Not me. Sondra. And not to California, but to Minneapolis, Wisconsin. She finished her nine-month contract, packed her bags, had a farewell beer (ok, multiple, actually) last night, got a taxi and headed to the airport. I expect she's hanging around the terminal about now, waiting to board her plane in half an hour or so.
The flat is eerily empty. Two water bottles, a bottom drawer full of abandoned toiletries, and the dirty sheets in the hamper are all that remain in her room. The mattress bears a puckered indentation of Sondra. I've long-considered commandeering her mattress--white and pillow-topped--to replace my wretched futon contraption, but now it seems like stealing from a warm corpse. Maybe I'll give it a day.
In August I'll be sharing the flat with one of my co-workers while she transitions to her new job in the Mediterranean. In September-ish I'm going to move away from my stodgy neighborhood to a newer, more exciting one. I'll live with the new teacher at PEE. She's young, hip and I hope we'll have a great time living in the student section of the city. More international folks, more tattoos, more music.
Change is good.
Showing posts with label flatmates. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flatmates. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Staying Alive, Staying Alive
Teaching—Black Like My Soul
Ugh teaching is brutal! I got complaints from my Pre-Int class a couple weeks in a row—they thought I was doing an unsatisfactory job presenting grammar, but then they all scored amazingly well on the exam they had just taken. Despite the good results, my class was observed today to try to identify and remedy my perceived shortcomings. BUT! According to the Rules of the Universe, this means that a mediocre lesson became worse—imagine a glowering, Director of Studies looming like a white elephant in the corner of the room—only instead of being white, he was clad entirely in black and therefore incredibly, incredibly intimidating. Sort of like the Grim Reaper of Lesson Failure.
My students clammed up and kept sneaking looks at the DoS out of the corner of their eye. As a result, my energy plummeted, and from there, the lesson just slid into an abyss. But wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my DoS left, students perked up and we were able to have a good time again. *shakes fist angrily at the god of irony* It’s ok, though. I’m being melodramatic. Well, sort of. Truthfully, I’m learning to climb out of failure relatively quickly. I have to. I have too many lessons to teach to sit around feeling like a reject.
Teaching in a language school is challenging because, especially with the economy going bezerk and students wanting their money’s worth, there’s so much stress to get it right. Constantly. I’m working my ass off, and it only seems to get me so far. Though I have nearly impeccable rapport with my students, I think that my age has ended up being part of the reason that this one class has questioned my authority. *sigh sigh sigh*
Another One Bites the Dust
A combination of factors (long hours, poor food selection in Izmir, crap wage, being the only young guy, etc, etc) has led George has to quit and go back to The Island. Come December or January, Sondra and I will be inhabiting our flat all by our lonesomes. Of course, George must be replaced by a new teacher, but hopefully whoever it is won’t live with us. One guy being interviewed right now already lives in Izmir and has a flat—and an unlikable smoking habit. This means that my food and travel companion is disappearing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I clearly need to make friends.
Holiday. Just in the nick of time.
In a couple weeks all the teachers get off four days for holiday. George and I are going to Kapadokya. We have our bus tickets. We’re leaving at night on Sunday December 7th and arriving Monday morning. We’ll explore the vast and wonderful world of Kapadokya until Thursday night when we’ll get on another bus and be whisked back to Izmir in time to teach classes Friday afternoon. A little risky, I know, especially considering the snow, but it’s our one opportunity to actually get far enough away from Izmir, and we’re taking it. I don’t care if I’m dead on my feet from exhaustion. I will see something beautiful and awe-inspiring.
Ben Türkçe ögrenmek istiyorum! (I want to learn Turkish!)
I have begun studying Turkish. One of the teachers at school, Nigel, has lived in Izmir for almost 15 years and has a substantial social network. When we were out getting beers a couple weeks ago, I met one of his Turkish friends, Fahri (far-EE), whose English is quite good. I mentioned that I wanted to learn Turkish—seriously, not just enough to order something in a restaurant—and Fahri decided to become my teacher.
The lessons are essentially free, although I do provide him substantial opportunity to practice his English whilst regaling me with endless stories of cultural clashes on his business trips to China. He’s not particularly interested in Americans—I tried talking politics with him but the subject immediately went back to some anecdote about China—so I get a little bored during his monologues, but he is able to explain Turkish grammar. I can’t complain. Fahri also has REAL, AUTHENTIC Turkish friends, who invited me to their home, provided me with slippers to wear when I removed my shoes, served me wonderful tea, coffee, cookies, Turkish Delight, and more little biscuits.
In short, Turks are every bit as generous as I was led to believe, and then some.
I have managed to find some time at night to study Turkish over the past week. Flash cards with adjectives live in my jacket pocket and I study on my walk to work. I am actually learning words and try to practice with REAL, AUTHENTIC Turks whenever possible. It has become a Saturday ritual for us flatmates to eat dinner at the restaurant right outside the entrance to our flat. The owner Gazi (GAH-zee) is super generous, often giving us extra mezes (appetizers) and special deserts to nibble on. Some distant male family relations are his chefs and they consistently make us amazing food and try to talk with us. None of us can speak the other’s language particularly well—if grammar were acrobatics, we would all be falling on the mat, too crippled to get back up to the high beam. But we muddle through with lots of smiling and head nodding to gloss over the attempts to perform grammatical miracles.
Some days I think how it’s going to be a long year. On the other hand, I’ve already been here for over two months…
Ugh teaching is brutal! I got complaints from my Pre-Int class a couple weeks in a row—they thought I was doing an unsatisfactory job presenting grammar, but then they all scored amazingly well on the exam they had just taken. Despite the good results, my class was observed today to try to identify and remedy my perceived shortcomings. BUT! According to the Rules of the Universe, this means that a mediocre lesson became worse—imagine a glowering, Director of Studies looming like a white elephant in the corner of the room—only instead of being white, he was clad entirely in black and therefore incredibly, incredibly intimidating. Sort of like the Grim Reaper of Lesson Failure.
My students clammed up and kept sneaking looks at the DoS out of the corner of their eye. As a result, my energy plummeted, and from there, the lesson just slid into an abyss. But wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my DoS left, students perked up and we were able to have a good time again. *shakes fist angrily at the god of irony* It’s ok, though. I’m being melodramatic. Well, sort of. Truthfully, I’m learning to climb out of failure relatively quickly. I have to. I have too many lessons to teach to sit around feeling like a reject.
Teaching in a language school is challenging because, especially with the economy going bezerk and students wanting their money’s worth, there’s so much stress to get it right. Constantly. I’m working my ass off, and it only seems to get me so far. Though I have nearly impeccable rapport with my students, I think that my age has ended up being part of the reason that this one class has questioned my authority. *sigh sigh sigh*
Another One Bites the Dust
A combination of factors (long hours, poor food selection in Izmir, crap wage, being the only young guy, etc, etc) has led George has to quit and go back to The Island. Come December or January, Sondra and I will be inhabiting our flat all by our lonesomes. Of course, George must be replaced by a new teacher, but hopefully whoever it is won’t live with us. One guy being interviewed right now already lives in Izmir and has a flat—and an unlikable smoking habit. This means that my food and travel companion is disappearing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I clearly need to make friends.
Holiday. Just in the nick of time.
In a couple weeks all the teachers get off four days for holiday. George and I are going to Kapadokya. We have our bus tickets. We’re leaving at night on Sunday December 7th and arriving Monday morning. We’ll explore the vast and wonderful world of Kapadokya until Thursday night when we’ll get on another bus and be whisked back to Izmir in time to teach classes Friday afternoon. A little risky, I know, especially considering the snow, but it’s our one opportunity to actually get far enough away from Izmir, and we’re taking it. I don’t care if I’m dead on my feet from exhaustion. I will see something beautiful and awe-inspiring.
Ben Türkçe ögrenmek istiyorum! (I want to learn Turkish!)
I have begun studying Turkish. One of the teachers at school, Nigel, has lived in Izmir for almost 15 years and has a substantial social network. When we were out getting beers a couple weeks ago, I met one of his Turkish friends, Fahri (far-EE), whose English is quite good. I mentioned that I wanted to learn Turkish—seriously, not just enough to order something in a restaurant—and Fahri decided to become my teacher.
The lessons are essentially free, although I do provide him substantial opportunity to practice his English whilst regaling me with endless stories of cultural clashes on his business trips to China. He’s not particularly interested in Americans—I tried talking politics with him but the subject immediately went back to some anecdote about China—so I get a little bored during his monologues, but he is able to explain Turkish grammar. I can’t complain. Fahri also has REAL, AUTHENTIC Turkish friends, who invited me to their home, provided me with slippers to wear when I removed my shoes, served me wonderful tea, coffee, cookies, Turkish Delight, and more little biscuits.
In short, Turks are every bit as generous as I was led to believe, and then some.
I have managed to find some time at night to study Turkish over the past week. Flash cards with adjectives live in my jacket pocket and I study on my walk to work. I am actually learning words and try to practice with REAL, AUTHENTIC Turks whenever possible. It has become a Saturday ritual for us flatmates to eat dinner at the restaurant right outside the entrance to our flat. The owner Gazi (GAH-zee) is super generous, often giving us extra mezes (appetizers) and special deserts to nibble on. Some distant male family relations are his chefs and they consistently make us amazing food and try to talk with us. None of us can speak the other’s language particularly well—if grammar were acrobatics, we would all be falling on the mat, too crippled to get back up to the high beam. But we muddle through with lots of smiling and head nodding to gloss over the attempts to perform grammatical miracles.
Some days I think how it’s going to be a long year. On the other hand, I’ve already been here for over two months…
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Hair Cuts
Yesterday George finally got the guts to get his haircut in Turkey. He's been whinging (British English: to complain) for weeks about his unruly mop. He asked Sondra and I to accompany him. We said yes, of course. He didn't want to go alone. I wouldn't want to go alone either. We prepared for the excursion by sifting through my dictionary and finding some useful words: "a hair cut; three centimeters; thick hair; to make sparse." George wrote them on a scrap of paper and stuffed them in his pocket.
The three of us piled into the lift and slowly descended to the street level. We walked out the door in the lobby and turned left immediately to the barber shop that is right next to our apartment entrance. George insisted on going here because it's good for "community relations." George did most of the talking (which really just consisted of showing the barber the scrap of paper with Turkish) but Sondra and I provided moral support. The barber shop was otherwise empty, and our arrival displaced the barber's friend from his seat behind the hair cutting chairs. Sondra and I were offered the chairs and the friend stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching traffic pass. Women don't hang out in barber shops, we guessed, and soon enough we knew why.
The Turkish barber shop is a bastion of male secrets. After an immaculate hair cut, George's barber wadded cotton on the tips of his scissors, doused the cotton in some purple goo, took out his BIC lighter and ignited the mighty swab, and--before anyone realized what was happening--singed the Offensive Man Hair off George's ears. Sondra was better at hiding her amusement but I was dissolving in laughter. The hilarity increased when the barber required George to lean back against a pillow that had popped up from the back of the chair, so that he could trim his nostril hair. Nope, not done yet. The eyebrows had yet to be given a quick clip.
After the barber had shampooed George's entire head (and face) as he sat hunched forward over a sink basin, his hair was towel-blotted and blow-dried into a puff that looked like a baby bird. Then came the L'Oreal styling creme, and finally an application of standard Turkish lemon-scented cologne. The barber charged 10YTL (which is a miserable $6.6 at the current exchange rate) for about 45 minutes of tender loving care.
I just hope that women's salons don't singe your ear hair off... I might put off a hair cut for even longer than I'd originally planned.
The three of us piled into the lift and slowly descended to the street level. We walked out the door in the lobby and turned left immediately to the barber shop that is right next to our apartment entrance. George insisted on going here because it's good for "community relations." George did most of the talking (which really just consisted of showing the barber the scrap of paper with Turkish) but Sondra and I provided moral support. The barber shop was otherwise empty, and our arrival displaced the barber's friend from his seat behind the hair cutting chairs. Sondra and I were offered the chairs and the friend stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching traffic pass. Women don't hang out in barber shops, we guessed, and soon enough we knew why.
The Turkish barber shop is a bastion of male secrets. After an immaculate hair cut, George's barber wadded cotton on the tips of his scissors, doused the cotton in some purple goo, took out his BIC lighter and ignited the mighty swab, and--before anyone realized what was happening--singed the Offensive Man Hair off George's ears. Sondra was better at hiding her amusement but I was dissolving in laughter. The hilarity increased when the barber required George to lean back against a pillow that had popped up from the back of the chair, so that he could trim his nostril hair. Nope, not done yet. The eyebrows had yet to be given a quick clip.
After the barber had shampooed George's entire head (and face) as he sat hunched forward over a sink basin, his hair was towel-blotted and blow-dried into a puff that looked like a baby bird. Then came the L'Oreal styling creme, and finally an application of standard Turkish lemon-scented cologne. The barber charged 10YTL (which is a miserable $6.6 at the current exchange rate) for about 45 minutes of tender loving care.
I just hope that women's salons don't singe your ear hair off... I might put off a hair cut for even longer than I'd originally planned.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Becoming the Law
Today will be eventful. I'm biting my nails about the American election. I plan on waking up tomorrow morning and watching CNN's constant election coverage with Sondra and George. But I have to finish the week first--which currently includes a battle between me and my Elementary students.
The six of them are becoming a pain in my ass. Of the two men in class, one of them is a fatherly policeman who often chatters in Turkish; the other is eye candy and is making ripples (I am pretty sure that my perception of flirting transcends the language barrier--this one girl sits next to him and bats her eyes and giggles in Turkish). The students had been speaking some Turkish, translating things I was saying in class. It hadn't really become a problem until last night when they got more disrespectful about it and laughter ensued--it's no longer acceptable but it's like trying to put out a fire that's already started. Tonight I'm dragging out the hose. Normally I jump around and act and make them laugh--anything to get the English across. I'm at war with my age, my gender, my friendliness, my inexperience at telling people what to do and exacting results.
I've got to dig around in my closet and find the Stern Bitch clothes that match my new attitude.
The six of them are becoming a pain in my ass. Of the two men in class, one of them is a fatherly policeman who often chatters in Turkish; the other is eye candy and is making ripples (I am pretty sure that my perception of flirting transcends the language barrier--this one girl sits next to him and bats her eyes and giggles in Turkish). The students had been speaking some Turkish, translating things I was saying in class. It hadn't really become a problem until last night when they got more disrespectful about it and laughter ensued--it's no longer acceptable but it's like trying to put out a fire that's already started. Tonight I'm dragging out the hose. Normally I jump around and act and make them laugh--anything to get the English across. I'm at war with my age, my gender, my friendliness, my inexperience at telling people what to do and exacting results.
I've got to dig around in my closet and find the Stern Bitch clothes that match my new attitude.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Random Stuff
Flatmates
Sondra and I have hit it off very well, sharing stories of our lives and spending time exploring our neighborhood together. She finished her Masters in English recently, spent time in the Peace Corps in Chad and has also been to Japan. She's very dark-haired and with her sunglasses covering her hazel eyes, she could pass for Turkish. But the large tree tattoo on her shoulder and her tank tops contradict the Turkish vibe we find in our neighborhood.
I feel a bit Other-ish walking around, like everyone is looking at us. When I mentioned this to the three female (all blond and wavy-haired, blue-eyed) teachers from PEÉ they told me: Get used to it. Ok. But it's still a goal to figure out how to blend in as much as possible.
George is a bit of an enigma. I cannot tell if he's shy about living with two women--perhaps it's a problem, even at 26? He's not unfriendly, he's just a bit sharp and reserved. He arrived weeks before Sondra or me and he's already started teaching, which has him on his toes. He's from Manchester (I made a fool of myself by asking if that was a suburb...) and is into African drumming. His slang is confusing and Sondra and I often ask him to explain or repeat things he says. I'm sure it adds insult to injury that he can't speak any language without feeling like his listener is flummoxed.
Food
I was asked about the cuisine available in restaurants. Honestly, I don't know yet. I was only at one cafe on Saturday where they served traditional Turkish fare. Sondra, George and I are all budgeting ourselves to make it to our first pay day (sometime in October), so we have been careful not to splurge. Cheap foods include: fresh vegetables and ekmek (bread). Ekmek is made daily and is bought in pretty big loaves for 75 cents (The New Turkish Lira is close enough to the dollar that I just pretend they're the same).
There are lots of tiny stores crammed along the sidewalk and they all sell the same sorts of things: different brands of bottled water, a better selection of fruits and veggies, bigger or smaller loaves of ekmek. We can walk a few minutes in either direction and have loads of food to choose from. I LOVE not needing a car!
Watch the World Go By
What would we do without our balcony? We sit out there a lot--more, it seems, than other neighbors who use their balconies primarily for drying laundry. The street below is fascinating: boys playing hide and seek (around and under parked cars--yeah! dirty!); shop owners sitting outside on chairs; people buying groceries or drinking water. Water must be purchased in 5 gallon jugs every few days (tap water has high levels of arsenic)--consequently, the street is lined with water shops. Just now I saw a delivery guy roll up to a water store on his scooter and pull three of these huge water jugs onto his scooter. He balanced two on the floor by his feet and placed a third on his lap before driving off, precariously dodging traffic. It's better than televizyon.
Close Encounters of the Turkish Kind
Sondra and I hardly speak a word of Turkish. Yet we're able to maneuver the marketplace with a handful of words, especially the oft-repeated thank you. Shopkeepers are very friendly and want to engage in conversation, at which point I say apologetically, İngilizce (which only means "English" because in the moment I am too flustered to ever remember to say the proper Turkçe bilmiyorum--"I don't speak Turkish"). They smile back and try to speak as simply as possible but it's lost on us. My brain is so confused--I constantly squash the instinct to respond in French. It's a foreign language, right? Just not the right one...
Yesterday was Sunday. Many shops are closed then and fresh vegetables become rare. So last night, when I was on the balcony listening to the Call to Prayer blasted from a prayer room below our flat and noticed that a fruit market had opened up a couple doors away, I ran down to see if there was anything I could add to my dinner of rice and sautéed eggplant. After a belabored "conversation" with the shopkeeper, I was given the six bitsy shallots and one green vegetable (was it a cucumber or a zucchini? I couldn't tell yet...) I had chosen. "No problem," he said. I kept gesturing with my wallet that I wanted to pay but he waved me away and I carried off my plunder.
Later, George brought home two Turkish blokes. When he taught English in Manchester he had a Turkish student from İzmir who gave George some local connections--including this student's brother. So George has begun hanging out with the brother and his friend and muddling through the language barrier. They came home to sit on the balcony last night and drink beer when the pub was closed. Sondra and I were useless. I was totally in awe of George, though. His Turkish is far from perfect, and every so often he would take a huge breath and try to keep going, but he is trying. Bravely struggling with a new language. New goal: Emulate George.
Electrical Outlets
In our flat you won't find any of the spoiled excess in the States (where you can plug every electrical appliance you own into the wall at once and suck down enough power to operate a small jet plane). Here, the bathroom and each bedroom has one outlet--not a double socket like in the States. Pick. Do you want to plug in your computer, the fan, or the vacuum cleaner? In the bathroom, is it going to be the washing machine or the hair dryer? The kitchen is the height of luxury with four outlets.
Jetlag
I'm doing very well with the time change. After the first 24 hours of being completely exhausted, I have been fine. I think the combination of melatonin, not drinking alcohol and arriving at night has been a benefit. Hopefully there will be no delayed effects because I feel great today.
Work
Yes, eventually I will work. Today Sondra and I are going to PEÉ for our orientation. I'll get a tour of the school and get blasted by expectation. Perhaps we'll do some classroom observation. I'm glad to feel so settled and antsy at home--it means I'm ready to find out about the next thing!
Sondra and I have hit it off very well, sharing stories of our lives and spending time exploring our neighborhood together. She finished her Masters in English recently, spent time in the Peace Corps in Chad and has also been to Japan. She's very dark-haired and with her sunglasses covering her hazel eyes, she could pass for Turkish. But the large tree tattoo on her shoulder and her tank tops contradict the Turkish vibe we find in our neighborhood.
I feel a bit Other-ish walking around, like everyone is looking at us. When I mentioned this to the three female (all blond and wavy-haired, blue-eyed) teachers from PEÉ they told me: Get used to it. Ok. But it's still a goal to figure out how to blend in as much as possible.
George is a bit of an enigma. I cannot tell if he's shy about living with two women--perhaps it's a problem, even at 26? He's not unfriendly, he's just a bit sharp and reserved. He arrived weeks before Sondra or me and he's already started teaching, which has him on his toes. He's from Manchester (I made a fool of myself by asking if that was a suburb...) and is into African drumming. His slang is confusing and Sondra and I often ask him to explain or repeat things he says. I'm sure it adds insult to injury that he can't speak any language without feeling like his listener is flummoxed.
Food
I was asked about the cuisine available in restaurants. Honestly, I don't know yet. I was only at one cafe on Saturday where they served traditional Turkish fare. Sondra, George and I are all budgeting ourselves to make it to our first pay day (sometime in October), so we have been careful not to splurge. Cheap foods include: fresh vegetables and ekmek (bread). Ekmek is made daily and is bought in pretty big loaves for 75 cents (The New Turkish Lira is close enough to the dollar that I just pretend they're the same).
There are lots of tiny stores crammed along the sidewalk and they all sell the same sorts of things: different brands of bottled water, a better selection of fruits and veggies, bigger or smaller loaves of ekmek. We can walk a few minutes in either direction and have loads of food to choose from. I LOVE not needing a car!
Watch the World Go By
What would we do without our balcony? We sit out there a lot--more, it seems, than other neighbors who use their balconies primarily for drying laundry. The street below is fascinating: boys playing hide and seek (around and under parked cars--yeah! dirty!); shop owners sitting outside on chairs; people buying groceries or drinking water. Water must be purchased in 5 gallon jugs every few days (tap water has high levels of arsenic)--consequently, the street is lined with water shops. Just now I saw a delivery guy roll up to a water store on his scooter and pull three of these huge water jugs onto his scooter. He balanced two on the floor by his feet and placed a third on his lap before driving off, precariously dodging traffic. It's better than televizyon.
Close Encounters of the Turkish Kind
Sondra and I hardly speak a word of Turkish. Yet we're able to maneuver the marketplace with a handful of words, especially the oft-repeated thank you. Shopkeepers are very friendly and want to engage in conversation, at which point I say apologetically, İngilizce (which only means "English" because in the moment I am too flustered to ever remember to say the proper Turkçe bilmiyorum--"I don't speak Turkish"). They smile back and try to speak as simply as possible but it's lost on us. My brain is so confused--I constantly squash the instinct to respond in French. It's a foreign language, right? Just not the right one...
Yesterday was Sunday. Many shops are closed then and fresh vegetables become rare. So last night, when I was on the balcony listening to the Call to Prayer blasted from a prayer room below our flat and noticed that a fruit market had opened up a couple doors away, I ran down to see if there was anything I could add to my dinner of rice and sautéed eggplant. After a belabored "conversation" with the shopkeeper, I was given the six bitsy shallots and one green vegetable (was it a cucumber or a zucchini? I couldn't tell yet...) I had chosen. "No problem," he said. I kept gesturing with my wallet that I wanted to pay but he waved me away and I carried off my plunder.
Later, George brought home two Turkish blokes. When he taught English in Manchester he had a Turkish student from İzmir who gave George some local connections--including this student's brother. So George has begun hanging out with the brother and his friend and muddling through the language barrier. They came home to sit on the balcony last night and drink beer when the pub was closed. Sondra and I were useless. I was totally in awe of George, though. His Turkish is far from perfect, and every so often he would take a huge breath and try to keep going, but he is trying. Bravely struggling with a new language. New goal: Emulate George.
Electrical Outlets
In our flat you won't find any of the spoiled excess in the States (where you can plug every electrical appliance you own into the wall at once and suck down enough power to operate a small jet plane). Here, the bathroom and each bedroom has one outlet--not a double socket like in the States. Pick. Do you want to plug in your computer, the fan, or the vacuum cleaner? In the bathroom, is it going to be the washing machine or the hair dryer? The kitchen is the height of luxury with four outlets.
Jetlag
I'm doing very well with the time change. After the first 24 hours of being completely exhausted, I have been fine. I think the combination of melatonin, not drinking alcohol and arriving at night has been a benefit. Hopefully there will be no delayed effects because I feel great today.
Work
Yes, eventually I will work. Today Sondra and I are going to PEÉ for our orientation. I'll get a tour of the school and get blasted by expectation. Perhaps we'll do some classroom observation. I'm glad to feel so settled and antsy at home--it means I'm ready to find out about the next thing!
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