I just got introduced to the mother's side of the family. I wasn't expecting to meet his family tonight. As I walked to the bus after work, I talked with Berran on the phone. We'd planned to get together. He starts telling me how his family has a gathering tonight for Cem's fifth birthday. It sounds important because all these people are going to be there: My father, my mother, my grandfather, my cousins, my grandmother... I guess that he's leading up to saying that he can't see me--he's busy and sorry... my uncle, me and you. Wait. What?
"What? You want me to come to the party?!"
"It's not a party. But yes."
"Uhhh..." What can you say but yes?
So a couple hours later I'd showered, asked Berran what to wear ("I don't know--I'm a man," he said after he pointed pointlessly to some things in my closet) put on the same dress I'd worn to work, then decided against it, and opted instead for a more comfortable pants, sweater and flar (Turkish for decorative scarf--not the Muslim head covering). I got pretty nervous in the car and started quizzing him on people's names.
Relax, relax, relax, he told me as climbed all the stairs to the fifth floor. I was ushered into the home, given a pair of slippers, kissed on both cheeks by everyone, and offered a chair in the living room. Yikes, what a crowd! All assembled there were:
Berran's mother, Berran's father, his maternal aunt and her husband--and this uncle's mother and father--and his maternal aunt's two children (aged 5 and 10) , and Berran's maternal grandmother and grandfather, and another two women whose connections I can't remember.
It was a little awkward at first, and there were so many questions I wanted to ask, but my Turkish isn't good enough yet. Then there's the pressure of not wanting to be an embarrassment for Berran--like, "Oh, God, this is the girl you've been talking about?! But she can hardly speak, and so why, Berran, why?!?!"
I'm becoming more comfortable with being the only adult in the room who's dumber than a 3 year old, but they were also unbelievably friendly. I guess everyone puts on airs a little when you meet them--first impressions and all. But I think they genuinely are that happy and loving. There's some vibe that I get that buzzes through Izmir that Turks love children and they love people and they love to love in a big, fierce, loyal way.
I watched as Cem and Sibel wandered around the circle of chairs in the living room, being pulled on laps to be kissed and told how great they were. I mean, spoiled like whoa. But maybe it's not such a bad thing.
We ate Cem's birthday cake, skillfully assembled and decorated by the aunt. We looked at some photos of family on the computer. We laughed and chatted. And at times when I spoke, the room--all eleven of them--became totally silent to listen to me stumble through Turkish. I made a joke out of it but talk about nerve-wracking. They asked about my family, a little bit about my job. The effort at conversation was enough to satisfy me--and Berran played interpreter so I could be clued in on the jokes his father made. And there were lots of smiles.
When I stood up to leave, all 10 of them stood up to kiss us goodbye. We went methodically around the circle, visiting each person and I practiced saying, "It was nice to meet you." I was invited back and made a deal with Berran's mother that she would teach me how to make sarma (stuffed grape leaves), and that his aunt would teach me how to make mantı (sort of a ravioli thing that is amazing). Yes please!!!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
An Adventure A Day...
It's easy to become a creature of intense, ingrained habit. After shopping in particular stores enough times, I know what the clerks expect, and they expect me. They also know not to talk to me too much, and I'm left in peace to puzzle over the words on a package of biscuits, or to laboriously compare one brand of laundry soap to another.
However, one becomes tired of routine and novelty is required. When you're a yobanca, it is impossible for a new social interaction to occur without some mistake or misunderstanding. Even browsing in stores, a seemingly simple in-and-out procedure, can't pass without incident. In other words, everything that should be completely mundane is a potential adventure.
Today, inside a giant store comparable to Safeway or Walmart, I was reprimanded by a clerk for trying to pass the cash registers and get out the exit door without anything to purchase. Accompanying her words was a confusing hand gesture which I understood as: "Go back through the store and exit via a different route." Ok, but once I realized that there was only one exit door, I got really confused.
I finally gave up guessing and not wanting to set off any alarm bells or be chased after by store security clerks or whatever happens to Naughty Yobancıs, I asked a clerk giving away free cocktail weenies. God bless him if he understood whatever the hell I was trying to ask; I didn't even know what I was trying to ask. In my moment of infantile communication, I was once again grateful that human beings possess arms and hands that can point--for when my ears fail to comprehend.
Then there's the issue of money. Turkey is constantly playing with it currency to compensate for inflation. For example, what is known officially as five lira in 2009's new money can also be called five million lira in the old money. While many Turks take the terminology for old money in stride, I am often puzzled.
Take this morning's börek (a pastry filled with cheese, spinach, potatoes, etc.) shopping experience. When I asked how much it cost, the dictionary translation of her answer was, "Fourteen hundred and fifty." I tried not to look at the cash register as my brain chewed on the numbers--You can do it, J! You can do it!--but eventually my eyes were tempted to the glowing numbers: 1.45 lira. Hmm... I didn't beat myself up too much about my abysmal comprehension.
There are days when I wonder what it'll be like to live in North America again. Part of me longs for the easy comfort that would exist for me if only I chose to come home from this ridiculous chase I'm on. But when I successfully exit a store, or manage to pay without looking like a complete ass (instead of a partial ass), I get a little buzz. And that little buzz is addictive.
However, one becomes tired of routine and novelty is required. When you're a yobanca, it is impossible for a new social interaction to occur without some mistake or misunderstanding. Even browsing in stores, a seemingly simple in-and-out procedure, can't pass without incident. In other words, everything that should be completely mundane is a potential adventure.
Today, inside a giant store comparable to Safeway or Walmart, I was reprimanded by a clerk for trying to pass the cash registers and get out the exit door without anything to purchase. Accompanying her words was a confusing hand gesture which I understood as: "Go back through the store and exit via a different route." Ok, but once I realized that there was only one exit door, I got really confused.
I finally gave up guessing and not wanting to set off any alarm bells or be chased after by store security clerks or whatever happens to Naughty Yobancıs, I asked a clerk giving away free cocktail weenies. God bless him if he understood whatever the hell I was trying to ask; I didn't even know what I was trying to ask. In my moment of infantile communication, I was once again grateful that human beings possess arms and hands that can point--for when my ears fail to comprehend.
Then there's the issue of money. Turkey is constantly playing with it currency to compensate for inflation. For example, what is known officially as five lira in 2009's new money can also be called five million lira in the old money. While many Turks take the terminology for old money in stride, I am often puzzled.
Take this morning's börek (a pastry filled with cheese, spinach, potatoes, etc.) shopping experience. When I asked how much it cost, the dictionary translation of her answer was, "Fourteen hundred and fifty." I tried not to look at the cash register as my brain chewed on the numbers--You can do it, J! You can do it!--but eventually my eyes were tempted to the glowing numbers: 1.45 lira. Hmm... I didn't beat myself up too much about my abysmal comprehension.
There are days when I wonder what it'll be like to live in North America again. Part of me longs for the easy comfort that would exist for me if only I chose to come home from this ridiculous chase I'm on. But when I successfully exit a store, or manage to pay without looking like a complete ass (instead of a partial ass), I get a little buzz. And that little buzz is addictive.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Long-Overdue Update
Practice Makes Perfect
I feel like I'm doing something naughty. A whole Wednesday/ Thursday without any work. It's the first time in six months that I haven't brought books home to plan for my classes over the weekend.
You see, I've finally reached the point where I've taught all the levels of English-- my classes are starting to overlap and cover ground that I've already taught. My elementary students, who, six months ago, could only say their names, are now discussing life experiences in K7. And my other classes are embarking on new and exciting grammatical adventures (only a bit of sarcasm there).
The only remaining uncharted territory is the last six weeks of Upper Intermediate. I am triumphant. This has seemed like the longest, most agonizing learning curve. I've easily worked 50 hours a week for the past few months, carving my path through the wilderness of English. But I suddenly find myself on a familiar path--and the work load has dropped significantly.
So here I am, on my two days off, and feeling sort of off-balance because I only had to spend thirty minutes looking at my class for tomorrow night. Is it too good to be true? Will my laziness catch up with me tomorrow? I am holding my breath a bit.
**Update after teaching** It wasn't too good to be true. Wow. Now that I have time for a life, what am I going to do with it?! Study Turkish, of course... Ok, I'm not entirely that boring. Exploration is occurring.
Local Adventures
Sondra and I wandered into the markets of Kemeraltı to find the fabled marbled paper, ebru. In a crowded, dusty bookshop we found the very sweet old proprietor--Ali. Ali sits at his cramped desk, a cardboard box of kittens at his feet, and a stack of creamy paper on his desk, silver pen in hand. He is commissioned to do the calligraphy for place cards and invitations for fancy Izmir events.
As Sondra and I pour over stacks of ebru, looking for beautiful, frame-able pieces, Ali chats with us. Through some belabored conversation-making, we learn that Ali knows Turkish, Ottoman (Turkish before it was converted to the Roman alphabet and purged of many of its Arabic cognates), Arabic, and French. He points to a nearby shelf of books and I find ancient, crumbling texts in Arabic and Ottoman--some of them handwritten.
"Shouldn't these be in museums?" I want to ask him. Hindered by my language, I simply hold them and delicately, humbly turn the yellowed pages. I want one. No, I'd never be able to read it, but the dead language is beautiful. Ottoman, like Arabic is a flowing script with swooping, scooping letters and elegant dots.
After expressing my general love for the aesthetics of the language, Ali took a creamy white card and asked me my name. He translated the sounds into Ottoman and wrote my first and last name in calligraphy.
I feel like I'm doing something naughty. A whole Wednesday/ Thursday without any work. It's the first time in six months that I haven't brought books home to plan for my classes over the weekend.
You see, I've finally reached the point where I've taught all the levels of English-- my classes are starting to overlap and cover ground that I've already taught. My elementary students, who, six months ago, could only say their names, are now discussing life experiences in K7. And my other classes are embarking on new and exciting grammatical adventures (only a bit of sarcasm there).
The only remaining uncharted territory is the last six weeks of Upper Intermediate. I am triumphant. This has seemed like the longest, most agonizing learning curve. I've easily worked 50 hours a week for the past few months, carving my path through the wilderness of English. But I suddenly find myself on a familiar path--and the work load has dropped significantly.
So here I am, on my two days off, and feeling sort of off-balance because I only had to spend thirty minutes looking at my class for tomorrow night. Is it too good to be true? Will my laziness catch up with me tomorrow? I am holding my breath a bit.
**Update after teaching** It wasn't too good to be true. Wow. Now that I have time for a life, what am I going to do with it?! Study Turkish, of course... Ok, I'm not entirely that boring. Exploration is occurring.
Local Adventures
Sondra and I wandered into the markets of Kemeraltı to find the fabled marbled paper, ebru. In a crowded, dusty bookshop we found the very sweet old proprietor--Ali. Ali sits at his cramped desk, a cardboard box of kittens at his feet, and a stack of creamy paper on his desk, silver pen in hand. He is commissioned to do the calligraphy for place cards and invitations for fancy Izmir events.
As Sondra and I pour over stacks of ebru, looking for beautiful, frame-able pieces, Ali chats with us. Through some belabored conversation-making, we learn that Ali knows Turkish, Ottoman (Turkish before it was converted to the Roman alphabet and purged of many of its Arabic cognates), Arabic, and French. He points to a nearby shelf of books and I find ancient, crumbling texts in Arabic and Ottoman--some of them handwritten.
"Shouldn't these be in museums?" I want to ask him. Hindered by my language, I simply hold them and delicately, humbly turn the yellowed pages. I want one. No, I'd never be able to read it, but the dead language is beautiful. Ottoman, like Arabic is a flowing script with swooping, scooping letters and elegant dots.
After expressing my general love for the aesthetics of the language, Ali took a creamy white card and asked me my name. He translated the sounds into Ottoman and wrote my first and last name in calligraphy.
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