Toast Post

I rushed back into the Kitchen this morning to find smoke billowing out of the grill. My first cooking venture in Asia a dreadful fail. The real sting is that all I was making was toast. But the true shame is that toast was the one food I jokingly told the maids I could cook. I suddenly appreciate the accomplishments of the houekeeper. With here away due to a family emergency, I am like a boat without a rudder in this house.

Here, they would call that Kismit. You know, sometimes Kismit can be a bitch. Sorry Grandma.

P.S. Here there is this sour cream type substance that when spread on toast and mixed with honey creates what can only be called ambrosia. As my fellow Au Pair Brittany said on first tasting this Kahvalti concoction: "I'm never going back to America"

Free Association

I don't have a purpose for this post aside from my need add a post. So I've decided to just free associate and see what we end up with...

I returned at 11:11 this morning with a confidence I'm not sure I had before. Confidence about the language, confidence about the culture, confidence about my own independence, and most importantly--confidence in my decision to move here.

Something I have gotten a lot of since I moved here from the natives is the question "Why?" Why Turkey? Everyone seems astounded by my impulsive decision to move here--and the fact that I did it not having one Turkish friend in the world. That is something that before I came never struck me as an issue. When needing a change in life, you pack a bag, get on an airplane, and go. I have never thought of myself as a spontaneous person before....but in comparison to the Turks, I suppose I am. There is a purpose to everything they do and a specific series of steps they take in which to do them. Though this logic often alludes my grasp leading me to commit confusing though harmless faux pas, to the Turks it all makes perfect sense. Generally, I don't like to speak in vague generalities like this--I prefer concrete examples to demonstrate my point. But as these ideas are just beginnning to form in my mind--I haven't yet defined which experiences exactly have influenced my thinking.



*     *     *
(Right: Umit, Me, and Patatas french fries. Istiklal cad. Feb.12)

Yesterday was my second day off---how I live for Friday! I sometimes think that my body and mind have begun to run on an internal Cuma (Friday) clock. At all times I can tell you how long its been since I returned home Saturday morning and how long it is until I can leave again next Friday. I am only truely alive when I am outside this house. People how I love thee.
     I am not sure what exactly it is, but everywhere I go out in Istanbul I am an instant crowd favorite. Whether I am dancing, bumbling Turkish words, or ogling feathered headbands in a shop window I am endearing myself in the heart of some Turk. Never have I known such popularity. I think a part of it is my enthusiasm to learn the language and more then culture--to learn the Turkish people's story. The support and praise from my brand new friends as I strive to add to my expanding Turkish vocabulary is a constant reinforcement. I work hard at pronunciation and accent and from the delighted surprise  or every cab driver's and waiter's face, apparently I am doing well.

Istanbul in 24

They told me it wasn't possible...I changed their minds.

*     *     *

     The brisk breeze off the Bosporus quickly dried the sweat on my brow and filled my nose with the pungent fresh scent of fish and salt water. We were sitting on the top deck of the boat that was taking us from Uskudar down the Strait and across to the bustling center Istanbul. My fellow AuPair directs my attention to the far shore pointing out such landmarks as Dolmabace Palace, the Hagia Sofia, Sultanahmet Cami (the famed Blue Mosque, only one in the world to have 5 minarets) and Galata Tower, all visible from our bench on the ferry. And so the tour begins.
   

     The Spice Bazaar, Topkapi Palace gardens and mosques of Sultanahmet fade into mere memory as my eyes are soon assaulted by the sensory overload that is the Grand bazaar. My darting gaze is torn between the windows of sparkling jewelry, elaborate lamps, tinkling belly dancer costumes, and decadently patterned fabrics. An equal competitor for my attention is the beautifully painted vaults in the ceilings that lead down the miles of corridors which constitute the indoor bizarre. As if taking in this ancient and world renowned site aren't challenging enough, I have the added obstacle of avoiding eye contact with the hundreds of men who man the many shops and try to rebuff their decidedly aggressive sales tactics.
     Brittany, my fellow American AuPair and I eventually meet up with her Turkish friend and stop at a cafe in the center of the bizarre for cold drinks and Turkish Delight. (If you are ever offered fresh Mint Lemonade I highly suggest you accept!)...

 *      *     *

     Beyoglu, Taksim, Istiklal Caddesi. The street that hosts over 1,000,000 pedestrians everyday. As Afternoon turns to dusk the net of Christmas lights which run the length of Istiklal illuminate the shoppers, street vendors and the store fronts which run the gamut from High end designer to literal hole-in-the-ground grottoes which have mountains of cheap jeans and defective clothing for just 5 lira. After purchasing two much needed pairs of jeans and one much desired top, my personal tour guides and I descend upon a salon for a wash and a blow (they do at least, I'm not sure I will ever be able to justify such a frivolity). An hour later we lift our beauty siege and only one stop later for a quick change and we are ready to embrace the night. Our party of 4 becomes a party of 6 and I am soon sitting on a giant cushion, at a little table in a stifling alcove in a Turkish restaurant whose ceiling is so low that even I--at a mere 60`inches tall--cannot stand erect.
      At the first of a series of bars we patron throughout the night our party once again multiplies. The feeling of camaraderie I experience with these young Turks is something I haven't enjoyed since graduation last June. One more stop (and an unfortunate lap full of Efes later) And I am experimenting with Turkish dancing--much to the delight of mine hosts. There is only one thing for it: time to head to a dance club. (Where I proceed to make what I am sure is a spectacle of myself dancing away, but the natives seemed to approve and even marvel at my moves)
     5:00am, not sure how it happened I am sitting at a table in one of the establishments we had visited earlier in the evening long after it has closed. On a microphone a Turkmenistan girl sings a hauntingly complex melody completely a Capella. Though it has taken a while to learn to enjoy the unique sound of Turkish music, for some reason after dancing to it I have a greater appreciation for the genre. Leaning my head heavily on my hand, my American friend and I languish in the corner, appalled yet strangely in awe of the Turks' ability to continue the party. One thing is to be said for them:  Turkish people really know how to play.

*     *     *

Messy haired and bleary eyed, slightly bus sick I read the chartreuse sign as we pass over the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge on our way home mid Saturday morning: "Welcome to Asia" and realize just how lucky I am. I am young, I am moderately healthy, I have friends, and a job, and I am living in the only city on earth that spreads across the border of two continents.

Rapulzelitis

Pushing open the shutters and stepping out onto my balcony, I know how Rapunzel feels.

Sometimes towers are good places to get a view, check your bearings, or--if you are in a biblical mindset at the moment--protect your master's vineyard from an encroaching destroyer.

But sometimes it is just a cage.

A cage which taunts with a view of what you could have, but for lack of exit are denied. I call it Rapunzelitis. Perched stoically on my balcony, watching life pass all around me, but at mercy to the whims of my captor. I pause, holding my breath as a gardener passes beneath me, afraid he will look up and catch me watching. Praying that he does and doesn't mind a long climb up a slippery braid. Alas, something I have heard before (probably in spy movies) is that people seldom look up.

I can't believe that I lived 22.5 years, graduated from college with honors, moved all by myself not once, not twice, but three times, ending up halfway halfway around the globe, only to be denied permission to leave the house. By a housemaid. Who is almost my own age.

My Lady Rapunzel, get comfortable. 

Apparently you have a long wait.

Kitty Cats and Old Wives Tales

After one week of swilling tepid, stale water from glass pitchers left sitting on the counter at all times I finally broke two days ago, marched to the freezer, pulled out a lone icetray and to the horror of all those who watched, dropped two beautiful, crystalline icecubes into my glass.

Oh sweet Nirvana.

With a combination of frantic gestures, concerned facial expressions, and Turkish baby talk my surrogate Anne (mother) Dondu tried to convey the message the drinking cold water would make me ill and probably--one would have to assume--kill me. I didn't even try to be gentle or polite in my refusal to believe and insistence that I would continue to sip on my icy potion of death. This is one myth I simply refuse to cater to. Sorry, Dondu Abla, on this one I am just not budging.

*     *     *

Ice cubes is just one in a string of cultural quirks I have been slowly but increasingly noting here in Turkey. Granted, I only have the two families I have interacted with as moulds, but the reactions of the many drivers, delivery boys, maids, and coaches I have interacted with lead me to suggest my family is representative of more moderate Turkish culture. Thus I am going to make the assinine mistake of assuming most Turks are even more superstitious.
     Western medicine has known for over one hundred years that it is bacteria and viruses that make you sick, not the cold. Yet still the family huddles in the house. And veritably swaddles the children for them to walk the 20 feet from stoop to bus (escorted--of course--by the very pretty young woman who comes to the door every morning whom I assume is some kind of bus driver's assistant)

Today I snapped again...

(30 minutes ago)

   I sat in the gaily painted folding chair Ayşa had gallantly set up for me in the back room that doubles as Döndü's bedroom (for the one night a week she stays here) and a laundry workroom, or as I like to think of it: "Ironland". Watching Döndü iron garment after garment after washcloth after wait! Tweety Bird panties?!?! I was simply forced to interrupt. "Underwear? You iron an eight year old's underwear!?!?" Döndü Abla just shrugged and smiled, moving on to a tiny pair of corduroy pants. (Apparently my outrage needed no translation). I finally did what I had been promising myself I would do soon: I began an epic rant. Nevermind the fact that Döndü speaks only Turkish and Ayşa could probably only understand about every 7th word I broke into a Solioquey about the joys of childhood and how the ironing of panties was a symbolic slaughtering of youth--Mr. Shakespear would be proud really would--then I lept from my chair snagged my now notorious holographic alien notebook and raced from the room with no explanation.
     I stalked desperatly to my computer loacted in the salon and quickly clicked a link to my newly discovered new best friend: Google Translator. There I ferevishly typed in the words:

-Children Play
-Outside
-Get dirty
-Climb
-Jump, (and Finally)
-Laugh

I then marched triumphantly back to Ironland, waving my notebook like a banner of victory. Giving an abbreviated but no less passionately disgruntled encore performance this time in Turkish I talked about how American children play outside and are expected to get dirty.

I ended it with a vague (but I feel eloquent) "...and Turkish children? No."

Drivers

I.N.D.E.P.E.N.D.E.N.T. do you know what that means?
     Because the Turks, apparently do not. It is apparent to me after only one week that Turkish children--especially girls--aren't nearly as autonomous as Americans. The girls have everything done for them. From zipping their coats to cutting their food. Well, ok, only the 8yr old needs help with her clothes, but the idea is, they are expected to do much less then the average American child. Where this sheltering is really apparent however, is in travelling.
   In this family we have anywhere from 1-3 drivers at our beck and call at all times. When the drivers pick up the girls for, say, gymnastics, they come to the door of the house, walk us out, open the car door, walk us in to gymnastics, sit for the whole two hours, help us in the car, and when we get home, once again lead us up the walk and wait until the maid answers the door. Juxtapose this with my little brother and sister who scarf down breakfast, yank on their back packs often forgetting their coats and tear out the door to the bus stop where they push and shove until the bus comes.
     Now you would think that the fact that they are being carefully accompanied by the Nanny who was imported all the way from the States for just this purpose would mean they don't need to necessarily dog the children's steps the 20 feet from the curb to the door. Especially in a tightly gated neighborhood like Beykoz Konaklari.
     You would think.

     I however, am chafing at the supervision. When I told the mother that I was hoping that I could have friday as my day off this week so that I could go out with the AuPair who lives with the girls' cousins who has been here for 5 months already she expressed worry about me going out on my own (even though I am going to be with the other nanny). That's very sweet. And it makes me feel like a beloved part of this home that they wory weather I am warm enough, have had enough to eat, and if I am safe riding a bus for 20 minutes until I meet up with the other AuPair but the truth is, I have been taking care of myself for a long time now. I think I can handle a little rain.



 And to think: My parents were afraid for my safety!

"Seni Seviyorum"

     I was told "I love you" today by a Turkish woman of indeterminate age. I was also invited to sit in the kitchen over a leisurely cup of tea with said woman and the other maid, both of whom I have been invited to call my "Abla", or big sister; a title which I am coming to learn holds a great amount of affection and deference to the Turkish people. Abla is perhaps my favorite word in the Turkish language...right after guzel (beautiful) and yemek (food/eat) that is.
     Another thing I like and need to practice is the "Turkish Blink" An exaggerated blink of the eye is the Turk's version of the head nod. I means 'yes' but it also seems to mean much more then that. 'I knowledge you'...it's like a double wink, or an extra long hug.

*     *     *

     Standing in the living oda of Yasemin's Babaanne (Paternal Grandmother) two days ago, I was struck dumb with wonder. Laid out before me was the most magnificent view of my life, the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge across a milky turquoise Bosporus in the Foreground with the dogpiled buildings of Istanbul spilling all around it. There was even a cami (meaning Mosque, pronounced jah-mee) or two sprinkled in the mix, all cuddled under the most gently grey overcast sky I have ever seen.
     Yet my eyes were drawn time and again to the equally shocking display of opulence behind me. Shifting my perch on the canary brocade sofa I am met with a clash of gold, brass and real silver. LOTS of real silver. The nutty, chewy taste of my first Turkish Delight still making the acquaintance of my tongue, I fight the urge to be a gawky American and reach for the camera that should be hanging around my neck somewhere between my visor and my fanny pack. And here I thought our house further up the Bosporus was nice. This one has an elevator and a gatehouse complete with security attendant.
     One short elevator ride later I was ushered into the home of yet another Keceli family. There I watched 2 little girls ooh and ahh over a newborn baby, 2 little boys run wild, banging on toy pianos, and realized that for all the glam and all the psycho traffic, there are somethings that transcend language and timezone.
     I also made my second American contact, the Au Pair of the little terrors afore mentioned. I suspect she was even more relieved by the short moments of American conversation than I was.

Sabah Iki (Morning 2)

(This is from an email I sent my Anne (mom) early Thursday morning

 

Gunaydın--Good Morning!

     My cup is full. From the moment I arrived this family (and their many retainers) have made me feel like a celeb. The cook, Döndü, who is an older lady, is tickled pink everytime I use a Turkish word and expresses to me everytime I am in the kitchen how excited she is to learn some english as I learn Turkish at the same time.

     I spent all of yesterday making crafts, reading books, eating flavorful HEALTHY food, playing wii fit (ask justin what that is), watching Wizards of Waverly Place in Turkish (Tell Jordan I even watched an epısode of Hannah Montana for the first time), reading books and playing an itty-bitty guitar.
    But all day I was listening close and ask ask askimg questions. "Bu Teurkçe ne demek?" --What is the Turkish word for this?--The eldest daugter, Selın who is my best teacher and closest friend so far, praises me and marvels at my ability to speak. "You can read Turkish!" sure I can say it, I just don't know what I am saying! I am carrying my little alien notebook everywhere and wishing I had a bigger one. The girls--even down to little Yasemin all love to write their favorite words ın my notebook for me. So I now have all the colors, names for animals like horses and bees, weather, food, etc.

 

Well, I think thats about it right now. They all sleep until 10:30--thats rıght--10:30am now that ıts break so I have about another 2.5 hrs to sleep before Kahvaltı (a delicious breakfast of cheese, olives, tomatoes bread and tea) I think I will quick munch on a few more prunes and what I thınk are drıed fıgs, dates, and cherries; then head back up to my 3rd floor bedroom my kingsized bed, and the best part--the secret balcony I just discovered last night with an AMAZING view of Beykoz! 

 

I love you. I love the family. Tell them so. This is SUCH an adventure!

Gunaydın

I was brushing my teeth with my fınger (because I forgot my toothbrush in Michigan) in my third floor bathroom this mornıng when I heard it. I pulled open the strange mırror\window next to me only to discover a world that had magically been turned to winter over night. And through the stillness echoed the call to Salatu-I-Fajr, or morning prayer. I said to stuffed tıger: "Bangy, I don't think we're in America any more"

Rewind 18hrs< < <
     We exchanged emails and with one quıck hug promised to talk soon. He was a guy from Ney York here for a semester of study abroad, I was a graduate from Michigan suddenly wondering what I was actually here for and what the hell I had just gotten myself into. I think both of us realized that this was the last vestige of Amerıcan companionship we would have for some time. I went to the Visa booth and was so shocked at how easy and fast it was that I think I may have just stood staring at the girl behind the counter for a few minutes after she grabbed my 20 dollars, slapped the stamp in my passport and thanked me. Then I shuffled sheeplike through the "Passport" queue and without so much as a moment of eye contact with the agent I was in the country.
     So much for homeland security.
     Baggage collected I walked out the doors into a scene from a movie. Or the SAG awards. Dırectly outside the airport doors there was a dividing wall holding back a crowd of men (I know, funny metaphor for something I've never had to do in my life). Many of them holding signs. I paused for the pap to snap my picture, posed, molehill of bagage trailing when I spotted my sign: "Vada Horse" with the H and an M hurridly scribbled in.
     Meet Sami.
     Loaded into the "VIP Car" sitting in the front seat next to our driver it takes me only seconds to realize that Turkish driving ettiquite and American driving don't even belong to the same Phyllum. "It's rainıng" both my driver and later the father point out. As if the the total and universal disobeying of traffic laws, traffic lanes, and common sense is to be excused by the weather.
     Through a complex system of exaggerated pantomime, Turklish (self created term indıcating and basterdised mix of turkish and english) and writing in my holographic alien notebook, Sami and I soon dropped into a conversation about American NBA players and how many children were in our perspective families. It took only minutes for this 49yr old man to become my first friend in Turkey...

Washed, dressed ın pajamas and ready for bed hours later (after a whirlwind afternoon of unpacking, helpiıng the girls with homework and sampling Turkish dishes while both girls, the cleaning girl Ayşe and the older woman Döndü looked on and laughed at my apparently sad attempts to learn the Turkish names), I was in my room and gave into a few self indulgent tears.

Some things I learned today:
1. I never want to drive here. Ever.
2. Due to sıze, this city ıs going to be a lot harder to get around then I thought
2.5. Istanbul is beautiful and I love it already
3. The language is going to be a lot more of a barrier then I expected.

D-Day

2:15 Monday morning. First day of the month of February in the year of our Lord Two Thousand and Ten.

I fly in less than 12 hours.

In a word? Ok, two...

1. Scared
2. Shitless.