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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