I made the mistake of going to IKEA today. From the second I stepped through the sliding doors and was whisked up the elevator, I could have been anywhere in the world. For free, I had taken a trip to a country within a country. You can visit the same place in San Francisco, New York, London, Paris, İzmir. It's the same damn thing everywhere. I don't know why, but I find it creepy and disconcerting that millions of people unwittingly have the same living room.
The other day I was reading a new book--The Girl Who Played With Fire by Steig Larsson [which I HIGHLY recommend after you read the first, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo]--and the main character (in Sweden) furnishes her new apartment entirely from IKEA. Larsson inventories her purchases and some of the consonant-laden item names rang bells (Lak, Billy, etc etc.). If that's not sick, I don't know what is. And remember IKEA in Fight Club? That was already years ago...
In America, IKEA is not particularly haute couture. It's nice enough, and it can be expensive, but it won't break the bank. Some things in Turkish IKEA are cheap bargains, but others are freaking pricey. From the designer purses and convincing dye jobs I witnessed on the women eating in IKEA's cafeteria, my opinion of the socioeconomic bracket shopping there solidified.
As if that weren't depressing enough, I wandered across the massive parking lot and paid a visit to Kipa. I wanted to see if they had any specialty import foods I couldn't get in my neighborhood. If Kipa were in America, it would be like Safeway or Fred Meyer or Giant Eagle or some grocery store chain like that. Here, there are mini Kipas (maybe twice the size of my living room) in neighborhoods, and then there are mega Kipas (in which an entire camp of refugees could be housed).
I hadn't been in a store this big in ages. Shopping in İzmir is usually a crowded, hustled experience. In mega Kipa, however, space opens up around you. Aisles are wide enough to drive a car down, the brightly-painted warehouse ceiling soars stories above your head. Is this what America is like? I tried to remember. I think so. It was surreal--Walmart-worthy. Why are stores this big? Everything was there: the bakery, the fish counter, a land of dairy products, freezer cases seemingly stretching for ages. Children played on carts in the open spaces. Where's the merry-go-round?! I wondered cynically. I shuffled up and down the aisles, overwhelmed by the size. I felt like a slow, hobbling, ancient woman who had long grown comfortable with a crowd, but was suddenly thrust into a grotesquely huge _____. **I still can't think of a noun...**
What was ultimately strange, though, was my slow realization that other than the size, this Kipa was inherently Turkish. But it was trying, it seemed, to be more. I encountered a wall of juice and then noticed the pattern of 150-odd identical juice boxes. It's all peach, I realized. I started looking around, comparing it to my mini Kipa close to home. Everything was the same here, there was just more of it.
Imagine going to buy juice and looking at a wall of Cranberry Oceanspray. You want juice, ok, there's Cranberry Oceanspray. You can pick from the top, the middle, the bottom shelf, from here or from further on, but it's all the same.
I floated to the soda aisle. It boasted four different kinds of soda: Coca Cola, Pepsi, orange (Fanta or Yedigün, the Turkish brand), and Sprite. That's it. You want soda in İzmir, pick from one of those. But the aisle stretched just as long as a normal American store, but Coca Cola twelve wide, four high and god-knows-how-many-deep lined the shelves. Rootbeer? Mr. Pibb? Its competitor Dr. Pepper? Mountain Dew? Some Turkish-created flavor that is only available here--maybe made from local ingredients? Nope, nope and nope.
The beer aisle was like the juice wall: Efes, Efes or Efes. The pasta and bean aisles offered more choice simply because pasta comes in different shapes and beans in different colors. The cereal aisle plunged me into dispair again. Cereal isn't very popular here, and I supressed a cynical laugh when I saw the NesFit boxes lining the shelf: Seven wide, one deep. A bizarre, Hollywood facade of food. Or like seeing the Wizard of Oz behind the curtain. I don't know which metaphor fits more closely...
I found some imported Barilla tortellini I'd been looking for, and picked up some scotch tape and a plant pot all in the same place. Despite the absurd obesity of the store, there was hardly anything new that I haven't already seen in some other little store. It was fascinating. And depressing.
Moral of the story #1: Once you've seen a Turkish supermarket, you've seen them all. The massive, mind-blowing variety that exists in America (yes, I dream about the ice-cream and beer aisles) is simply absent in Turkey (although they would give our cookie aisle a run for its money). I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I've been forever spoiled by The Land of Plenty. Can I learn to be content with less?
Moral of the story #2: To be determined... I don't yet understand this strange feeling enough to articulate it beyond this stupid rant. I feel guilty even writing about this. As though I'm exposing a stain that should only be known to people living over here. But here I am, gossiping about something they're probably proud of. *sigh*
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Bank Banked Bunken
I did some banking today. Let me rephrase that: Ferhat, the exceptionally nice gentleman at HalkBank, was able to pick through the plane-crash of Turkish that landed on his desk and do my banking for me. Ferhat, I love you. Since you don't speak English, and I don't speak Turkish, and I wouldn't be attracted to you even if you weren't married, I'd like to offer my firstborn to you as a token of my appreciation. That speaks for itself.
They'll never know or read this, but I would like to publically thank all of the people who deal with me on a daily basis--who stick with me after that initial "Oh shit, what the hell is she trying to say" moment and help me accomplish what I'm there to do. Multiple people a day, almost a year of being here. That's a lot of people to thank.
Being a yabanci has fostored an extremely high tolerence for never knowing what the fuck is really going on, for never feeling like a capable adult. Yeah yeah, speak at me. I'll tell you I don't understand; you'll speak at me again, I'll repeat that I don't understand, but somehow we'll get through it. Tears of frustration no longer prick the backs of my eyes. Talk about learning how to go with the flow.
They'll never know or read this, but I would like to publically thank all of the people who deal with me on a daily basis--who stick with me after that initial "Oh shit, what the hell is she trying to say" moment and help me accomplish what I'm there to do. Multiple people a day, almost a year of being here. That's a lot of people to thank.
Being a yabanci has fostored an extremely high tolerence for never knowing what the fuck is really going on, for never feeling like a capable adult. Yeah yeah, speak at me. I'll tell you I don't understand; you'll speak at me again, I'll repeat that I don't understand, but somehow we'll get through it. Tears of frustration no longer prick the backs of my eyes. Talk about learning how to go with the flow.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Settling In: New Flat
I haven't had Internet since I moved last weekend. It's an interesting deprivation--I check email at work but no longer spend hours connected to the web, mindlessly absorbed by stupid websites. I've written a lot more since moving--things I've had floating around in the back of my brain for weeks have finally made it out into the world (You know how demanding Facebook can be). The result: mini-stories being posted in different tags.
I love my new flat. The natural light is great and there's cross-ventilation that keeps me cool despite melt-worthy temperatures. It's on a quiet side-street. The kitchen is ridiculously small (imagine the absence of a single drawer; and putting my little oven in the living room next to the television), but it's manageable. I'm in a shady, tree-lined neighborhood. A couple of restaurants and clothes shops are nearby; outside my door is a bookshop and a flower shop. It kind of feels like my warped memory of Portland--people are strolling around, enjoying life--except that here's there's a mosque directly across the street. I guess that's not quite Portland.
But I was right: moving out of teachers' accomodations is forcing me to speak more Turkish. Practice practice practice. Unfortunately, my collection of tourist phrase books have long been obsolete--Berlitz's Turkish phrase book and dictionary; A Practical Course in Turkish; BBC's Get By In Turkish; Türkçe Öğreniyoruz (We're Learning Turkish); and a couple other random learning tools--they sit gathering dust. I don't even bother to flick through them.
Any sections on how to call an electrician to get him to extend a cable into my bathroom so the electric water heater guy can come back and mount it on my wall? Any key words or sample dialogues with the speed-talking landlord who uses tenses I haven't studied yet?
Nope. Only some stuff about buying fruit and vegetables, or asking for directions to the nearest mosque--no problem there, I can see it from my balcony.
Letter
Dear Turkish toddler,
You don't know me, but I can hear you. I just moved into a flat across the alley from you. I hear you howl every morning and night.
I know that I haven't been here very long, but I feel confident to speak on behalf of everyone on the alley with you: We're all looking forward to the day when you know more Turkish than I do, and when you can do more than shriek "Mooooooooooom!!!!!" at the top of your tiny, toddler lungs.
Love,
The resident yabancı
I love my new flat. The natural light is great and there's cross-ventilation that keeps me cool despite melt-worthy temperatures. It's on a quiet side-street. The kitchen is ridiculously small (imagine the absence of a single drawer; and putting my little oven in the living room next to the television), but it's manageable. I'm in a shady, tree-lined neighborhood. A couple of restaurants and clothes shops are nearby; outside my door is a bookshop and a flower shop. It kind of feels like my warped memory of Portland--people are strolling around, enjoying life--except that here's there's a mosque directly across the street. I guess that's not quite Portland.
But I was right: moving out of teachers' accomodations is forcing me to speak more Turkish. Practice practice practice. Unfortunately, my collection of tourist phrase books have long been obsolete--Berlitz's Turkish phrase book and dictionary; A Practical Course in Turkish; BBC's Get By In Turkish; Türkçe Öğreniyoruz (We're Learning Turkish); and a couple other random learning tools--they sit gathering dust. I don't even bother to flick through them.
Any sections on how to call an electrician to get him to extend a cable into my bathroom so the electric water heater guy can come back and mount it on my wall? Any key words or sample dialogues with the speed-talking landlord who uses tenses I haven't studied yet?
Nope. Only some stuff about buying fruit and vegetables, or asking for directions to the nearest mosque--no problem there, I can see it from my balcony.
Letter
Dear Turkish toddler,
You don't know me, but I can hear you. I just moved into a flat across the alley from you. I hear you howl every morning and night.
I know that I haven't been here very long, but I feel confident to speak on behalf of everyone on the alley with you: We're all looking forward to the day when you know more Turkish than I do, and when you can do more than shriek "Mooooooooooom!!!!!" at the top of your tiny, toddler lungs.
Love,
The resident yabancı
Türk Yüzüm (My Turkish Face)
"You look Turkish."
I get it more often than you might think. Turkey, you're thinking deep, dark Middle-Easterners. Arabic-style. Swarthy, almond-eyed, black-haired, coffee-eyed, olive-skinned. Ok, some of them are like that, and in general, their hair is darker, but you've also got your fair share of whities with varying eyes. Blues, greens, hazels. Milk white skin, pink-white, yellow-white. Caucausian, basically. Me.
I was buying a dress a couple days ago. The shop keeper was telling me that I have a Turkish face. And that he had thought I was stringing him along, pretending to be a foreigner. We had a good laugh about it. But I've had cab drivers, cashiers and my own students tell me that... The people who occassionally stop to ask me directions obviously think I'm Turkish.
I get it more often than you might think. Turkey, you're thinking deep, dark Middle-Easterners. Arabic-style. Swarthy, almond-eyed, black-haired, coffee-eyed, olive-skinned. Ok, some of them are like that, and in general, their hair is darker, but you've also got your fair share of whities with varying eyes. Blues, greens, hazels. Milk white skin, pink-white, yellow-white. Caucausian, basically. Me.
I was buying a dress a couple days ago. The shop keeper was telling me that I have a Turkish face. And that he had thought I was stringing him along, pretending to be a foreigner. We had a good laugh about it. But I've had cab drivers, cashiers and my own students tell me that... The people who occassionally stop to ask me directions obviously think I'm Turkish.
Beauty like that knows no home...
I saw a sexy Headscarf today. Ok, it's derrogatory to call her that. A couple of my co-workers started and it's shorter to say "a Headscarf" than "a woman wearing a headscarf." I don't mean it in a disrespectful way, but I would probably be irritated if I knew that you called me a Tattoo or a Pants or something like that.
But she seriously was sexy. I've seen a few of them since I got here--only a couple that stand out in my 11 months. One was ages ago, when I whizzed by her on the bus, catching her truly seductive, star-quality face floating above an alluring black number that covered everything. But it worked--she was sexy.
The other was today. I was coming out of the metro and the first thing I noticed were her white patent-leather heels--shiny and clean and elegantly tapered. Sophisticated, not like the matron-worthy oxfords or slovenly tennis shoes I've seen. Above the heels flitted a gauzy white skirt. Gauzy. See-through. Can they do that?! There was a white slip under it, but the slip was noticeably shorter, like, almost up to her knee. Her deep purple long-sleeved shirt hugged her torso and ass. Can they do that?! And her headscarf. Well, that was gauzy white and see-through, too. I could see her hair. Can they do that!??! I tried to keep up with her pace so I could keep looking at her but she was too fast for me and eventually I let her leave me.
But she seriously was sexy. I've seen a few of them since I got here--only a couple that stand out in my 11 months. One was ages ago, when I whizzed by her on the bus, catching her truly seductive, star-quality face floating above an alluring black number that covered everything. But it worked--she was sexy.
The other was today. I was coming out of the metro and the first thing I noticed were her white patent-leather heels--shiny and clean and elegantly tapered. Sophisticated, not like the matron-worthy oxfords or slovenly tennis shoes I've seen. Above the heels flitted a gauzy white skirt. Gauzy. See-through. Can they do that?! There was a white slip under it, but the slip was noticeably shorter, like, almost up to her knee. Her deep purple long-sleeved shirt hugged her torso and ass. Can they do that?! And her headscarf. Well, that was gauzy white and see-through, too. I could see her hair. Can they do that!??! I tried to keep up with her pace so I could keep looking at her but she was too fast for me and eventually I let her leave me.
Stick With What You Know
Yesterday I had the opportunity to overhear a Turkish wedding. The song being blasted over the loudspeaker for the ceremony was the American group, Evanescence's "Because of You." If you're not familiar with it, it's a slow, Celine Dion-worthy ballad that sounds like a love song until you realize the lyrics are actually a scathing accusation of being emotionally-destroyed by her father. It's the kind of song you hear on the radio and immediately change to a different station. It was so absurd to hear it played on someone's celebration of the most important day of their life.
So before you run off and get that tattoo of Chinese characters you can't understand, or before you choose a foreign wedding song that will be video-taped into family history forever, have someone who speaks the language make sure it's appropriate...
So before you run off and get that tattoo of Chinese characters you can't understand, or before you choose a foreign wedding song that will be video-taped into family history forever, have someone who speaks the language make sure it's appropriate...
Gravity
Things fall on the ground. It happens around the world. But what people do when something falls on the ground changes around the world. Or so I say, having lived in all of two countries. :-P
From my journal on the metro a few weeks ago: There's a waterbottle that fell of the ledge at the end of the compartment. The bottle is rolling around on the floor. A guy was standing next to it. He considered picking it up--that sort of flinching hesitation--but stopped himself. It's rolled over to a kid's foot. We're all watching it be a nuisance. Now we've stopped. The door opened at it rolled over--but not out. Will the kid kick it? His foot's next to it in that perfect relationship to give it a little tap, but he doesn't. The door closes and it rolls to the other side of the metro compartment.
When we get to the last stop, I finally walk over to it and pick it up. The guy who'd been standing next to me watched. I defiantly carried it out of the metro, looking for a trashcan, only to discover that there actually, in a 100 meter radius, wasn't one. In the end, defeated, I left it in a shallow concrete planter (without any plants or vegetation--just scrabbly dirt).
Littering: 1. J: 0.
The other incident was in a restaurant on Sunday. Lots of food places have a mini-döner kitchen on the street to lure customers and meet the needs of the modern Turk. Löp Löp is one such restaurant; I sat in the neighboring restaurant, enjoying my soup on the sidewalk in the summer air. The street chef at Löp Löp dropped a knife on the sidewalk. It clattered and attracted my attention. I watched the chef slowly pick it up. He looked around and noticed me. I looked at him.
He looked at the knife for a moment and then set it on the counter. It stayed there for a minute until he picked it up again. He had a cloth in his left hand. He wanted to just wipe it off and keep using it. I could tell. But something stopped him. Did he remember that I had been watching him? Maybe, because he looked around again, cloth in hand, and noticed me looking at him.
Busted, buddy. I will not be eating at your fine establishment.
He guilty put the cloth down and pawned off the knife onto his co-chef who dutifully trucked off to wash it. Or just wipe it down away from prying eyes.
From my journal on the metro a few weeks ago: There's a waterbottle that fell of the ledge at the end of the compartment. The bottle is rolling around on the floor. A guy was standing next to it. He considered picking it up--that sort of flinching hesitation--but stopped himself. It's rolled over to a kid's foot. We're all watching it be a nuisance. Now we've stopped. The door opened at it rolled over--but not out. Will the kid kick it? His foot's next to it in that perfect relationship to give it a little tap, but he doesn't. The door closes and it rolls to the other side of the metro compartment.
When we get to the last stop, I finally walk over to it and pick it up. The guy who'd been standing next to me watched. I defiantly carried it out of the metro, looking for a trashcan, only to discover that there actually, in a 100 meter radius, wasn't one. In the end, defeated, I left it in a shallow concrete planter (without any plants or vegetation--just scrabbly dirt).
Littering: 1. J: 0.
The other incident was in a restaurant on Sunday. Lots of food places have a mini-döner kitchen on the street to lure customers and meet the needs of the modern Turk. Löp Löp is one such restaurant; I sat in the neighboring restaurant, enjoying my soup on the sidewalk in the summer air. The street chef at Löp Löp dropped a knife on the sidewalk. It clattered and attracted my attention. I watched the chef slowly pick it up. He looked around and noticed me. I looked at him.
He looked at the knife for a moment and then set it on the counter. It stayed there for a minute until he picked it up again. He had a cloth in his left hand. He wanted to just wipe it off and keep using it. I could tell. But something stopped him. Did he remember that I had been watching him? Maybe, because he looked around again, cloth in hand, and noticed me looking at him.
Busted, buddy. I will not be eating at your fine establishment.
He guilty put the cloth down and pawned off the knife onto his co-chef who dutifully trucked off to wash it. Or just wipe it down away from prying eyes.
Yabancı Eats In
Tiffany--an American with obscenely-limited Turkish skills (for two years in İzmir)--continues to delight me and embarass our community of fine ex-pats.
The following is an undoctored transcription of an entire dialogue I took while she ordered lunch on the telephone in the teacher's room one day:
"... Paket servis? Yes... Uh-huh... Yes... Spaghetti bolognese... Spa-get-tee bowl-uh-nase. Bolognese. No... Evet... Cash... Yes... Mmhmm... Evet. Teshekkurlar. Bye!"
That's right. You read correctly. Three of those words were in Turkish (evet = yes x 2; the total mangling of teşekkürler = thank you), but all of it was mortifying. Hopefully they can't tell the difference between American pronunciation of Turkish from British pronunciation of Turkish.
What was even funnier was a few days later when she ordered some chicken, but despite repeated attempts:
"Chicken parmesean... parm-uh-zhan... No, parmesean... Evet, tavuk (chicken)... tavuk parmesean... *huge frustrated sigh*"
To no avail, she finally abandoned her desire and instead ordered what even the most frustrated Turk can understand: "izgara" (which just means grilled). I could have died laughing.
The following is an undoctored transcription of an entire dialogue I took while she ordered lunch on the telephone in the teacher's room one day:
"... Paket servis? Yes... Uh-huh... Yes... Spaghetti bolognese... Spa-get-tee bowl-uh-nase. Bolognese. No... Evet... Cash... Yes... Mmhmm... Evet. Teshekkurlar. Bye!"
That's right. You read correctly. Three of those words were in Turkish (evet = yes x 2; the total mangling of teşekkürler = thank you), but all of it was mortifying. Hopefully they can't tell the difference between American pronunciation of Turkish from British pronunciation of Turkish.
What was even funnier was a few days later when she ordered some chicken, but despite repeated attempts:
"Chicken parmesean... parm-uh-zhan... No, parmesean... Evet, tavuk (chicken)... tavuk parmesean... *huge frustrated sigh*"
To no avail, she finally abandoned her desire and instead ordered what even the most frustrated Turk can understand: "izgara" (which just means grilled). I could have died laughing.
Friday, August 7, 2009
My First Phone Call
The adrenaline-induced elation that occurs when I accomplish something in Turkish is real. I've been here for almost 11 months and have avoided doing anything on the telephone. God it's intimidating. I don't know why...
I needed to make an appointment with my doctor. He speaks English but the thought of talking on the phone was intimidating. What if we had a language problem? Oh well. When you need to see the doctor, you need to see the doctor. Stop fucking around and just do it.
I called the number on his card, thinking it would reach him. Wrong. A secretary answered the phone. Fuck.
I stumbled my way through making an appointment. She quickly realized that I was a foreigner. The following dialogue has been translated into English for your reading pleasure:
Her: Blah blah blah Clinic. Blah blah blah
Me: Doctor Hakkan, please.
Her: Blah blah see blah blah blah appointment blah blah?
Me: Yes! I want to make an appointment.
Her: Oh! You want to take an appointment. (Ugh damn differences in verb collocation from English to Turkish. We take, they make.)
Me: Yes!Her: Today?
Me: No.
Her: Tomorrow?
Me: No. (Dammit, she's just so fast, I can't think of the words quickly enough to be anything other than stupid!)
Her: Monday?
Me: Yes!
Her: What time?
Me: Uhhhhh (brain stalling to convert first to 24-hour time and then to Turkish and get the prepositions in the right places). At 14:30, please.
Her: Ok. 2:30?
Me: Yes.
Her: Name?
Me: (spelling it in Turkish for her.) But I have two last names.
Her: I found you here.
Me: Great.
Her: blah blah blah control blah blah blah?
Me: I don't know. (both of us laughing)
Her: Ok. No problem. 2:30 on the 10th.
Me: Yes. Thanks!
That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I strutted around my apartment for a few minutes, amidst the boxes and the mess of moving. I felt good. Really good. I just made my first phone call in Turkish. That's right, yabancı succeeds at doing something that an 8-year-old Turkish kid could do. Shouldn't I be encouraging this elation by making phone calls more often?
Why not now? I needed to fill my propane canisters and I had avoided going down to the street. I peered over my balcony at the phone number on awning of the water and propane store across the street. I'd talked to the guy before. He'd remember me, surely.
... ring ... ring... ring...
Some girl, or prepubescent boy, answers the phone.
Me: I want a new propane. Mine is empty.
Person: blah blah blah your address?
Me: You very close I am. (Dammit I should just stick with the simple sentence structures and not try to do fancy things like say: I'm close to you). Sema Apartment, 399 Midhatpasa.
Person: (seriously confused) blah blah blah blah
Me: uhhhhhh
Older guy who remembers me: Hello?
Me: Hi! I'm the foreigner!
Older guy: You want a new propane?
Me: Yes!
Older guy: The tall one or the fat tank?
Me: The fat tank.
Older guy: blah blah blah sixth floor, right?
Me: No--the fifth floor.
Older guy: Ok.
Me: There's only a fifty lira note--is that ok?
Older guy: No problem.
Me: Thanks!
Wow. Two phone calls in one morning. I feel like I've accomplished a tremendous amount. It's going to be a good day.
I needed to make an appointment with my doctor. He speaks English but the thought of talking on the phone was intimidating. What if we had a language problem? Oh well. When you need to see the doctor, you need to see the doctor. Stop fucking around and just do it.
I called the number on his card, thinking it would reach him. Wrong. A secretary answered the phone. Fuck.
I stumbled my way through making an appointment. She quickly realized that I was a foreigner. The following dialogue has been translated into English for your reading pleasure:
Her: Blah blah blah Clinic. Blah blah blah
Me: Doctor Hakkan, please.
Her: Blah blah see blah blah blah appointment blah blah?
Me: Yes! I want to make an appointment.
Her: Oh! You want to take an appointment. (Ugh damn differences in verb collocation from English to Turkish. We take, they make.)
Me: Yes!Her: Today?
Me: No.
Her: Tomorrow?
Me: No. (Dammit, she's just so fast, I can't think of the words quickly enough to be anything other than stupid!)
Her: Monday?
Me: Yes!
Her: What time?
Me: Uhhhhh (brain stalling to convert first to 24-hour time and then to Turkish and get the prepositions in the right places). At 14:30, please.
Her: Ok. 2:30?
Me: Yes.
Her: Name?
Me: (spelling it in Turkish for her.) But I have two last names.
Her: I found you here.
Me: Great.
Her: blah blah blah control blah blah blah?
Me: I don't know. (both of us laughing)
Her: Ok. No problem. 2:30 on the 10th.
Me: Yes. Thanks!
That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I strutted around my apartment for a few minutes, amidst the boxes and the mess of moving. I felt good. Really good. I just made my first phone call in Turkish. That's right, yabancı succeeds at doing something that an 8-year-old Turkish kid could do. Shouldn't I be encouraging this elation by making phone calls more often?
Why not now? I needed to fill my propane canisters and I had avoided going down to the street. I peered over my balcony at the phone number on awning of the water and propane store across the street. I'd talked to the guy before. He'd remember me, surely.
... ring ... ring... ring...
Some girl, or prepubescent boy, answers the phone.
Me: I want a new propane. Mine is empty.
Person: blah blah blah your address?
Me: You very close I am. (Dammit I should just stick with the simple sentence structures and not try to do fancy things like say: I'm close to you). Sema Apartment, 399 Midhatpasa.
Person: (seriously confused) blah blah blah blah
Me: uhhhhhh
Older guy who remembers me: Hello?
Me: Hi! I'm the foreigner!
Older guy: You want a new propane?
Me: Yes!
Older guy: The tall one or the fat tank?
Me: The fat tank.
Older guy: blah blah blah sixth floor, right?
Me: No--the fifth floor.
Older guy: Ok.
Me: There's only a fifty lira note--is that ok?
Older guy: No problem.
Me: Thanks!
Wow. Two phone calls in one morning. I feel like I've accomplished a tremendous amount. It's going to be a good day.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Change of Pace
Change of Pace
I found an apartment in the student neighborhood--it's a quiet neighborhood with a limited view of some trees and a building with a sweet red-tiled roof, and a mosque with a beautiful garden across the street. The cross ventilation is fabulous. It feels like it's in village BUT it's only 7 minutes from the metro and 3 minutes from bars and a fabulous nightlife. I'm so excited!
I signed the lease two days ago on Saturday. I'm moving my stuff this next Saturday. Hiring movers to negotiate a washer, two couches, a fridge, a bed, blah blah blah blah up and down the stairs. Like I have time or energy to manhandle it myself.
So begins the voyage into dealing with this stuff more independently. It's a little intimidating to think about whether or not I can cope with bills and paying bills in Turkish, but it'll be a learning experience. I haven't died yet.
I teach dead people...
The students in one of my summer classes barely have a pulse. I say hello, they stare at me. I teach them grammar, they stare at me. I give them instructions to practice said grammar, they stare at me. I say goodbye, they stare at me.
On a good day, I can make them laugh for a few minutes, but then they remember how much they are supposed to hate English and they're back to being dead.
On a bad day, they're just dead. It's like trying to prop a giant, 1600 pound puppet (a rough calculation of their collective weight [12 fit twenty-somethings at roughly 130 lbs apiece) made entirely of Jello, and convince the puppet to talk. It just flops over and lays there, staring at you. Hating you. Silently. Is their silence the only thing between them and a cathartic grammar-induced killing spree?!?!
On Friday, however, I started to hate them. Here's what happened, Lola (the other teacher who I share the class with--classes that meet for 4.5 hours a day, 5 days a week NEED two teachers) and I had a miscommunication about one of the supplementary exercises she had used with the class the day before. Basically, I go in to practice Present Continuous with them--get my picture of a crazy beach scene (people playing volleyball, swimming away from a shark, building a sandcastle, blah blah blah) on the overhead project, go about teaching them the vocabulary to talk about it, and get to the point of giving them their own copy of the worksheet when... an ASTOUNDING six minutes after I begin this activity, they tell me that Lola already did it with them.
"What?" my voice is sharp.
"Yesterday, Lola... We write names... Finished..."
I stop dead, staring at them.
"Finished?" I echo. I probably got that crazy I'm-About-To-Knife-Someone edge to my voice, because, despite their deadness, they nod. Sullenly.
"You did this yesterday?"
They nod again. I blink angrily a few times. I'm not angry at Lola. I'm angry at their deadness. Their watching me repeat something for minutes and minutes, and the slow dawn of consciousness that eventually seeped over them.
"I'm happy you told me," my voice is like slow steel pushing into their deadness. "Thank you for telling me six minutes after I started... It's good to know you finished it... Now."
I stare at them. They stare at me. Guiltily.
"Ten minute break," I announce. Though it's usually a relief for them, the reward for finishing something, it became a punishment.
They tried to explain when I came back to class but I didn't even care. And when class finished, and I said goodbye, they stared. So what am I going to do tomorrow? Stare back. Damn straight.
I found an apartment in the student neighborhood--it's a quiet neighborhood with a limited view of some trees and a building with a sweet red-tiled roof, and a mosque with a beautiful garden across the street. The cross ventilation is fabulous. It feels like it's in village BUT it's only 7 minutes from the metro and 3 minutes from bars and a fabulous nightlife. I'm so excited!
I signed the lease two days ago on Saturday. I'm moving my stuff this next Saturday. Hiring movers to negotiate a washer, two couches, a fridge, a bed, blah blah blah blah up and down the stairs. Like I have time or energy to manhandle it myself.
So begins the voyage into dealing with this stuff more independently. It's a little intimidating to think about whether or not I can cope with bills and paying bills in Turkish, but it'll be a learning experience. I haven't died yet.
I teach dead people...
The students in one of my summer classes barely have a pulse. I say hello, they stare at me. I teach them grammar, they stare at me. I give them instructions to practice said grammar, they stare at me. I say goodbye, they stare at me.
On a good day, I can make them laugh for a few minutes, but then they remember how much they are supposed to hate English and they're back to being dead.
On a bad day, they're just dead. It's like trying to prop a giant, 1600 pound puppet (a rough calculation of their collective weight [12 fit twenty-somethings at roughly 130 lbs apiece) made entirely of Jello, and convince the puppet to talk. It just flops over and lays there, staring at you. Hating you. Silently. Is their silence the only thing between them and a cathartic grammar-induced killing spree?!?!
On Friday, however, I started to hate them. Here's what happened, Lola (the other teacher who I share the class with--classes that meet for 4.5 hours a day, 5 days a week NEED two teachers) and I had a miscommunication about one of the supplementary exercises she had used with the class the day before. Basically, I go in to practice Present Continuous with them--get my picture of a crazy beach scene (people playing volleyball, swimming away from a shark, building a sandcastle, blah blah blah) on the overhead project, go about teaching them the vocabulary to talk about it, and get to the point of giving them their own copy of the worksheet when... an ASTOUNDING six minutes after I begin this activity, they tell me that Lola already did it with them.
"What?" my voice is sharp.
"Yesterday, Lola... We write names... Finished..."
I stop dead, staring at them.
"Finished?" I echo. I probably got that crazy I'm-About-To-Knife-Someone edge to my voice, because, despite their deadness, they nod. Sullenly.
"You did this yesterday?"
They nod again. I blink angrily a few times. I'm not angry at Lola. I'm angry at their deadness. Their watching me repeat something for minutes and minutes, and the slow dawn of consciousness that eventually seeped over them.
"I'm happy you told me," my voice is like slow steel pushing into their deadness. "Thank you for telling me six minutes after I started... It's good to know you finished it... Now."
I stare at them. They stare at me. Guiltily.
"Ten minute break," I announce. Though it's usually a relief for them, the reward for finishing something, it became a punishment.
They tried to explain when I came back to class but I didn't even care. And when class finished, and I said goodbye, they stared. So what am I going to do tomorrow? Stare back. Damn straight.
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