Chair Delivery

Within an hour of writing my previous post about feeling more confident in my language abilities when speaking outside of my comfort zone, I had a foreigner moment that pushed me to angry tears and a call to the Superhero to see if I could have handled things better.

A few weeks ago, I ordered my first real piece of furniture from a store's website. I decided to order it online and pay for it to be delivered to my home so that I wouldn't have to inconvienence any of my friends to have to lift it from the car to the elevator. As much as I love my kung-fu chiropractor, I don't want to send any of my friends to her because they helped me move a chair that could have been delivered for a small fee of 35 euros.

After a week, I received an email from the store that the chair was ready to be shipped, and that they use a moving company to deliver their goods. I could trace the status of my chair with a particular ID number.

This was a little weird to me, but okay, whatever. I've never had anything delivered from a store before, so what do I know about how it works? The delivery company called me last week and told me that they would deliver it on Wednesday between 2-6pm. I asked if it were possible for Tuesday, since I already had plans on Wednesday at that time. "You don't get to choose when. It'll be there Wednesday between 2-6pm." Alrighty then. (One of my new cultural pet peeves here in France is every time they say, "Madame, you don't have the right to do xyz." The American in me gets all riled up being told I don't have the right. But that's a whole other blog post...)

So I missed my plans for today (they couldn't be changed) and sat here catching up on blogs while waiting for the delivery of my beautiful leather chair. My phone rang at almost 5pm, and the man told me he had a delivery for me. I said, "Come on up, it's the third floor." He interrupted me and asked if I could come downstairs.

I went downstairs and he says, "You paid for a ground floor delivery. Normally, if you want it delivered up the stairs, you have to pay another 50 euros."

I explained that I didn't understand that from the website when I purchased it. It didn't differentiate between a ground floor or higher-up delivery. I paid for a delivery already, I shouldn't have to pay for more.

"Yes, but you paid for a ground floor delivery."

"Well, that's ridiculous. Why would I pay for it to be delivered partially? You can't carry it into the elevator?"

He responded, "It's not heavy."

I looked at him with a look of incredulity, and exclaimed, "I'm a GIRL! I'm not going to carry that chair by myself! I paid for it to be delivered...to my apartment, not to just my building's front step."

His buddy bent over to begin picking up the chair, and they put it into the elevator, then brought it into my living room, and had me sign that it was delivered. I told them thank you, and hurried to get them out of my apartment.

The talkative one then turned to me at the doorway and said, "Madame, we had an arrangement."

"A what?" I asked.

"An arrangement."

"No, we didn't." The quiet one said, "She doesn't understand man. Let's go." (I probably should have shut up then.)

"No, no, I understand. I didn't understand downstairs nor did I agree to an arrangement. I told you, I already paid for a delivery. I don't think I should pay more for you to have put it the elevator and then carried it out of the elevator. That's ridiculous."

At this point, I felt very uncomfortable, as a single female with a guy I am perceiving to be sneaky, in my home. I wanted him to leave, and in the stress of the moment, decided that just paying him the 50 euros he wanted was the easiest way to do so. I couldn't think fast enough to demand a number to call, or even a receipt for the 50 euros. I just wanted him gone, and 50 bucks would do that. So I paid him 50 euros, shut (and locked) my door...

...and realized that I probably was just scammed.

About 10 minutes later, my phone rang. It was the guy! He'd accidently called me back, but since I had him on the phone, I asked if he could come back and give me a receipt.

"Madame, I gave you the receipt from the store."

"No, I want one for the 50 euros I gave to you."

"Madame, I can't give you a receipt for that...it was an arrangement. Between you and me."

Then I got mad. "An arrangement I didn't agree to! You...(and at a loss for the word for "scammed," "tricked," "duped,")...you lied to me!"

Well then he got mad. He began yelling at me into the phone that he was not a liar, that he never lied to me, that he was a worker doing his job, and he had not lied to me.

Still not able to find the word, I said, "You're right. You didn't lie...you stole from me!" Dagnabit that I couldn't find the word for "took advantage of" right at that moment.

Seeing that I was quickly loosing my temper and not reflecting Christ at all, I said goodbye and hung up the phone. I did a quick google translate, found the words I needed, and sent him a text, where I apologized for calling him a liar. I explained that it was the only word I could find at that moment. And that I felt he had scammed me, since I didn't understand nor agree to "an arrangement." Well played, mister, for taking advantage of a foreigner. He tried calling me back five times, to which I never answered. (Men round these parts always need to have the final word in a fight, and I wasn't going to argue with him anymore. Seeing how I wasn't going to get my money or a receipt, there was no need to talk to him again.)

I called the Superhero (who's been living in France forever), and recounted the whole story. Did I do right to pay him? What should I have done? What would you have done? Did I get taken advantage of? Besides losing my temper over the phone, how could I have handled this one better?

The Superhero said that seeing as I was a single female home alone with two strange men in my apartment, I did the right thing to just pay them the money. I expressed my frustration at being a foreigner and not fully understanding what was going on. He said, "bettercountry...your French is good enough that I am fully confident that you understood what he said to you. He took advantage of you, as a female, yes; as a foreigner, maybe; but it was not a language miscommunication. As a man, I would have handled it differently because men can do that. You did what you felt most comfortable doing at that moment, and it was the right thing." Well. That made me feel a little better.

When it's all said and done, I have my lovely leather chair, and that guy got blessed with an extra 50 euros at Christmas time.

Yes, it's facing away from the TV. I wanted a piece of furniture to face the couch, so that when I'm just sitting and visiting with friends, the living room has a triangle-of-conversation sitting places. It's light enough to easily pick up and turn to face the TV when a bunch of people are over to watch a movie.

But not light enough that I should have had to put it in/out of the elevator after having paid a delivery fee.

Chalazion

I mentioned a few weeks ago about how I've been having some problems with my eye. I thought it was a stye, but it turns out it wasn't. Those drops the pharmacist gave me relieved the eye a bit, but not much. And the little red bump inside my eye wasn't going away. Well, last week, after several days of it feeling pretty much fine, I (foolishly) decided to try some eye make-up. I blinked, some of the mascara went into my eye, and oh man alive I thought I was going to DIE it hurt so bad. (The Artist was at my apartment and came rushing to my aid to find me some eye drops to flush out my eye. Thank goodness.) My eye was sore after that, like I'd been sucker-punched, and I decided it was time to find an eye doctor.

I would like to use this time to talk about "being fluent." Americans who've never had to live in a foreign language will ask if I'm "fluent in French." Americans in France never ask that question. They know better. To me, "fluent," means you were born and raised here and are thus bi-lingual. You speak French as good as you speak English. Like a native. Or you've lived here for 25 years, and while you have an accent that is quite charming, you use all the idioms, laugh at all the jokes, know the "other" meaning of words that isn't listed in the dictionary, and well...except for the accent, you speak French as good as you speak English. That is fluent.

I wasn't born and raised here.

I'm not married to a Frenchman.

I haven't lived here for 25 years.

And thus, no. I am not "fluent." Do I speak French? Yes. Am I comfortable speaking French? Usually, yes. ***When I'm in my comfort zone.

My comfort zone is using the top 50 verbs that people in every day life (to go, to come, to be, to have, to do, to eat, to sleep, to read, to eat, to say, etc.) My comfort zone is talking about work things. My comfort zone is probably an 8th grade level of speaking, but fully capable of living life.

My comfort zone is not...

...describing to the plumber what's wrong with my sink. I don't know any of those words.

...asking the electric company over the phone to explain again how the monthly bill works.

...anything medical.

So going to an eye doctor? Ack. Did I learn the words for "eyelid," "eyelash," "socket," "pain," "to itch," "to burn," and "tears" once upon a time in language school? Sure. Have I used them since then? No.

I wandered around all day Monday until I finally found an eye doctor that could see me right away. (I went into approximately five offices. Only one could make me an appointment...for two weeks away. Thanks, but I might be blind by then.) The eye glass store kindly recommended an eye doctor down the street, and they made me an appointment for the next day.

When he called me into his office, I immediately used my newest tactic for getting people to have mercy on my language abilities.

"Bonjour. I'm a foreigner, and thus, French isn't my mother tongue. And well, I've never seen an eye doctor in French." He smiled kindly at me, and promised we'd work it out. I sat down in the examination chair and he asked, "You're here for your 'côntrole'?" (Note to self: 'côntrole' must be the word for yearly eye check-up.)

"No," I explain. "I have a problem with my eye." I explain about how I've had a headache behind the eye, a something that is not a stye, and that sometimes the eye makes me want to scratch it (cause I couldn't remember the word for "itch"), sometimes it burns, sometimes the sunlight bothers me, etc., and that all around it feels like I've been sucker-punched. (Although I didn't say "sucker-punched," because I don't know the word for "sucker." I just said "like someone hit me," and he finished my sentence with the word "coup de poing," which is the word for "punch".)

He removed my glasses and had me read the chart on the wall. I had a small panic of "what if the letter G or J is up there (because I don't know how to pronounce either one correctly and he might mistake that for I-can't-see-the-letters)," but was quite pleased with myself to be able to remember to say "zed" instead of "Z," and "ahch" instead of "H," and I passed. My glasses are still the correct prescription (which is called "ordonnance," for anyone who's interested). Thank goodness for that.

He pulled on my eyelids in all sorts of directions, told me look left, right, up, down, etc. He put all sorts of drops in my eyes. He shined lights in them. He dilated them (which I wasn't expecting)...and all the while I understood everything he said! I can handle the eye doctor in French!

The one word he said that I didn't know was what's wrong with my eye. I have a chalazion, which, it turns out, is the same word in English. He pulled out a big, English medical dictionary for me to read the description of it. But because he'd dilated my eyes, I couldn't focus on the words, so he told me to put my nose right to the book and I should be able to read it. That made me laugh. Basically it's a cyst-like infection. (And if you google photos of a chalazion, they're really gross. Pantene, I know you'll do it. Ha. Mine doesn't look like those photos, it really is a small little un-noticeable-from-the-outside bump.)

He wrote me a prescription, and then said that if it's not better in a week, he'll have to scrape it off. WHAT?! Did I hear that correctly?! Unfortunately, I did. "Scrape" and "eye" should never, ever be used in the same sentence. Ever.

I stumbled my dilated self to the pharmacy, where I was blinded by their bright lights, and got my meds. All three of them. The left eye drops are actually for my normal eye, cause it feels weird and unbalanced to put so much in my sick eye and the other one be all dry...so I put normal eye drops in just to equal things out. I have two different drops I put in four times a day in the sick eye. The orange tablet is a creme that is a bit like the consistency of vaseline, and oh man, it's weird to put in my eye. I do it right before I go to bed, and the ointment covers my eyeball so that I can't see, and when I wake up...it's all gone. So weird.
So while I still wouldn't say that I'm fluent in French, the trip to the eye doctor did boost my confidence level that maybe my comfort zone isn't as small as I thought it was. And my favorite word I learned at the eye doctor? The "socket" is called a "cul-de-sac."

Going to the Pharmacist

Pharmacies in France work a bit like going to a general practitioner: you can go into one, tell them your ailments, and they give you medicine. There are plenty of medicines they can't give you without a prescription...but it can save you a good bit of money to go to them first to find out whether you need to go to the doctor.

My eye has been bothering me for a day or two, and today I finally saw in it what I'd expected: a stye. I've had them before, and I usually put a warmed teabag on it several times throughout the day until it goes away. (I read somewhere online that there's something healthy in the tea leaves that helps heal the stye.) This time, I decided to go see if the pharmacist had some handy-dandy drop I could use instead.

First, however, I would need to find the word for 'stye.' "That's easy," you think to yourself. "You just look up 'stye' in your dictionary and voila! You know the word." Not so fast, smarty pants. (Master Yoda, I'm looking at you.)

I did that, and both wordreference and Google Translate both gave me two words for the one word 'stye': orgelet and porcherie. In that second word, however, is the root word for 'pig,' (porc), and I suddenly realized: eek! Pig stye! I don't want to walk into the pharmacist and tell them, "I have a pig stye in my eye." Might be funny because of the rhyme in English (and the sense), but in French, eegads. That's a quick route to a culture shock moment in the pharmacy right there.

I looked up "orgelet" in Google images and sure enough it's the right word. A little shy, I walked up to the pharmacist and said, "I have an, um, orgelet in my eye. Is there a medicine I can put on it?" She nodded and explained that they have some drops they could give me, but if it didn't get better I'll need to go to the doctor.

She apparently didn't know about the tea bag trick. She also didn't appear to realize that her understanding my question, answering it, and treating me like I was 100% normal, (instead of the "oh no, a foreigner with a charming yet incomprehensible accent" attitude), without even batting an eye helped me take another step towards feeling adjusted here.

I got my drops and felt proud of learning a new word and side-stepping a culture shock moment in the pharmacy. We'll see if the drops work better than the tea bag.

Rice Taste Test

Something that is really common here in France is people on the street who try to stop pedestrians as they pass by either (a) to offer them something free, like a newspaper or a flyer or even a small sample gift, or (b) to try to convince them to sign up to support a humanitarian aide organization like Doctors Without Borders or (c) to conduct a survey. All three of these are incredibly common. In Paris, I used to love to sit in the second story of this one particular Starbucks, so I could watch the crossroads below...and all the various workers trying to stop pedestrians for whatever reason they were out there.

Even I've done it. In language school, our teacher would send us out to take surveys in order to practice language. In Paris, my boss sent me out with surveys. I've even been known to hand out a free thing or two. And I've certainly picked up my fair share of free stuff. (Once, during the Fete de la Musique, someone handed me a self-breathalizer test. Gee...thanks?)

As I was walking down the street today, I was stopped several times by a humanitarian aide group. Once, when living in Besancon, I was stopped by this group and talked with them for about an hour. I really like their work (giving food to poor children in Africa), but I explained to them that I've already decided to give my support to Compassion International for that. And usually, when the groups here in Marseille stop me, I explain the same thing. When the first one stopped me today, I explained that. When the second, third, and fourth stopped me, I explained that I'd already spoken with their colleague back down the road.

So when I breezed by the next group who said, "Excusez-moi, madame," I just said, "No, sorry," and kept walking. But as I passed by, I heard that they were giving a survey.

Surveys are a great way to practice language (cause who knows what you'll get to talk about, and thus, possibly learn new vocabulary), and a great way to just get in conversations with people. I turned around and said, "You're taking a survey? I'll answer."

"Great! Do you eat rice?" she said to me.

I took a mental double-take. Did she just ask me if I eat rice?

"Rice? Like...rice, rice?"

"Oui."

"Well, of course!" She went on to ask what brands to I buy, how do I cook my rice, what types of rice do I like, what other grains do I eat, and am I allergic to any of the following things...

It was by far the most bizarre survey I'd ever participated in. Then, when I said I wasn't allergic to any of those things, she asked if I would follow her for a taste test. I was out on a busy road and sort of looked around to see where the tables were with the rice samples. There were no tables.

She led the way into a building, and I followed her up an elevator. (The whole time thinking, this is so wierd. Is she going to kill me in the elevator? I've seen too many scary movies.) Up on the fourth floor, I follow her down a hallway, and into the testing room, where, sure enough... there were several booths set up and people were testing rice. (I wasn't supposed to take a picture of the rice, to keep the results of the survey secure...so this was all I could sneak between rice tastings.)

I ate four kinds of rice and gave my opinion about the taste, smell, color, texture, and stickiness of the rice. And I was a little disappointed, because... I didn't learn any new words. I understood every single question and was able to express myself clearly in response! I suppose I should be thrilled about that! But I always hope with surveys that I'll get challenged a little bit.

With this survey, all I got was a new, interesting experience and some not-very-good-rice. And a really good laugh about the whole thing. It dawned on me later that the rice survey people should hook up with Feed the Hungry humanitarian aide people and let the hungry answer the rice survey!

The Party, Part 1

There is much to tell about this party I went to, but it'll have to wait until later in the day when I'm fully awake. But I figured I could write about it in shifts. So shift number one will be my favorite things about this party.

1. I had so much stinkin' fun!

2. I danced! (I DO NOT, DO NOT, DO NOT dance in public. DO NOT.) Not only did I dance, but I danced the "local" dance, the traditional style of the people who were at this party. And was told by a slightly inebriated friend that I was quite good. HA.

3. At the beginning of the party, the host came up to Sparky and me, and in his best English said, "I am a tender. I can shake for you whatever you like." We leaned in to stare at him and try to see if we misheard him over the insanely loud music. He repeated it, and we hadn't misheard. My wheels were spinning hard, and suddenly it clicked. "You're a BARtender!" I went up to his "bar" that had "Islamic wine" --grape juice in a champagne bottle (do you know how hard it is to hold in laughter in order to not be rude in such a setting?), and a very illegal bottle of Absolute Vodka. I asked for water. He shouted over the music, "Vodka and water?" No, just plain water, thanks. He thought I was the craziest American he'd ever met, I'm sure.

But I will laugh for a very long time about "I am a tender. I can shake for you whatever you like.”

Moving Again

My boss flew into town for three or four days to meet with
all of us new personnel that have been arriving over the last
few months. One of the outcomes of the meeting was that the
Sparky and I will move into a two bedroom apartment.
YIPeee!!! So even though I just finally hung wall decorations
two weeks ago before she moved in, I'm back to square one of
apartment hunting.

Was it only six months ago that I did this?

A little more experienced at the process, I at least knew the
right questions to ask and where to look for buildings. There
is an opening in the P5's building, and the manager agreed to
hold it, show it to us first, and give us a lesser price on it since
we are good friends with the P5. We liked everything about it
except that its windows face another building directly. No view,
no direct sunlight...just staring in the face of the tenants next
door. We chewed on whether being in a great building with a
great location was worth the bad view while out looking for
other options.

The process sort of goes like this...

While on the sidewalk, look up at the building and decide if it
looks ghetto, or ghetto-fabulous (meaning shabby or nice).
If it looks nice, you go and speak with the watchman (sort of
like a handyman/guard).

"Hi. Do you have any two bedrooms available?"

The response will either be: "alkdsjfaoidandfei" with a bobble
of the head that looks like yes and no all mixed into one.
(Didn't understand that response? Neither did we.)

Or, "alkdjsoidall fullaoiudoiaosdn." "All full?" We repeat
back to verify. "alkdjsoidall fullaoiudoiaosdn" he repeats
with a bobble head and a twist of the wrist (which I think
means yes).

Six months ago I would have walked away and said thank
you. But oh, have I learned! "When will you have an opening?"

"nfioaalnfoieoand."

"Next week?"

"mdaoieaonkjadjnfaoie."

"Next month?"

"aoidnasdfnext monthadkfaoihdnfoi." Bobble head and
twist of wrist.

"How much?"

"qeionadondoi45,000fnaiwepnsdf."

"Thank you."

What's amazing about that conversation is that the guardman
thinks he's speaking fluent English. Fluent. He thinks he's
being understood. I sort of chuckled at myself and the intensity
of which I've learned to listen just to grasp enough of what
he's saying. Sparky quickly learned why we do the process
on foot and not over the phone. The 1% understood in person is
mainly due to lip-reading and hand motions!

We did find an apartment, and I'll write about that tomorrow!
But as soon as the wire transfer comes in, we're packing up
and moving!

I'm not the eternal nomad for nothing!

Language Confusion

I was at the grocery store waiting in line. A husband and wife in front of me had a short exchange that went something like this:

"How much is it?"

"13."

"Here." Hands him cash and walks away.

No big deal, right? Except that it didn't occur in English. I understood the whole thing. But I stood there and said the number over and over and over in my head.

Why couldn't figure out what language that was? How many times have I learned to count in the last year? I started saying that one number in every language I knew until I could figure out what language they were speaking that I recognized and understood.

Portuguese? No.
Italian? No.
(I didn't even consider spanish, I've never heard it here).
Hindi? No.
Malayalam? No. (Which, BY THE WAY! I was in a taxi the other day, and realized I can recognize the sounds and syllables of Hindi and Malayalam BETTER than the language I am currently studying. How annoying is that?)
Turkish? Current language? Turkish? Current language?

YES! Turkish! I spun around and realized they were Turks, right there by me, I had understood them... but I got so caught up in the confusion of numbers in my head that I missed it.

The other day on the phone, my friend asked me a question in my current language of study, and I responded with "sim" ('yes' in portuguese). Will the madness ever end? Or will my brain always be cajumbled with too many linguas? When I don't even speak my own all that well?

Turkish?! It should not have taken that long to figure that out.

Attacks

I went over to a friend's house so I could watch the news about the attacks in the London Underground. It's odd, you know? Reminences of 9/11 mixed in with places that are so familiar to me. My friend lived near that area of London for three years, and I walked those streets with her. I rode the Tube to those very stops.

As I walked home just now, a local mosque was speaking. The man over the loudspeaker was simply singing the word "No" once every thirty seconds or so, over and over. I wish I knew more Arabic to know what else he would say.

I go, you go, he she it goes

Remember when I asked how hot it needs to be to fry an egg on the pavement? Forget frying an egg, my brain is fried! And not from the heat (although I guess that could be part of the problem).

My language teacher is returning to her home country for the summer. Upon seeing how quickly I learn, she decided to barrell through verb tenses, and leave me to absorb it all once she left. From when I'd started language two months ago until recently, we'd moved at this turle pace...

How to write three letters. How to write three more letters. Oh, you get that? Here's 25 more letters. How to say I, you, he, she, it, we, yall, them. (Okay, so she didn't use the word 'yall.' But really, it is one of the most useful words in English when learning another language for when speaking of you plural. 'Yall' just sounds so much more pleasant and friendly than 'you plural.')

Then, after WEEKS, I finally learned my first verb tense: simple past. I went, you went, he she it went. Why did I learn simple past FIRST? Because it is the most regular form in this language, and everything seems to build from this form. So I have constantly been walking around making simple sentences about what I did yesterday, last week, etc.

For several more weeks I learned how to evolve my simple past tense sentence into a more complex one.

"I went."
"Yesterday I went."
"Yesterday to your house I went."
"Yesterday to your house new I went."
"Yesterday to your house new I didn't go."

I began to wonder if I was ever going to get to live in the present instead of in a memory. WELL! Last week, she hit it to me. I have learned...

"I went."
"I have gone."
"I had gone."
"I will go."

Just when I thought she couldn't move any faster through the verbs, I sat down at the desk today, and learned TWO more verb tenses.

"I go." (HOORAY for the simple present!)
"Go!" (and "don't go," because the negative is different than the positive).

The simple present is supposed to be a really complicated form, because it's based on root words...so one must know the root and then the formula of how to conjugate it...and then the completely different word they say in pronunciation. (Because it's an oral language, there is a formal way to write everything, and a completely different way to say everything. ARG.) Having memorized all the irregular verbs in Portuguese, and those silly roots in Greek, I'm hoping I can handle memorizing these roots.

But so it goes...

Language...test...tomorrow...

I have my first test in language class tomorrow. Stress.

I met with my extremely talented and ever patient language helper today to review vocab. Look what the poor woman has to listen to on a regular basis. Words in bracket are said in English.

"Last week...I heard...[oh yeah, verb last]... Rat I heard...in house my."

She says, "Very good! But (eyes wide) what did you do?"

"[I don't know how to say most of it.] I...to the rat...talked. I said, '[go away!]' He didn't go. Then I went [downstairs] and...found...[oh yeah, verb last] [watchman] I found. To the [watchman] I said... (hand motions). He came...but rat was gone."

That took me a good five minutes to spit out. After two hours, my head hurts.

I can only imagine hers.

Amrikistan

Teacher says, "Say, 'I left America last spring.'"

"I...America...spring...last...left."

Teacher says, "Say, 'and I went to India.'"

"and...I to...India...went.'"

Teacher says, "Where did you go next?"

"Turkey."

Teacher says, "Say, 'and I went to Turkey.'"

And so it went as I learned how to say all the places I went over the last year.

Amrika, Hindustan, Turkiye, Almon, Inglestan, and here.

I asked, "Why can't America be 'Amrikastan?'"

She said it just wasn't. I was so bummed! In the land (stan) where everyplace is STAN, and England gets to be Inglestan, and India gets to be Hindustan, why don't I get to be from Amrikastan? I want to be from a stan!

Teacher laughs and says, "You can say it as a joke! You can say you are from Californiastan, Alabamastan, San Franciscostan. Anything goes as a joke or a poem in our culture. Anything."

So yippee! I can be from a Stan! I will be Central Asian yet!

Beam me up Scotty!

Holly was explaining various ways for me to pronounce the ghein sound.
Holly was explaining various reasons why I cannot write whatever word the way I did.
Holly was explaining various homonymal sounds in her alphabet.
Holly was explaining various rules concerning pronouns.

Holly was putting my to sleep.

Or maybe, I was asleep already. She rattled on and on, sometimes in English, sometimes not. It was one of those days I was having difficulty decifering any language.

I started intently at her, agreeing "uh-huh" every few seconds. Meanwhile, my brain was elsewhere.

Swimming laps in a pool.
Curled up in my reading chair with a good book.
Watching a football game with a friend.
Cooking for five very fun teenage giggling girl friends of mine.
Anywhere, but there in that classroom.

"Salaam? Hello? Say 'oo' not 'oi'."

"oo."

Where are those Star Trek body transporters when you need them?

Exchange Rate for Laughter

It all started when Sabrina made quotation mark motions with her hands and asked me what that meant. She then beat her chest with her fist, made a sideways peace sign, and said, "What up, dog." I laughed and told her she COULD NOT pull that off...she'll never be ghetto enough with her accent and coloring for it. But the quotation marks, she could learn how to use those.

So every time I see her now, she gets this shy grin and asks if I'll teach her more English. Her English is great, don't get me wrong, but she wants it to be AMERICAN and not second language. Yesterday was over the top, though.

She pulled out her homework, and asked me what all the high-lighted words meant. I asked her if she had a dictionary, and she said, "Yeah--you!" So we went through the article she had to read for her research class.

Words like 'cadaveric,' 'neurodeteriating' and 'incongruous.'

Then she said her assignment was to paraphrase another article she'd read. I asked if she had a thesaurus. Her response? "Yeah--you!"

Her mom brought us a plate of corn on the cob to snack on while we went through her homework. I asked if they had any butter. Sabrina responded with, "Yeah, but why?"

"You can't eat corn on the cob without butter!" She didn't know it was called corn on the cob, that Americans knew how to eat it, or that we ate it with butter. She happily slopped the artery clogging juice all over her cob and dug in with big smiles...she was eating in American style. Once she finished, she got that look in her eye--there was something else she wanted to learn from me.

"When you came over that first time, you had your hair braided on the inside. How'd you do that?" I questioned what she meant by "braided on the inside," and we finally determined that she meant FRENCH braided. She'd never known anyone who could braid like that, and of course--she wanted to learn. So I proceeded to teach her how to french braid her hair.

I'd brought the card game Phase 10 with me, so I taught her to play that. Remember, one of the few words I know in her language from my experience with Joel is "CHEATER." It got thrown around several times by both of us. You may wonder, how does one cheat at Phase 10, but ohh...it's always possible to cheat! She taught me a hand motion that I haven't figured out yet if it's rude or not, but I wasn't sure I liked her making it at me every time I played well!

Somewhere during the evening, it came out that I speak much slower and clearer when I am with people who do not speak English as their first language. Sabrina insisted that I speak at full speed with her, so she can improve her listening skills. I asked her if she understands everything she hears in the movies, and she said no. I then asked her if she speaks faster in her language than the people do in their movies and on their television. "Yes, of course." I looked at her for a moment, and then she realized what I was getting at--if she doesn't understand even what is said on the telly, how will she understand me speaking at full speed. She still insisted that I give it a go, so she could try to improve.

So...the exchange rate for my getting to practice the few words I know in her language with her?

--a dictionary, thesaurus, slang, eating habits, beauty tips, entertainment, and listening comprehension.

But I laugh more with Sabrina than I have with anyone else in this country, and that makes it all worth it.

Learning the Alphabet all over again

All that money I paid for my masters degree felt like it paid off on Saturday. I was sitting in my first language lesson, learning how to say the alphabet. As always, there are new sounds to create that I never learned in English. (Thankfully, one carried over from Portuguese, so that was one less to conquer).

Holly would say the sound, and I would say "G."

"Not G. Ghein."

"Gain."

"Not Gain. Ghein."

Holly told me if I said "Gain" and not "Ghein" I would sound like I have a Turkish accent, much like the people from the Calormene region. I thought to myself, "Isn't that ironic? I've been living in Turkey, and I'm working on a project with the Calormene. Why bother learning this sound? I should have a Turkish accent! It beats an American accent, doesn't it?" But I pressed on... "Gain."

Then, I remembered the few minutes Dr. Jayne had taken in a Language and Culture class (or was it Intercultural Communication?) to teach us the basics of phonetics. I asked Holly where her tongue was located at the back of her throat, and was she breathing out when she said "Ghein." She explained it, then told me it was alot like gargling and speaking at the same time. I did what she said, and out came "Ghein."

Thank you Dr. Jayne!

P.S. Sorry for my culture shock rantings in my last post. Mom wrote and told me it was good I didn't yell shut up at the next door mosque, and I felt bad. I'll do as she said and say a praise everytime the call to prayer pushes me near the edge...

The Inshallah Mentality

"Inshallah." If God wills.

It's more than a saying, it's an entire mentality.

"See you tomorrow!" "Inshallah," is the response.
"I'm flying to Turkey next week." "Inshallah..." my friend says.
"Your furniture will be delivered on Thursday, inshallah," the Homes R Us salesman says to me.

Well, does that mean it IS coming on Thursday or isn't? And forget setting a time. Just sit in your apartment and wait. And wait. And wait.

The furniture all came. However, the internet connection, which was going to be turned on in "7-10 days, inshallah" is still waiting to be turned on after two weeks. Perhaps this week I will be able to return to posting on a more regular basis.

Inshallah.

Lessons and Linguas

My friend Joel, at the Bazaar, is a polyglot. I think only his wife speaks his native language. So to communicate with the rest of the world, he is fluent in English, Turkish, Farsi, and Arabic, and speaks several phrases in many other languages. It makes my brain dizzy sometimes to figure out which language he's speaking, but I'm slowly beginning to decipher between the four most common anyway. (And I can always tell when he's speaking to his wife...his eyes sparkle. No language needed!)

So anyway. I'm in his shop today, playing backgammon, of course. Remember now, that it's a Persian game. So several men walk into the shop and begin asking Joel for some item or another--in Turkish. He responds in Farsi, asking them if they speak Farsi. Their eyes get big, "We do!" They talk back and forth, and my head looks like I'm at a tennis match watching back and forth between the two men. I can tell this stranger is not a normal Iranian--I've heard enough Farsi to understand that his is not normal.

So Joel takes a breath, turns to me, and says, "He's a Dixie Iranian!" And then goes back to talking. While Joel goes to work trying to make a sale, my brain starts spinning. Is that even possible? A Dixie Iranian? Dixies hate Iranians. Iranians hate Dixies. How could someone be an Dixie Iranian--and admit it? I'm so confused.

Well, Joel had left me in my confusion and walked to another part of the shop, showing different things to the man's friends. The Dixie Iranian turns to me and points to something, and I guess asked me how much was it. I don't know. I know five words in Farsi: "Hello, how are you, fine, good bye, and cheater." I shrug my shoulders, and say, "Pardon. I don't speak Farsi." His eyes get all big and he starts saying something in Farsi very rapidly (he was a very animated man), pointing to the backgammon game and then to me. I realize he was saying, "But you are playing backgammon! How can you know how to play backgammon (he looks at the board) and be winning! and not know how to speak Farsi?" He calls to Joel, who turns and says, "Pardon! She's my American protegée." (Hmph! He wishes).

They all leave and Joel returns to the game. "Wait a minute!" says I. "I'm confused. A Dixie Iranian?"

"Yes. There are Iranians in Dixie. I went. I saw for myself."

"You went to Dixie?! But...what? how?" I can barely get my confusion out of my mouth.

"You get a special page for the passport. They stamp the visa on the page, not the passport. When you leave, you take the page out. No one knows."

"But you are a Muslim! I thought you all hated Dixie. And I especially thought Iranians hated Dixie. How can this man be an Iranian and live in Dixie?"

"He's a Jew! Iranians have Jews among them, they're not all Muslims! And no, Muslims don't hate Jews. We hate the Dixie government, because they oppress Palestine. We don't want to see oppression. Jews are normal people, like you and me. We don't hate them. Tsk, tsk."

So there you have it. An American Christian getting a lesson on prejudice towards Jews from a Muslim. Go figure.

(I would also like to clarify, for the record, that I don't hate Jews. I was simply confused because I thought Muslims did. I try, by God's grace, to love all people impartially. Just in case anyone misunderstood.)

I got my chance to confuse Joel, though, a few minutes later. His friend (the one I beat last week), came in to watch us play. His friend, a Turk, does not speak English. So the two of them are used to me using Joel to translate when necessary. Well, an Asian woman walked in and asked in English how much something cost. I could tell her accent was no Asian accent--but no native English one either. So I beat Joel to the punch and ask, "Where are you from?" "Brazil," she answers.

I immediately switch into Portuguese. Her eyes are big, and we have a whole conversation about how I'm not Portuguese, and she's not Brazilian (her dad is Japanese), and lah lah lah. I turn back to Joel to say something, and he and his friend are both gaping at me. Joel had heard me stutter through Spanish once when I translated for him...but my Spanish is horrid (non-existent, really). So he'd never heard me be fluent in anything but English, and well, that doesn't count. She and I chatted a bit more, and I was glad to know, that in the midst of learning Turkish, I hadn't lost my tongue in the world's prettiest language.

Alas, lest you think I'm always winning at backgammon...I had lost my concentration. My mind was not in the Bazaar today, but somewhere else, and as the dice were also against me, I lost to Joel, 5-3.

Carrot Soup and a Blender

An eventual day, to say the least! After studying my Turkish for 2.5 hours in a cute little cafe (it's called "Coffee Haus"), I decided to practice a bit while buying the groceries I needed to make dinner--my first attempt at making soup from scratch. After standing in the grocery store forever looking in my dictionary to see if what I'd found was vegetable stock (it wasn't, but it worked), I headed to my friendly vegetable seller around the corner from my house.

The veg man and I have already become fast friends as I go just about every other day to buy 'mandalinas.' (Mandarin oranges--they're SO good here!) I walked up and he said, "Merhaba! 6 mandalinas?" I said, "No!" (All this is in Turkish, mind you. My words will be in ORANGE--war eagle!)

" 3 oranges... 1 kilo carrots... 1 onion."

"Which kind of onion?"

" A small one."

"Haha. Okay. Small one. But what kind?" He points to four kinds of onions...oh. I point to the kind I want.

" Garlic?"

"What?" I point in the dictionary to garlic...blasted silent G that I can't pronounce yet. " Garlic, one."

" 1 kilo apples. 1/2 kilo mandalinas!" He gave me a TRUCKLOAD of mandalinas, and it wasn't until later that I realized that I'd said the word "half" that goes with things that are more than one. There is a different word for half that is for less than one...the word I should have used! So I ended up with 1.5 kilos of mandalinas!

He laughs that I am trying so hard, and announces the price--in English. I say, " Turkish, please!" He says, "oh yeah, Turkish. 4.5 million." Why is interesting that the price was in millions? Because the money in Turkey officially changed on Saturday to the New Turkish Lira (YTL), dropping all the zeroes, so that things won't cost in the millions anymore. The funny thing is...no one is using the money yet! I withdrew cash from the ATM today, and got old Turkish money. Went shopping at four different places for food today, spending and receiving old Turkish lira. I have yet to see the YTL.

Anyway. Back to my story. So I realize I still need bread, which the veg man obviously doesn't sell. I head to the little grocer right across the street from us, and walk in looking around for bread. I finally find it, pull out a loaf from the cabinet, and place it near the register. I point and say, " What this Tukish?" The man smiles and responds, "Ekmek. In English, bread." (In case I didn't know the English word...) I practice my sentences, and say, "This is bread." He smiles and says, "Yes. That is bread." I sing "Good evening!" as I walk out the door to go make my carrot soup.

I'm happy and thrilled to be making soup from scratch, and all is going well. Schroomie comments on what interesting soup...I respond that it'll look different once I puree it. She laughs and says "Just how are you going to puree it?" I respond, "With the blender in the cabinet." (Oh, all that conversation was NOT in Turkish...) She proceeds to tell me that the blender is from Cyprus and has a British plug. Blast the British for doing everything different and complicating my life!

So I decide to be adventuresome, grab the blender, a converter, and head back down to the street. The electric store is closed, so I head back over to the friendly grocer. He sees me (blender in hand), and says (at least I imagine this is what he says), "What's wrong, miss?" I show him the British plug, the converter, and say (in English), "I need to buy a converter." He and three other men walk me across the street to a light bulb store (remember that I live in the light district), and present the blender and converter to the shop owner. Several more men look and see that the plug is indeed British and won't work here. They point to the electric shop down the street. I respond, "It's closed!" (I now have about 6 men helping me with the blender). They say a whole bunch in Turkish that translates (in my non-Turkish head), "No puree'd soup for you."

So I head back up the four flights of stairs and try blending the soup with a hand held blender. Note to the wise--not such a smart idea. I had carrot soup flying every direction of our kitchen.
We ended up eating the soup as was...and it tasted fine. Note to self for tomorrow: buy a converter for the blender.

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.

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...