of Boston stood up to the challenge by responding with offers of lodging, health care, sustenance, and kindness.

All I can think about at this moment is what makes this place so special, so wonderful, and so unique amidst the pantheon of American cities. The moment seemed right for reflection on such matters, so here’s my abbreviated list of reasons to love Boston Right Now.

1). The Emerald Necklace

People love green spaces of all shapes, sizes, and inclinations.  Here in Boston we have an embarrassment of riches in the Emerald Necklace. From Franklin Park to the Boston Common, this jewel in the crown of Frederick Law Olmsted’s many accomplishments is all ours. It offers solace, entertainment, raucousness, and some place for contemplation in a very busy world. The city wouldn’t be the same without it. 

2) The T

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: a T apologist. No, no, no: I’ll be the first to admit the T has some serious problems, but guess what: so does every major American transit system. You want to go from Government Center to the leafy confines of Newton? It can be done. Want to wander from Piers Park in East Boston all the way to a night out in JP? Yes, yes, yes, the T makes it happen for only $2. Think about getting in your car in Boston and driving someplace. Think of the parking. Think of the one-way streets. Think of the traffic. Now think of the T. Ah, much better.

3) The JFK Library

Would you like to spend the evening in the company of distinguished scholars, statesmen, and other bookish sorts? Of course you would: this is Boston and we respect, honor, and cultivate such folk. You can stop by and see such people on a regular basis there and learn about the life of President Kennedy in exquisite detail (don’t miss his coconut). Did I mention it’s on the water? In a magnificent building designed by I.M. Pei. True story: you can also take the T there (see above)

4) Paul Revere

I know: Paul Revere’s Ride, blah, blah, blah. That’s just the tip of the iceberg, my friends: the man was a POLYMATH PURE AND SIMPLE. Silversmith? Check. Sometime dentist? Yes. Artisan? Most definitely. Patriot? I know of none finer. Like most talented folks in an era before intense specialization, pre-professionalism, etc. he was just plain curious about a myriad of different things. Born in the North End, he’s a straight up Boston original. He was in charge of Boston’s first board of public health, he cast some mighty fine church bells (example: the one in King’s Chapel on the Freedom Trail) and he’s part of the DNA of this city and our nation’s collective history. He’s the man.

5) A Walk on the Charles River

Many things in this life are far from free. Come to think of it, most of them (college, kids, therapy) are pretty damn expensive. A walk on the Charles River is completely free and you can get something different out of it everyday, in every season, and with each different companion you might bring along for such a perambulation. We are blessed here with miles of walking terrain that takes in the front yard of MIT, Boston University, boathouses, duck tours, dams, joggers, walkers, strollers, spooning couples, sunbathers, picnickers, and so on. And if you get bored, you can always cross over on one of the bridges for another vantage point over in that place known as Cambridge, Mass.

                                 What song is this place, this Chicago?

When you think about great songs about cities what comes to mind? 

A jaunty Gershwin tune? Ludacris’s ode to “Area Codes”? Perhaps one of Sufjan Steven’s ditties about Chicago?

Recently I had the chance to talk about some of my favorite songs about cities with Molly Adams and Ernest Wilkins on Vocalo in Chicago. 

It was a great conversation & you can listen to it right here.

Roger Ebert is gone.

Those who saw him on his show beside Gene Siskel probably found a jovial, occasional combative critic of films ranging from “L’Auberge Espagnole” to “Home Alone”. When I looked at him, I saw my father, who also shares his intense love of cinema and an omnivore’s passion for this particular art form.

For most of the 1970s through the early 1980s, my father ran a film society on the campus of the University of Wisconsin in Madison, Wisconsin. These were exciting times for such endeavors, as the university allowed people to rent out various cavernous lecture halls that were the daytime residences of undergraduates sleeping through “Introduction to Mass Communiciations”. 

At night, these halls came alive as my father and his competitors would pique the interest of the film-going populace on campus with Fellini retrospectives, spaghetti westerns, and the occasional screening of “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes”. 

Even as a toddler, my dad would take me on his back as he put up his film posters around campus promoting his upcoming features. When I got older, I got to come out and help sell popcorn to patrons. I couldn’t always watch all of the movies, but my dad always had a few cartoons of the Warner Brothers variety, so there was always something for me.

When I first saw Ebert on TV, I immediately felt a kinship with him. He had a slight physical resemblance to my father (tousled hair, owl-like glasses) and he talked about films the same way my father did. There was reverence, there was amusement, and there was that same critical appraisal of everything that moved across the screen.

That same spirit of curiosity about film became part of the shared lingua franca around our household. When the family life became fractious, we could always find time to watch a movie together. It could be the salve to smooth over a difficult conversation around the dinner table or just a coda after the tedium of work and school.

My father lives abroad now and our family hasn’t sat down to watch a movie together in many years. As I think about Ebert’s passing, I know one of the first things we will do together when we are all reunited is watch a movie as a form of communion and remembrance.

When I was a kid, I was fairly obsessed with The Book of Lists. 

Yes, that’s a definitive article there. The. Book. Of. Lists. 

This tome was compiled by David Wallechinsky, his father Irving Wallace, and Amy Wallace. I remember coming home from the library and reading carefully numbered lists detailing the World’s Greatest Libel Suits, the Worst Places to Hitchhike, and 10 Famous Noses. I had no clue about any of the three authors, their qualifications to pass judgment on famous noses, or anything else. It was printed in a book. The End.

It was the perfect way to order the world. After all, the first list I ever committed to memory had been written on a few tablets a few thousands years ago and given down to me by a kindly nun at Queen of Peace Catholic Elementary School in Madison, Wisconsin. Lists of everything else just made sense. How else could I parse out the Most Important Information in the World if it wasn’t into lists such as “10 Meetings Between Famous People and People Not Yet Famous?”

Today, the world has a few billion lists floating around. Even the most casual Google search will reveal a veritable data dump of lists that make The Book of Lists appear to be the tiniest trifle of an amuse bouche before an epic 50-course meal of lists. Humans are fairly obsessed with superlatives and ranking just about everything, so I am not terribly surprised by any of this.

So I ask you: What’s your favorite list?

                                   A Chicago spring break tradition.

In Boston, many of the students have just decamped for spring break. 

This is no small amount of decamping and it involves Peter Pan buses, stop-and-start journeys along the Mass Pike, the Silver-Line-Logan Airport two-step, and Amtrak rides back to Old Saybrook, Connecticut, Westerly, Rhode Island, and New Rochelle, New York.

Boston has over 60,000 college students, so the whole process involves multiple machinations, and the hue and cry of students on their cell phones reminding their parents to pick them up at the appointed hour (“You were 2 hours late last time!”) and to pick up totemic foodstuffs (“Can you pick me up a pie from Pepe’s?”)

I’ve taught college for five years in Boston and this weekend my mind wandered back to my own spring break experiences back in Chicago. I usually didn’t have much money, but the Windy City never disappointed. There was a steady banquet of Polish restaurants (many of them had actual banquet halls attached), serendipitous journeys on the El, and visits to obscure museums like the International Museum of Surgical Science.

Never was I bored and occasionally I had visitors from back home in Seattle, or a few stragglers who were temporarily tired of New York. The conversation during these visits usually meandered over to the completion of persnickety BA theses, love lost, and the merits of newly discovered spiritous beverages (tribute is due to a well-worn copy of Mr. Boston’s Bar Guide).

This year finds me back in Chicago for a type of “spring break”. More accurately it would be described as “a frenetic trip back to take photographs and complete research for a book that was due to my publisher some time back and I hope I can find a moment to get to the Green Mill in-between all the rushing around”. 

No doubt this trip will be one to remember. 

Spring break, I’m ready for you.

There he was.

All six feet and eight inches of him, complete with tattoos, a smattering of nose rings and dark sun glasses. It was the one and only Dennis Rodman, aka “The Worm”, occasional husband to Carmen Elektra, semi-professional wrestler, all-around-bad-boy, and former Chicago Bulls forward.

I was back in town to give a talk at the Chicago Public Library and there he was, holding court with a truly delighted group of women from Wisconsin. Laughing, making merry, and surrounded by a clutch of champagne bottles Rodman was right now. It was just like the salad days of the mid-to-late 1990s, and he was tossing off asides to those passing by (“You drinking apple juice while you’re eating an apple? Man, that’s weird!”) and posing for photos.

It was around 8 in the morning when I saw him and I have no doubt that he had come from a long night out on the town. For me, I remember vividly his height of power, when he was surrounded by Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and the rest of the Bulls. Those were my days in college, while I sweated over the Russian Law Code of 1649 down at the University of Chicago, all the while thinking about What the Future Would Hold For Me. 

The remarkable thing was that as the Bulls were doing there thing over on the city’s West Side, the rest of Chicago was on the rise as well. The murder rate was dropping, the city’s coffers were filling up with increased private investment, and Mayor Richard M. Daley was putting planter boxes all along the city’s mean streets and avenues in an attempt to bring a bit of Parisian sophistication into the Second City’s tired and weather-beaten urban brocade. 

I saw that glimpse of Chicago’s Dream of the 1990s when I saw Rodman for those moments over at the Hyatt that Saturday morning. Rodman had been through the wringer with stints on unflattering reality television shows, some financial troubles, and a host of different lady friends. Chicago wasn’t so different: a number of public-private partnerships had gone south (the parking meters turned over to a company from Connecticut) and tax revenues were down, down, down thanks to a real estate bubble or two and a general era of Bad Feelings.

But what became of Rodman, post-Hyatt-post-champagne-post-morning-fete? 

A few days later he turned up in North Korea, where he went to meet up with the World’s Most Dangerous and Elusive Dictator, Kim Jong Un. The Worm’s verdict? “He loves power. He loves control, because of his father. He’s just a great guy.”

Dennis, bring back Kim Jong Un for a World Peace Summit at the United Center. 

All will be forgiven. 

The fact that I learn something new each and every time I step foot in
a new country. Whether that’s something about another culture, or a
profound lesson taught to me by a local, or something that I discover
about myself in a new situation, I love that I seem to go back to
school whenever I get out there on the road.

Oh man, I have too many to list! But, in particular, my all-time
favorite travel narrative has to be Mark and Delia Owens’s “Cry of the
Kalahari,” which will always remain a classic on my bookshelf and may
have been one of the reasons that I caught the travel bug in the first
place. I love the wildlife biologists’ accounts of their time in
Botswana, where they lived for seven years to record the interactions
between lions and hyenas. The way they describe the vastness of the
desert and the wildness of the land seemed so romantic to my young
ears…it still does!

During your year on the road around the world, were there any places that surprised you in terms of their vibrancy and the overall experience?

There are a couple of countries that stick out in my mind from my
round-the-world adventure. One of them is Nepal, but I always knew I’d
love it there with the spirituality and incredible natural landscapes
and gold-gilded temples.  But someplace that I didn’t realize I’d fall
so in love with was the Tuamotu Archipelago in French Polynesia, where
I worked on a black-pearl farm. It’s truly an island paradise there,
and I mean that in all seriousness. And as far as manmade wonders,
they’d have to be Mach Picchu in Peru and Petra in Jordan, without a
doubt.

My own country! I’m thinking back to the years of the Lewis and Clark
expedition, when the explorers were mapping out the wilds of America.
Or even earlier, when the Spanish first stumbled upon the Grand
Canyon. Can you imagine? That must have been incredible…

Are there any items that are indispensable for you as you set foot out for a new adventure?

Besides my laptop, cameras, and unlocked cell phone, I’d have to say
my SteriPEN water purifier that uses UV light to kill baddies, GU
energy gel to keep my nutrition up, my Pacsafe bags, my SureFire
Defender flashlight, Dr. Bronner’s 18-in-1 Peppermint castile soap,
and a fake wedding ring to use as a prop. And just to use as lucky
charms, I always wear a compass necklace, and I carry a silver coin
that reads, “The same moon around the world,” to remind me that I’m
not so far away from home, even if I feel like it.

You can follow A. Christine Maxfield’s adventures via Twitter @compassmag and you should also peruse her website for more details about her life and travels.