Introduction to Istanbul

Ok. I no longer live in Izmir. I moved to Istanbul. Long and complicated story. Too boring to be repeated, so here are new things to nibble on.

I arrived a month ago and settled, in this sprawling city of 15 million, in the heart of the old Istanbul itself: Sultanahmet (technically on the European continent). A three minute walk from my house is the Blue Mosque, and across from the Blue Mosque is the Aya Sofia, and just behind that is Topkapi Palace, which housed the Ottoman sultans for 400 years. Or a three minute walk in the other direction takes me to the Bosporus where I can wander along the ruined walls of the Ottoman fortress. This is the true, cliche, original Istanbul. So naturally, it's become the mecca of ultra-high-powered-in-your-face-Hey!-you-tourist-who's-here-for-two-days-and-you-want-to-experience-the-capital-of-the-Ottoman-Empire-so-we're-gonna-fucking-show-it-to-you Istanbul.

The Blue Mosque

The Aya Sofia

So I live in Istanbul, but it's the Istanbul that is the face of All Things Turkish. My street is a strange pocket of Turkish life within the larger bubble of Sultanahmet, an area largely inhabited by tourists. Many of the old, Greek buildings have been renovated into swanky hotels and restaurants. The concentration of hand-woven carpets per square meter is probably higher in Sultanahmet than anywhere else in Turkey.

But if you wander just past the train tracks of Sultanahmet, you'll find a few streets which haven't yet been absorbed by tourism. And here, in an old crumbling Greek building surrounded by other old crumbling Greek buildings, packed with Turkish families--women hanging out the window to shake laundry or chat with a neighbor who's also hanging out her window; kids playing in the street; mopeds zipping over cobblestones; men roaming the streets pushing

carts full of pastries or fresh vegetables--I live.

My apartment isn't modern. The windows are old and I can hear everything on the street. But it has this incredible, beautiful charm to me. High ceilings with huge crown molding which has been painted light blue. The living room has a raised wood geometric pattern of squares, hexagons and stars in it. A heavy front door with big brass door handles and an old-fashioned keyhole above the newer one that locks securely.

And I leave from here and go to work. I lock my door. I walk past the cluster of teenage boys on the corner, duck under the elevated train tracks, walk through the hoards of street sellers convinced I'm another tourist until I blow them off in Turkish, between the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque, and get on the tram. I cross the Golden Horn and, at the end of the line--still in Europe, but further north--I scuttle down into a tunnel that gives me a transfer connection to the bustling hub, Taksim. If I chose to go aboveground here, I would be spit out at a shopping avenue that could be likened to Times Square in New York... maybe. But instead, I stay underground, and go further north, still in Europe. After the quiet, predictable precision of the metro, I arrive above-ground in a shiny, sky-scraper-packed business district. Men and women in sharper clothes than I hurry by. We pick our way through the cars. The cobblestones of Sultanahmet are long gone; traffic crawls over smooth asphalt. I stand at a bus stop and wait to be picked up. The bus zips down hills and grinds up other ones. Finally we reach a toll bridge and we're crossing the Bosporous.

I love this part--because even on the steamy, tropical, condensation-saturated bus, even here, I find myself in awe, looking through the fog-blanket at the fancy estates that dot the hill around the 600-year old Rumeli Fortress. And then, we're in Asia, technically. But it's an event that every bus-goer is extremely oblivious to. They're going to work. And it's 8 o clock in the morning. And the drooping eyelids show how they wish they were back in bed. Europe?! Asia?! There's very little glamour. We take an exit off the freeway and we find ourselves again in a glass and polished steel world of baby sky-scrapers five to fifteen stories tall. Corporations waiting to grow big and strong.

Here, in a city within Istanbul, I work. Again, teaching English, but this time private lessons rather than classes like in Izmir. The change of pace is very appreciated and my students are growing on me. My boss is flexible (I can have a holiday) as well as generous (she's offered to give me free Turkish lessons). She arranged for one of her friends to give me private tutoring twice a week.

Tuesdays and Thursdays, I sit across the table from Aylin, my tutor. She's a 35-year old mother of two and she's gone back to school to get her MBA. A smart, busy, ambitious lady, this one, but she patiently sits with me and plows through the endless field of Turkish with me. We communicate in a mixture of 85% Turkish, 15% English. She speaks quickly, and I've given up trying to get her to slow down. I get the gist.

Yesterday, at the beginning of our lesson, she was filling out a survey about life in Istanbul, so after I peered at hers, she gave me my own.

Name. Age. Occupation. District where you live. Do you like Istanbul? Do you miss Istanbul when you leave the city? Do you own, rent or free-load? Ok. Easy enough. I ticked off my answers.

Do you feel like yourself in Istanbul? Uh... Myself. I played with word in my mind. Do I feel like myself?! What kind of question is that? I don't even know where to begin. Ok, next question.

What kind of city do you want Istanbul to be in the future? Again, I'm stymied. But now not because I don't know the answer, but rather because it's not my city. I tried to explain my conundrum to Aylin--"But I'm just here; I'm just watching; this isn't my city..."

I don't remember what I ticked. But God! The questions that nagged me. On such a rainy, foggy, mundane, unglamorous Tuesday afternoon in Istanbul, here I was reminded that I am still, and little more than, a visitor. No matter if it's Europe or Asia.

Yabancı Soap

I was in this shop--cramped and stuffed with everything: dishes, silverware, electrical cords and extensions, dust brushes, plastic bags, dish drying wracks, sponges, soap. I was picking through. I wanted rubber gloves but didn't know the word for it. I kept my mouth shut--I didn't want them to overcharge me for the gloves if they realized I was a foreigner. They offered me some Coca Cola, which I politely and briefly declined. After a couple more minutes the guy said to me--in English: "Where are you from?"

I wanted to die laughing at myself. There I was, trying to be discreet about not knowing the words for rubber gloves, and yet I still oozed some Invisible Yabancı Vibe that he could sense. How?! How?!

In the end I found my rubber gloves, to which I added a Danon water bottle filled with bulk liquid dish detergent--I paid two lira total, not a bad price. For a yabancı.

Public Safety Restored, Yabancı In Custody

~~ You know in films how there are those dream sequences that are a blend of reality and fantasy? ... It's all true until the assault... ~~

İZMİR --- Turkish bankers and innocent citizens nearly lost their lives today at a local İş Bank. The psychopathic Yabancı--who claims to be the Turkish popstar, Ajda Pekkan, but looks nothing like the 63-year old plastic surgery posterchild, and who speaks Turkish with an American accent--had become increasingly frustrated over recent days and finally "went postal" when she had almost finished a bank transaction. Police have leaked to our exclusive reporter the following events which led to the Yabancı's terrifying behavior.

The Yabancı realized on Sunday, October 4th that she had neglected to deposit sufficient funds in her HalkBank account--thereby botching her monthly electronic transfer to her landlord's İş Bank account.

Monday morning, the Yabancı proceeded to a neighborhood HalkBank branch, waited in the queue behind fifty other customers, deposited her 600 lira and inquired about the electronic transfer, only to be told in barely-comprehensible motorboat Turkish by the unsympathetic bank teller that she must go to the branch where she originally authorized the monthly electronic transfer. No. It could not be done from the neighborhood branch, despite being the same bank. Frustrated, the Yabancı went to her employer's Turkish accountant for help that very afternoon.

İş Bank, which has nearly 100 branches throughout greater Izmir, requires a 30 lira processing fee if a customer from another bank (such as the Yabancı, who uses HalkBank) wishes to deposit money into an İş Bank customer's account unless the transaction is completed at the branch were the İş Bank customer officially opened his or her account. The Yabancı was very displeased to learn this. After sufficient tribulation, the Yabancı was able to ascertain the address for her landlord's branch--which was, purportedly, in the Yabancı's neighborhood. There are, however, four or five İş Bank's in a 2 kilometer radius.

Monday, the Yabancı was further irked by the ruffle shirt she wore--which she later admitted to police had been a horrible fashion mistake. Her co-workers were quite amused by the ruffles, likening it to that worn by the flamboyant Welsh interior designer, Laurence Llewelyn Bowen, and one of them eventually took pity on Yabanci and composed a poem in her honor (police found the poem crumpled at the bottom of the Yabancı's purse):

Lines Written on the Occassion of Yabancı's Display of Sartorial Flamboyance:

Yabancı, who, after banking woes,

Appeared considerably peeved,

Waged war upon financiers

By rolling up her lacy sleeves.

Only to come to work to face

A barrage of satire

From the green-eyed monsters that beheld

Her splendid attire.

Yabancı, unacquainted with the iron

Though fond of fringe and ruffle

Rose above their childish taunts

With ne'er a brawl or scuffle.

She disregarded those whose garb

Was ragged or pathetic

And she triumphed over their mean minds,

Their mediocre aesthetic!

Tuesday morning the Yabancı prepared for the day only to discover that her milk had gone bad. Her unspoiled cereal on the counter, she left the house at 9:45 resolved to (a) withdraw 600 lira from HalkBank; (b) go to İş Bank and resolve her debt; (c) purchase milk. Before she left, she called the water delivery man and ordered a bottle--leaving her flatmate at home to pay the man on arrival. The Yabancı left her flat and walked due west to the HalkBalk ATM where she withdrew exactly 600 lira, discovering that she had no extra money in her wallet with which to buy milk, an interim breakfast snack, or pay the İş Bank processing fee, should she find herself at the wrong bank branch. The Yabancı then proceeded to the İş Bank, doubling back past her flat, and walking another kilometer and a half.

After some wandering she found it, asked the security guard in the lobby if the address on a slip of paper matched their physical location, told a teller her landlord's name and account number, followed the security guard to the ATM outside the building, gave him her tax identification number (police are still not sure what the fuck any of this had to do with anything), and answered her incessently-ringing mobile: It was the water delivery man who, though he had found the apartment (not for the first time as the Yabancı is his frequent customer) found no one at home when he rang the bell.

"My friend is home--number nine," the Yabancı repeated every time the water man said something in horribly accented, slurred Turkish. Eventually, the Yabancı simply apologized to the water man and hung up on him because she couldn't understand him anyway, and the security guard was trying to explain...

She must visit a different branch in Bornova because her landlord hadn't opened his account in the place she was standing. The branch the security guard described to her was closer to the Yabancı's flat, about 15 minutes away on foot, and approximately ten meters from the HalkBank ATM the Yabanci had visited earlier Tuesday morning.

Incredulous, the Yabancı stalked away, returned home and ate her bowl of milkless cereal. Her jaw worked furiously over the flakes of corn and rice. She set out once more, this time ready to rant if need be. She reached her destination at 11:17, received a number for the queue--3352--and endured another 30 minutes as tellers dealt with the 34 customers in front of her. The Yabancı also endured an annoying mother and child have this "conversation" for approximately 10 minutes: "Mom!" "Yes my dear?" ... "Mom!" "Yes my dear?" ... "Mom!" "Yes my dear?"...

When her number was finally called and she reached a window she was ready to knife someone--only to discover the teller quietly on the phone:

"Hi! What are you doing?... Mmmhmm... I'm good. You?... blah blah blah... blah blah blah... Ok... blah blah blah..."

At which point the Yabancı bitchily cleared her throat and thrust all of the paperwork across the counter. The teller put down the phone with a watery smile but the Yabancı just stared back and in halting Turkish explained her situation. Some six minutes later the Yabanci had

completed the transaction that had been plaguing her life for the past 36 hours and was told by the chipper teller, "O kadar! That's all!"

It was this final remark that sent the Yabancı over the edge. She lost all self control and brandished her weapon, opening fire in Turkish and English with her vitriolic mouth. What began as an assault aimed at the teller quickly escalated into a systematic assault on İş Bank, HalkBank, the Turkish banking institution as a whole, the culture that allows children to be publically molly-coddled to the point where the sanctity of The Bank is destroyed, stupid water delivery men, spoiled milk, traffic, gevrek hollerers, cobblestone streets, stray cats, door handles which don't turn properly, unfit people, rain, uneven sidewalks, Efes Beer and Laurence Llewelyn Bowen.

Bank employees and customers alike looked on with horror as the Yabancı sprayed the room with wave after wave of English/Turkish babble. Security guards wrestled the Yabancı to the floor, attempting to tazer her into submission, but she escaped at the last minute, hopping onto a dolmuş.

The police were called and they began a search of the area. They were fruitless for hours until they followed a tip called in by a dolmuş driver. After an altercation between the Yabancı and the dolmuş driver about the false advertisement of his route--ending a fair kilometer from the neighborhood the Yabancı thought she was going to--the driver called the police. The driver's description of the Yabancı matched that given by the İş Bank teller. Police searched the radius of the dolmuş' last stop and found the Yabancı huffily walking.

Backup was called, the Yabancı was surrounded and cornered by squad cars, and police were able to bring the dangerous woman into custody for questioning. Her employer was notified and the expat community there sent an immediate and heartfelt display of solidarity in composing extra poetry:

Perseverence

When dabbling in finance

A host of woes await

And banking tribulations

Are unlikely to abait.

But the Yabanci maid

Has braved the trials

of bulls and bears in spate

and has reimbursed her landlord even if

her rent was late.

The Yabancı is unavailable for comment but police say she has vowed never, ever, ever, ever ever again to (a) let there be insufficient funds to process her monthly electronic transfer; nor (b) wear the ruffle shirt.

Local Newspaper Article -- Statistics of Turks' Perceptions of American Politics

I read this today on Hürriyet Daily News and Economic Review, one of the local English papers.

Obama-mania hits Turks too

Interview: Mr. Finn

My blog readership is up--an astounding 3 followers. Now that the masses are all hooked on what Americans do best--rambling self-importantly about nothing--it's time to throw a surprise punch. That's right: interview a special guest.

My special guest today is from Finland. I met him and his coworkers in a bar in Izmir. They were speaking English and I couldn't resist the opportunity to make new friends. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Finn--the only Finn you'll ever need to meet.


Where were you born?

Funny that you would ask this. Way before the answer would have always been "in sauna," but when I was born we already had hospitals. So I was born in a hospital, I'm told. I don't remember much about it though.

When were you born?
I was one of the lucky ones born in seventies. On April 1979 to be exact. Oh I so miss the seventies.

How many people live in Finland?
I cannot give you an exact answer since it changes all the time, but on January 2009 that number was 5,326,314.

How many cousins do you have?
Who can keep up with that? I cannot give you an exact answer but its between 25 and 35.

Are you an English teacher?
No.

So you have a real job?
No I'm an engineer.

How long have you been living in Turkey?
I would rather say that I'm visiting here not living. In total it's something like 13-14 months. You can hardly hear finnish accent from my turkish anymore.

How many / which languages do you speak?
I speak Finnish, yes we do have our own language. Then English and little Swedish. I have been studying German, but most of it I have forgotten. And then I know few words in Turkish. I try to use one at the time. Well I could speak more than one but then the one who is listening would need to understand also more than one language. It's just easyer this way. Does it make any sence?

Yes, it does. When did you start learning English?
In third grade, which means that i was 10 years old. You get to choose when starting the third grade wether you will learn English or Swedish. The other one comes later on. Who would choose Swedish? They speak pretty good English in Sweden anyway.

Is that a normal age in Finland?
To choose between English and Swedish? Yes I would say it is, unless you have started the school 1 year earlyer at the age of 6. Then you would make this big decision when you are 9.

How do you find Turks?
In Turkey they are just everywhere you dont have to search too much. I like most of the Turks. They are friendly and ready to help you in any ways. Some times they might charge you some money for the favour, but they really are willing to help. When I think about it those friends are your friends even before you have seen them. You just hear "My friend" from somewhere and there they are willing to help and willing to charge. The real Turkish friends will share everything with you selfless and they make you feel welcome every time.

How do you find Finns?
Just by accident I found couple of them in one mall here. They were not as warm as the Turks so the conversation took about 2 minutes before I realized that it's time to say good bye. Since there is just few of us in the rather big country, we are used to be on our own and not interfere too much with each others. It takes time to get to know us, but I would say were are reliable and also friendly when you get to know us. First impression will mostly be cold.

How do you find Americans?
They are the greatest nation in the world. If most of them say so, how could you argue with that?

What do you find strangest about life in Turkey?
When there's a problem, there's always a solution which me as a Finn wouldn't even dare to try. Sometimes it works but every now and then it doesn't.

Can you give an example?
There are many examples in the traffic or in constructions or where ever.... Well this is not something that a Finn would not try but did not really fit to the consept for the place. A while ago i visited in a good hotel in Izmir. I was in hotel sauna when I happened to drop my locker key under the bench. There was no way to get it from there so I asked from personnel to help me. He did not understand or something else, but he promised to come back soon.

After waiting around 10 minutes I asked from another person who called third one over there. This guy got my point and asked my locker number. He promised to come back soon. I stayed waiting and thinking that ok they have spare key for the locker, but no. This guy comes back with a huge screw driver and forced the locker to open. I could not help thinking why he needed to know my locker number before getting the "key". Do they really have different spare "key" for all the lockers and he needed to know which one he should take with him when coming back?!

What do you miss the most from Finland?
My own space and silence. Green forests. Potatoes and dark bread.

But there are potatoes in Turkey...

Yes they have french fries and they have some times serve few potatoes slices on the side of your plate soaking in oil. I miss the potatoes which are just boiled in a water and then served. Instead of rice just loads of potatoes and some sauce on them.

Have you ever tried typing on a Turkish keyboard?
Yes I have indeed. I used to have a problem to sign in to my mail since i did not realize that in Turkish keyboard "i" is in different place. Afterwards I have been helping other people with the same problem. It makes me so happy to be able to help someone in their gratest trouble.

Do you have a business card? Maybe you should include "Turkish keyboard specialist" after "Engineer"...
Yes I do. I could do that, but then it would be official. And that would basically just mean more work, more travelling and more away from home.

What's your favorite Turkish song?
Hele bi gel, from Pinhani. (Pinhani has generously made their music available free online here.)

What's your favorite Finnish song?
Years on the road, from Peer Günth

What language do they sing in?
Pinhani in Turkish and Peer Günth in English. Can you believe it! Finnish band singing in English.

What's the biggest difference between English and Finnish?
There are two things that comes to my mind. First of all we don't have any prepositions. Instead we just add something in the end of the words. And then we don't have the word "please" in our language. We are cold and impolite so we just left it out.

What do you hate the most about English?
The prepositions and "please."

Globalization or Bust

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*

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.

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.

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.

Locked Out

A few weeks ago I forgot my keys in the flat. My flatmate, Sondra, wasn't home and wasn't going to come home for awhile. I ended up going to a friend's to wait it out, but vowed to fix a spare set of keys inside our mailbox, so that I could avoid future incident.

Did I follow through?! No. Do I have anyone to blame but myself?! No.

So when I was on the bus tonight, rummaging though my bag to find my keys, I was fucking irritated to discover the lack of distinctive jangling at the bottom of my bag.

And once again, Sondra wasn't home and wasn't going to come home for awhile. I was lucky because the restaurant a meter from our building door--which had gone out of business for a couple months--reopened just yesterday. I called the waiter with a rather surly disposition and grumpily parked myself in the chair closest to our flat. I bitterly ordered a tea to wait for my housemate.

It dawned on me after awhile that she might not be coming home at all--her days off are now different from mine, and tonight (though Sunday) is the end of her workweek, so she might be going to party. What if I just sat here all night waiting for her?

I fumed over my tea, sipping it to make it last longer, looking up longingly at the fifth floor (which in any country but America is actually the sixth floor). So close, yet so far. I wondered if I could lower myself to our balcony from my upstairs neighbors'. I had left my balcony door open for the breeze this morning, and I could easily get inside once I was on my balcony. In my head I made some sentences to ask Orhan: "Benim anatarlarımı unutdum. Senin balkonın kullanabilir miyim? (I forgot my keys. Can I use your balcony?)"

It would be risky, and I doubted Orhan would be happy. How would I explain to him that I have gone rock-climbing and rappelling? How would I assure him that I could do it? Would people across the street notice me climb down? I envisioned the neighbors watching me dangle above the concrete. "Crazy yobancılar," they would mutter. But what, I defended in my head, would they do if they got locked out?! Surely Turks, too, must forget their keys occasionally.

I concluded that my descent would be easier if I had some kind of sheet or rope to tie around the railing. However, when I checked my immediate memory for "sheet" or "rope", I found no Turkish equivalents. I doubted that neither İsan (the corner market owner) nor the new restaurant waiter would permit me to snoop through their closets.

Unable to explain my needs, I would have to perform my death-defying stunt relying only on my hands. But my hands would be sweaty from anticipation. I remembered my days of rock-climbing and pool-playing. I needed chalk to absorb the sweat. Would Orhan have any chalk? Highly doubtful, but flour would work. His wife must surely have flour. Any Turkish woman worth her weight in kebab would have flour in her kitchen.

The waiter brought me a second cup of tea. The wind was starting to blow harder, and it was getting darker. My mood blackened further. I was tired and wanted Sondra to come home. Why the fuck had I forgotten my keys again?! Would spending all night waiting outside for Sondra, or splattering onto the concrete after slipping as I tried to get from one balcony to another, help me learn my lesson to be less scatterbrained?

To facilitate wallowing in my own pity, I pointed up to the fifth floor and told the waiter that I lived here but had forgotten my keys. My housemate wasn't coming home soon. Oh woe is me.

Before I'd even finished explaining the situation, he'd flipped open his cell phone and called his locksmith friend. He spoke ludicrously fast, despite my repeated attempts to slow him down and repeat things, but I understood that someone was coming to open my door for 25 or 30 lira.

As my third cup of tea arrived, so did the locksmith. The waiter accompanied us up to my flat. About ten minutes after the he'd called for help, my door was open.

What's more?! When I handed the locksmith a twenty and a ten note, asking if he had five in change (only to be told no, he didn't), the waiter handed me back my ten, opened his own wallet and paid the remaining five. I offered my money to him-- "Çay için (For the tea)." He declined. "Lütfen! (Please!)" I tried to give him the money again a few seconds later but he clucked his tongue, batted my hand away, got into the elevator and disappeared.

Moral #1: Never underestimate the hospitality of a Turk.
Moral #2: The amount you can accomplish in your own language is staggering. Life is supposed to be this easy, J, you dummy. Prolonged exposure to being an Other is obviously hazardous to your mental health.

Ask and ye shall receive

Step One: State Your Demands
It's been an interesting six days. Friday morning I woke up a little irritated. It was the start of another work week and I wanted to go to Bafa Gölü (Lake Bafa) on Wednesday. I didn't really want to go alone--not because I can't travel on my own, but because it gets boring sometimes.

I don't know if I believe in god, and I don't really pray, but I do have a habit of asking good ol' Mr. Universe to pull a favor for me now and then. Friday morning I wrote Him a message (this is absurd but I'm not kidding):

"Ok Universe. Is it so much to ask for to send me my long-awaited traveling companion?!?! I'm trying not to get desperate but I'm running out of time."

Can you tell I was peeved?! Anyway. I tacked it on my wall and went to work. My day passed without incident and as I descended the five floors of stairs at work, it occurred to me that I wouldn't be meeting anyone. How could I?

I walked the few blocks from work to my bus stop. As I passed a corner, two blond guys were speaking English with a Turkish girl. I did a double take but they didn't notice. I kept walking, put off by the daunting task of breaking up the energy of a triangle. But I remembered my cranky note and stopped, kept looking back. The guys stayed on the corner and sat down to drink a beer at a pub.

"Don't be an idiot J, just go home."

I've never been so divided as I walked away from people. I've walked by other yobancıs in Izmir, and regretted it after. "What's the worst that can happen?" I told myself as I stopped and started walking back. "Maybe you feel awkward for all of two minutes, in which case you abort mission."

Step Two: Cowgirl Up
Long story short, I approached these total strangers and ended up befriending them. They're European and in Izmir indefinitely, working on a company project. It turns out there aren't just two, but three of them. And their English is virtually perfect.

Finally I dared to ask: "So what are your Wednesdays and Thursdays like?" Might I snag a traveling companion?

Unfortunately, no. They're working constantly, except when they drink at night (hmm... sounds kind of like English teachers...). But we hung out a bunch over the next few days and for the first time since arriving (some 268 days) I felt like I had friends.

But I also decided that I was going to Bafa alone--because otherwise I would just sit at home...

Step Three: Recognize that gifts come in installments... like a treasure hunt
Gift 1: One of my students works for a bus company that runs all over the place. On Sunday, I asked her about how to get to Bafa Gölü. I just wanted information about departure times and locations, etc. She insisted on getting a free ticket for me, picking it up after class, and delivering it to me at work. Thanks!!!

Gift 2: So this morning I woke up agonizingly early to find the random city bus that takes an hour plus to wind through Izmir to the bus garage on the outskirts of town. It was probably going to take a long time, and it occurred to me at 8:45 when I pulled the door of my flat shut, that I might already be running late if my bus left at 10:00...

The elevator was being called up to the seventh floor, and if I hadn't been so tired and lazy, I would have walked down the stairs. Instead I waited for the elevator and opened the door to see my neighbor. We exchanged pleasantries and I asked him about where I could find the city bus to the bus garage. I showed him my ticket and he knew to look for information about the free service bus that runs from the city center to the bus garage. My neighbor took me under his wing and ushered me along, giving me directions to find my way quickly and painlessly to the bus garage. Once again, thank you!!!

Once on the bus leaving Izmir, I settled down to enjoy the ride and the opportunity to sleep some more. I woke up as we were passing Bafa Gölü, a beautiful, huge (10 kilometers by 1 kilometer) lake that used to be part of the sea but became closed as silt deposits filled in the mouth. It was gorgeous to drive by, but I couldn't see any villages, and when the bus finally stopped for me in Bafa, I did NOT want to get off the bus. I just had a strange feeling that was like, "This is not the thing to do."

So despite my embarrassment, I told the bus steward that I wouldn't be getting off and I wanted to continue. I finally ended up in one of those middle-of-nowhere freaking boring, characterless towns where the only thing to do is wait at the bus garage for the next bus home.

I texted my colleague about alternative destinations and debated just going back to Izmir. I finally bullied myself into going and finding Apollo's Temple in Didim--I had, after all, come this far and it would be lame to waste the entire day.

I went to Apollo's Temple and chatted with some tourists but didn't meet anyone interesting. As I was leaving the site, I saw a young Turkish couple having their picture taken by their adorable 7-year old son. I offered to take their photo, which they were happy for. I said it was my pleasure and headed up the stairs to find out from the museum guy how to get back to Izmir. I was talking with him when the couple wandered up the stairs and overheard my belabored conversation.

Gift 3: The husband and wife intervened. Oh! They were going back to Izmir and did I want a ride and no, really, it's no problem so come on, just follow them to their car and they really don't mind shoving the cooler of food, or the bag of toys to the side, making a spot for me by the car seat.

We headed back to Söke, but on the way, I asked them if they knew about Prieme, which my colleague had told me about. No, they didn't, but when we saw a sign for it, they veered left and bumped along back roads until we found ourselves at an unkempt pile of ruins. We clambered around for a good hour, then got back in the car, and continued till we found Prieme proper, a DIFFERENT pile of ruins on the top of a giant hill. Afterward we were exhausted and starving so we went to--of all places... anything to make the yobancı happy--McDonald's. To be loyal to Turkish food, I ordered the double köfte burger. I felt strange eating McDonald's food, which is so conspicuously expensive here (the experience warrants its own essay, for which I don't have the energy now).

After dinner, we drove back to Söke to take the son to a playground that was basically on crack. You HAVE to look at the pictures, but it was Disney meets Smurfs meets Gulliver's Travels meets traditional Turkish folk story characters like Kel Oğlan (literally "bald boy"). Oh sorry. And Santa Clause. And a mosque rising in the background. What what what?!?! This is a strange, mixed world we live in.

After that, finally, finally, FINALLY I was dropped off at my door. I'd say I got my traveling companions... Albeit in a strange, unexpected form.

The morals of the story are:
Don't stay at home.
Talk to strangers.
Always bring your camera and your dictionary.

Afterword...
In honor of Mr. Universe, I would like offer these sacrificial victims, who I saw earlier today. Their pants say it all. They need Mr. Universe's help... and they deserve to be in the Really. Bad. Tourists. album.

The Grass Is Always Greener...

Sometimes I really don't know about this whole living abroad thing. What's wrong with me?! Why can't I just be satisfied in good ol' North America?

The weekends are the hardest part of being overseas. You'd think I would relish the time off, especially my new-found time off. My weekends that are actually weekends. Forty-eight solid hours of unplugged-from-the-job. Sweet. Or not.

Usually on Wednesday or Thursday night (if I'm lucky to put it off for so long), depression and/or extreme frustration set in. Whatever insubstantial human interaction I've had that day replays over and over in my mind until I've become frustrated and wounded by it.

For example, today we had the flat cleaned. It was basically a hazardous area and two women spent 5 hours (that's 10 total for you math challenged) cleaning and shaking rugs and mopping and bleaching and windexing and dusting and wiping and de-greasing. The woman in the flat below us was less-than-thrilled by the noise at 5pm, so she came up to ask what the hell was going on.

I opened the door to her grumpy face, asked sweetly in my horrible Turkish if she was ok, and watched her and the cleaning ladies had an exchange since I am incapable. Her husband is sick and the noise is bothering him. Ok. We'll keep it down. Have a good day. She looked slightly less grumpy after I kept smiling and apologizing at her, but still. Fucking dour.

Anyway, I decided that I would give her and her ill husband a couple of my fresh strawberry/ginger/vanilla muffins that I just made tonight. Part of me doesn't know if she'll eat them--Turks (and here goes my fed-up over-generalization, so write this off but I have to type it) don't like to try new things--and wonders if she'll just throw them away. It's my irrational, "Everybody hates us because we're the yobancıs of the building, and what kind of young women live alone all this way from our families and occasionally have a man come to our flat" behavior. But I decided that so be it if she hates us, or hates my muffins, or if her husband is allergic to cinnamon or something.

Maybe my tiny little peace offering will be excepted and even enjoyed. The possibility that she might throw them away is a small price to pay for establishing American generosity and kindness abroad. But as I made the muffins, and then cleaned up from the mess, wondering if she could hear my dishes clinking, and if she was maybe gritting her teeth, I thought about what I'm doing here.

What AM I doing here?! Learning how to teach, I suppose. And trying to make friends, though it's incredibly difficult to meet women (they're at home all the time--another exaggeration), and the men I've met either want to be my boyfriend or nothing at all (that's not really an exaggeration). So. Ok. That leaves me with... right. No one, basically (after my boyfriend and all my co-workers have gone to work).

I'm trying to make lemonade, but on Wednesdays and Thursdays these lemons are really f-ing sour. At least tomorrow I'll be busy again and I can prolong these depressed thoughts for another five days.

She Has Got Fire Hair

I Don't Write The Exam, I Just Give It
One of my classes just had their exam to mark the end of the fifth month of English classes. Every exam has a writing topic, some of which are dreadfully boring. But the K5 topic is mildly entertaining in that it serves my vain self-interest: describe your teacher (clothes and appearance); talk about her past, present and future life.

It's an awkward exam to proctor since they keep peering at me, studying my face and clothes while I try to ignore them. They think the more they flatter me, the higher their grade will be. False. Here are the gems:

• In this day she looks fit like be everytime. [Thanks, I do try to stay slim.]
• She is a good teacher, really. [Really?!] She wants to be more good teacher and I think; she is trying for it. [I am. This is true and I'm thrilled you noticed.]
• She don't make up but she looks nice. She isn't tall. She is medium and she isn't fat.
• She has got fire hair (dark yellow). [That would just be bad-ass.]
• She isn't a pants. [Correct. She is a teacher.]

Word travels fast at PEÉ. Students from different classes and across levels are friends. They talk. These students [exam results above] found out weeks ago that I'd hung out with a different class and demanded equal treatment.

"When you finish K6," I told them. "Finish Elementary and we can go somewhere." That was the deal with the other class.

Their ideas for "hanging out" have morphed over the weeks. What started as dinner at a fasıl restaurant [traditional Turkish music] became going to a waterfront cafe and smoking hookah became, most recently, paint-balling. To which I flat out refused. I have to maintain my dignity somehow and running around some field getting shot at by my students isn't the way to do it.


Yobancı Like Me
Tonight I was walking home when I paused for a bus to drive by. A woman standing on my left peered at me and asked in slow, overly-articulated syllables: "Soo-per market?"

"Do you need help in English?" I asked, pulling off my headphones.

Her eyes got wide, her face lit up and she gripped my arm. "Oh bless you! Where are you from?!"

"America."

"Well yeah. Where?"

"California. You?"

"New Jersey."

"Why are you here?"

"Tour." We had a boring conversation not worth recounting. Anyway, I helped her across the street and took her to the soo-per market which was right there but she never would have known it. I didn't bother telling her that no one would have understood her "soo-per market" because it's not a Turkish word. I mean, seriously. What the hell would you do if someone tugged on your sleeve on the sidewalk and clearly enunciated: manav?!??! You'd blink a few times, look at them like they were a fucking crack-pot and walk off, that's what.

Meet the Family

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!!!

Absorbing and Being Absorbed

I think there's been a cosmic ban on communication for the last few weeks. It's finally starting to lift--what else can explain this morning's otherwise random pile of emails in my in-box from unrelated friends after weeks of nothing. The cosmic ban has probably impacted my dearth of blog posts.

What's been going on? I'm being absorbed. I'm going Turk. Not in an official way, but in an "Ok, I'm going to accept my boss' offer for a second year-long contract, so I may as well buckle down and learn the language, get my oven fixed, and start hanging out with the locals more" kind of way. And I'm eating sarma (rice-stuffed grape leaves) everyday. I've died and gone to heaven.

My decision to stay another year was likely impacted by the arrival of a boyfriend (a bass-playing Turk who I met at the restaurant/club where he works via my "brazen, American ways" [actually approaching and talking to a man] (compared to what I've observed of "meeker Turkish ways" [maybe acknowledging his existence with a glance or two, but not pursuing anything beyond that]). Our skill in the opposite language are at the same level, which is to say that, when speaking, we are as precise as grooming a poodle with a chainsaw.

My pride aside, I stumble through pained communication to convey only the most basic of things. What do we know about each other? Little. Do we have things in common? You'd be as surprised as me to find out! If I were dating a guy in the States, I would expect to know all about his hobbies, his childhood, his educational history, his hopes and dreams for the future, etcetra by now. And I would have catalogued this information in a sick, encyclopedic manner. I would be concerned about what kind of job he has, whether or not he likes his mother, and how I might theoretically fit into "the picture" after a few years. Screw all of that. They're extraneous luxuries.

We've abandoned the shame of busting out the trusty sözlük (dictionary) in a restaurant, the back of a taxi, or while walking down a crowded street in daylight. Entire conversations have been had flipping back and forth between the pages. I mean, how the hell else are we going to get through to each other? Well, when the sözlük fails, we do resort to Charades. Yeah--you should be jealous. People, this is romance at it's height.

Everything is revealed slowly; the level of patience required for this kind of endeavor should be enough to make me a saint and get me my own day on the Catholic calendar.

But I now have a companion who is concerned for my well-being, takes me on adventures around the city, introduces me to new places and people, and is teaching me how to cook Turkish food. Hell yeah! Though I've observed the Turkish Machismo and been disgusted by it in the past, I confess that it's nice to have someone be protective of me. Not that İzmir is dangerous, or that I can't muddle through on my own, but god it's exhausting after awhile. As long as I maintain my yobanca woman status and keep some distance (i.e. refusing to allow him to pay for everything), then it's fine to have someone keep his eye out for me.

My language-learning incentive has skyrocketed. I've had three or four people tell me that the best way to learn Turkish is from a boyfriend. How right they are. It's so much easier to just ask him. Last night while he was cooking in my kitchen, I pointed to everything practical and made a massive word list of all the language needed to cook: bowl, counter, fridge, cabinet, to cut, to fry, etc. I am slowly but steadily making my way through a Turkish grammar book. I force myself into the exhausting task of tuning into random Turk's public conversations and find that I know something and can sometimes understand what they're saying. Beams of pride.

Yavaş, yavaş (slow, slow).

It's the straw that breaks... you know how it goes

My father lives and works at a government agency in The States. One of his colleagues is a Turkish immigrant who's lived there for years. She was very nice and helpful when she learned that I was going to Turkey.

"Let me know what city you end up in," she said on email, "So that I can put you in touch with people I know. They'll be happy to look out for you." Turkish hospitality is no joke.

I'd received a few emails from various people--dinner invitations that have taken months to organize. I've just been so busy. Too busy to visit Turks, too busy to learn Turkish.

Well, it finally got sorted out with one of the couples for tonight. So I went to buy them a gift--dessert of some type to take as a thank you. I'd seen a new pastry shop that I thought sold baklava, so this afternoon I walked through the rain to buy some. It turned out, when I pushed the shop door open, that I was wrong. It wasn't baklava, but some other syrupy desert-type thing: subye. Ok, well whatever. I'm here now and it looks tasty.

The woman was alone in the shop and it took some time before I understood how much the subye cost. She keeps gesturing to the mammoth tray of subye and saying lots of extraneous information. I'm listening for numbers but don't hear any. I say I don't understand and again ask how much it costs. Finally she says something I understand. Subye is twelve lira a kilo. Lots of things here are sold according to weight: silver, cookies, bread. I have no idea how much subye is an appropriate amount to give as a gift, but I don't want to look like a cheap American.

"Ok," I said, pointing to a box. "One kilo. " So began the laborious process of lining up the in the box just so, and then weighing them, and then adding some more, so the box was full. She's chattering away to me but it falls on deaf ears. What part of "I don't understand" don't you understand? It was starting to look like an awful lot of subye. I noticed behind the counter that there was a smaller box that would probably hold half a kilo. Oh well, I thought, they'll think I'm generous. Or overly-generous. I don't want to bring too much, either, because that's embarassing for different reasons.

The box was now past a kilo, but she didn't ask if I wanted more when she added an extra few, so I figured it was still twelve lira.

She got out the ground pistachio powder and dusted my subye with it. I was reminded of the scene between Rowan Atkinson and Alan Rickman in "Love Actually" when Atkinson just won't finish wrapping the fucking necklace.

She's finally finished and it turns out that it's fifteen lira instead of twelve. Three lira is a tiny difference, right?! But I crumple. I don't even know what to say, or how to argue, or how to ask for fewer. And the energy it would take to have her untape the box and remove some of the subye is--though possible--beyond my current capacity. I hand her my twenty lira note and get back five. She looks at me, trying to figure out what is wrong. I can't say anything, anyway, but my entire demeanor has deflated in less than a second.

"Iyi gunler (Have a good day)," I say hollowly as I leave the store. Back on the street, I'm grateful for the rain that lets me hold my umbrella and hide the fact that I'm trying my hardest not to cry. The sense of defeat is overwhelming. But the only thing to do is keep plodding along. I try to convince myself that that's not defeat, but I know I'm lying.

Moral of the story: If you encounter someone who doesn't speak English, be nice to them. They're probably having a shitty day.

:-P

*sigh*

Musings from a yobanca

I sat in a dim bar, my eyes tingling from the endless cigarette smoke curling towards the ceiling. I blinked, relishing the slick relief. It was Saturday night, and for the first time in five months, I was hanging out. Ayşa, the beautiful girl who works in the front office of PEÉ and took me to the hospital last week, had invited me to go out with her to meet a few old friends from university. I accepted immediately--I didn't care where we went, or what we did, or who we saw.

Walking into such a situation, you can't have high expectations. If any of them speak English, I thought, well then good for me. But if not, well, so goes yobanca life. They did, in fact, speak English to varying degrees. They were initially shy about talking and so for awhile, Ayşa translated for us. There were lots of smiles and laughter as I stumbled through some basic Turkish phrases--putting them at ease because certainly their English had to be better.

Occassionally one of them would take mercy on me and ask me a question or two. However, they hadn't seen each other for awhile, and they were happy to chat and tell stories. It was during my witness of one of the men telling a story that had everyone in stitches with laughter that I discovered a new type of embarassment. Previously unfelt, this gentle yet inescapable embarassment dawned on me: clearly I was The Fool, understanding nothing whatsoever of the conversation taking place around me. Should I laugh? I didn't know what I was laughing at. Certainly, the situation had a degree of comedy from my side, but if I laughed, it would be an idiot laughing at a private joke that no one else could understand. No, I decided, it was best just to smile.

But god, how I longed to laugh, to understand, to be surrounded by old friends. Ayşa, the beautiful, sweet girl, sensed my predicament and translated for me, allowing me to share some of their experience.

I sat in that pub, knowing that I was in the midst of vast oceans of conversation. It was like treading water and praying that I would come across a stray piece of driftwood upon which I could rest, if for only a second. It was so hard to stay alert when all I heard was the odd number or "yes" or "no," "because," "what," or verb stem (iyor) without knowing the actual verb. It's easy to become overwhelmed by the incessant waves of words. I wanted, at times, to just drown in the words--tune out and permit myself to exist in a private world in the midst of an incomprehensible reality--but I forced myself to focus and try, even though I knew it was futile, try to understand.

"Don't fall asleep!" Ayşa joked with me once. I told her I wouldn't.

The truth was, once I had accepted this new embarassment, I enjoyed myself. When we parted company, they all kissed my cheeks goodbye (first on the left, then on the right) and we promised to meet again.

American Pie, or, Why we should care about what we export

Crafted by one of PEÉ's own students. What follows is an excerpt from an essay on why movies are popular worldwide. I'm not saying anything--judge for yourself. (You can click on it to make it full screen if you can't read it otherwise. I don't want you to miss any of it.)

Yobanca Blood

Ayşa and I finally found the right door. We pushed it open into a room--empty save for a single man in a long dark rain jacket. Ayşa said something to him and he got up to find the nurse. With Ayşa translating for me, I experienced everything with a five second delay. It turned out that the man was the father of the baby that needed blood.

I couldn't speak Turkish so I just looked at the father. His face was taut with anxiety. I hadn't expected to see him but now I was glad. Ayşa and I were in the children's hospital across the street from PEÉ. A few minutes before, someone had been wandering through local businesses, pleading for anyone with AB+ blood to come and donate to a premature newborn whose mother was experiencing a bout of hypertension--or something like that. The family didn't have enough money to buy blood.

"I have AB blood," I'd said in the teacher's room at PEÉ when a secretary from the front office came through. "Could they test it to find out if I'm positive or negative?"

And so off I had gone with Ayşa, skittering down the five flights of stairs, and weaving between a massive line of traffic to the other side of the block. The hospital is a sprawling mess of rooms, corridors and waiting rooms. Electronic number boards were high on the walls, keeping track of the endless queue of people waiting to get medical attention. We were batted around like a ping-pong ball between different stations in the hospital. Finally we found the right door, and discovered the father of the baby, who summoned a male nurse.

As the male nurse was motioning me to sit in one of the chairs, I was stripping off my jacket to roll my sleeve up, and Ayşa was explaining that I wasn't sure if I were positive or negative. But then the nurse stopped dead in his tracks.

"Yobanca?" He asked, finally noticing that this pale little girl hadn't spoken a word for herself yet. Yep. She's a foreigner all right.

He asked Ayşa if I had a drivers' license. Negative. I tried to offer him my residency documents in lieu but he wouldn't take them. I stood amongst the three of them--Ayşa, the nurse, and the shaking father--trying to follow the ensuing conversation, but in vain. Of course.

From the way Ayşa inched back towards the door we'd come through, and from the way the father kept saying to us, "Çok teşekkürler, canım, çok teşekkürler (Thank you so much, dear, thank you so much)," it became apparent that we were leaving.

What about the baby?! I was trapped in helpless silence so I just took one last look at the father before we pulled the door shut behind us. I wanted to cry.

Back in the corridor, Ayşa began explaining, trying to soften the blow. I learned I was the second person to try to give blood. The mother didn't know that the baby was in danger because she was having hypertension.

"But why don't they accept yobanca blood?" I asked as we crossed the tree-lined parking lot.

"Maybe it's something about genetics, that they won't take your blood. Maybe they want a Turkish person. I don't know."

But my students that night were furious. "That nurse should be sacked. If you told the manager of the hospital, he would be sacked. The baby needs blood. That is so stupid. There is no law. If you'd had a drivers' license you could have proved that you'd done a blood test and been tested negative for AIDS... but the nurse made a story."

"Maybe he didn't think I would be disease-free? Or maybe they didn't have the money to test the blood before the transfusion," I offered. What point was there getting mad about something in which I had so, so little influence? Better to accept and move on.

"They should test the blood anyway before a baby gets it."

I could hardly argue with them about it. It was now about three hours since I had gone to the hospital with Ayşa. My students and I sat around the table in PEÉ's in-house cafe for a silent moment, wondering if the baby was still alive.

I took a deep breath and stood up. "Ok, our ten minute break is over. Let's get back to class." I led the way back to the classroom, the only place for thousands of miles where I am ever in control.

Shoddy wiring in the flat blows on New Years...

I would just like to remind everyone that Turks are probably the nicest people on earth, and that, no matter how many unpaid hours I work for PEÉ (and there are a lot of them...), I remain eternally grateful that I can call someone any time of the day and get help with real-world problems that would otherwise leave me in frustrated tears.

Example: When our power went out at 7:49pm tonight (Sondra had just conditioned her hair in the shower), and tinkering with the fuse box in our flat didn't work, and tinkering with the fuse box in the lobby didn't work, and asking our sweet upstairs neighbors didn't work, and asking plaintively at the market outside our flat didn't work, there was no one left to call but the savior of a secretary who works for PEÉ.

Me: Müjde! Help! Our electricity is out! Sigorta attı. (The fuse is blown.) We don't know what to do.
Müjde: Tamam, canım, (Ok dear) no problem. I will send my electrician friend. Don't worry.
Me: Thank you!!! You are wonderful!
Müjde: No problem, canım. I'll call him now.

Five minutes later Müjde phones back to say that some guy is on his way. Müjde's name actually means good news. Surprise.

Fifteen minutes later Sondra and I are letting a smiling gent into the lobby of our building so he can fuss with the fuse box. We run back upstairs to get him a chair so he can reach the fuse box (and he puts on little blue plastic booties before standing on it so as not to muss the upholstery-- çok Turkish), and within minutes he has us back on the grid. We are so grateful that we let him smoke a cigarette in our living room while he phones Müjde to translate some details, instead of shooing him outside to puff on the balcony.

So that's it. There's no good way to close, except that I love Turks. And their blue plastic booties that keep them from tracking dirt into the Pristine Turkish Home (except we're filthy yobancalar who work nearly 50 hours a week each, and we don't have time/energy to clean, so I'm always super embarassed when they try to take their shoes off and I have to gesture that it's better to leave them on because the flat will get them dirty...). Bless 'em.