"Dude! You're getting a Dell!"

(Whatever happened to that guy?)

Poor schroomie #1, her CD drive has not been working so well on her Dell laptop, and well, we can't have that, now can we? Lucky for her, Dell has an international "service center" "in" Istanbul. Those words are in quotes because they need to be used very loosely...remember this IS Asia.

Schroomie called several times to make sure they could take care of her situation, and to get directions. They gave us driving directions, despite our insistence that we don't have a car. We looked at a map, saw that a train went near the area where the center is located, so we called again today before we left. They insisted that for us, it would be easier to take a taxi. Big sigh.

We ride a boat over to the Asian side, show a taxi driver the address slip, to which he responds, "Okay!" We climbed into the taxi, not knowing what belie us.

Have you ever gone to the doctor, only to have a very young nurse talk herself through the steps of giving you a shot or take your blood? It's beyond unnerving...you think you might die, or at least experience a great deal of pain. This was the thought that passed through my mind as we rode in the brand new taxi with a pretty young driver.

So brand new there was still store plastic covering the sun visors, turn signals, and stick shift. The driver was young enough that he kept the seat pushed back as far as it would go, and leaning back low enough for him to be almost lying down.

When he hit 140 kilometers per hour, I turned to schroomie and asked if there were seatbelts in this death mobile. There were not. He continued to weave in and out of traffic at an extremely ungodly speed, causing me to turn several shades of green (having just gotten off a boat). We thought about pointing to the two "non-smoking" stickers on his windows to see if he would put out his cigarette, but we didn't want to anger him into driving faster. He started speeding through a little neighborhood, yelling out the window to people WAY down the street to see if they knew where the Dell service center was. He finally released us from the death mobile, and I was never so glad to exit a taxi.

At the Dell service center (located next to Mail Boxes Etc...where AM I?!), a man who "spoke" English came out to help schroomie with her poor ill computer. There was dust on the screen (to which she said she'd be able to see to wipe clean if our apartment were better lit...), and he said, "Turkey is a dirty country. But you should clean your computer, maybe this is what is wrong with the CD drive." Yes, because Turkey is SO dirty that dust seeps inside the computer... They informed her it would take 4 weeks for the new part to arrive from Europe (don't they know that Europe is just a boat ride away?), so ten minutes later we were back in a different taxi, who also didn't know which way to go. As he went to get on the highway, we saw a sign that said, "Istanbul" with an arrow... Hence the looseness of the fact that Dell has a service center in Istanbul. Glad that they have one in Turkey. And I was also very glad that the driver went 80 kph on the highway to take us home.

But hey! We can say we've been to the Asian office for Dell.

Backgammon Ruse

One of my more precious childhood memories is that of falling asleep to the sound of my parents playing backgammon. I can still picture them, sitting on their bed, with the corduroy, leather, and marble set, shaking the dice in their cups, and rolling them onto the board. This memory flooded back to me today as I challenged my friend at the Bazaar to a game. Maybe challenge is not the best word. I asked him if he would teach me to play.

After several moves, he caught on to my ruse, and stated, "Ah! You fooled me! You know this game! Now I will cease being a gentle and kind opponent!" The shop owner next door came in to watch the match, tsk tsk'ing that this fifty year old man was being whooped by a young American girl.

Whoop him I did. I asked if I should buy him a glass of chai, to help raise his blood pressure, lowered from losing...to a girl. "You are so good? You play my friend!"

The shop owner stepped into place, we reset the places and rolled the dice. After a few minutes, I asked if I should buy him a glass of chai...for I'd whooped him as well. My parents would be proud, I think, for they taught me well. I still can't beat my dad, though. But if I keep winning like this, I will spend all my money buying these men chai!

Topkaki

Schroomie #1 and I decided to celebrate the holiday a day late by being blatant tourists. We dressed in bright orange, carried cameras and Lonely Planets, and set out to have a day-oh-fun. At the bus stop, a dolmus drove up marked Topkapi--just where we wanted to go. A dolmus is a mini-van taxi that you ride in with a bunch of random strangers. We rode along, laughing quietly at the odd (to us) occurrences, such as when the driver didn't have change, he asked one of the passengers to hop out (in the middle of traffic) and ask one of the other drivers for change--who happily gave it. He finally pulls up to a stop and tells us to climb into another dolmus, which we did, wondering if we needed to pay again. He didn't ask for money or yell at us when we got out without paying him anything, so...okay. One more thing to add about the dolmus--the driver drove the wrong way down a one way street in order to deposit us at Topkapi.

We climbed out, and I said to schroomie, "Maybe we should have told him we wanted to go to Topkapi PALACE." There was no palace to be found in this area of town, which was better described as shanty town. If we'd stood out earlier in our bright orange clothing, we certainly did here! The men would holler at us in their limited English, "Lady Beautiful! I've been waiting for you!" One man poked schroomie in the shoulder to say hello, to which she replied, "Touching me is NOT okay." We left that area quickly and decided to figure out where we going once we weren't in shanty town.

Several stops for directions later, we realize that while we are in the area called Topkapi, the Topkapi Palace is convenietly in another part of town. Everyone we asked for directions would begin telling us how to get to the Aya Sofia, to which we would kindly respond that we did not wish to go to the Aya Sofia, but to the Topkapi Palace. Finally we look at a different map, and understand that the Palace is right next to the Aya Sofia--which we knew how to get to. And from that map, the Topkapi neighborhood is NOWHERE near the palace. Why? Welcome to Asia.

So we ride the Metro back towards the Aya Sofia and hop out near the Palace. We walk along a very Byzantine looking wall, knowing that the Palace surely must be on the other side of the it. It was my first experience of not only a park in Istanbul, but of trees, grass, greenery! We enjoyed the delightful walk, to be out of the concrete jungle for a few moments. At the end of the park, there was the quaintest tea garden overlooking the water and city. I can't wait until it is a little warmer to return there to read a good book.

So we finally get to the entrance of the Palace. It is where the Sultan used to live. (Think Jasmine and Alladin...) Like so much of what I've seen so far, it seemed like something European but with a Muslim touch. The touch this time was a room with a man (like the kind I imagine that climbs the minarets to sing out the call to prayer) in a small booth singing from the Koran. It was interesting to finally have a real picture in my memory (no photos allowed) instead of just my imagination. The room in which he was singing was more packed than other rooms we'd seen, because it is where the holy relics are kept.

I've been lucky enough to see several holy relics in my travels. In Europe, any given hair from any given saint. Immortalized footprints of Saint Peter. Pilgrimage sites where apparitions occurred. In Sri Lanka, we got to enter the temple where a tooth from the Buddha himself is kept safe. Today, I added to my list: hairs and a tooth of the prophet Mohammed, a footprint, his sandle, Abraham's mixing bowl, Joseph's turban, and Moses' rod! All for the low, low price of 12 million Turkish Lira! But dinner in our Galata Tower...priceless.

Yes, we ate dinner at the Galata Kulesi. Let me tell you! We rode the elevator to the floor marked "restaurant," and sat a lovely table for two right next to a window, overlooking the city. After waiting about fifteen minutes for a waiter, we were informed that the restaurant only served drinks. If we wanted to eat, we needed to go upstairs to the Night Clup. Again, welcome to Asia. We went upstairs, and found the clup empty. We were escorted to yet another table for two by a window overlooking a different part of the city.

The maitr'de came over and informed us that dinner, drinks, and the show was a fixed price of 60 Euros. (Never mind that Turkey is not yet in the EU, and therefore doesn't use Euros yet). Oh, we inform him, we only want dinner. No drinks, no show. He proceeds to lower the price for us, to 45 Euros. We explain that it is not about the price, but that we don't drink, and we are not interested in seeing the show on this night. He leaves, comes back, and asks if 40 is a more acceptable price. We state again, that we would simply like to eat dinner, no show. He tells us that their wine is very good, and for 35 Euros, we are getting an incredible deal on it. He points to the menu and shows us that the meal alone is 20 Euros, so we are getting all we can drink wine, and the show for only 15 more Euros. Don't we wish to see true Turkish belly dancing--men and women, and with good wine? Not really a good selling point for these girls.

We explain that we are neighbors, we live near the tower, and will return again. But just for this night, we would only like dinner. No wine, no show. He leaves, and the waiter comes in his place. He asks what I would like to drink, to which I reply, "water." "Whiskey?" He asks. ARG. No, not whiskey. Water. He grins, and I realize he was making a joke. He tells us what we want to order off the menu, and by this point, we just agree so that they might bring us food at some point.

The food did come (with more joking that we didn't understand from our waiter), and it was delicious. We enjoyed the view, and pretended that it was 1896, and we'd just arrived from Paris on the Orient Express. I'm sure we haven't giggled that much in at least a few hours...

When it came time to pay, especially because we knew the time for the bellydancing show was about to begin, we explained that we would like our bill. The response, "No. You sit and enjoy the view for a little longer. You leave at 9:30." We knew the show started at 9:30, and that once it started, we could not leave until it was finished--at midnight. We laughed about how we were being held as two damsels in distress in the Tower. We stopped a different waiter and asked if he would bring our bill--which he did. The two ala carte meals we had (remember, for 20 Euros each)--80 million Turkish Lira. I don't even know how many Euros that is, but I don't think it's 2o...

If you ever want a good deal on wine and belly dancing, let me know. A truly blog-worthy day.

Life is normal on a not-normal day

Yes, you read correctly. I ate at Arby's. Yes, they have Arby's in Istanbul, and I ate at one--without having even been here a month. They also have McDonald's, Burger King, Pizza Hut, KFC, 7-11, Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks, TGIFriday's, and I'm sure more that I have not discovered yet.

Yes, they also have Turkish food. (Unlike Sri Lanka, where one only can order Chinese food at Sri Lankan restaurants. Here, they sell the local food at local restaurants). Yes, I eat Turkish food, and rather enjoy it. My roommates tease me that I've eaten more doner (a street sandwich) in my two weeks than they've had their entire time in country.

But it's Christmas weekend in a country that doesn't recognize Christmas. They decorate as if it's Christmas, but only to celebrate New Years NEXT weekend. Santa is everywhere, but Jesus is not. While going to Arby's and then the movies did not any way, shape or form help me feel more like a Christian, it did make me feel more American, just for a minute, on a weekend that I desire to feel both. I'm trying not to miss my family too much and saw roast beef and cheddar and curly fries as comfort food.

Tonight, for Christmas Eve, I will follow an odd tradition of my extended family back in Virginia and eat Chinese after attending a candlelight service with some refugees. But today, Christmas Eve, probably my favorite day of the year--life goes on here as normal. I will spend the morning at the Bazaar with my new family, who won't celebrate anything about Jesus this weekend. I'll go have language with my tutor and practice making sounds new to my mouth and throat. I'll attempt to communicate to a salesperson that I need to set up my cell phone. I'll sit in Starbucks and humble myself as I try to make friends with those around me.

I'm glad to be here Christmas weekend. If "Jesus is the reason for the season," and the reason I am here as well, it makes sense to be here during the season. But to the extent that I am able, I will do some things the American way this weekend to make up for not being in America. So I ask for grace for having eaten at Arby's, and for staying up until the wee hours of the night with my roommate making cookies, and for listening to the pop holiday music station on the Internet. I promise I truly am attempting to enculturate myself on the normal given today. Today just isn't quite that day.

Reasons my roommate hates me

I think my blue eyes are getting me somewhere in this town! Today, my roommate and I ate at Arbys-ha! They gave me my food, but we had to wait while they made her curly fries. So I stood and munched on mine while we waited. She started to tease me that she was getting new ones, while I had to eat the old ones. I smarted back, "At least I'm getting to enjoy mine now." The server brought her fries to her, and then asked if I wanted to have hot ones too. He took my half empty container away, and refilled it with hot, fresh curly fries. I gave her a ha-ha look and walked away to our table.

We left the dining area of the mall and headed to the movie theatre. When I went to purchase my ticket, the man asked if I was a student. I said yes, but I don't have an ID. He charged me 8 million for my ticket, and then charged schroomie 9 million. She said she was going to post her own blog about why she doesn't like this country.

Lest you think the world is rosy perfect for me here because of my blue eyes (they're seen as a good luck charm), I'll share my experience of trying to buy a receipt book and index cards yesterday. I walked into a paper store, and said, "Turkce bilmiyorum," and a look of panic entered the salesclerk's eyes. I looked around for what would resemble index cards. When none were to be found, I finally pointed to a small booklet that I could cut up to use as flash cards for vocabulary. Then I pointed to the receipt part of the cash register, to the booklet I was holding, and hoped he would understand my hand gestures. No such luck. I pulled out my dictionary and said the words for receipt and book. Still no understanding on his part. (I have a theory that people who don't speak English see light skin and blue eyes, and automatically assume that they will NOT understand ANYthing from that point forward.) Again and again I say "receipt, book" and make motions of me writing a receipt. Two older salesclerks have an entire conversation about how they know I'm saying receipt and book, but they sure as heck don't understand me. The younger one walks away, comes back, shows me a receipt book, and asks if this is what I wanted. "Evet!" I shout. Yes! Small tasks can exert so much energy.

And I got laughed at today when I asked how much something was, and didn't understand the response. Straight up, mean, junior high laughed at. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard if their prices weren't all in the MILLIONS--that's alot of numbers to comprehend in a flash second. Thank goodness they're changing it with the new year and getting rid of all those zeroes. Just a few occurances of every day life from the eternal nomad--and my roommie doesn't really hate me.

Enculturation, perhaps?

The first knock came at 8:45. Still nursing my coffee, I stumbled towards the door, opened it, and attempted to not grumble as I stated, "Gunaydin." Two repair men entered my flat, and my roommate stumbled out of her room, rubbing her eyes. To be upright, moral women, we both needed to be there, not alone with men in the flat. At that hour, we were not polite enough to offer coffee or chai (tea). They fixed our gas heater and went on their way.

Later in the day (and a better mood on both my and my roommate's parts), the second knock came. Nursing my chai, I opened the door, and stated, "Merhaba." Three men entered the flat, carrying a tool box and large sheets of wood. My roommate and I opened the doors wide for them to come and go, and went to work in the kitchen preparing chai for them to drink when they finished building our new bedroom set.

Seeing that we were home, our upstairs neighbor came in to visit. "Merhaba." She came in, speaking Turkish and smiling at us. We said, "Turkce bilmiyorum, Turkce, yok." (I don't speak Turkish, I don't have any Turkish.) No matter, she was here to visit. We poured her some chai, and stumbled through talking about family. She has five children, the oldest in college, the youngest is three. She finished her chai, and we asked her to come again. The men finished putting together our furniture, drank their chai, and left.

Perhaps we will not stand out so obviously as we feel blue eyes make us appear. Perhaps we will begin to show our Asian hearts. Perhaps...

Don't stand by the mosque at noon!

"It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a pour weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die." Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens

I read this yesterday right as the call to prayer was sounding out. I was told upon arrival that I would quickly grow accustomed to hearing it, and would not even notice it after a few days. It's been two weeks and I still notice it every time. A friend recently asked if it was unnerving, and I told her not so much. I thought about her today, and wanted to amend my response: it's only unnerving when you're standing directly in front of a mosque when the call rings, for it rings LOUD and boisterously.

I suppose parts of my Dickens quote does not fit the call to prayer. My imagination sees the little Muslim man climbing the spiral stairs of the minaret up to the top and singing into the microphone, and I find myself in days of old. The devout promise that it is a live man singing each time, and not a tape recording of someone's voice, so it actually has maintained the "life and resonance of a human voice." But the rest of what Dickens said...this is how the call to prayer makes me feel. Have no fear, though, I do not wish to lie down and die.

I just wish with each call to prayer that those who hear it would respond "in spirit and truth" that God truly is great, and that prayer is an incredible step towards finding him. Instead, the swarms of people on the street keep rolling with the tides and don't seem to pay attention to the call, as I was told would happen to me. I had imagined before arrival that the call would be like the lowering of the flag on military bases around the world...everyone stops what they are doing during that moment, and resumes when the trumpet is finished. Once again, my imagination is more creative than reality.

This famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, longs for the hopeless and lost creatures to "taste and see that the Lord is good." The call to prayer has served me as a reminder to pray that this will be so.

How long will the honeymoon last?

"As the waters cover the sea, so the whole earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord."

This verse tumbled through my mind this morning as I rode on a boat to the other side (Asia). It was my first time to venture across continents by myself (hehe, when will I get used to that?), and I delighted in the time alone on the quiet boat staring out at the water and the city on a hill behind it. It seemed as if I'd lived here forever, so natural was it to me to walk up to the dock, press my akbil into the machine (a card-holder machine, if you will), and board the boat. Somewhere between buying lamps yesterday and riding a boat alone today, a change of mind occurred.

I've been in transition for so long that this just seemed another quick trip, as if I'd be packing the suitcase again soon enough. When would I feel settled? When would I feel my roots digging down? When would I enter the honeymoon phase I've heard of for newcomers, instead of seeing everything through eyes and heart of one who does not belong to this place?

On a boat on the Bosphorus two weeks after landing, I suddenly awakened to understand. This is home now. Boats, trolleys, trains, the metro, taxis, cars and buses are my mode of transport. Walking five miles a day and up four flights of stairs is normal. I pump my water, eat sandwiches on the street for lunch, smell of second hand smoke regularly, and use a hot water bottle to warm my bed at night. This is my life and this is my home.

All because of a boat ride by myself.

The Light District...NOT the Red Light District

The ceiling in my apartment is brick. While it emits a comfortable, warm, coffee-shop aire, it does not lend well to lighting. It is no easy task for three single women to figure out how to hang ceiling lamps from a brick ceiling, so we stick with floor and desk lamps. This week, the one working of our two floor lamps died, and we found ourselves sitting in near darkness. Lucky for us--we live in what we have labeled the Light District. On any given street, there are a plethora of lighting shops! So the roommate and I set out today to find some Ikea-ish lamps for our ever so cute apartment.

We went in one after another, and I practiced saying, "Nekidar?" (How much?) Unfortunately the numbers were all larger than twenty, so I had a difficult time practicing listening to numbers. At the fourth shop, we found a sale! The man didn't seem to mind that we didn't understand the majority of what he said in Turkish, he just kept talking. We finally came to an agreement for two lamps--one floor and one desk, for a price that was lower than any other floor lamps alone that we'd seen. Because it was a sale, we had to buy today, which we did. But I now write to you from a well-lit room (instead of by the light of my computer).

One odd thing did happen while we were out shopping. We needed to buy a special broom to sweep our on-loan Persian hand-made carpet in our Friends-esk apartment. At the what-shall-we-call-it...house-cleaning accessories shop, we looked at different brooms. This man on the street began trying to speak with us, so we went inside, to be near the safety of the shop owner, who knows us. The street man came in and continued not only talking to us, but trying to help us find the broom we need. We grew confused and looked at the shop owner for help or clarification. He began moving around, trying to resolve the situation.

What to do? Odd street man doing your job for you by trying to make a sale in your store...weird, but perhaps good. But the customers are not only young women, who ought to be left alone, but foreign women at that, who therefore need protection.

We tried hurriedly to get the broom we needed, handed the store owner our money, and watched in amazement as the street man looked around, found a bag, and proceeded to bag our purchase for us. By this point, we just wanted to leave, hoping he wouldn't follow us, and frustrated that the shop owner didn't help us more. Such is the perils of young single blue eyed women living in a Muslim city.

But our carpet is now clean, which is good, since you can see it with our new lamps.

The 10-year 1-year Rule goes international

I sat in a small room above my friend's shop in the bazaar today and had lunch with his wife. As we talked about all areas of life, it came out in conversation that she is ten years younger than her husband. My eyes grew large, and she reassured me that this is good. She said, "What do 22 year old boys know about marriage or family? They are boys. They know nothing. It is not good to marry a man under 30." She proceeded to tell me that it is never good for a woman to marry a man more than maybe, one year younger, but up to ten years older is acceptable.

Could this be possible? Could the ten-year-one-year rule really exist outside the US? (There I go being ethnocentric again). For those of you unfamiliar with this rule, it simply states that in most cases, a woman should never date someone more than one year younger, or ten years older than herself. But it works the other way for men: they should never date a woman more than one year older, or ten years younger (but the cut off being 18...so a 25 year old man can only date down to an 18 year old). This was something my friends and I in school would joke and laugh about, and I always just laugh even more when I meet friends outside of school who also follow this rule.

But for a woman in Turkey to tell me about the rule? Amazing. Some things just don't change wherever you go.

The Spice Bazaar and Randomness

Come to find out I haven't been visiting the Grande Bazaar, (which didn't seem as big as I thought it should be...) but the Egyptian Spice Bazaar! That explained why there were so many spices for sale... I asked my friend why it is called the Egyptian Spice Bazaar, and he said that long ago the spices were brought from Egypt. Makes sense. Then he says, "This bazaar is almost 600 years old! This is hard for you Americans to comprehend, no?" Yes, rub it in, we're a baby nation still.

Nothing overly exciting happened in this part of the world today, except that I saw all sorts of random things. A horse pulling a cart blocking car traffic on my street. A homosexual rainbow flag hanging out a window (not normal in a Muslim city). A girl with dyed BRIGHT orange hair (which made me happy!) in a sea of people dressed in black (the color of choice for most Istanbulians). A sign that read, "Aslan Han." (Han means building...Aslan, the hero from the Chronicles of Narnia, which has a chapter entitled "Turkish delight." Aslan means lion...Hmmm...what IS C.S. Lewis' connection with Turkey?) A Dominoes delivery man on a moped. A Mafia looking black Mercedes with an Italian flag that made it look like a diplomat car, but without diplomat plates, in front of a French language school. Coffee pots cost $60, but Starbucks is the same as the US.

Go figure.

Third Watch Turkish Style

My most exciting moment in Turkey thus far just happened! My roommate walks in the door and as she does, I look at her and say, "Is there a fight in the street?" We heard all sorts of shouting, so we ran towards the window (hearing people running in the stairwell at the same time). We look out the window down at the street and see a group of agitated men. But it's not a fight. There is a fire in the building across the street from us!

This causes us to realize (1) we don't know how to call for help in a fire, because for those of you who didn't know...911 doesn't work here. (2) We don't have a fire extinguisher or a fire alarm. and (3) The only escape route in our building is down our stairwell, and well, what if the fire is there? Anyway, back to the fire at hand.

So these non-firemen men start trying to enter the building where the smoke is bellowing out of. We scan the windows and see there is a woman in the fourth floor window. She turns away, and we pray that she exits the building to safety. We look down, to our horror (okay, I'm dramatic) to see the non-firemen men placing towels over their heads and faces to enter the building. "No! No! No!" We shout from our closed windows on the fourth floor. Haven't they ever seen any tv dramas about emergencies? Don't they know they should wait for the heroes and not try to be heroes?

Speaking of which, the firetrucks arrived at that moment (and to my suprise, they are made by Mercedes...), and so the non-firemen men step back out of the building. Everyone starts pointing up, and we realize the woman did not exit the building but went up onto the roof! Hasn't she ever seen Third Watch? Aren't the Turkish taught in school to stop, drop and roll...or...umm...GO DOWN AND NOT UP in a fire? Then we decided to quit being so ethnocentric, and give her the credit that maybe where the fire was happened to be in the stairwell, the only way out, as in our building. So we watched our own real life drama series through our window as the ladder from the truck lifted up and the fireman hero rescued the woman and all our neighbors began clapping from their windows.

Meanwhile, more excitement happened as a fight almost broke out between the next door store owner and someone else, a woman who lives there returned home to chaos in her street, the TV cameras showed up, and then some random man rode in the ladder up to another window and entered only to come back out with a bag.

Random guesses as to what was in the bag...

Film taken of an archaelogical dig
The Scream painting that was stolen from Germany last spring
His favorite curtains
Rare letters between his grandfather and friend during WWII
An urn with who-knows-what
A Turkish-English dictionary so he can communicate with his new neighbor
A how-to-build a bookshelf-yourself book

OR....

Overnight clothes?
Laptop and work items?

Who needs a tv in Turkey, when you can just watch our window?

Beer and Yeddis

"Bir."

"Beer," says I.

Later... "Yedi."

"Yetti," says I.

Ah! The marvels of learning language! Today I had my first unofficial Turkish language lesson with a friend, who taught me my numbers, polite sayings, and the every popular, "I don't understand." As I struggled over how to remember the number one, (bir), the only thing that came to mind was "ONE bottle of BEER on the wall..." Then I stumbled over seven, trying to figure out how I could remember that seven is 'yedi.' My roommate shouts out, "Bigfoot has seven toes!" Don't ask me HOW remembering that a yetti has yedi toes will help me remember the number seven, but somehow I think it might.

I went to the grocery store to buy a few items, and thought I'd practice numbers by repeating the price back to the cashier. Turns out, my total was 18 million lira, the one number I'd learned before today, and had recognized in the Bazaar. Ah well. The cashier was pleased with my obvious effort to say, "Hello, 18 million, thank you, hello, oops I mean, good evening!"

I can now count to ten in spanish, portuguese, italian, malayalam, and turkish. Call me a linguist, or maybe a three year old in any country outside the US...

Which side? The Other Side

Turkey is the only country on the planet that lies on two continents. I was a bit disappointed when I first learned that I would be living on the European side--I'd been so excited to move to Asia! After being here a week, I finally arrived to the Asian side yesterday. It is so fun to listen to people's conversations; almost always a discussion of "which side?" is involved. "This side" or "the other side" is the appropriate answer. Never, "Europe" or "Asia" or some other response. Just "this side" or "that side."

"This side" (the European) looks so much different than the other side, something I'd not quite expected! This side looks much like what I'd expected Istanbul to be like: old, close-knit, mosques, and busy. The other side, however, looks much more modern, spread out (two lane widths of roads!), and a bit slower in pace, much more residential. There were parking spaces and less people and a huge shopping mall. I'm glad I live on this side, where the things seem a bit on the chaotic side.

I returned to the Bazaar yesterday to see a friend, but his shop was closed for Friday prayers, which I hadn't even thought of. Live and learn. The rest of the Bazaar was open. I delighted in the sounds, smells and sights. One of the shop keepers yelled out, "I am here! Can I help you? My English is very bad!" Usually I ignore their comments of "hello, angel. You like Turkish delight?" etc, but this one I couldn't help but bursting into a giggle over. I liked it even better than the "hello? Come have tea and we will have conversation of romance." The best part of the Bazaar yesterday though, was despite not having learned my numbers yet, I'd picked up on ten and eight. So I was thrilled when my roommate asked how much a chess set was, and when the man said "eighteen" I caught it! Yes! Never such excitement over 18 since I'd turned it so many years ago!

Well, the first week has come and gone. Real life has begun now that the grace period of jetlag and being new is over. It will be interesting to see how this adventure shapes out in the weeks to come. Stay tuned...

Galata Circles and Sampuan

The Genoese built the Galata Kulesi in 1348 as a defense tower in the neighborhood of Beyoglu, and expatriates still roam these streets using the the 205 ft tower as a homing device to know which way is which. We can see the damsel-in-distress-tower from two of our apartment windows, something that has not yet faded in newness glory for me yet. I ventured out by myself today to make sure I knew my way around in the daylight so that when I work up the courage to go out alone at night, I know my way home. The Galata Kulesi is sure to light my way.

I knew to turn left at the Galata, head up the street until I hit the place where they are building the Metro. Turn at the Metro and I'll hit Istiklal Caddesi, Main Street if you will. My problem was, I didn't know the direction to turn at the Metro. So I followed the stream of people, thinking as the street remained narrow, that surely it would open up into Istiklal eventually. When I came to the end of the street and looked around, I found I was back at the Galata. What a beautiful circle I'd made. I did see, though, the grocery store was on this street! One discovery out of my lostness...

So I headed back up the street towards the to-be Metro again, turning the opposite direction this time, and sure enough--there was Istiklal Caddesi! Swarms of people, stores, sounds and smells, I strolled for awhile down the street just absorbing it all. I found a side street with a bazaar, and headed in to see what I'd find. Imported HUGE purple grapes pleased my Northern California eyes, and so I bought a kilo. I didn't really want a kilo, but I didn't have the language ability to say so. (Realizing just now that maybe I ought to learn how to say 'yes' and 'no' quick!)

After an hour reading in a coffee shop (okay, I'll confess, in Starbucks), I headed back towards the Galata, stopping in the grocery store on my way home. I forgot to bring any body wash at all to the country with me, and so I figured I ought to buy some before my roommate begins to hate me for stealing all hers. She assured me the store sold it. I stood in front of the aisle where bathroom products are shelved and stared at each item. There was a Dove bottle there, but the description was in Turkish. How was I to know it wasn't lotion? I picked up the bottle and decided to stare at it long enough that maybe I would understand what the bottle said. Sure enough, as I sounded out the letters (Turkish is completely phonetic), it said "sampuan." Sh-am-poo-an. Shampoo. Not body wash, is my guess. I looked at bottles that were obviously shampoo, and they also said "sampuan." Hmmm... I looked at everything else that could be body wash, but decided not to buy something without consulting my new dictionary first. I'll have to use a bit more of my roommate's body wash until tomorrow...

Istanbul not Constantinople

I think I may have a fascination with cities that resemble one another. When I first moved from Lisbon to San Francisco, I was amazed at the similarities: the red suspension bridge, the hills covered in buildings, the water, the trolley cars. Istanbul seems to have all these things but add a Muslim twist to it. At one point I stood by the Bosphorus staring across the water and thought, that could be Lisbon or San Fran! Then the call to prayer sounded out and I remembered where I was.

Today we wandered around the Golden Horn, enjoying that we didn't exactly know which way we were headed. We'd arrived at the Blue Mosque during a time of prayer and were therefore prohibited from entering. We crossed the street to the Aya Sophia to discover it is closed on Mondays. But the Grande Bazaar, our other goal, was most definately open!

I walked through and thought of my friends who'd traveled here two summers ago, seeing the very gifts they'd brought home with them. I saw the card my best friend had sent to me years ago when she'd first come to Istanbul. Ah, Turkey...I've finally caught up with you.My heart is thrilled to be in a place where English is not the norm or even common. To have FINALLY unpacked and put away the suitcase. To be a child in communication. To have eyes of a honeymooner, in awe of everything I see. To be humble because I know nothing. How long my shoes will be outside this doorstep on the fourth floor I do not know, but I will enjoy the time I am here on the city spanning two continents.

One day excursion redeemed

I decided to return to D.C. in an attempt to redeem my previous one day excursion (although I did not return with the same people). I had a wonderful day and in true form to my deep love for top ten lists, here are the highlights of the day.

10. Seeing the Hope diamond at the Smithsonian. (It wasn't what I expected, though, and I like the family heirloom diamond on my finger better!)
9. The Legacy of the Punjab exhibit at the Smithsonian--of course my favorite exhibit would have to do with India! I loved pressing the button that made the Sikh music play!
8. Riding the Metro, reminding me of my Europe days.
7. Stalking two (Central Asian looking) foreigners at the Lincoln Memorial, trying to figure out where they were from (or to work up the courage to ask them, which I never did).
6. Pretending to be secret FBI agents delivering information on the sly in the park...
5. A very friendly deaf man walking two very friendly schnousers.
4. The colors of the leaves around the memorials was breathtaking and indescribable. They left me speechless.
3. Spending the day with two fellow nomads, sharing stories of our travels all day long. Crystal's story of dingue fever was probably my favorite.
2. THAI Tanic Restaurant. Get it? How could we not eat there? It was fab.
1. Adult organized league KICK BALL in the park, full with uniforms, ref's, and power drinks. KICK BALL. God bless America.

DC Excursion

I started this blog because people are always telling me how much they love hearing about my crazy travel stories. Well, here you go.

So here I am chillin with the beautiful blessing of being in Virginia in the fall--is there really any better place to be? (Okay, maybe the Northeast, but I've never been there, so I'll stick with what I know. Virginia beats my sweet San Francisco in November every time). I'm living on this farm in the middle of nowhere, I don't even have cell reception. (Wasn't there an election or something recently?)

So I decided to venture back out into reality for a day and go to Washington D.C. I group up with a couple that I barely know from work, and we decide we want to find this fabulous Afghan restaurant we'd read about on the web. We've got a map and everything. We start in Union Station, which, in my mind branches in any direction you would need to go. The husband of the couple I am with, however, states that the Metro does not go anywhere near where we need to be, and we can just walk. I trust him and start walking.

Why do I trust him? Because the day before, our company had given us the results of our Myers Briggs Type Indicator, and I'd found out that I am a strong P. I have no organizational skills. I am the one who just well, walks out of Union Station in the direction that I need to go. I'd intentionally paired myself with this couple, because the husband is an ex-military off the chart J--organizational to the extreme. He would have a map. He would know the quickest and easiest way from point A to point B. Surely with him in the lead, none of my time will be wasted. Shoo--we might even just see George W with this guy leading the way.

So I trust him and start walking. Walk we did. After an hour and a half, we see a Metro, and I suggest we take it, even if for a few blocks, so that we could shorten our hike. Mr. J says no, and that we're almost there. I ask the address, to which he responds, "33 M Street." I look around. We are the corner of I Street and 17th. I'm not real good at math, but I quickly state, "That's another 15 blocks!" To which he asks, "Is that how it works?" (Not sarcastically, but innocently.) "Yes, that's how it works."He responds, "Well, we better get walking!"

By the end of the day, we had literally walked from Union Station to across the Virginia state line, where, conviently there was a Metro five blocks from our original destination, which I should add--closed three years ago. We walked two and a half hours to find a lamp shop where an Afghan restaurant used to be.Well...I got my exercise logged in for the MONTH, I got to see the capital--which I decided looks way more Roman than I'd ever known (Am I the only one who noticed how blatant it is?), I enjoyed the Islamic Art exhibit at the National Art Gallery, and got yelled at by my Lebanese waiter. All in all, it was worth it just to escape the farm for a few hours.

Being a "be-er" in a "do-er" world

There has been discussion as of late about "being" vs "doing." I am a "be-er." All my friends are "do-ers." A few weeks ago when I was in Colorado visiting my soul twin (a "do-er"), I was so content to sit in her sun room and stare out the window at the mountains for hours, especially when the abnormaltime snow came. (I thought she was going to push me off the mountain I made her so stir crazy in that cabin!) Ahhh... to sit and enjoy the sweet life that God has graced us with each day.

The time I enjoy being most is around 7 or 8 am when I'm still so sleepy that I'm a grump. Even though I despise the ungodly hour, I love the silence of it. I love how the coffee pot disrupts the silence and awakens all of my senses. Then to sit in the early morning light with two of the most precious gifts God has ever given: coffee and His Word. To sit there and read that He delights in me, He desires to give me more than I can ever ask or imagine, that He has given me His divine power to do more than conquerer type things and His spirit to be more like Him. That is a beautiful moment to be.

The necessity of this world calls us to "do" in order to survive, though, and so I have this new job that requires several weeks of training before moving overseas. This training--very DO oriented. All my "do-er" friends would be pleased with this schedule, while I sit and think, "what kind of international training is this? The word 'schedule' doesn't exist overseas, nor does business begin before sunup." So those early morning moments of just "being" with God have to be pushed back to 6am--or earlier. The be-er in me skirms in resistance to all the doing required of me in this place.

But I was reminded this morning that before Jesus sent the apostles out (to do), He called them to Him (to be). (See Mark 6). These crazy people around here may want me to do until my curly hair goes straight from running so much, but my Master has called me to be. And I'm just crazy enough to get up in the detested pre-six hours to be...with Him.

October Cotton

I have bruises on my feet from tripping over my suitcase.

You'd think I'd put it away, and yet I've been living out of it since at least May (maybe earlier, it's hard to remember anymore). I also have blisters (big ones) on my heels from wearing closed shoes for the first time since at least April. I figured since I would spending the fall in Virginia, I can't get away with my flip flops on a daily basis anymore and ought, therefore, to warn my toes. I should have warned my heels...

The trip this last week was to Opelika, Alabama, neighbor to the great town of AUBURN. War Eagle. It is amazing how quickly one can learn to incorporate that phrase to their vernacular. I donned my orange and blue for a week, wishing I'd chosen years ago to be a part of that tradition. Maybe I'll go there for my doctorate.

For a few days I was a southern belle, Scarlett for the 21st century. I drank sweet tea while sitting on the back porch of my cousins house, who is so far out in the country I was denied cable television, internet, and cell reception. They took me out for my birthday to the Good Ole Boys Restaurant, and asked if I wanted a cow bell rung in my honor.

As I looked at the fields of cotton that is ready to be picked on my drive home, I thought about the snow I'd seen the week before. October Cotton is the closest Alabama gets to seeing snow on a normal year. (Let us not forget that snow is so rare in the Dixie state that Scout Finch thought the sky was falling when she first saw it). I'd like to return some day to Alabama in October to go to the Syrup Sop Fest in Loachapoka... or maybe just to find that quiet spot on my cousin's back porch.

But the suitcase must move on for now.

Snow and Sojourning

I woke up this week to find a half a foot of snow on the ground. In September.

The only time in my life that I have seen snow in September was a freak storm in Alaska in 92. (Wow, that was a long time ago!) This week, I excitedly phoned my friends and told them it was snowing. "Where are you?" they'd ask. Colorado. "Oh." No shared excitement over the snow. Sure it snows in Colorado alot--but not in September. Nor am I from Colorado to see normaltime snow, much less abnormaltime snow.

My friends, remembering who they were speaking to, asked another question. "When was the last time you saw snow?" Ahhh...The mind reeled back to the places I'd been and lived in the last few years. Southern India (no snow), Northern California (no snow), any state on the Gulf of Mexico (certianly no snow), Portugal (no snow in Lisbon anyway)... Hmmm...Could it really be that the last time I saw snow was Christmas of 99 in Brussells? Has it been that long? Perhaps that is why I was so excited!

The snow melted with the sun that afternoon and was gone as quickly as I tend to be in one place. I boarded a plane the next day, leaving Colorado to go not home, but simply the next place (where there will be no snow either). It seems I never get to go home, always simply to the next place. The Portuguese call it caminhado...my friend in Northen India calls it being a nomad...others still may say sojourning. My soul twin (who I visited in the abnormaltime September snow of Colorado) and I, we just know that we're never quite home.

Yet.

But like Abraham and others of the Hall of Faith, perhaps I am just looking for a bettercountry... home... heaven... Him.