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.

Death

Back on Christmas (Friday), I wanted to make an apple crisp. I didn't have a glass dish large enough, so I went across the landing and borrowed one from my neighbor, Gül (whose name means "rose" in Turkish). I promised to bring it back soon, and when she asked what all the fuss was about, she came over to check out our Christmas tree. Her son--about 16 or 17-- took a photo of me and my flatmate in front of our tree. They left and that was that.

Then on Monday, I came home from work, and my flatmate told me she thought there'd been a death. Some girl had come around the building, bringing people some kind of (cinnamony, sweet, savory, powdery) food. She'd seen people crying a lot. But we didn't really know what was going on. I asked my friend what to say in Turkish when someone dies--there are lots of fixed phrases for social interactions, thankfully--and memorized it in case I needed to say it. But a little scared by the prospect of death in the building, I had hung onto the glass dish.

Tonight, Wednesday, I came up to our flat and noticed that Gül's door was ajar. It seemed opportune. I ran into our kitchen, grabbed the glass dish, and knocked quietly on the door. Her son answered the door. He looked rough. Without knowing what was really going on, but figuring that maybe the grandmother had died...

I said, "Başın sağolsun (literally, My condolences, although less cheesy)."

"Thanks," he said.

"Ummm... Who?" I asked.

"My mother."

I was shocked--she'd seemed fine and young... "What happened," I asked.

Something I could only interpret as a heart problem.

Not understanding, not really wanting to believe, in my horribly naive yabancı Turkish, I asked,

"Is she ok?" Now. Present simple. Implying life.

"No," he said simply. "She died."

I felt so, so, so stupid. So horribly inept. I made him say it.

"I'm so sorry," I said.

He nodded.

I had no idea what to do.

"See you," I whispered. "Good night."

And went back across the landing.

You're the yabancı, not me

(Continued from the previous post, Soy Sauce, below)

He came bearing fresh ginger and cashews. As he washed the carrots and green onions he told me about how he had watched some video on Facebook about Chinese food. Gotten himself all scared about the experience. What, did they kill a dog on camera?! *sigh* He prepped the ingredients and I put it all together. I told him about my quest for the soy sauce and he was appropriately sympathetic. Maybe it added to his appreciation. That and he was already starving.

As the soy sauce/orange juice/ginger/garlic/red chili pepper concoction bubbled amidst chicken and cashews, he hovered with his cell phone camera, making a video. Yes, cultural experiences in a kitchen near you brought to you by Tür J.

"Have you eaten this before?" he asked me.

"Yes," I fibbed. I'd never eaten cashew chicken, but how could it be bad?!

"Have you made it before?" he asked.

"Yeah, lots." Another lie. It was a stirfry coming together easily enough. How many times did I make those in college? There was enough ginger in the pot to make anyone happy.

He kept sniffing the pan as it bubbled so I gave him a little of the sauce juice as a preview. His eyes got big: "Mmm delicious!" It did smell good, and I was pleased with it, but was he putting me on?! Ok, I reminded myself. He's never had this before and he's been thinking about it all day, and watching that damn video. When it was finished, I dished up a portion over rice and handed him a spoon and fork. When I came out to the table to eat, he had his camera out again, taking photo after photo until our cashew chicken looked mildly appetizing in the horrible incandescent light trapped by his 1.3 megapixel phone camera. You know, a trophy to show his friends.

I could imagine him later, replaying it again and again, me looking horrible in my weekend sweatpants, boasting how we had made Chinese food. Having witnessed its creation, he could attest that there were no insects, no dogs, nothing strange whatsoever.

All in all, it was a successful day. Yabancıs were lost and found, soy sauce and ginger were consumed, horizons were expanded.

Not only does this Turkish male's palate seem trainable, but so do his kitchen skills: we washed the dishes together.

If you'd like to try the cashew chicken recipe, click here. As you're gathering ingredients for your stir fry, take a moment to appreciate your centralized, simplified, North-American shopping experience. *wink*

Afiyet olsun (Bon appetit, basically).

Soy Sauce

Any Turk who wants to try food from different cuisines should be whole-heartedly encouraged. That was why, when my friend suggested Chinese food for dinner (adding with a smile: "Just no dogs or insects, ok?"), I immediately whipped out my laptop to search for a recipe he would find appealing (cashew chicken, but with no garlic--ok, I'm going to sneak a little in anyway-- and no sherry--he's Muslim), and then spent the new few hours wandering around gathering ingredients.

It is possible to find the ingredients for cashew chicken, they're just not all in the same place. Although I got almost everything else, soy sauce could not be found in my neighborhood shops, so I decided to go to the giant Kipa (which I previously complained about if you read my rant). I found myself in the metro station parking lot at exactly 12:04, looking for the free service bus to Forum Bornova, the giant, big-box, nauseatingly-American-look-alike mall a few kilometers from my house.

I found a white service bus, next to which a couple women patiently waited, and checked the sign over their head: "From metro to Park Bornova." The bus was scheduled to leave 10 minutes later. Not bad, I thought, for getting a free ride on no planning. The driver and his friend came over a few minutes later; everyone (me, four other folks, and the two drivers) piled onto the bus. At 12:13 the engine started. At 12:15 we left the metro parking lot, circled around the round about, and were on our way.

After we didn't turn right where I thought we would, the older woman next to me turned and started yammering: "blah blah blah by Aegean University blah blah turn blah blah Forum Bornova blah blah?"

"It goes back to the metro," I offered lamely.

"Blah blah blah blah blah," she continued, since I clearly hadn't answered her question. So much for trying to fake it, J...

"I'm sorry I don't know," I conceeded.

So the woman tapped the driver's friend on the shoulder and asked him the same question.

"No," the drivers said. "Blah blah blah doesn't go."

"My friends and I blah blah blah," went the woman.

She had gotten on the wrong bus and the driver politely pulled over and advised her to take a taxi. Where could she possibly want to go?! I wondered. We're going to the mall. It's obvious. It's written on the sign. When she got off the bus, the other three people got off the bus, too, leaving me with the drivers.

We all had a good chuckle about Turks not knowing where to go in Turkey. Boy did I feel smart. The drivers continued to lament Turks stupidity at having got on the wrong bus, when, after all, it's written on the sign that we're going to Park Bornova. Not Forum Bornova. It dawned on me slowly, through the lightning storm Turkish, as they continued to rake the previous riders over the coals for being daft, that I, also, was not going where I thought I was going.

Big. Internal. Sigh.

What is this Park Bornova, I wondered. As we wound through neighborhoods new to me, the unpleasant but familiar sensation of mild panic and stress pulsed somewhere by my esophogus. We passed a break in the buildings, I could see Kipa's mega sign in the distance--a taunting beacon of my own stupidity. I forced myself to relax and enjoy a free ride through a neighborhood but I kept wondering, "Will there be soy sauce?!"

We rounded a corner and I spied a rundown playground. Peeling paint on teetertotters, a sad swing set, something like crabgrass sprouting defiantly in the dirt. I took a breath, steeling myself for the possibility that this was Park Bornova. But the bus rolled on. Exhale.

By this point, I was way too embarrassed to admit to the drivers that I too wanted to go to Forum Bornova, not Park Bornova. I thought to myself, "But I'm the foreigner..." No, they would laugh at me, too. Nope, I was sitting on that damn bus to discover where it went.

Finally, at a stoplight, I spied the Park Bornova sign peeking above a car dealership. The answer was close. As we rounded the street, I saw written under it, "Outlet Center" (in English--strange). And a Max Tansas--a biggish supermarket. Score! We finally dinked over the parking lot speed bumps; I got off the service bus like any professional Park Bornova-goer, thanking the driver. I had exactly 12 minutes to find the fabled soy sauce and get back to the parking lot for the same service bus to go back to the metro.

Once through the metal detector (standard in all Turkish shopping malls), I raced to the Tansaş. I asked the bored-looking guy at the customer service counter if there was soy sauce.

"Let's have a look," he sighed and moseyed down an aisle, looking lamely between bottles of red pepper paste and olive oil. "Hmmm... There isn't any."

"Maybe it's in another place?" I suggested, hoping, hoping.

"No... It would be here."

I huffed a thank you, cursing the Maxi Tansas gods for their lack of product, and skulked down an aisle when, lo and behold, I spied the soy sauce. Little bottles were only 2 TL. I grabbed two. I didn't want to come back. Then I saw a big bottle on the top shelf--hmm--maybe it would be cheaper. I grabbed that too and wondered if they would have my toilet bowl cleaner of choice. They did.

Life was suddenly looking up for this dumb yabancı who was ready to take a taxi from a neglected playground back to civilization.

On my way to the checkout I saw the unhelpful clerk and held up my treasure: "I found it!" I told him with a smile.

"Oh," he looked totally unsurprised and apathetic. Or maybe he was masking intense curiosity as to what the fuck I could possibly need three bottles of soy sauce for. In Turkey.

Finally I made it home with all the ingredients. But it was worth it because, like I said, Turks need to be encouraged to eat non-Turkish food. Anything to broaden some horizons.

Treasure or Trash?!

I was walking along the street today--past those guys who sell random stuff on the street (mobile face plates, cheap key rings, horrible imported toys sold for dirt cheap)--when I saw the most boring book title staring up at me. It was some kind of "brief overview" of "plastics." You know. For specialists. From the 1960s. Amused, I stopped and picked it up, thumbing through the glossy but water-damaged pages. Amidst the extensive two-columned text discussing god knows what about the history and use of plastics in the booming global industry were scattered black and white photos of quaint items. Here was a die-cast, two-tone ink well. Over here, a bizarre molded part for an air-conditioner that looked unlike any air-conditioner I'd ever seen. Thank god there were captions or I wouldn't have known what the hell I was looking at.

Certainly not going to be required reading for a class anywhere in Izmir. It was the kind of thing that would be perfect as a gag gift for my boss's birthday. Thinking it might be cheap enough to consider, I asked the seller how much it was.

Response: "I don't know blah blah blah blah foreign book blah blah blah antique blah blah very old blah di blah blah blah I don't know but very expensive blah blah blah blah 80 blah blah blah."

Me: "So--how much is it?"

Response: "blah blah blah very expensive blah blah blah blah foreign book blah I don't know blah."

Me: *getting bored* "How much?"

Response: "blah blah blah expensive"

Me: *smiling sweetly at him and setting the book back down on the sidewalk* "Ok, it's very expensive. Thank you."

Response: *him calling desperately after me as I walked away* "Fifty is ok!"

Fifty?! FIFTY?!?!! After I almost died laughing, I felt legitimately bad for the guy. Here he is, in Turkey, obviously speaking ZERO English, thinking that he's hit on some gold mine of an antique book that must be worth a small fortune. I mean, with such a long, pretentious-looking title embossed in gold of all materials, and such wide glossy pages, who could blame him?! I mean, he must have seen the die-cast two-tone inkwell, or the molded part for the air-conditioner, but without understanding the English captions, mistaken the thing as a plan to save the universe. Hell, I'd want 50 lira for that, too.

But WHAT is he going to do with this book? I fear he may try to hang onto it forever. He'll wait for the perfect price, when really, any church in America would pay someone fifty cents just to take the damn thing off the table at their rummage sale.

No, no, no. It's up to me to rescue the man from such a horrible fate. I think I'll go back tomorrow and see if he's still there. I'd give him five lira for it, just to be able to tell the story.

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.

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*

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

Antalya...

My four day vacation to Antalya was horribly unlucky. It rained 80% of the time. In a city that's made to be enjoyed in the sun, I found myself thwarted by weather.

However, the third day was clear and I made the most by going to Aspendos, a little village north-east of Antalya.

That was really the only thing interesting that is worth talking about. But it's the perfect example of why you should travel alone.

Getting to Aspendos required one bus or dolmuş after another. OK. Well, four isn't that many, I suppose, but it took a few hours to finally arrive. I could have taken a tour but screw that. I wandered around the giant stadium of Aspendos and eventually met the man dressed as a gladiator.

I chided him quite a bit, laughing at him all decked out in his costume that could have landed him a role in Troy. I giggled as I took pictures of the tourists taking pictures with him. He got a bit sheepish after awhile, especially when I asked him:

"Işin ne? What's your job?"
"Bu. This," with a gesture to the outfit.

I chatted with him for awhile about the history of the stadium and then got him to draw me a map to get to the aqueduct nearby. Before I left him in peace, I got a photo of us together. You know. My new boyfriend. :-p

I set out on a 20-ish minute walk, eating an orange. Tour buses had stopped in the distance so people could take panoramas similar to mine. As I continued down the road after the last tour bus had gone, I spied a Turkish woman. By the time I passed her, she was sitting in a white lawn chair in her yard, eating oranges picked fresh from her trees.

"Merhaba," I said in Turkish.

"Merhaba! Gel! Gel! Otur! Otur! Come, come! Sit, sit." And she wouldn't have my polite refusals for the orange so I ate another one. After a few minutes, her daughter appeared. We chatted for awhile.

Where are you from? What's your job? Where's your family? How long are you here for? Who are you traveling with? Are you scared to be alone? Where are you going? I pointed with orange-juice-stained fingers to the aqueduct in the distance. Less than a kilometer from their house. The daughter took me to wash my hands at a faucet behind the house, and then took me through the orchard (picking plums as we went), my voluntary tour guide.

Özge kept asking me questions. Are you married? Do you have children? Do you want to get married? Do you want to have children? Are you happy? I asked her: Are you married? No. Do you want to get married? Not really. Do you want to have children? Meh. What do you do now that you finished school? Sell jewelry to tourists at the aqueduct site.

We passed a cemetery and I asked if it was OK to take a picture. I talked about the difference between American cemeteries. We crested the hill to the aqueduct and I was pretty excited to be so close. She showed her table with the jewelry. There was also a juice press for making OJ. She made me a glass, free.

Then we climbed up the tower into the aqueduct and sat on top of the world for awhile. We exchanged contact information--cell phone and Facebook names. She invited me back to stay with her. If only it weren't a lifetime away from Izmir.

We climbed down and waited for the bus for approximately 14 seconds before she announced it wouldn't be coming soon, and we should explore the old house ruins to pass time. I shrugged. Why not...

Then she took me on Tour Özge--up a hill, under a fence meant to keep people organized and law-abiding, and through absurd amounts of wildflowers, bushes, shrubs, nettles, burred, thorned plants and more. Over the next hour, we discovered turtles, snails, flowers, ruins, trails, no trails, rocks perfect for sitting and looking out, and the way all the way back to the stadium where I'd originally started.

By the time we finished, I was exhausted, sore, thirsty, bleeding (from falling into the nettles), mildly sunburned and dusty, dusty, dusty. I finally got onto the dolmuş to head back to civilization and could do nothing but sit in my own stunned silence.

(Check out the album for a jumpy companion photo sequence...)

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!!!

An Adventure A Day...

It's easy to become a creature of intense, ingrained habit. After shopping in particular stores enough times, I know what the clerks expect, and they expect me. They also know not to talk to me too much, and I'm left in peace to puzzle over the words on a package of biscuits, or to laboriously compare one brand of laundry soap to another.

However, one becomes tired of routine and novelty is required. When you're a yobanca, it is impossible for a new social interaction to occur without some mistake or misunderstanding. Even browsing in stores, a seemingly simple in-and-out procedure, can't pass without incident. In other words, everything that should be completely mundane is a potential adventure.

Today, inside a giant store comparable to Safeway or Walmart, I was reprimanded by a clerk for trying to pass the cash registers and get out the exit door without anything to purchase. Accompanying her words was a confusing hand gesture which I understood as: "Go back through the store and exit via a different route." Ok, but once I realized that there was only one exit door, I got really confused.

I finally gave up guessing and not wanting to set off any alarm bells or be chased after by store security clerks or whatever happens to Naughty Yobancıs, I asked a clerk giving away free cocktail weenies. God bless him if he understood whatever the hell I was trying to ask; I didn't even know what I was trying to ask. In my moment of infantile communication, I was once again grateful that human beings possess arms and hands that can point--for when my ears fail to comprehend.

Then there's the issue of money. Turkey is constantly playing with it currency to compensate for inflation. For example, what is known officially as five lira in 2009's new money can also be called five million lira in the old money. While many Turks take the terminology for old money in stride, I am often puzzled.

Take this morning's börek (a pastry filled with cheese, spinach, potatoes, etc.) shopping experience. When I asked how much it cost, the dictionary translation of her answer was, "Fourteen hundred and fifty." I tried not to look at the cash register as my brain chewed on the numbers--You can do it, J! You can do it!--but eventually my eyes were tempted to the glowing numbers: 1.45 lira. Hmm... I didn't beat myself up too much about my abysmal comprehension.

There are days when I wonder what it'll be like to live in North America again. Part of me longs for the easy comfort that would exist for me if only I chose to come home from this ridiculous chase I'm on. But when I successfully exit a store, or manage to pay without looking like a complete ass (instead of a partial ass), I get a little buzz. And that little buzz is addictive.

Long-Overdue Update

Practice Makes Perfect
I feel like I'm doing something naughty. A whole Wednesday/ Thursday without any work. It's the first time in six months that I haven't brought books home to plan for my classes over the weekend.

You see, I've finally reached the point where I've taught all the levels of English-- my classes are starting to overlap and cover ground that I've already taught. My elementary students, who, six months ago, could only say their names, are now discussing life experiences in K7. And my other classes are embarking on new and exciting grammatical adventures (only a bit of sarcasm there).

The only remaining uncharted territory is the last six weeks of Upper Intermediate. I am triumphant. This has seemed like the longest, most agonizing learning curve. I've easily worked 50 hours a week for the past few months, carving my path through the wilderness of English. But I suddenly find myself on a familiar path--and the work load has dropped significantly.

So here I am, on my two days off, and feeling sort of off-balance because I only had to spend thirty minutes looking at my class for tomorrow night. Is it too good to be true? Will my laziness catch up with me tomorrow? I am holding my breath a bit.

**Update after teaching** It wasn't too good to be true. Wow. Now that I have time for a life, what am I going to do with it?! Study Turkish, of course... Ok, I'm not entirely that boring. Exploration is occurring.

Local Adventures
Sondra and I wandered into the markets of Kemeraltı to find the fabled marbled paper, ebru. In a crowded, dusty bookshop we found the very sweet old proprietor--Ali. Ali sits at his cramped desk, a cardboard box of kittens at his feet, and a stack of creamy paper on his desk, silver pen in hand. He is commissioned to do the calligraphy for place cards and invitations for fancy Izmir events.

As Sondra and I pour over stacks of ebru, looking for beautiful, frame-able pieces, Ali chats with us. Through some belabored conversation-making, we learn that Ali knows Turkish, Ottoman (Turkish before it was converted to the Roman alphabet and purged of many of its Arabic cognates), Arabic, and French. He points to a nearby shelf of books and I find ancient, crumbling texts in Arabic and Ottoman--some of them handwritten.

"Shouldn't these be in museums?" I want to ask him. Hindered by my language, I simply hold them and delicately, humbly turn the yellowed pages. I want one. No, I'd never be able to read it, but the dead language is beautiful. Ottoman, like Arabic is a flowing script with swooping, scooping letters and elegant dots.

After expressing my general love for the aesthetics of the language, Ali took a creamy white card and asked me my name. He translated the sounds into Ottoman and wrote my first and last name in calligraphy.

Music, Sweet Music

I don't know how many eyebrows had gone up at the words: "I'm going alone." Alone? At this time of night? At your age? With your Turkish skills? All the way to Bornova? Yes.

Anything for the sake of Pinhani, the Turkish band I've discovered that is me. I've been talking about their concert for almost six weeks. Damned if my boyfriend is working, if my colleagues are too tired, if my Turkish friend hates the concert venue because she feels claustrophobic. I'll go alone. *gulp* Yeah, I tell myself. That's right. I came to Turkey alone. What's a few hours at a concert in comparison?! Cowgirl up, as a dear old prof of mine would say.

So I leave from work...

After the 10 minute walk to the metro; the subsequent 15 minute ride to the university-ridden quarter: Bornova; the quick kaşarli tost at Mambo, a diner in Küçük Park; the conversation with the two adorable waiters that led to a map drawn in my notebook of randomly accumulated Turkish with the advice: "Ask young persons. Old persons dangerous! Come back if you get lost;" the unsure walk through the surrounding neighborhoods; the circling back; finding a different rock bar; asking for directions three times AND randomly following different groups with whom I had zero affiliation; finding myself walking down a long, pitch black alley which couldn't possibly lead to the concert, thus spurring CSI-influenced subconscious thoughts to bubble up (that was exactly the sort I place I should get raped and murdered if it ever were to happen); deciding mid-pitch-black-alley that if I didn't find the bar in three minutes, I should go back; finding it 97 seconds later (poetic irony); paying my 20TL to get in; having my bag searched; receiving my ticket and floating down the bottle green-lit tunnel like a bubble in a Carlsberg beer bottle; pushing my way to the front of the crowd; waiting an hour while the cover band warmed up; waiting half an hour while the real McCoy set up; getting crushed up near the front of the crowd, maybe twenty feet from the stage; finally, finally, at midnight, I heard the first few chords of my beloved Pinhani, and knew that the last two and a half hours had all been worth it. Always keep going.

And when one guitar is not enough, get three: acoustic and two electric. And a bass, drums, a piano for the occasional part, a saxophone, a trumpet, a trombone (the horns played on rotation by the horn player and lead guitarist/vocalist who is obviously too talented for his own good), and once if for only a few bars, but dear lord what were they thinking?!, a kazoo. That's right. Is it jazz? Rock? Blues? Ska? Traditional Turkish? I don't know--it's because it defies a category that I love it. Take me to your leader.

Located directly under a speaker--without a chair, and in the path of the barmen who constantly fetched patrons overpriced booze--I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven. As the songs built and peaked and relaxed, I was beyond grateful for music's ability to communicate and transport. Floating on guitar rifts, on the beautiful-yet-incomprehensible Turkish lyrics; hammered by the drums; experiencing religion in my English-isolated consciousness. Alcohol, drugs or companionship would have been so unnecessary. I tripped home by 2 a.m. and beamed through a 10 hour day on four hours of sleep.

I was talking with some of my students about my adventure; the woman in class said she'd never go alone... But why?! I want to know. I mean, shouldn't I take the locals' word for it?! Aren't I a fool to second guess wisdom about her own city? But I had zero problems. I didn't drink anything. I didn't invite attention and no one reciprocated, save one of the barmen who tried to chat me up about English lessons (he was quickly ditched in the crushing crowd without further incident).

I went alone. Late at night. At my age. With my Turkish skills. All the way to Bornova. Yes. You could, too.

Tentative moral of the story: The world is safer than we have been led to believe.

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).