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."