"Christmas"

There once was a turkey in Turkey, roasted by Kipa. It was adorned with fancy-cut vegetables, a tinsel-like sparkly thing, and--best of all--a little plastic Christmas tree on a toothpick. It cost 50TL and it tasted damn good.

The mini Christmas tree could only stand so proud with the mighty Christmas tree looming behind. But why the arrogance, Mighty?! You're made of plastic, too.

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.

Gevrek Geliyor (or, The Bagel is coming)

I've heard him many times before. Walking around the neighborhood, hollering something to draw attention. And despite his daily tour and incessant wailing, I could never understand what he was saying--is he collecting junk? talking about vegetables?--until yesterday. I left the house at 8:28, still in a fog of sleep. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, a teenager sauntered by with a tray of gevreks (the Turkish equivalent of the bagel--only waaaay cheaper and more common and CAKED in sesame seeds) resting on his head.

He hadn't finished his first holler before I recognized him. It's you! You're the one disturbing the neighborhood's peace. Every. Day. At about 8 am. I sped up, wanting to evade his path. When I was a mere meter in front of him, I could sense an immanent holler. The air behind him was sucked into his massive lungs and experienced a momentary vaccuum right before he wailed.

"Sicak gevrek." (Hot gevrek.)

God it was loud. Sort of sing-songy but unappreciated since I was still technically asleep. My hollerer kept hollering.

"Gevrek geliyor!" (The gevrek is coming!) I walked faster, joining the few other people heading to work. No one looked particularly excited about the hot, coming gevreks, let alone rush over to him to buy their own piping hot gevrek before all the gevreks are gone. In fact...

"Sicak gevrek... bir lira... Gevrek geliyor!" (Hot gevrek... 1 lira... the gevrek is coming!)

... Everyone else was ignoring him, too, rushing away, trying to avoid the blast of sound emanating from his fit, soon-to-be-man lungs. He should still have been in school. Maybe he's practicing to be an imam, I wryly considered. He could do the call to prayer without the frigging megaphone broadcasting to the neighborhood.

I kept my pace up. After awhile, he stopped hollering about the gevreks being hot and simply kept repeating that the gevrek was coming.

Eventually The Hollerer must stop and set up his tray somewhere like all the other gevrek vendors. God only knows where he stops, but he uses my neighborhood as part of his route to the eventual resting point. It's a trade-off: Would I want him anchored to my corner, hollering all day, or would I be happier with his current morning route? I don't know but I'm just glad it's not me doing the hollering.

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*

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.

Yabancı Eats In

Tiffany--an American with obscenely-limited Turkish skills (for two years in İzmir)--continues to delight me and embarass our community of fine ex-pats.

The following is an undoctored transcription of an entire dialogue I took while she ordered lunch on the telephone in the teacher's room one day:

"... Paket servis? Yes... Uh-huh... Yes... Spaghetti bolognese... Spa-get-tee bowl-uh-nase. Bolognese. No... Evet... Cash... Yes... Mmhmm... Evet. Teshekkurlar. Bye!"

That's right. You read correctly. Three of those words were in Turkish (evet = yes x 2; the total mangling of teşekkürler = thank you), but all of it was mortifying. Hopefully they can't tell the difference between American pronunciation of Turkish from British pronunciation of Turkish.

What was even funnier was a few days later when she ordered some chicken, but despite repeated attempts:

"Chicken parmesean... parm-uh-zhan... No, parmesean... Evet, tavuk (chicken)... tavuk parmesean... *huge frustrated sigh*"

To no avail, she finally abandoned her desire and instead ordered what even the most frustrated Turk can understand: "izgara" (which just means grilled). I could have died laughing.

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.

Domates--Bir Kilo, Bir Lira

I am living the life: sitting on my balcony in a light breeze, drinking my morning Nescafe and eating my muffin, watching the waves a few hundred meters away.

A truck rolls slowly down the street. The driver is on a loudspeaker blasting: "Fresh tomatoes--one kilo for one lira." The message ricochets off the tall walls created in the corridor of apartment buildings lining Mithat Paşa Street. His son stands in the bed of the truck, yelling a similar message at a lower volume.

The truck--laden with tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers--stops midway between the two small grocery stores in front of my flat. The driver gets out, stands in the street and hollers about his tomatoes again.

Women in the flat directly above the truck start to notice. A couple poke their heads out of windows and lean off of balconies, craning their necks to see the produce. One on the sixth floor confirms the price with the driver and disappears into her flat, only to emerge a few moments later on the street to buy.

A head appears in a second floor window; her friend from the sixth floor buys her tomatoes for her.

The driver, as he looks around at the tall flats and balconies, notices me peering down at him. He hollers about tomatoes at me, but I sink back in my chair, out of his line of sight. Thankfully I didn't have my camera out right then when he looked at me. What a yobancı...

No one else comes to buy and he climbs back into the cab, his son braces himself against the truck walls and they continue their crawl down Mithat Paşa.

This kind of thing happens regularly in İzmir. Farmers with local, fresh produce park their truck--often in the street--and set up temporary shop. I can't imagine that local manavs (green grocers) are happy about this, but what can they do?!

Maybe I never lived in a big-enough city in the States, but this approach to food is entirely new to me. I think that there would be all sorts of red tape stopping my farmer and his son from selling their veggies on the street: no business permit; health and cleanliness standards that someone in a white coat would be willing to quibble about; disturbing the peace with all that hollering.

Then there's the moving traffic violation of his son enjoying the morning sun in the back of the truck... Not to mention the crime of selling tomatoes for so absurdly cheap: At today's exchange with the American dollar, that's 32 cents a pound for fresh, farm-picked tomatoes that actually taste like tomatoes. Beat that Monsanto.

Turkish Encounters

The Turkish Home
Dinner with the Turkish family was really wonderful. The food was fabulous--I had a tiny fillet of salmon, the first in months and months! They invited another couple and their children. The four of them spoke fabulous English, all things considered, and struggled to have conversations about their children's development in English. After awhile I told them to stop for my sake and they lapsed into Turkish. But so thoughtful of them to try!

Their house was immaculate. Despite the litter that is everywhere in public spaces, the four Turkish homes in which I've visited have proven that the private space is a sphere of extreme clean. You remove your shoes at the door (or your hostess offers to clean the soles if you prefer to wear them inside), and are offered slippers to keep you toasty for your stay.

The best china and silver is laid out for their guests. Elaborate dishes are prepared and you leave more than satisfied. I experienced the same phenomena when I dined with one of my students and her husband about a month ago (he came home, took one look at the beautiful dinner table and told me that I was welcome to anytime I wanted if it meant that Filiz would cook like that).

Fasıl Fasıl
The next day was Sondra's birthday, and though we didn't do anything on Friday, we did go out as a huge bunch on Saturday night after work. We went to a restaurant where you pay 35 lira to be fed and boozed all night, and listen to fasıl music. Though the instruments are familiar--a clarinet-type thing, a lap harp, a darbooka (a small hand-held drum maybe a little like a bongo)--they're played in a distinctively Turkish way. Come to Turkey if you want to know more.

I drank rakı (an anise-flavored hard alcohol that is diluted with ice and water) which tastes absolutely amazing with practically any Turkish food--cheeses, vegetables, kebap meat, roasted red pepper spread on bread, you name it. But with fish it is especially good. Rakı, it could be said, is the Turkish national drink--or at least the drink of the Aegean region where the fish is fresh. One of my students told me that if you eat fish without rakı, the fish cries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:-P

*sigh*

Yobanca Cooks

My students occasionally ask me what I've been up to lately. If I can remember far enough back to a time when I wasn't at work, the answer usually includes something about food. They ask what I cook and the answer usually includes something with tomatoes. They're so ripe and good in Izmir! American tomatoes taste like they've been sitting in a truck for ages--oh wait! Because they have! So I eat lots of tomatoes, I tell my students, but I try not to talk too much about how embarrassingly simple my food tends to be.

You see, in Izmir, the Family Effect is still in full swing. Americans might be too busy to make food from scratch, but here there tends to be a wife or mother who creates daily deliciousness. Alas, I lack a wife or mother to cook for me, and so I am my own wife and mother. Even something as simple as a jar of tomato sauce is non-existent here. I don't mind making things from scratch--I prefer it, but it's sometimes hard to find the time for more elaborate dishes.

In this week's edition of Yobanca Cooks, we'll take you behind the scenes to show you what I'm cooking up on my weekend to help me make it through the week without ordering out every day.

Beat This Aunt Jemima
Thanks to my mother, I received a canister of Baking Powder. Since I'd been eating flat, sad pancakes for weeks, I took no chances with the baking powder content of my latest batch. I was pleasantly surprised by the Fluff Factor.

These pancakes are so epic that one day I'll be able to win any man's heart over with them. "Do you like fluffy pancakes?" I'll ask, and he'll say yes, because no one doesn't like fluffy pancakes. And with the first bite, he'll be mine forever.


Lentil Soup
The big pot on the stove is bubbling with a super easy lentil soup, adapted from a recipe on the New York Times that I saw a few weeks ago. Turkish lentil soup is often thick, and I'll post a recipe for it soon, but this one reminds me more of home. I love having a big pot of this in the fridge all week so that I have something other than crackers to eat when I'm starving at 9:30 and I get home from teaching all night.

Red Lentil Köfte: The fastest, cheapest, most filling lunch ever
Seriously. Lentils rule--I love them because they can survive in my cabinet till I call on their awesome power. I usually make a red lentil köfte that I can spread on a wrap (like a Turkish burrito, if you will) and smother with spicy ketchup (yes, they have spicy ketchup here). It's not pretty, but it takes approximately 45 seconds to make lunch in the morning. And when you're exhausted or still feeling a little hung over, pretty doesn't matter. ;-)

This is yobanca Turkish food. I'm sure I'm doing something wrong but it's the most Turkish thing I make.

• 1 part red lentils
• 2 parts water
• 1 chicken bullion cube thingy
• 1/2 part wheat bulgar

Wash and simmer lentils in water until almost all of the water is cooked off (15-20 minutes). Mix in wheat bulgar and let it soften in the remaining water. It should be pretty thick at this point.

Meanwhile... Saute:

• onions, minced
• tomatoes, chopped and salted
• garlic, minced
• tomato paste
• lemon juice, mint, cumin powder and chili flakes to taste
• a sugar cube

When satisfied with the flavor and consistency of the tomato/onion concoction (it should be kind of wet, because the lentils are dry, dry, dry!), mix it with the lentils.

Since the köfte is the consistency of cookie-dough, it can be shaped into little discs, or into whatever creative, attractive shapes you choose. I'm friggin' lazy and keep it in a giant mass in tupperwear. Be like me and smear a healthy serving on börek wraps (see below: it's like a giant phyllo, tortilla-like thing--only saltier) and roll like a burrito. If you want to get fancy, you could put some lettuce, a sprig of parsley, and spicy sauce on it--like real Turks.

Burritos. Yeah, that's right. Burritos.

After a long Sunday, at least a few of the teachers from PEÉ get together for a beer after work. Tonight, however, I had better things to do, better people to see. Her name is Rosarita.

So I said goodbye to everyone and hurried to the bus, catching the 6 right as it pulled up to the stop.

Once home, I pulled Rosarita out of the cupboard and introduced her to Tillamook Sharp Cheddar Cheese. They were soon joined by a can of California-made salsa and real corn tortillas. Aren't they gorgeous together?!

These amazing goodies were shipped to me earlier this week--I'd been forced to curb my appetite when I realized that I couldn't get Rosarita open because I lacked a can opener.

But tonight I was prepared and I began assembling a mighty dinner. Turks don't eat sour cream but they have a cream-type condiment that I had in the fridge--it's not very tangy, but it's close enough when you have better things to salivate over. Like toasted corn tortillas with grated cheddar melted, then topped with brown rice, refried beans, some more cheddar, chili chicken, and salsa, blessed salsa.

I didn't even make it to the table with them. They were consumed in their entirety on my kitchen counter in huge, inelegant bites. I know it's gringo Mexican food, but it tastes like Home, and I was grinning with bliss for a good 10 minutes. Delicious.

Pancakes

I attempted pancakes for the second time today. Without accurate measuring devices and reliable ingredients, they're not like the ones from home... I don't think that their "baking powder" is the same as what we use. I made my pancakes much more carefully this time than the first attempt, and they turned out a lot better, but they're still a little gluey on the inside.

Oh America, I miss your fluffy goodness.

FYI, I'm going to be eating like there's no tomorrow when I get back to the States in nine months. Like there's no tomorrow.

It's Turkish Food From Now On.

Sometimes it's better to just miss what you can't have rather than torment yourself with a cheap imitation.

Fahri, my Turkish teacher slash ultra-generous host around Turkey took me to Ephesus (see photos on site). On our way back to Izmir we had dinner in a nice restaurant called Tex Mex tonight. At first blush it seemed promising. When I saw the description of chicken tacos (sour cream, guacamole and cheddar cheese--all of which are rare in Turkish markets), my mouth started to water.

Today's travel moral: Don't count your chickens before they hatch.

The ultra-posh ambiance of Tex Mex (glass wall with a view of Izmir's glittering lights, two waiters per table, carefully-groomed maitre d', plush chairs, etcetra) should have been a tip-off that I would not be eating Mexican food as I knew it. Tacos and burritos are meant to be consumed in quantity off of ugly, dirty plates in scuzzy hole-in-the-wall joints where you might (but never do) get food poisoning.

When my tacos arrived they were in the middle of a pristine square white plate, delicately perched on a bed of shredded iceburg lettuce. Fahri had ordered the same thing, and I realized in a split second that I should not, repeat NOT, pick the taco up and bite into it. Forget it if that's how you actually eat a taco. This is Turkey. This is an elite restaurant, with people celebrating their anniversary at a specially-decorated table a few feet away. Some American girl chomping through a taco and would not improve Tex Mex's reputation. So, following Fahri's example, I picked up my knife and fork and delicately consumed my taco's filling, then tackled the remaining corn shell. All the while thinking: What the fuck?!?!

Two strips of semi-melted American cheese were criss-crossed as garnish on each taco--I guess you can call whatever you want cheddar cheese, as long as you live in a place where no one has any idea what the hell it really is. There was definitely no guacamole in either of my tacos. The chicken was flavored with BBQ sauce. (Hence the Tex in the Mex?) Oh, Chipotle, how I yearn for you.

I kept laughing about how absurd it was, but just passed it off as me delighting in the food when Fahri asked what was up. "Yes, it's so good. Yes, it's almost like being back in America." I was not about to bitch and whine since the tacos cost 12.50YTL.

Add it to the list of things to do upon resurfacing in America: Mexican food like whoa.

The Water's Heating Up Under My Kettle

Damn Youth
Next door to Posh English École is a bakery where I bought a poacha this morning. The woman behind the counter spoke a little English and asked me where I was from (Oh! America!), what did I do (Oh! Teacher!), how old I was (Oh! 25! [Yes, I am still lying. To everyone.]). She sullied my mood when she said sweetly, "But you look so young! Maybe 18!" It's hard to mutter that maybe I just seem so young because she's so old, when she's smiling hugely at me. So I just shrugged and said, "Thank you!"

Damn Classes
J is... busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. This week is busy, busy.

I found out Friday that I have a new class starting on Monday--brand new, Elementary students so I'll be starting the first lesson with "Hi. My name's J. What's your name?" When I look at the textbook for the class, I experience mild panic. How do you communicate with people who have basically NO English skills? I haven't had to do that yet. All will be revealed tomorrow. At least I'll finally be getting paid for 15 hours a week. I might be able to afford a beer once in a while. :-P

Saturday morning I redeemed myself with my Pre Int class--the ones I screwed up teaching "but," "although," and "however" with last week. Yeah. I obviously know grammar--but explaining it in simple English when 16 eyes are watching my every move is challenging to say the least.

But THEN I found out Saturday that I had been placed on a surprise rota to cover for a teacher who had to go take care of her babies/sick mother somewhere in Turkey. I get paid for covering her class, which she had already planned. So I showed up to teach her Upper Intermediate class how to use the Future Perfect properly. *sigh* It was so half-assed. Honestly, it's such a pain to decipher someone's notes, stacks of photocopies, etc. I don't know how anyone could WANT to be a substitute teacher and put up with unenthusiastic students who are like, "When's so-and-so coming back? You're sure she's only out for one day?"

Hanging out with my own students is superior.

Damn Food Prices
Observed recently at a large chain store comparable to Walmart:

• Oats, 500g: 4YTL
• American Maple syrup, 8 ounces: 27YTL
• Smirnoff Vodka, 750mL: 50YTL

Work
Still going strong. I administered my first exam tonight to my Intermediate class. It was nice and relaxing and I got to sit and look at my students, a nice change from them normally watching me sweat bullets. This was the class that I inherited from three previous teachers (over the course of the last couple months), so the class has shrunk considerably from its initial enrollment. The six who are left (including one woman) form a pretty nice group of students, though. My businessmen! They're always in there in their suits and ties. They're a hard bunch to impress and I don't know if maybe they just feel silly learning English from such a little girl, but they haven't dropped out yet so they're motivated.

I have my first observed lesson this Saturday. I'm a bit nervous since this is one of the check points towards actually having a job for a year at PEÉ. I'm sure it'll be fine but it'd be so absurd if I ended up being sent back to the States... I'll be teaching my Pre Intermediate class and they're a fun bunch. Last week we were learning dating/relationship vocabulary and I made them do a speed dating activity where they had to create personas for ridiculous photos (like a clown in a magenta costume; a guy with huge red, yellow and blue mohawk spikes; a gold digger; a deep-sea diver; etc). They had a good time and I think we're developing rapport, but I'm still learning a lot about how to speak slowly and deliver instructions clearly.

Turkish Friend?
In the front office of PEÉ there are about five or six women who do various secretarial duties. One of them is this super sweet one who knows enough English to communicate with me. She's 21 and is a student, so she only works a couple days a week, but we've started emailing each other to make plans to hang out. She's promised to take me to the cool venues in Izmir--I need a guide--but it'll have to wait until I get my first substantial paycheck and can afford to go out. It's exciting, though...

Adventures in the Grocery Store
Okay, here are my new foods of the week.



Milk. In Turkey, milk is primarily available in vacuum sealed boxes and is unrefrigerated. I heard weird things about it from people at work--that it tastes super gross compared to regular, refrigerated milk--so I've been avoiding it. I decided to suck it up and spend the 80 kuruş to find out what it tasted like. I stuck it in the fridge before work and just tried some. I can report that I am pleasantly surprised at its drinkability. It's got a mild flavor of baby formula, and it doesn't taste like the rich and amazing California milk I'm used to, but I will definitely be buying more of it. Now if I could just find granola...

Peanut Butter. The jar that I bought had the creamy, whipped consistency of Jiff PB. A tiny bite of it proves it to be suited for the filling of a candy bar--this "peanut spread" is more like peanut-tinted Nutella. It's creamy, sugary, and nothing like peantus ground up with salt. Oh well.

Mystery Meat. George and I couldn't figure out if this meat needed to be cooked, or if it's salami. I guess we'll find out tomorrow when we try to make sandwiches to take on our day trip to a beach out past Çeşme.

The "Honeymoon Phase" has yet to end

I have never been so consistently happy. I have never not complained as little as I have over the past three weeks. The one thing that I can say that I honestly hate about life in Turkey is that the doorknobs here really suck. They require more torque to operate than their American counterparts. Okay. Big deal. Is that all?!?!

I am not concerned that I am getting paid absolute crap--I have been working probably four times as many hours as I am getting paid for (prep time versus actual teaching time). It doesn't bother me that stores close early at night here and I don't have food for lunch tomorrow. It didn't bother me when, at our hotel in Kuşadası, there wasn't any hot water for showers for two days. I am not annoyed to be walking all over the place. I am not irritated by the number of people crammed into the city. The dirt and the noise do not bother me. I am fine with the unpredictable availability of toilet paper in public restrooms and have learned to carry my own. I don't care that I can't find refrigerated milk and have yet to become brave enough to pick one of the eight brands available in tetrapaks.

This is the way life is here. I can't believe that I'm not complaining. What is happening to me?!

Let me wax poetic. İzmir, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways... Seviyorum (I love):

• not needing car. I <3> lowering my carbon footprint.
  
• buying my groceries from tiny stores next to where I live. Though big business must surely exist, local businesses appear to be thriving even in downtown urban centers. Some chain stores exist but they are smaller than anything I've ever seen. Wal-Mart what?
  
• the absurdities of life. Turkish traffic. Turkish fashion. Turkish encounters.
• the bread. My god, the bread! Flat; fluffy; dry; chewy; buttery; flaky; bagel-like; stuffed with goat-chevre and parsley; baked with olives; a special bread available only during Ramadan; pita like you've never eaten before; sprinkled with regular sesame seeds; sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds; brushed with egg whites before being baked. Bread soaked in soup. Bread by itself. Bread, bread, bread.
  
• the Aegean. Every day, walking along the water. I love the smell, the wind, the fishermen catching fish at all hours of the day. It's beautiful at dawn, under the noon sun, at twilight and when it reflects the lights of the ships late in the dark.
• that they don't care about small change. When buying fruit and veg, or paying your bill for that matter, Turks round up or down to the nearest 25 kuruş (cents).
  
• the tea. Teeny little glasses of black tea are consumed more often than the world-renowned Turkish coffee. Sugar cubes are always served on the side. Little spoons rest on the saucer. So far I have seen one Starbucks in Turkey--one--and only once have I seen anyone toting around those stupid paper coffee cups that just end up in landfills. Turks sit down to drink their tea and when they're done, they wash the glass and use it again. Bless their hearts.

End of Week 1

I have been in Turkey 12 days. I have spent the last 9 of those at work. I will be paid for 4 hours of teaching. I can only laugh. People at work are like, "Are you here again?" Yes. Ah, the life of a new teacher. Broke, hauling ass to perform well and be professional.

I had my second class tonight. I think that my first class was better--I was more energetic and I had more students. Maybe I drove two of them away last night?! I wasn't nervous tonight, which was nice. My students are older--all with wedding bands on their fingers even though some are possibly just late 20-somethings. Mostly men. There's a banker, a logistics coordinator, a college graduate, a mechanical engineer. Can't remember what else. They are often learning English because they are eligible for promotions at work if they can get above a certain score on the TOEFL ibt test. So some of them are eligible and attend consistently. Others--well, we'll see about them.

I've been walking an hour and a half a day--to and from work. My feet are finally healing from the blisters of breaking in three new pairs of shoes. *sigh* But with the exercise at least I can justify all of the Turkish buttery croissant-type-things I've been eating... Yum... Little Debbie and Orowheat have nothing on the legit bakeries over here. The demise of the small, specialized business is a total loss to American life.

It's Tuesday night--tomorrow is my weekend. I'm so glad to have Wednesday and Thursday free. I will sleep in and wait for the repair man to come and fix our pathetic oven. And then I will go take photos (it's finally time to put together my Fashion and Transport photo essays) and find something delicious to cook for dinner.

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!