Lamentful Adieu

She knows who she was, who she is, and who she has yet to be. Unconcerned with the opinions of others, she carries herself timelessly in a way from which those of a much younger generation could learn. Unbeknownst to the world that swarms around her, caught up in their day to day living, a former monarch lives in their midst. She was once royalty. Now dethroned, she still walks as though the crown jewels rest on her temple. She knows who she was.

Castles were her home. Riches were her treasure. Adventures were her life. She keeps the secrets of old locked up in the back rooms of her home and her mind. Only those who know her former identity are allowed the privilege to enter and hear the stories from the past. Only those who dare to trespass. Only those with eyes to see the regal grandeur that is still within her. She knows who she is.

I barely noticed her house. I hardly took the time to stop and glance at what she might be like, who she might be. My time with her was the blink of an eye. But I saw. I saw that only consistent time with her, watching...listening...could reveal those mysterious secrets of old locked up within her. Surely she has such depth that no one will ever fully fathom the queen that walks amongst us.

I visited her house, and saw all the decor of an exquisite personality, but didn't take the time to sit and listen to the stories behind it all. I saw the face and didn't look into the heart. Too caught up in my own youthfulness, my own stories, my path to walk, I missed the opportunity to embrace the remarkable personality of this old queen named Istanbul. She knows who she is yet to be...but do I? Will she allow me to see?

Perhaps she will forgive me, and all me to visit her castle again? Maybe next time I will have matured enough to be still in her presence and listen for what secrets she has to reveal. Each time I was still enough to look at her, I saw a glimpse of royalty. Now, on my way out, I am much more aware. I see the red carpet beneath my feet, the flying buttresses above me, the gold on all the walls. I walked in the presence of Istanbul, the Golden City, and almost forgot to bow.

Now I give my humblest adieu and farewell to the city on two continents. You have been my Turkish delight.

The Grand Bazaar

I've heard tales of it for years: the Grand Bazaar. The largest covered Bazaar in the world. People return from Turkey and tell of the maze of shops, the aggressive carpet salesmen, the myriad of trinkets, and the empty wallet. Having experienced on a regular basis the Spice Bazaar (a much smaller rendition), I prepared myself for the day. I had a list, and I would stick to it. I stopped at the ATM on the way there, and would only spend cash--no credit cards. I went by myself, so as to not get separated from anyone. And I took an empty backpack to fill with my treasures.

Every sense is bombarded upon entry. The eyes are blinded by the lights: the jewelry shops resemble the sun glistening off fresh snow, the lamps shops glowing like an old castle window, the neon lights flashing to draw your attention to the nearest carpet shop. With one breath, the nostrils are attacked by the smells of spices, Turkish delight, apple tea, cigarette smoke, and fresh meat cooking on the grill for a doner sandwich. Before long you find your mouth watering for at least one of the chais offered to you at every shop, just to bring your sugar level back up after exerting so much energy in the place. People press against you from every angle. If you are a female, you get "pressed" a little bit more, in inappropriate places. Shop owners chase after you, get right in your face, grab your hand to kiss it, redirect you towards their shop. And thus come the sounds.

"Hello? Are you lost? Are you looking for a Turkish carpet? Would you like to come into my shop? Would you like a tea? Where are you from? Parle vous frances? What are you looking for? How long have you been in Turkey? Do you need to buy gifts? Why are you ignoring me? Hello? Hello?" And so it goes...

I expected to dread every minute I was in the Grand Bazaar; I've heard such horror stories of sensory overload and brutally persistent carpet salesmen. But alas, with only days left in Istanbul, I needed to buy gifts. I was pleasantly surprised how much I enjoyed myself. The tourists were sparse today, and so it just wasn't crowded in the least, and as an added benefit--the shop owners were willing to make deals. Most were polite, took no for an answer fairly well, (one said, "Why are you breaking my heart like this?"), and brought their prices down considerably when they found out I'd been in Istanbul for three months.

My favorite shop took me by surprise. I was looking for a particular type trinket I get in every country to which I travel. I was having trouble finding it in the Grand Bazaar, but I knew it existed--I'd seen it once in my life. Surely it would be there. So in this tiny shop that was brightly lit and blaring music, I found my trinket. As I saw something else that caught my eye, I decided to buy it as well. The shop owners allowed me to sit while they wrapped my gift. The extremely loud music changed songs, and all of sudden I heard something I recognized: Eros Ramazotti, an Italian pop singer I love to hear. I turned to the shop owners and said, "This is Eros Ramazotti!" (It's not every day you hear Italian music in Turkey).

Their eyes lit up and they asked, "You like?" I nodded with a smile. "We have a clip."
"A clip?" I asked. "Yes. A clip...video?" Ahhh. They turned towards the computer and showed me their DVD collection of Eros in concert. They picked a special song for me, and we three sat and watched it together. They got so caught up in the music, they forgot to finish wrapping my gift. Once it was over, they asked where I was from. "The United States."

"Ooh! We have another clip!" I laughed and waited for what they would produce next. It was a band on stage, very dark, and I heard the intro of a great guitar solo. I listened, and asked, "The Eagles?" The very ecstatic shop owner/music lover nodded with a huge smile on his face. Hotel California is still ringing in my ears even now. They invited me to stay, listen to music with them, and drink chai. I was tempted, but thanked them and moved on.

In all, I left with three pocket mirrors, nine pashmina scarves, two tea sets, three t-shirts, a lamp that I've wanted for almost two years, and one very special unmentionable gift. No Turkish carpets. No Turkish delight. And certainly no Evil Eyes. I stuck to my list, didn't spend on the credit card, didn't get lost, and filled my backpack. I achieved all my goals. I think I'll be fine to never return there again, but I'm sure glad I went this once. I'm plum tuckered out from the sensory overload. And my wallet is empty.

In another darkness

My apartment on the fourth floor is dark by nature--I think that's why the walls are painted yellow. The ceilings are brick, which doesn't reflect light well, nor does it allow us to have overhead lighting. But right now, four lightbulbs are burnt out around the apartment. So it's even darker.

I went to the store today and bought two lightbulbs (they didn't have the other kind I needed). When I returned, I realized I couldn't get the light fixture off the wall to change the lightbulb. So I'm waiting for the schroomies to see if they can help bring light back to my world. Good thing I replaced the batteries in the flashlight during the power outage weekend... Why is it that when living overseas, even something as simple as changing a lightbulb seems so complicated?

(Please, no "how many expatriates does it take to change a light bulb" jokes...)

Afghanistan Unveiled

There have been these really odd previews playing lately that none of my friends could explain. I recently got invited to a movie, and finally figured out the preview. It was advertising the Istanbul International Film Festival, which I found myself at on Friday afternoon. Over the last few years, I've really enjoyed international films, and this one was about Afghanistan--a place I'm always interested in learning about, so I was pretty excited.

It was a documentary, the first film by Afghan women about Afghan women. These journalist students had to be trained in how to film, so they decided to a documentary on the lives of Afghan women during and after the reign of the Taliban. The students had never left Kabul before the filming. During the film, they traveled around the country and interviewed different women from different people groups. In my uneducated (in filming) experience, it was really good! It showed different types of women, their viewpoints on the Taliban, the hardships of their lives, the way they live, etc. It was somewhat balanced by showing some men, and giving their views of women in that society. It also showed that, because the Taliban were gone, women such as these journalists could start trying to live a new and better life, and the joy they were receiving because of it. The film, with the exception of one woman, was pretty pro- not American, but pro-what the Americans did for Afghanistan.

Afterwards, the director of the film festival explained that we had the privilege of one of the having the cinematographers there, and she would dialogue with the audience. I was really excited to hear from this girl. (She's only 26 now). Before she started, she made a comment that while she appreciated the one woman in the film who spoke against the US involvement in Afghanistan, she agreed with all the other women, in that the involvement opened many doors for democracy and freedom in her country. Oh, I should explain something. The neighborhood where I live, and with that main street the Istaklal, is like Greenwich Village or Berkeley or something like that. Where all the college kids, artsy fartsy post-modern thinkers hang out. The demonstrations are always on the Istaklal, etc. So therefore, it's a very anti-American area.

Well, the first person to stand up and ask a question was a guy. For some reason, that bugged me. It was like, he didn't get all the 'female lib' part of the entire afternoon. He goes on and on in Turkish, and finally he's done and sits down. The translator says his whole commentary in English, and I began to gawk. He said that he felt the film was lacking in many areas. That it portrayed the Taliban in a negative light without telling all the facts about the other governments (ie, the US) that had done the people just as poorly, raping and killing their women. (I leaned to my friend and asked, "Is that what they think here? That our gov goes in raping and killing?" She said, "I guess so"). He finally finished his commentary by asking, "How do you respond to the opinion that your film is quite lacking?"

Ooh--I was hot! I wanted to stand up and say, "You're lacking in manners!" Here's this young girl, who three years ago, had never left Kabul, and now she's sitting in Istanbul dialoguing with people about her dream having come true because her country was finally alleviated from war. She commented on the fact that she had only known war in her country her entire life until recently. I wanted to ask that guy, "What do you know? You're male, first of all--there is no way you can relate to being a woman under the Taliban. To the fear those women expressed of leaving their houses because what waited outside was rape, having their breasts cut off, and then to be murdered." This guy lives in Turkey! In Istanbul! What does he know? Oh man, I just couldn't believe how rude he was!

So the next person stands up and gives their commentary (I learned the Turkish cannot ask short questions). Again, it belittled the film and was rude. The third person said, "Congratulations and thank you first of all. But..." then launched into a harsh question. A friend in the states later asked me why I didn't stand up and speak, and I said, "well...first of all, what do I know of the film world? I had no valid voice about that. And with so much anti-American sentiment in the room, the last thing I wanted to do was stand up and advertise that I am an American and how uninformed I am." I finally left, because I was getting so upset.

I've been experiencing a little bit of culture shock with the Turkish people this week.

Anyway--I thought the film was great. I got online and looked up a little bit about it, realizing that Istanbul is probably the last of the International Film Festivals to pick it up. But if you can find it in your local Blockbuster's International section, it's worth viewing. It made me want to go to Afghanistan and ride a horse.

Click here to see a website about Afghanistan Unveiled.

Third Watch Returns!

I felt like I'd lived that moment before...oh wait! I DID!

I said to Schroomie #2, "Why does it sound like our windows are open? What's all the commotion?" At the same time, I noticed flashing lights in the reflection of one our windows, as did she. She saw the flames, I saw the spinning lights of the firetrucks.

We raced to the windows again, and saw that the top floor of the building across the street was engulfed in flames. It was the building directly next door to one that'd caught on fire two months ago (see December archives). Glad I don't live on the other side of the street.

Once again we hung out our window and watched as the firemen (5 trucks) arrived to put out the inferno. This time, no one was in the building. This time, one lone firefighter rode in the bucket on a ladder up the 7 stories and started squirting down the flames with one little ole hose. It worked, took a while, but worked. (Five trucks, one firefighter?)

Our lights had been flickering for about an hour before we'd noticed the fire. About half way through the fire, the power went out again. It's much warmer than a week ago, though, and so I read by candlelight, but didn't freeze.

The excitement's all finished already. Schroomie #1 will return home not even knowing that she missed another episode of Third Watch Turkey.

Fat Garlic Barbie

Schroomie #1's language tutor came to our flat today with her two children. We had the funniest conversation! I said that Schroomie #2 is trying to fatten me up with all her good cookin'. (This was just after lunch). So Manah asked, "Do you want to be fat?" We three Americans girls all laughed. In our culture, um, no! But in most other cultures, for a woman to at least be plump is a good thing.

So I said, I wouldn't mind to have more curves for when I'm married someday. Oh, well, that made her happy! (As a single girl, I've learned that I should talk to women about getting married some day...it makes them so happy. I've heard that young marrieds should talk about having children one day...) She grinned, and said that would be good. That I will be fat one day when I've had children.

"But right now," she says, "You are Barbie!" We are started laughing again, and I assured her, I am not Barbie. I said, "I do not have blonde, straight hair!" The daughter responds, "There are Barbies with different hair! You ARE a Barbie!" Then Manah says, "Yes, you are a Barbie. It is good you are not fat, but... if you want to be fat, you should eat a large piece of garlic every morning with just water and that will make you fat." I explained that I'd worked at an Italian restaurant for two years, ate plenty of garlic, and I never got fat.

Her response? "Oh, but now you are in Istanbul. It is different here. The garlic here, it will make you fat. You should eat it!"

Fat, garlic, Barbie. Ha!

O Happy Day!

I check the blogsites of my friends who live in Paris pretty regularly. I think they go to a new musuem every week or something like that. I sigh heavily and feel grateful for at least the blog, where I can see photos of the artwork I'd rather see in person. But today, I had my own day of high class culture.

I donned my floor length wool black skirt, my "hoochie mama boots" (knee high, several inches taller, the ones I strut in), and got all decked up in makeup. What for? I went to the opera!

Both schroomies, myself, and our Turkish friend Nina went to see Carmen at the matinee. It struck us interesting that this opera was in French, set in Spain, and had Turkish subtitles. (There was a scrolling marquee above the stage). I don't speak French, and I can't read Turkish, so I just allowed myself to get caught up in the beauty of the music.

So caught up, that when Don Jose killed Carmen at the end, I was in shock. I didn't understand why. Schroomie #2, who was reading the subtitles, explained it all to me. I came back home and read the plot on the Internet. It was a beautiful opera.

Then, since we were so dressed up, and thought we had no electricity to cook dinner with, we treated ourselves out to dinner. I'd stumbled on a cute restaurant a few weeks ago, so we headed there to check it out. We drank fresh lemonade...glory! I ordered entrecote with porcini mushroom sauce--something I haven't eaten since my Lisbon days. Then we splurged and each of us ordered dessert. I had lemon cheesecake with raspberry sauce. My tummy is quite happy. As are my ears (from the opera).

My feet will be happy to not freeze tonight, since we have our electricity (and therefore, heat) back. My hair will be happy to be ironed out straight tomorrow.

My heart is happy in God. It's a happy day.

48 Hours of Darkness

Thursday morning I was frustrated. My last shower had only been lukewarm, and I was looking forward to a hot shower before starting my day. I turned the knob only to discover that while we had heat, we had no water pressure. None. And no time for a bucket shower. I threw on a baseball cap and ran out the door.

I got rained on while out, so I was freezing by the time I returned home. Checked the shower again, and gratefully jumped in when I saw there was water pressure. Yippee! I got out, went about blow drying my medusa head, and right as I was finishing, the lights flickered.

Flickered.

Flickered out.

The only light in our pitch black apartment came from my laptop. We're used to short power outages, so we scrambled about lighting candles. The night was pleasant--candles and quietude. It was not so pleasant when we woke up early the next morning and the power was still out. No hot water. No coffee. No lights. No Internet. Nothing. We went out about our business, and figured it would be back on by the time we got home. It wasn't.

When working hours came to a close on Friday and there was still no power, we thought--we're going to be in the dark all weekend. Yippee. We figured out how to light the stove manually, so at least we could boil water. Bucket showers and french press coffee. Maybe I would survive.

My phone ran out of battery with no way to recharge it. Our fridgerator began to stink. There were used matches all over our house.

As we were walking home tonight, Schroomie #2 said she forgot to bring her little hand flashlight. I didn't have my phone, so we groaned about having to walk up five flights of stairs in the pitch black. She looked up and shrieked. "Is that our apartment?" I looked up. Were our eyes playing tricks on us? No--we had power! Lights were on in our living room. We looked down just in time to not trip and fall into the HUGE hole dug up out of the street. We're guessing that this hole is why we now have electricity!

Praise God from whom all blessings flow! Praise Him all creatures here below! Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts! Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! Amen! We did the happy dance right in the middle of the street.

Cultural Collision

I was showing my Turkish friend, Elise, some postcards I'd bought and was getting ready to mail. We were trying to locate the Galata tower on one postcard, so I could show someone where I live in the massive city. I began writing my message on the back of the card, and she noticed I'd already addressed the postcard.

"You're not going to put it in an envelope?" She asks.

"No. It's a postcard."

"But still...anyone in Turkey could read it. If you put it in an envelope, you'd have more room to write on the card. And you could include some pictures and drawings in the envelope too!" She's thrilled to be sharing her brilliance with me.

"I don't want to include pictures--they're already on the postcard. And I can't draw. If I wanted to send an envelope, I would. I want to send a postcard."

"But without an envelope? They sell envelopes for postcards, you know."

"Do they now? They sure don't sell them WITH the postcards. Besides, this is besides the point. Postcards are meant to be mailed without an envelope. Hence the space for a stamp and address." I'm seriously failing to see her logic, and she is seriously failing to see mine.

We continue back and forth, back and forth, she insisting I put it in an envelope, me insisting that I don't want to. I finally extend my arms across the coffee table and push my palms towards her. "Turkish culture." Revert the palms to me, "American culture." Turning the palms down to the table, "Cultural collision in between."

She laughed. And I mailed the postcards without envelopes.

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.

Snowflakes Keep Falling on My Head

It's still snowing.

While my very first post on this blog (in September) should clue you in to how excited I get over snow, I feel the need to explain that this is not normaltime snow, and I am therefore not the only one who is excited.

Schroomie #2 and I somehow missed the adventure at the airport yesterday by just a few hours. What adventure? They closed the airport, and had to emergency evacuate one last plane. They inflated the emergency exit slides, and the passengers had to tumble into the snowdrifts before running over to the airport. Can you even guess how bummed I am that I missed THAT?
School's are closed. (And of course, Rosey came over. She made cookies with Schroomie #2). The roads are bare--no honking hardly at all! The chai man is gone. The seagulls that live on the roofs of our street don't know where home is and keep circling in the air. The wind continues to blow the top off the foot of snow on the roofs. The sky continues to distribute more for the wind to blow around. It's not a blizzard. But it's definintely a snowstorm.

I heard yelling in the street and looked out the window. Grown men were running around having a snowball fight. One guy threw one and it hit a little old lady in the back. She turned around, ran over to a car, scooped a handful of snow off it and threw her own ammunition back at the guy. Those two ran round and round the car throwing snowballs back and forth. I looked the other way down the street and saw more balls flying in every direction.

The snow must be charged with excitement and joy, because the latter two seem to be falling on our neighborhood with the white drops from the heavenlies.

Arriving in a Winter Wonderland

Forgive me for not being able to wax eloquent today, but I've just returned from an insane week of travelling work and my brain is no longer functioning. I'll begin posting about the trip tomorrow. But I wanted to speak about today's sensation while it's still fresh.

I left Istanbul last week among rumors of snow. I arrived in Frankfurt in the midst of a rare snow, which melted quite quickly. But the disappointment that I was going to miss Istanbul's snow melted with that touchdown, as I got a few moments of icy delight.

Today produced a twilight zonish feeling with the touchdown of the plane. We'd left a crisp, clear, sunshiny Germany early this morning. We flew above the clouds where it was also clear and sunshiny. Our minds played tricks on us and we expected it to be clear and sunshiny in Istanbul. As we were about to make our descent, we noticed the clouds we were flying over, and commented on how we'd never seen clouds quite like that. As we descended and landed, we understood why--they were snowstorm clouds!

The plane landed and began to gently rock back and forth, as if we were riding one of the boats on the Bosporus. We looked out the window and saw the snow was blowing horizontally--the wind was that strong that it was rocking our plane! With what looked about 8 inches of snow on the runway, the captain said in broken English that we needed to wait until we could progress forward to the (what's it called?) tarmac?

The city I entered today seemed so different than the city I'd left a week ago. Covered in white, quiet and still. Did snow introduce a new Bayram? We asked our taxi driver how long it had been snowing--4 nights was the response. Wow. There were hardly any cars on the roads, and the ones that were there were driving miraculously slow and cautious! I like the effect snow has on Istanbul even more than that a holiday has on it.

And now...the bed calls. Good night from the winter wonderland.

Saving Face at the Bazaar

Every time I go to visit my friend Joel at the Bazaar, he offers me chai. Sure, this is common hospitality here. But the American in me began to wonder if I was taking advantage, is there a limit on my free chai, should I pay for what I get?

I sat in the shop this week and watched the young man who delivers the chai. He has learned that I like the pink kind. I have no idea what it's made from, and Joel doesn't know how to explain it in English. He also doesn't know what it's called in Turkish--his fourth language--so I'm glad the young teaman has figured out my fancy.

He walks in, sets the tea down, and as he leaves, picks something up off the floor near the door of the shop. I finally worked up the courage to ask Joel about this practice of chai hospitality. I can see that all the shop owners order tea all day long...surely they do not pay 2 million or more for each glass like we do at chai shops?

He laughs. "No! We have a credit coin system. You buy a handful of coins, however many you wish. Then the boy, he picks up the coin each time he delivers a chai. When you are empty of coins...you replenish."

I look and see, sure enough, the cup is full of small green chips. How much is one chip worth?

"250,000--one chai. Turkish coffee--two coins. Regular coffee--three coins." When the teaman returned, I saw on his tray what I had been oblivious to notice before--several green chips.

I asked Joel if I should build my own credit with him, as much time as I spend there drinking chai. He grew slightly offended and said, "You should not say such things. It is not how it works here. You are the guest--you never pay for the chai. You shame me in asking such things. Beating all my friends at backgammon...no shame. Paying for your chai--shame."

I'd asked a little earlier if I'd shamed his friend, made him lose face, because I beat him 5 games in a row. His friend was Persian--and backgammon comes from Persia. They'd tsk'd and tsk'd that this was unheard of: an American WOMAN beating a Persian MAN at a Persian game. But Joel reassured me today that there is no shame in a good game of backgammon--I'd not caused anyone to lose face.

"But maybe you should lose one match..."

Another friend--this one Turkish-- was in the shop and heard about me winning 5-0. He laughed and said, "Let her try her hand with me. The dice will not fare her so well." I sat down and began to set up the pieces. Joel told me, "As your papa here in Turkey, I say--you should beat this man. But maybe win only 4-1, not 5-0." I retorted with, "But papa...my father did not teach me how to lose."

So we began. The dice were against me and I lost the first two games by ONE PIECE. I gammoned him on the third game, and thus we were tied, 2-2. I won the next. By this point, several people came in and were watching the curiousity...who has ever heard of an American girl playing backgammon? My opponent's daughter came in and he asked me not allow his daughter to see him losing such. I nodded to Joel and said I could not allow my papa to see me losing such. The dice continued. 3-3.

4-3.
4-4.
And with a final quick move at the end, I rolled doubles and it was over. I'd won again. 5-4. Joel grinned...you are becoming a master, he told me. "Your father taught you well. Let him come to Turkey and experience the joy of losing to me."

I laughed and asked him to order me a chai.

Rosey Returns

Rosey, the unexpected visitor from this afternoon couldn't get enough of us, I guess. We found out later that she had wanted to visit us, and since her mom needed to clean her house, said she could come stop in for a few minutes. Her mom thought we'd send her back downstairs when we'd had enough. We thought her mother would come get her when she'd finished cleaning. We finally returned her after four hours, and left for our evening of birthday fun. (Which I'd show pictures of, except that Rosey filled up the memory card on the camera AND ran the battery out...but let me just say--Schroomie #2 wore a sombrero!)

So we'd just walked back in the door tonight when Rosey knocked at the door again. After much confusion and looking up many words in the dictionary, we finally understood that she was asking if she could play some more with us. I guess she had fun earlier.

We didn't find it culturally inappropriate to tell her, NO. Sorry. But I think we have a new friend...

Life happens in the unexpected moments

We had today planned out. It's Schroomie #2's birthday, and we had it all laid out what we were going to do to celebrate it. Blueberry muffins for breakfast (the mix brought from the US just for this very day!), a quiet afternoon, dinner at the one Mexican place in town, and perhaps a movie at the mall afterwards.

Then a knock came at the door. A young girl was there and said hello. We asked if she wanted candy, even though Bayram is officially over...perhaps she was looking for leftovers? She went on and on in Turkish, and I just stared at her in wonder. Finally Schroomie #1 and 2 both came to the rescue, but they didn't understand her either. We finally figured out that she was our neighbor, and then her mother came to the door too. They're all speaking in Turkish, and I'm a bit lost. Finally we realize that the mother wants to clean her floors, and since her daughter is home from school, is in the way. Could we watch her for a few hours?

Sure...come on in. We look at each other--what are we three single girls going to do with a 9 year old Turkish child who speaks no English? We pulled out the Jenga game, to which she explained that she didn't know how to play. Ah yes...but I've lived in other countries before, and have learned which games need no language. Thank goodness for Jenga! We showed her, and she loved it. I took a picture, thinking solely of this blog, and created a monster.

Girlfriend went to town directing us where to sit and what to do while she clicked away. She took pictures of us reading, me drinking coffee, us playing, the computer, the dictionary, Schroomie #2's fuzzy slippers, the list went on and on, until she filled up the entire memory card. She then moved on to our computers and began playing every card game imaginable. We finally figured out that she wanted to type emails...but didn't know how to do it. Ha.

At this moment--four hours later. She's still here playing on our computers. Thought you might enjoy seeing our "life happens in the unexpected moments" day.

Kurban Bayram

My blasted cold has kept me in the house for four days straight. It kept me from getting to go out last night and experience fully the Kurban Bayram. It is probably the most lamented cold ever.

Schroomies went to a friend's house to celebrate the holiday. They returned home to tell that it is true, they sacrifice the sheep in the street, and the blood does in fact run in the gutters. And I missed it. Dagnabit.

Some effects I have gotten to experience, though. I've already written about the silence--still so sweet, now in it's third day! Polar opposite to that: the call to prayer loudspeaker has been turned UP several notches. It's very loud. I'll take the trade off anyday: louder call for silence the rest of the day!

We've had trick or treaters at our door for three days straight. We open the door to groups of children holding their hands out and saying, "Sugar?" in Turkish. No bags--they eat it right there in our hallway. (How do I know they eat it right away besides the lack of bags? All the candy wrappers littering our stairwell!) One group of children that came today had red paint all over their hands--it sort of freaked me out. I asked my friend Nina about it, and she said it was henna...the moms allow the children to play with it during the holiday.

I ventured out of the apartment for my first dose of fresh air in days, only to wonder if that was the smartest idea in the world. There were men everywhere. Picture with me, whatever image you have of Asia--throngs upon throngs of people. (If you can't picture that, picture a football game just after the game is over and everyone is moving to leave at the same time...throngs). Now substitute all the women in your image for men, alongside all the men already in your image. Throngs of men. And little ole red curly haired blue eyed ME in the midst.

Everything I needed was closed. The ATM--not working. The lightbulb store--closed. The Bazaar--closed. I guess since all the stores are closed, I don't really need to go to the ATM. I've got enough cash for chai, and what else is there?

Such are some of the effects of Kurban Bayram on this American girl.

The Sound of Silence

Keats said, "Thou still unravished bride of quietness, thou foster-child of silence and slow time..."
Coleridge said, "No voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart..."

I noticed the silence sometime around 4 oclock. Normally our neighborhood is a cacophony of lifesounds: the chai man yelling that he has hot chai for sale, the gas man announcing that he is on our street with gas bottles, the drivers honking their horns at the guy going the wrong way down our one way street, the group of delinquint junior high boys beating a drum at the foot of the tower, the pack of stray dogs howling for howling's sake, the construction drilling on the street and in the apartment directly across from our door, and the many many many mosques singing that God is great and that we ought therefore to come to prayer.

But I noticed today, that is was strangely quiet. The chai man is not here today, and the gas man never came. There have been no cars, no drums, no dogs, no drilling. Silence. Beautiful, joyful, delightful, precious silence. Why? It is the eve of Kurban Bayram (or Eid, in the Arab world), the holiday of sacrifice.

We knew the holiday was coming. We heard the words in peoples' conversations. We saw rams marked with red paint for sale on the sides of the road. The sacrificed rams serve as a rememberance for when God provided a ram for Abraham to sacrifice in place of his son (the Bible says Isaac, the Koran says Ishmael). We read that the sacrifice would take place in public, in the streets even. Will we see anything? Only tomorrow will tell.

One thing is certain, we haven't heard anything today, all praise to God! With the cacophony silenced, I've been able to be still and know the friendship of the Lamb of God, who took away the sins of the world as the ultimate sacrifice.

Mother Theresa said, "God is the friend of silence."
God said, "Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

Dell Emails

Some of you will remember the near-death experience Schroomie #1 and I had riding to the Dell office a few weeks ago. Dell has written Schroomie to inform her that her part has arrived, and then again to respond that this week is a fine time to pick up the part. We have giggled greatly over these emails, and just wanted to share them with you.

Email #1 (copy and pasted, so you miss nothing...)

Hello
Your order is arrive to us.You can bring your laptop to here any worktime
Nice to meet you

Email #2

=)
Ok not problem for us until to to wednesday afternoon we are open But if you escape Wednesday afternoonr you must wait until next Monday
Thank you 2

Lest you think that I am ungrateful of international companies... I said just tonight that I want to write a personal thank you note to Doritos International for making salsa and selling it in Turkey, and at an affordable price. Because of them (and Schroomie #2's fabulous cookin'), I had chicken enchiladas for dinner. And I'm sure the Dell guy's English is way better than my Turkish, so I'm surely not making fun. Just enjoying what I might sound like one day should I ever learn how to say more than, "That is a door." Thankful as well for the fact that the Dell office is in Turkey, so we can fix our technological ailments easily.

Yok Change

After walking for almost two miles in the rain through the wind tunnel known as the Istaklal, I was disappointed to discover that the dolmus' were empty. If I climbed into one, I'd have to wait for them to fill up before we would leave for our destination. While the cheaper option (one million), I did not have the time to wait. I walked past the dolmus' for the one taxi waiting ahead. I climbed in and said with my horrid American accent "near Beshiktash boatdock."

"Beshiktash boatdock?"

"No. NEAR Beshiktash boatdock."

"Beshiktask boatdock."

"Yeah, sure. Fine. Beshiktash boatdock."

As we ride along, I look up the word for 'near' in my dictionary, and say again, "NEAR Beshiktash boatdock." He finally understands, and says, "yes, yes. NEAR."

I see where I need to be, and point, realizing that I don't even know how to say "here." We pull over, and I see my total is 3 million and some change. I only have a 20 million or a 1 million. I hand him the 20, obviously. He hands me back 250,000. Now, I know I suck at math. And I know I have blue eyes, which in this country some have equated to mean stupid, gullible, easy to rip off. But come on! I say, "no way."

To which he responds, "yok change." (Literally, that's what he said. One english word, one Turkish word. Okay for me to do...not so okay for him. Yok means "I don't have.")

So I respond, "Too bad. I only have a 20." (In english).

"Yok change! Yok change!" To which I'm thinking, too bad for you! It's your job to have change, not mine! I'm not paying 19 million+ for a taxi ride around the corner! He finally pulls out a WAD of cash, and hands me 10 million.

"No." I stick out my hand for more. He hands me a 5 million.

"Bir milyon!" I insist. (One million!)

"Fine! Fine! One million!" He grumbles and hands me one million more. If I knew the words for 750,000, I would have asked for it, but I didn't. Nor did I know the word for "more."

I need to learn more Turkish. Or get colored contacts. Or both.

Behind Istanbul's Veil

Romanticized notions of exotic lands have lured me past the concept of home for years. Rudyard Kipling whispers in my ear that I can still be Mowgli. Fog masquerades reality and I am Sherlock Holmes solving the latest mystery. Boats are transformed to water taxis through the Amazon where I live among the most uncivilized peoples on earth.

Such visions have filled my heart with joy over the years, but taunted me as well. I keep moving to the next place thinking it holds the possibility of being more true to the words from the past that I've idolized to reality in my imagination.Disappointment set in as I settled in to Istanbul. The men don't wear turbans (or red fez hats). The sultan no longer exists. More English seems to be spoken in the Grande Bazaar than Turkish. I like Starbucks more than Turkish coffee. I see a remnant of the glorious Istanbul of old, when it was once the mysterious city of the Orient Express... Arabic tiles above a gate, the ancient mosques, the shape of buidlings that in their prime must have been something to behold.

But I have felt that maybe I have not seen what others have boasted of the city...I think the city sensed my disappointment, that I longed for something more exotic. I woke with the call to prayer on Monday morning, and rushed out to catch the 8am ferry boat across the water. As I was headed towards Asia, I turned around and looked at the old part of the city behind me. The morning was quiet, only the boat dancing through the waves made the slightest sound. The sun cast a rosy hue onto the buildings, and I saw the beauty of the Eurasian princess named Istanbul.

She was as I had imagined: modestly shy, pulling her sheer veil of sunrise rays over her nose yet allowing her brilliant eyes to shine.She showed me another side of herself later this week, pulling out a different veil to drape herself in. This one, made of thickest fog, reminded me the mystery still exists--I have yet to know her. The fog would not allow any light to penetrate it last night: driving across the bridge, one would not have even known they were above the water...only the cars ahead could be seen. We had trouble finding our street, for the lights from the Tower were hidden as well. On the ferry crossing this morning, the boats saluted one another with their fog horn and lights, reminding all that we were in the presence of the Eurasian princess. She had come out of hiding to remind this sojourner passing through her courts that she is indeed royal. I have paused to acknowledge her, and perhaps request permission to stay a few more fortnight in her courts.