Road Trip

Recently, I went to south eastern Turkey with a friend from the States. Here are some of my favorite photos in no particular order.



Nemrut

Beehive houses in Haran

The oldest beehive house in Haran
Nemrut
Nemrut

Nemrut

Aremeia

Aremeia
Protection from evil in Haran
Never offer children gifts in Haran
Haran castle

The Oath

I love most of my students, even when they drive me crazy. Sometimes I love them because they drive me crazy.

Utku is a special case. I alternately want to drop kick him across the room or pick him up and squeeze him. Despite the fistfuls of candy he eats between every class, he’s thin as straw. He has a squeaky little voice that emanates from a tiny little face punctuated by a big toothy grin that usually appears after he has said something inappropriate or just plain out of context. Since he has an attention deficit disorder, he is forever squirming in his chair, picking something off the floor, out of his pocket or off of someone else’s desk. His best friend doesn’t want to sit next to him (please don’t say to him hocam he’s my best friend in the world) because he’s too disruptive in class. Utku now sits with his desk firmly abutted to mine, almost directly under my nose.

Last week, we began a story telling project using paintings as starting points. Utku was particularily interested in the Roman soldiers in the Oath of the Horatii. He described the three men with arms raised in oath. He spoke of the swords to which they were pointing, pausing just slightly for dramatic effect. With an ever so slight Irish accent, he proclaimed, “The little bastards” and grinned his oversized grin.

I had to control myself from falling on the floor with laughter.

Hopeful and Hopeless

There are days when I seriously doubt whether or not my kids are learning anything. Well, that’s a nice way to say it. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. And yet, there are days when I know why I do.

Recently, the 7th graders have been learning about Ancient Egypt. They have (erroneously) learned that archaeologists are scientists who study artifacts. They also learned what an artifact is. Now, as some of you know, I’m an honorary archaeologist with a bit of experience in the field. And, as some of you might know that while it’s important to me that my kids learn their English, it’s maybe more important to me that they develop their critical thinking skills. With that in mind, I developed a very special project for them, one which took me weeks to prepare. (I’m kind of slow.) They would be archaeologists themselves. Of course, they also had to work on summary writing because that’s the skill in this week’s lesson plan.

People can’t just call themselves archaeologists without a little training. Without boring you with the details, we discussed how it’s possible to learn a whole lot about ancient people by examining the objects with which they were buried. We looked at some of the artifacts from the Sutton Hoo ship burial. I had my reasons. They were purely selfish. But the kids got the message. Afterwards, they were ready to look at some artifacts of their own and make their own interpretations.

Last weekend, I prepared the artifacts. This of course included going to the labyrinth of stores around the Spice Bazaar looking for stuff. Then I spent hours making little things out of air-drying clay and digging through the bits and pieces odds and ends that I tend to collect and put in jars. I concocted 5 bags of artifacts, all from one cemetery, one each belonging to a man, a woman, a girl, a boy and a shaman/priest-like figure. That all but the last are related by common artifacts could be noticed by the more attentive members of the groups.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been artsy-fartsy, so I rather enjoyed my play time and am very proud of my handiwork. I made little babies wrapped in blankets, dolls, axes, shields and swords, bull heads with gold-tipped horns, flutes, masks, toy chickens, and cooking bowls. I found ceramic toy horses I had made a few years ago, tiny crochet hooks, little bells (no whistles), earrings I no longer wear and a whole bunch of other bitty things. Most of the ready-made artifacts were waiting in jars on my bookshelf. I lined my artifacts up on the table and giggled at them before carefully placing them in Ziploc baggies.

Before beginning the project with the kids, I gave them a little lecture about how much work the project took me, and how I had to trust them with the things I had made, therefore they must handle them with care. Then I set down the rules. No one could complain about who was in their group. The designated group leader was responsible for receiving and returning all the intact artifacts. They had to be quiet and respectful, and they had to take detailed notes.

And it worked. My first group was so good, I almost cried. OK, that’s an exaggeration. All the classes who participated were serious, careful and thoughtful. They asked lots of questions. They experimented with different hypotheses. They got it, even the one slower group who had earlier in the week earned my trust. One group with the little girl’s bag learned that maybe archaeologists can’t put together all the pieces of the puzzle. Sometimes, they can’t make decisive conclusions because the evidence just doesn’t make sense. In one class, the group with the protective objects correctly identified their owner as a shaman. (It’s the same word in Turkish.) I almost kissed Mehmet for that one. Another class understood that the family consisted of a mother, father and two children with only one hint: the same kinds of beads were in the mother and daughter’s bags. God love ‘em but I was proud of my kids.

Yet with joy comes sorrow, and my success today was tempered by my group of hopeless kids.

I have one class of 16 students. It’s the smallest 7th grade class because it is the worst on several levels. Each and every one of these 12 boys and 6 girls has some kind of learning and/or behavioral disorder. There’s a near complete range of psychological ones as well. Forget learning English. These kids have difficulty understanding their mother tongue. Don’t get me wrong. I actually like some of them and am fully aware that they did not choose to be the owners of their respective disorders. It’s a good day if I send no one to the office, don’t give a written warning or don’t send for the assistant principal to haul someone out for a lecture. I’m happy when the level of chaos remains low. Two of them recently took to calling me a terrorist. “You terrorista. You live Kurdistan” followed by something spoken so rapidly in Turkish that I could not understand a word. I got the gist. (This is not the group that I previously allowed to talk about the PKK. I ain’t that dumb.) Because I knew that these kids would torture me if I responded angrily, I just told them to sit down and be quiet. My teaching partner gave them a good talking to in Turkish for me. Bless her.

These are the kids on whom the administration has given up. The vast majority of them do not belong in this factory of a school, yet it is nearly impossible to expel them due to laws in Turkey governing education. The boy who last year brought a knife to school and this year a shotgun shell might have been expelled after many reports, but only after a series of psychological tests. It doesn’t take a trained expert to understand that the boy does not comprehend the difference between right and wrong.

They’re not completely stupid though. They’re smart enough to know that since I don’t speak Turkish, they can pull things that they would not dare with other teachers. Today while they were working in groups, drawing pictures of the warrior king from Sutton Hoo, I turned around to see one of the girls smack a boy. She was provoked, but I didn’t see the provocation. As she had been verbally warned several times, I sent her to the office and gave her a written warning. I later discovered from the principal, who is extremely supportive of me, that they had a little bet going on during the class. The boys were deciding which of the girls in the class would get pregnant and by whom. They’re 13. Indeed the girls were scandalized, but they were not innocent in the matter either.

Yes, it’s sad and hopeless.

Potentially Stupid

Two of my six 7th grade classes are extremely difficult. Forty minutes with a variety of learning difficulties and behavioral disorders can make me want to hang myself. (I’m doing research on how to deal with ADD. Hopefully it will help both me and the kids.) Yesterday, I did something that was potentially stupid but at the same time very positive with one of those groups.

As you may know, 12 Turkish soldiers were killed near the Iraqi border on Sunday. The following day, many of the kids in one of my classes were excited about the prospect of military retaliation. In particular, A felt it was good and necessary to kill terrorists. He expressed his enthusiasm by shooting a roomful of imaginary terrorists with a gun formed by his hand. Without giving my opinion on the matter, I managed to settle him and several students who vocally supported his actions.

Yesterday, A entered the classroom with a colored map of Turkey, Iraq and surrounding countries. Before the lesson began, he excitedly tried to tell me what he thought was going to happen, what he thought should happen and where the terrorists were. He was trying so hard to express himself in English that I didn’t want to discourage him. At the same time, if one student holds my attention before the lesson begins, the rest of them go completely nuts and are difficult to settle down. I asked him to sit down, but promised we would talk about it later.
I gauged the mood of the class. All of them were interested in what A had to say and wanted to talk. Had I thought that any one of those students would be offended or upset, I would not have touched the subject. The kids clearly felt a need to talk. While the topic is a sensitive and potentially offensive one, I decided to change the lesson plan on the spot. I called A to the front of the class, and told him he could be the teacher for a few minutes. It was his responsibility to tell the others to be quiet if needed. He went through his routine.

B (these are their first initials) who is normally silent unless called upon, felt compelled to join A at the head of the class. He too tried to express himself in English. When the effort was too difficult and his thoughts flowed too quickly, he fell back on Turkish. T translated for us. Everyone listened. No one imitated gunfire. There was more interaction in English during that lesson than in any other before. Although I do not agree with A, B, T, Y nor C’s opinions, I was really proud of them for their effort. And while I don’t agree with them, I think it is important to give kids a forum in which they can express their opinions if they are not violent or overtly offensive. Clearly, their opinions are shaped by their parents and I was therefore careful to remain neutral.

A produced a handwritten list of 100 kids from the 6th-8th grades who wanted to join the Turkish soldiers. Not all of the names were boys’ names. I found that quite interesting.
I found it odd that the PKK was not directly named for the first 15 minutes of the discussion. Whether they assumed we all knew who was responsible for the 12 deaths, I don’t know.
According to A, the terrorists live in Istanbul, Izmir and Ankara. They spend the day in the city and at night go to the mountains to train. Where exactly those mountains are, he could not say.

While remaining neutral, I started to ask them questions. “Who is in the PKK?” “Americans, Russians...” I was the one person who mentioned the word Kurd. Blame was placed on Americans. “The Americans do this, they do that...” I interrupted to remind them that I’m American. A look of surprised realization came over T’s face and she quickly apologised for offending me. I told her no offense was taken and that although I am American, I do not support what my country has done and is doing in Afghanistan and Iraq. Additionally, and I think they understood, I told them that I would never say that Turkey was good or bad, or that the PKK is good or bad. (Really, I’m in no position to say. Nothing is black and white, I haven’t lived with this reality before, and I never want to be one of those foreigners who steps in to say how things should be run. Additionally, I do not pretend to understand the situation.)

I asked if they knew what the PKK wanted. I drew a really bad map of Turkey and made a circle where I think the PKK wants to establish their own country. IP corrected me, took my chalk and drew a line down the middle of my map. When I asked them why they wanted their own country, they stared at me blankly though they understood the question.

To be honest, not much of the discussion made sense to me, yet this was the first time there was a sustained discussion in my class, and it was the first time of few of them voluntarily spoke. For that reason, I was very proud of my kids and told them so. It’s not often they receive compliments.

During the break, I told a few of my fellow teachers about the class. They were horrified. I later told the assistant to the foreign language department director that we had a discussion about the PKK and terrorism and that the kids were amazing. She didn’t recognize the students’ accomplishment in English; in fact, I don’t think she even heard I said it. Understandably. Without getting angry, she firmly told me never to talk about it again, the subject was too sensitive and I could expect angry phone calls from parents. I went back to the teachers’ room fearing that I would be called into someone’s office the following day to answer for my actions, knowing that my students and I nevertheless experienced something positive.

No parent has called so far. I will never touch the subject in class again.

My second potentially stupid action is to post this story on a blog. I’m not so paranoid to think that some government association will track me down to question me about what I’ve written, but I do know that I’ve opened myself to negative criticism, not to mention being called stupid.

Misconceptions

Recently, I had a phone conversation with my dad. He jokingly asked me how life was in the Middle East. As with many jokes, there was an underlying sense of anxiety to it. Slightly offended, and wanting to set things right, I firmly reminded him that I don’t live in the Middle East. Technically, I live in Europe. While Istanbul isn’t as “European” (whatever that means) as say, Paris or London, it’s not Beirut either. I live in no more danger than in New York or Bloomer, Wisconsin for that matter so don’t worry about me Dad.


On a recent trip to the United States, two of my ultra-conservative, hyper-Catholic (we are meant to suffer in this world so we can gain an eternity of happiness) relatives made derogatory references to my proximity to Muslims. With mouths squeezed into sphincters “So, how are those Muslims treating you?” and “Whatever you do, don’t let those Muslims get you down.” In both instances, my back went stiff and all the hairs on my neck stood straight. I wasn’t nice to the first relative by coldly stating that there were stauncher nationalists and more narrow-minded people in the same room as we were. Their beloved Christian, god-fearing George Bush and friends are far more dangerous to all of us than the man from whom I buy dried figs. I was too aggravated to deal with the second. I can’t unpaint that black and white world, a world in which there is only one true god and all other people regardless of religious affiliation will burn in the hellfire of damnation.


It’s already established that I’m going to hell in a hand basket.

Some days are just good

It’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are my worst days at work. I teach six out of eight school hours. Three of those are with my two most difficult classes. Two of those hours are back to back. If I can get even one of these groups to open their notebooks by the fifth time I’ve told them to do so, I will have achieved a great goal.

Despite Wednesdays, I do enjoy my job teaching 7th graders. Yet, there’s something missing in the order of an intellectual challenge. At heart, I’m an art historian. I miss researching and teaching it. I miss the kinds of questions we ask of objects, wrapping my brain around what something built/painted/constructed/sculpted might just mean and why, not to mention how those things are made. And I miss talking about such things with other people who care about them. Rather than just complain about it in my recently developed lazy fashion, I decided to find a project. I am now going to learn about Anatolian kilims. Just for fun. No papers to write, no tests to take, no proving to anyone that I am a dedicated student.

There is a very special carpet and rug shop in Ortakoy, run by a kind and generous woman. She’s one of those elegant and graceful people who would make me feel like a huge bull in a tiny China shop if she weren’t so very nice. Once I sat in her office for a good while, sipping tea, staring at a kilim hanging on the wall and wondering why its weaver made some odd design choices. On a whim, and possibly because it’s Wednesday, I decided to venture to Ortakoy, tell her (the shop owner, not the long-dead weaver) about my project and ask for her advice. Since it’s a bit presumptuous for a relative stranger to ask someone for advice out-of-the-blue, I brought pastries for her and her family for “iftar,” the meal that breaks the sun up to down fast during Ramazan.

I was warmly greeted. I was warmly thanked for the pastries. I explained my project and why I needed to have it. She was excited and pleased, maybe because I had asked for her help, probably because she loves kilims, even more than rugs. She led me to her book shelf and pulled out a large volume. Lovingly, she opened the pages, pointing out illustrations of how wool is cleaned and certain patterns are woven, and charts of various ingredients for dyes. The symbols, she said, are not the most important thing. Oh no. It’s the wool and how it is prepared. I was convinced. Reading is a good way to start, she said, but the best way to learn is to watch the making of the kilims. (That’s a project for further down the road.) She assured me that it would not be a bother if I came to ask questions. I left after a story or two and happily walked home to Besiktas.

I stopped at the bakkal (convenience store) across from my apartment. It was just after fast-breaking. Ahmet Bey and his helper were hunched over their meal, a pan of eggs and pastirma (a salty, dried meat), a dish of pickled vegetables and bread, set on a low, paper-covered table. I respect those who fast and do not want to interrupt their long awaited meal. As I was setting 2YTL on the counter for a carton of milk, Ahmet told me, in no uncertain terms, to sit and eat. His assistant brought me a fork with which I ate from the same pan as these friends. Last year, one of my Turkish students critically called Turks uneducated and primitive because they often eat from the same dish. I disagree. Maybe I misunderstand this ritual, but I like how it makes us hunch together, both literally and figuratively. But god help me, I’m the messiest eater and had dropped more than one chunk of pastirma in my lap. I don’t think anyone really noticed. After a glass of hot tea, I thanked Ahmet and excused to go home.

I weighed my Wednesday work day against my random experiences and decided that overall, some days are just good.

How to take a shower

Some apartments in Istanbul that were built in the 1970s and ‘80s were equipped with very basic bathrooms. For example, the shower consists of a shower head and a drain on the floor. These may be situated close to a toilet. In subsequent years, the bathroom may have been modified. Mine is one of those. A square plastic “floor” with a shallow rim sits below the either hand-held or stationary shower head. It is surrounded by a curtain suspended by a rod held by a chain from the ceiling. Because the room is small, and due to the above-mentioned modifications, taking a shower requires preparation.

Except during the hottest days of summer, turn the water heater dial to 2. While waiting for the little light to turn green, make and leisurely drink a cup of coffee and contemplate the day ahead.

When the water temperature has sufficiently risen, remove the mop and corresponding bucket and the clothes basket stored in the shower and place them under the sink.

Lift the drain cover below the toilet brush holder and place the end of the plastic hose extending from the shower “floor” and behind the toilet over the opened drain. Since we tried to unclog the shower with commercial drain cleaner (the package said the product was safe to use on plastic pipes: unfortunately it deformed the hose) this hose must be propped against the drain cover and the toilet brush holder to prevent a large puddle from forming on the floor. These procedures take less time to perform than to describe and soon become habit.

While taking a shower, be careful to avoid water from escaping the immediate area to further prevent puddle formation.

Accept that no matter how diligent you are, or how carefully you have propped the hose, you will invariably cause water to leak behind and in front of the toilet. This usually happens when you are in a hurry or late for work.

Following your shower, mop the floor, pushing water down the drain. Reverse the above preparatory procedures, i.e. replace the mop, bucket and clothes basket, and turn the water heater back to zero.

Have a second cup of coffee and resume contemplating the day ahead.

Washing clothes in the same room also requires certain procedures, yet in comparison, these are much simpler.

The washing machine in our bathroom is hooked up so that water can enter the machine, but not automatically exit it through a drain. After loading the laundry, remove the hose from behind the machine and place the hook shaped end into the toilet. Failure to do so will result in a flooded bathroom. Adjust the dials to the desired temperature. Push the power button and jam a toothpick in the space between it and the adjacent button so that the power remains on.

Be grateful that you have a washing machine in the apartment.

To be clear, I’m not complaining. I like my apartment, and don’t mind the bathroom at all.

I Kind of Hated My Job

My unexplained absence for the past few months has been due to a lack of computer. When I left my previous job, I had to hand in my laptop. (See below.) This is not to say that I have not made some priceless observations. Au contraire. I’ve got them stored right up here. (You can’t see me, but I’m tapping my forehead with my index finger. Not a hammer.)

I’m now writing to you from my new, indeed my very first brand new to me, computer. That I bought it and the office software package all by myself and primarily in Turkish, is a point of pride.

While I take time to organize my thoughts on a recent trip to the States, the end of my first year teaching in a private school, and the 25th high school reunion which I did not attend, I leave you with the following. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t post it earlier.

I Kind of Hated My Job
Due to lack of teaching space in the school, I used to teach on the ground floor of a converted villa. It was alternately used as a ballet room for the little kids, a storage space, the chess activity room, an office for teachers and administrators who wanted to hide for a few hours, and an English classroom. Since the beginning of the year, I fought with the powers that be to respect the space as a classroom. Every week it was something new: cleaners and maintenance people doing little repairs or moving furniture in the middle of class, the chess teacher rearranging everything and trying to muscle his way into the space... My younger students had the attention spans of one tsetse fly between them and didn’t really need such distractions.

The school also had, and as far as I know still has, a cat. He was a dirty -should- be -white -but - sidewalk –colored, and was "adopted" by the school when he was a kitten. The director is so full of himself that he baptized the cat with a feminine version of his own name. Unlike the director, the cat dropped a pair of testicles, but retained his given feminine name. The housekeeping staff left food for him during the week. A constant presence in the school, he habitually slept directly in the middle of the floor in front of the first floor staircase, ignoring children and teachers who would carefully walk around him. For a few weeks, he took it upon himself to spray the desks in the English department offices, rendering it impossible to work in them. We were going to take up a collection to get him snipped, but he must have gotten wind of it because he subsequently chose to mark the 6th grade room instead.

One Monday morning, I went to the villa early to set up a projector to watch Bowling for Columbine, and to chase out the two women who usually worked in there until after I brought my students to it and reminded them that I had a class. (They were always shocked that I was going to use the room for teaching purposes. Clearly, a teacher leading 8 students carrying notebooks wasn’t much of a clue.) Much to my surprise there was one desk in the room. Hmmm. How to hold class with one desk and no tables? I found the principal, in whom I had little confidence, who feigned surprise at the lack of proper classroom furniture. Indeed she was the one who instructed the staff to move them in the first place. She decided to look for a different classroom for me, as if one would magically appear in a broom closet. I told her I didn't need desks immediately as we were watching a film, but when and if she did find some, to replace them during recess so as not to interrupt my lessons.

The kids were happy to relax, and asked permission to use the large pillows stored on the side of the room opposite the classroom area. (The room was quite large as it was the bottom floor of a converted house.) Two minutes later, the girls had installed themselves in the place farthest from the projector to concentrate intently on something. Ah, it was the cat. As if it was a rare treat to caress a filthy creature that they saw roughly 20 times a day. I noticed that there were food and water dishes and a litter box in the corner. Hmmm. It did not bode well.

I gave the group my usual, "look at this face and tell me how happy it isn't about wasting time therefore don't aggravate me anymore" speech. Because I can be quite threatening, they complied and soon we were watching the film projected against the whiteboard. Not 3 minutes later, the cat started to traverse the floor with one leg twisted underneath and behind him. Michael Moore became priority number two. Slowly, the cat dragged himself to the litter box where he proceeded to make a deposit of the same number. Of course, all eyes were on him, including mine. My classroom had become a large kitty box. Since the smell of cat deposit makes me want to lose all 3 of my morning cups of coffee, I opened windows as the cat continued his ass-scraping, post litter box journey across the floor. Perhaps prompted by my angry reaction, one student asked the rhetorical question "And this is supposed to be a classroom?" Because the students were concerned about the cat, I'm not so cold-hearted that I didn't notice something was wrong, and because I wasn't going to get anything done otherwise, I told one of the girls to pick the cat up gently, set him on a pillow and pay attention to the movie.

During break I shot an e-mail to the principal to tell her that the lack of desks was disrespectful to me and my students, and that while I have sympathy for injured animals (we later learned that he had been hit by a car over the weekend and was put in the room by the security guards,) my classroom was no place for a cat to relieve himself.

Sometime during recess, a few desks were replaced in the room and I could proceed with my young tsetses as usual. I had warned them that the cat would be in the room, that he was injured, and that they were in no way shape or form to bother him. 10 minutes before class ended, the friendly maintenance man entered the room with a cardboard box, put the cat in it and took him outside. The litter box full of presents was, of course, left in the corner. It took me a few minutes to redirect the attention of the boys, my flightiest of tsetse flies, and a long moment to calm my anger.

When I left, the cat was sitting in the box near the exterior door of the villa.

When I returned to the classroom two days later, the litter box and deposits remained. I resisted the temptation to tip its contents on the principal’s desk.

Post Script
1. I want to emphasize that not all aspects of my job were intolerable. The majority of my colleagues were (and probably still are) remarkable people.
2. Despite the fact that some of my students had the attention span of a tsetse fly, I do love them and will miss them.
3. The cat was subsequently taken to the vet hospital where his broken hip was repaired. For about a month, he kept a low profile but recovered nicely. He was not, however, fixed.

Tiny bunnies

Cenk and Shuppiluliuma have grown. They're now at the age at which their ears seem to big for their bodies. They often sleep side by side in their "house," groom each other, and fight over hay and lettuce. These photos were taken about four weeks ago.

Signs of Spring: Tulips

Herons, tourists and artichokes arrive with spring. Istanbul also celebrates the season with their native tulips. These are from Emirgan Park. Some are so bright, they make your eyes hurt to look at them.

Enginarchitecture

At the bottom of the horrifically steep hill on which I live, there is a covered market. I stop there regularly to buy fruits, vegetables and greens for the bunnies. The merchants recognize me and nod hello. The man who sells dried fruit sometimes invites me to sit behind his counter to drink tea.

If you never stepped outside the market walls, you could still tell the season by the changing piles of food. Recently, strawberries came in season. Mounds of cherries will be ripe soon enough, but now are too expensive. Later there will be mullberries, so fragile that if you're bag of them is heavy, half of that bag will be full of mullberry juice by the time you reach home.

Enginar (artichokes) are now in season, and bless them but their's is a long one. Some vendors sell nothing but. They sit with huge piles of them, deftly cutting and discarding the leaves and choke, then selling them in plastic bags with water.

Today at the market, one vender had built himself a green fortress of carefully stacked artichokes, as if prepared for a seige. Surrounded by three and a half walls, he sat in the middle, littering the floor with a speed that demanded my respect.

The Deaf Leading the Yabanci

As a reward for sending a slew of CVs and cover letters yesterday, and because today is, if not technically at least in reality, the last day of vacation, I decided to explore an area of Istanbul I had never seen. In the current issue of Cornucopia, an upscale magazine about Turkey (some think it’s too chichi, I like the photos) there is a short article on Itfaiye Caddesi. Running parallel to Atatürk Bulvari, it is apparently a place where many from Southeast Turkey have immigrated. According to the article, you can hear Arabic spoken in the neighborhood. Additionally, it is peppered with Byzantine churches. Most importantly perhaps, there you can find excellent honey in the comb. These are three things that please me: listening to Arabic, (I don’t understand a thing, but I’m used to it) Byzantine churches and the honey I have just recently learned to appreciate.

I armed myself with a detailed map of the area ripped out of a magazine. Often, maps are useless to me. I couldn’t find my way out of many bathrooms with one. I always have to turn them upside-down or sideways to match the direction in which I am going. My sense of direction is nearly hopeless so I rely on large monuments to guide me. Still, when I successfully follow a map, I pat myself on the back.

There was no back patting today, not yet. As I was walking down Itfaiye Caddesi (I got there by accident) I stopped to locate a museum which was across the street on my torn out map. An old man clutching prayer beads stopped and asked me where I wanted to go. After several attempts at telling him, he motioned to his ears, shook his head, took a folded piece of paper out of his canvas case, and motioned for me to write. Haaaa (this means “now I understand"). He’s deaf. I wrote the name of a Byzantine church for which I was also looking. I didn’t want to look stupid because the museum was within sight just across the street. Regardless, or possibly because of our difficulty communicating, he took the map from my hands, motioned for me to follow him and stepped out into traffic. Unable to tell him that my PTSD (due to being struck by a car several years ago) now and then rears its ugly head, I followed. Apparently there is a god who protects small children and elderly deaf men. And me, but only by association. He stopped a man standing in a store front to ask directions. The man didn’t know, but closed the door and took us down the street to what I believe was an emergency vehicle station. The emergency vehicle man looked carefully at the map, circled a place on it, gestured as he gave us directions and wished us a good day. I could pinpoint the moment he understood that before him was a Tarzan-Turkish-speaking foreigner being led by a deaf man by the subtle change in his expression. There was no disrespect, just curiosity. I had an image in my head of three blind cartoon mice.

My new friend and I ventured, he with a slight limp, a tilt, an occasional stumble and a giggle, across Atatürk Bulvari. Clearly, he is not fazed by regular suicide missions. I was pretty sure the church was in the other direction, but he was already halfway across the street. We stopped frequently to ask the location of the old neighborhood church. He stuck his head in several stores, loudly declaring "Yaaabanci (yabanci means foreigner) wants to know…" I think he was enjoying his position as tour guide. At one point, he walked into an open door onto someone’s private property. Unaware of the barking German shepherd and the house owner, he tried to get directions from a woman and small child. The owner looked at me quizzically. I pointed to my guide, my ears and shook my head. After the man gave us directions he left, only to pull up beside us in his car. All of us had a good laugh before we were deposited at a parking lot facing a small, brick, Byzantine church turned mosque. It was lovely and unexpected, with remnants of mosaics in the small pumpkin domes. The interior was painted a pristine white. It was not, however, Zeyreki Kilisesi.

We stopped to look at two tombstones; one of the poet Necati Beyin Kabridi (I think), the other of the historian/ philosopher Katip Celebi. My guide silently uttered a short prayer.

On the other side of the boulevard and up the hill, I noticed a Byzantine dome. I gestured to it. My friend started to cross the busy street without looking again, so I pulled on his sleeve and pointed to an underground passage. Up the hill, around a café and past a series of ancient columns. This indeed was the correct church. We attracted enough attention – my friend speaks very loudly – so that, although the church turned mosque turned museum was closed, the man holding the key agreed to let us enter. According to a sign, the building has been recognized as a UNESCO Heritage Site, and I have recently learned that restoration on it has been halted due to lack of funds. Unfortunately, photographs of the interior are forbidden. I would love to have images of the brick walls and high domes, all in various states of decay. There are seven extant original floor mosaic motifs, one of which is visible when a sort of fake grass colored rug is pulled aside, a padlock is unlocked, and a small wooden door is raised. This one is of Samson getting his hair cut.

My guide and I silently agreed on a sort of communication by writing on a piece of paper, nodding and gesturing. I learned that he is 76, has been in Istanbul for 55 years but had never seen Zeyreki Kilisesi before, studied law and became deaf sometime during a bout of meningitis and TB. The whole time, I kept hoping that he would not ruin the experience by asking if I had a husband, if I had kids, or telling me about an estranged wife. An Italian man of the same age would give me a sad marital story before giving me a wink and a nudge. As if. As far as I can tell, there was no hint of such hopes on this fine day. For that, I was very grateful, particularly because this man apparently has no fear.

Following a short bus ride, we went to another small Byzantine church turned mosque. He motioned for me to follow him behind the building to look at brickwork, a bit of sculpted marble and the height to which the ground has risen since the church was built. As I was taking photos, he motioned me to a building across the street with a cultural center in it. After climbing four floors – the man is quite nimble for one with a slight limp and a tilt - he knocked on a few doors until someone opened for us. Apparently, we interrupted some kind of meeting, but were welcome after I was introduced as a teacher who wanted to take pictures from the balcony. We were offered tea and a mercemek köfte, a kind of meatball made with red lentils. One of the men in the meeting gave me a quick tour of the center, pictures of folk dancers and their website address.

Sensing that I might otherwise find myself in all of the Byzantine churches turned mosques in the near vicinity and needing to buy dirt and hay before the stores closed, (a person needs hay for bunnies and more dirt to grow parsley for them) I wrote that I was going to Taksim to meet friends. Certainly, my grammar was far from perfect, but he understood. Since I can’t pat myself on the back for my map-reading skills, I will for my level of Turkish. I realized that I know more than I thought, and might actually be able to use the future tense correctly every once in a while. But I wasn’t allowed to leave quite yet. Across the street from the church is a Federation for the Deaf where I was introduced to a group of men who clearly have respect for my new friend. Tea in a café followed (Simitizza anyone?). Soon, we were writing bits and pieces on the paper. We finally introduced ourselves, and Remzi wondered why I have a Jewish name if I’m not. He also wrote me a little note, part of which I understood and concerns visiting the buildings designed by Mimar Sinan. I have been instructed to have a Turkish friend translate the whole thing for me. Not one wink or nudge.


Oh, I did hear Arabic spoken in a garage-like structure where several men were building cheap particle board desks, but I didn’t have the chance to buy any honey.

Anne geldi

My room mate's mother recently visited us for a weekend. I like her. She kind of reminds me of my Italian-American gramma. She sometimes points to my "Turkish balcony," or slightly pudgy stomach, as if to say "Where did that come from?" and then pushes food. Every morning, she prepares an elaborate kahvalte (breakfast) with cheeses, eggs and sucuk (a garlicky sausage), olives, and sometimes my favorite balkaymak. Bal is honey, kaymak is usually translated as clotted cream, but I think that's not quite right. In essence, it's a potent combination of fat swimming in naturally produced sugar. Liberally spread on freshly baked bread, it's one good reason for living. In her honor, I bought a special tea glass with a blue "A" (anne means mom) fused to the side.

I've learned to live with one of her habits, and from an informal survey of friends, have discovered it's quite a normal one. Each time she visits, she rearranges. One day I came home to discover that the door leading to the living room had been taken off its hinges to make room for the new furniture arrangement. Just last week, I discovered that the same door had been discretely stored behind the kitchen cupboards for months. After she leaves, I have to search for the new locations of spices, the trash can... She does clean out the fridge and that's a good thing. Sometimes, in her fervor but with a lack of options, she puts things back in the same order as she originally found them on a previous visit. Keeps me on my toes.

Metin's Words of Wisdom

I was dreamily thinking out loud on the service bus after school today. I said I was going to go home, make a good cup of coffee, sit on the balcony and read a magazine. Maybe after that, I would embroider. Metin looked at me and with conviction said, "Seize the rest of the day."

Indeed.

Miss Mary

The following is from my niece Mary. It speaks for itself.



HI!!! My name is Mary Hable. I’m over four and half years old. I live in Lino Lakes, MN with my Mommy and Daddy and two kitties, Chippy and Sophia. I have Tuberous Sclerosis Complex (TSC). TSC has caused things to grow on my kidney, heart, skin and my brain. The things growing on my brain are called tubers and they have caused me to have seizures since I was born. I have been on over ten different kinds of pills to try and stop my seizures but they haven’t worked all the way. About two years ago, I had surgery to remove four of the tubers from my brain and some of my brain to hopefully stop my seizures. It worked for three months. I still have some seizures but they aren’t as bad as they used to be. When I wasn’t even a year old, I was having really bad seizures, sometimes for more than ten minutes each. They made me and my brain tired. Because my brain was tired all the time, I couldn’t learn as fast as other kids. Even though I’m over four and a half years old, I can only do about what a two and a half year old can do. I started walking three weeks after my third birthday. I can’t talk very much but I understand just about everything. I know some sign language too, like “help”, “please” and “potty.” I still wear diapers even though I can go on the potty if I want to. I go to school with other kids that are behind and we have lots of fun.

About one in six thousand people are born with TSC. That’s more than have Lou Gehrig’s disease. The affect on everyone is different, from not even knowing they have it to death within moments of birth. Most people with TSC have seizures and growths on their skin. There is no cure for TSC. Please help me raise money for TSC research so maybe one day all people born with this disease can live typical lives or better yet, people will never again be born with it. We have a long way to go but with your help, I am sure it can happen. Thanks and I Love You! Bye!

Cenk: Warrior Prince

Shuppi was quickly outgrowing his little cage. He soon would not have been able to stand up to his full but short height. Once again, I found myself in the Spice Bazaar, but this time to look for the largest available cage. As I was drinking my glass of tea, I reached inside a cage to pick up a little ball of fur. He was very soft, very rambunctious, and quite adorable. Thankfully, I have a very tolerant room mate. Now Shuppi has a new friend.

Cenk (pronounced Jenk and means Warrior) is a slightly nervous bunny. He doesn't care much to be held, and he will only tolerate a short hypnotism. Although he is younger than Shuppi, he's surpassed him in size. From the size of his back paws, I predict he will be significantly larger. Eventually, they will grow out of this cage and I'll have to think of a better housing solution. Additionally, they'll both have to be fixed to prevent aggressive and territorial behavior. So far, they get along quite well. They cuddle and groom each other. They sit in their little house side by side. It's so cute it's nauseating.

Shuppiluliuma

Recently, I went to the Spice Bazaar to buy basil seeds at the plant stores. It’s not necessary to venture to Eminönü to buy seeds, but I like the crowds and activity. Since I was near the animals, I decided to have a little bunny therapy. I have a weakness for them. Some people say rabbits don’t have personalities. Some people are very wrong. After watching me play with some pink-eyed, white ones, (I’m not a fan of pink eyes but they were easily accessible) the pet seller dragged me (oh that was tough) into his store. He handed me one little fur ball, then another. I became rather attached to a tiny gray one, about a month old, who sat calmly in my palm. I was tempted, but I have a housemate who has a dog. I sat with the bunny. I had a glass of tea. I made a quick phone call to my housemate to ask if it was alright to bring my new friend home. Twenty minutes later I was on the tram with a new cage, dwarf rabbit food, bedding, and a tiny box full of one tinier dwarf bunny.

Shuppiluliuma (Shuppi for short) is named after a Hittite king. He’s small, so he needs a big name. While he is tiny and growing, he’s very fast. Unfortunately, he’s not exactly stable on his feet. As soon as he gets up a good run and a twisting hop, he loses footing and slides a bit. Rabbits have a behavior that we call “prairie dogging.” They stand on their hind legs and look around at the world. Shuppi exhibits such behavior, but overestimates his abilities. At times, he overextends himself and falls over. Undaunted, he does laps around the apartment, exhibiting a knack for getting into places he shouldn’t. The dog is a bit jealous and very curious, but so far hasn’t done him any harm. Shuppi pays very little attention to her, much to her disappointment. His playtime is, of course, supervised to avoid any mishaps.

Currently, Shuppi’s favorite food is parsley. I’m afraid I may be overfeeding him as his belly has become quite round. I put a vase of greens near his cage. This morning, he had already eaten everything within reach. Raised on his back feet, he succeeded in biting a stem above his head, gave a good tug, and fell over backwards, a bit of parsley clenched firmly in his teeth.

I used to have rabbits when I lived in Philadelphia. Norman Murray Feldshu, a female, non-practicing, Jewish, mini lop lived in the kitchen. She died a few years ago at the ripe old age of seven. Pippo Spano, named after a painting by Andrea del Castagno (a pet’s got to have a good name) a rescued, gray, male, dwarf mix rabbit lived in the living room. He loved Norman. As soon as I let him out of the cage every night he would run to Norman’s cage and deposit little gifts for her. Both of them, frustrated by their unrequited love, made the most unnerving grunts. Pippo was fond of running up the stairs, jumping on the furniture, eating popcorn and my housemate’s Akkadian translations. Recently, I had been thinking about Pippo, who was adopted by friends a few years ago before I went to London. After I brought Shuppi home, I learned that Pippo had died the week before. He too died at the ripe old age of seven. He had a really good life.

A Package

I had an awful day at work. Woke up tired. Schedule mishaps all day and a chess tournament in my classroom when my students and I were supposed to be in it. The usual.
After work, I got on the bus, barely able to stand up. All the seats were taken and people were standing in the aisle. One man was sitting next to a seat on which rested a package covered in a plastic bag. I pointed at the package and in my Tarzan Turkish, asked if I could have that seat. He sighed a heavy sigh, looked at me as if I had asked for his left kidney, then slowly and deliberately folded his paper, put it in his pocket and got up. I said, no, no not a problem. He bitterly insisted and guarded over his package from behind the seat. I was too tired to argue, and not capable of telling him to put the thing on his lap.
More people got on than off the bus. One after another, they asked me if they could have that seat. I said, in Turkish, "It's not mine." But whose is it? I pointed to the guy, who explained something. After four people in a row asked me, the whole front of the bus got involved. But whose is it? I pointed, lots of I don't understands followed from both sides, followed by a series of "t-t-t-t" and why don't you sit down and put the package on your lap? I didn't understand his replies. Finally the man, who I noticed smelled like stale fryer grease, picked up and stood with his package in a huff. Three stops later, he got off the bus. All eyes followed him, there was much giggling as the conversation continued almost until my stop. One woman jokingly gestured that she was going to give her water bottle its own seat when one became available. Laughter all around.

I wish I understood what they were saying.

Herons

There are several signs that spring is arriving soon. (Granted, we haven't had a true winter. Despite my pointed requests to the powers that be, there was no snow, and therefore no anticipated days off of school.) One of my favorite spring signs is the nesting herons in Gulhane Park near Topkapi Palace. Last week, I heard a rumor that they had returned. On this fine sunshiney day, I confirmed the rumor.





When I was a kid, my parents used to pile the five of us kids in the pale urine colored Oldsmobile stationwagon with the Triple A sticker on the back to drive somewhere in the middle of nowhere to watch the herons nest. My mom would excitedly point to a place off in the distance, at the top of the trees. "See, they're right there!" Although I never actually saw them, I might lie and say that I had. I was bored as a kid in the back of a urine colored station wagon could be.





In contrast, when up close and personal, the Gulhane Park herons fascinate me. Some of the trees house as many as seven individual nests of older couples with larger ones, and the new home owners building from scratch. One couple was having a bit of trouble setting up home. A large twig, part of the foundation, transported from way over there fell slowly to the ground from a dizzying height. The herons are most beautiful when the wheel and float with their impressive wingspan fully spread, a tuft of black feathers upright on heads extended from long graceful necks. My own short and inflexible neck hurts from craning it to follow their flight.

(These photos were taken last year on a gray and rainy day.)

Balloons on the Bosphorus

I wrote this about a year ago. Recently, I haven’t had much time to walk on the Bosphorus, but have glimpses of the water every day as I walk down the hill to the bus stop.


My main source of exercise is walking on the Bosphorus, and about that I have no complaints. Usually, I take about an hour to walk from Emirgan to Bebek or farther, or Emirgan to Yenokoy. Granted, I dawdle. I have some kind of ADD that makes me gawk at jelly fish and trash swirling in the water, or shellfish packed in double layers on sea moss coated rocks. Lately, since the weather has been nicer, a few enterprising men have set up long strings of balloons on the water. They then sell hairy macho men the chance to shoot BB pellets at the balloons and show off to their girlfriends who either don't seem to care or giggle. The numbers of little old men pushing carts of packaged sunflower seeds and big round sugar wafers have increased.

Lately, my primary obsession is the birds on and around the water. There are, of course, your garden variety seagulls that sometimes swarm in frightening numbers in a Hitchcockian way. Once in a while, towards Istinye or Tarabiye, you might see a heron. One kind of bird, the name of which I don't know in English but which is called "karabatak" in Turkish, amuses me. They look like small, squat ducks with black heads and charcoal gray bodies. Their bills extend up between their eyes. Sometimes, a small group of them will take turns waddling then jumping off of a small raft-like thing, one by one almost hesitating, talking themselves into it, then plopping into the deep end and swimming off as if there's nothing to worry about.

From a distance, you can see city block long rows of some kind of bird, I don't know which, flying low, just skimming the surface of the water and flapping as if their little lives depended on it. The speed with which they cover the water is impressive. Sometimes, as a group they decide to rise above the water by about a meter and then, as a group, they decide it's not such a good idea and lower themselves back to the surface.

My absolute favorite bird is the cormorant. They settle on buoys and small boats. Sometimes they raise their wings and balance as if they've just applied a roll on deodorant and are waiting for it to dry before putting on a shirt. When they feed, they suddenly bend their necks and dive into the water. I like to silently count the seconds and try to anticipate when they'll come up, shaking little fish in their beaks. It's nicest when there's a handful or so of them. They dive one by one, and one by one reappear, swimming along at a good rate, the tuft of feathers at the top of their heads standing straight like a little aviary mohawk.

Last week, I saw some swans. All I could think of was the images of dead swans being stuffed into large plastic bags, or bulldozed into plastic lined pits by men wearing plague suits. And I hope against the inevitable bird flu that will migrate here and possibly lead to the deaths of "my" birds.

Me in the middle of the housekeeping staff.

Tired of shoveling snow, the staff puts on a "folklore" performance.

The girl in the middle followed me and insisted I take a picture. She called the little guy with the necklace over for the photo. He proudly and self-consciously strutted with his pearls bobbing on his chest.

Balance.

Trees and snow.

Alex on the ledge.

Cats on the terrace.

This is my "castle."

From the Museum Hotel terrace.

The Princess Diary Part 1

I'm finishing my coffee in the restaurant. It's snowing hard and the view of the valleys below is obscured. There is a fire in the coal-burning stove and a little Spaniel named Cipsi (Gypsy) is gently begging for food. Alex, the Uzbeki shepherd dog, is wandering around outside. Sometimes, he walks slowly across the window ledge and looks at the few diners through the window at eye level. Since he's about as big as I am, the sight is both startling and funny.

For the past week, I've been at the Museum Hotel in Uchisar, (Cappadocia) and will stay for another week. Most of the time I've been the only guest. Normally, I wouldn't be able to afford such a posh vacation, however, I am a privileged guest. In exchange for English lessons, I receive room and board as well as a round trip ticket from Istanbul. I think I got the better part of that exchange.

My room, called Castle, is in one of the many caves here. Although the caves can be damp and cold, mine is quite comfortable with rugs and kilims on the floor, antiques tucked here and there, and textiles on the walls. There is a small seating area with low couches in front of a window overlooking "fairy chimneys" below. There's even a jaccuzi in the tub. I'm a princess in my Castle. Inside and outside the hotel are antiques that the owner has collected over several decades. My favorites are weather worn pieces of wood, shaped almost like small doors, in which there are rows of many vertical incisions. Stuck in the incisions are flint stones or thin pieces of metal. I learned that these were used as threshers. They were tied to horses, a man would stand on them, and the horses would walk over the harvested wheat in a circle. There's one outside an antique shop that's always closed, and another lying on top of an old bed spring in a cave full of junk. If I could just figure out how to get it back to Istanbul...

In the morning, I go to breakfast in the restaurant. Afife greets me, "Good morning Hocam" (My teacher). Everyone calls me Hocam and I like it. I stop in the kitchen to say hello to Mustafa, bronze medalist in a major international chef's competition. We flirt exaggeratedly, batting our eyelashes at each other. Sherife Anna (everyone calls her Anne or Mom) lets me poke my nose in the huge pots of simmering soups and desserts. She's short and round and wears printed pants with a low seat that almost hits the floor. One day, I complimented her oya, a complicated kind of crochet/ needlework on her scarf. The next day, she presented me with a very fancy one with blue beads. I kissed her on both cheeks and made her wrap it around my head. Five minutes later, Nesrin from the housekeeping staff presented me with one she made. This too was wrapped around my head after cheek kisses. Yashar, not to be outdone, handed me a glass of orange juice. “A gift for you.” He too got his cheeks kissed. When I met the hotel owner in the restaurant, he asked if I was becoming a Turkish woman.

Today, Sherife Anna made baklava. I got to try the first piece, slightly warm. In fact, the kitchen staff thinks it's funny to keep feeding me. Apparently, Turkish men like their women full-figured. "Try this Hocam, it is a traditional dessert." I really like Koftur, made of flour and grape syrup dried in the sun. Later, it is cut into small pieces and fried with butter and a little egg, then sprinkled with crushed walnuts. I'm going to return to Istanbul fat and spoiled.

After breakfast, I sometimes take a walk, either with the owner and his dogs, or by myself. I might walk up the hill to the village where I made friends with a man who runs a tourist shop. Since it's winter and there are few tourists, he sat with me and drank tea. I'm going to float back to Istanbul if I keep drinking tea at this pace. He's a tour guide as well and explained the plans of the rock cut churches in the books he sells, one of which he wrote with a friend. He told me about how life has changed here since he was a child, before everyone had electricity and television. At night, their "television" was the grandma who told stories about love, mythology, history and legend to the children. The women worked together to weave rugs for the next bride. Everyone lived in a house with at least one cave where they kept animals and stored food. Each family had sheep and a cow. Every day, two shepherds would collect all the sheep, and another the cows, and take them for the day. In the evening, the animals would be brought back to their owners. There are still a few sheep here. Twice I've seen them return up the hill, across from the hotel and up into the village. Today a camel which is available for rides near the roadside tourist shops made the same route. There is an old camel saddle in one of the abandoned caves behind the 1001 Nights restaurant and hotel. I explored some of the caves the other day, some of which were occupied as recently as the 1960's. Some are still occupied, but a bit in secret I think. On Monday, we saw one in the valley with a round metal chimney sticking out the side. Its metal door used to be the cafe sign for the Museum Hotel. The hotel owner was not happy, though it did make a fine looking door.

The other day I took the bus to Göreme, a nearby town, and walked the kilometer to the Göreme Open Air Museum. The site was a monastery in which there are many rock cut churches with frescoes dating from the 11th to 13th centuries. I tried to stay ahead of the few busloads of French, Japanese and Korean tourists to look at paintings of the life of Christ, saints and angels, and to study the architectural forms in peace. A Japanese tour guide said something to me when I entered the church where he was guiding a tour. I have no idea what he said, but it was unfriendly enough that I made a hasty retreat. The French tourists spent their time complaining, "Oh the lights aren't very good, oh this is too small, oh it's too cold." The ticket seller at the Dark Church was making onion salad and invited me to eat with him. It was a very nice invitation that I politely declined. Sorry, I have to give a lesson soon. The man guarding the Buckle Church, which has the oldest paintings in the museum, kindly showed me where the old and "new" parts of the church were. He invited me to tea and let me sit next to the stove in his tiny room the size of an outhouse. He proudly served me instant coffee, prepackaged with creamer and hazelnut flavor, in a plastic cup that I'm sure someone else used before me.

In the afternoons, I give lessons to the reception staff. "I'm sorry, but O -Bey is not here at the moment." Then, the restaurant staff. Never say "Do you want..." but "What would you like..." instead. "May I" instead of "Can I." Later, the housekeeping staff. These are my only students who have specifically asked me to teach them grammar. All of us laugh a lot, and they tell me not to leave. I think they also like me as a diversion, something new and something that isn't another room to clean or a table cloth to iron. It will be difficult to leave.

Later in the evening, I go to reception again for a private lesson with Mehmet. He's 22, has big brown eyes and says "Oh thank you so much" often. He's taught me a few regional expressions that make the others laugh. Mehmet grew up in the buildings that are now the reception and the standard rooms. The restaurant used to be his father's souvenir shop. If there is no one else in the hotel, we move to the office where there is a small stove and a pool table. The dogs come to sleep next to the fire.

It's still snowing. That's good, because if there's no snow now, there's no water in the spring and summer.

The Princess Diary: The Fairy Tale is Over

The fairy tale ends tomorrow. Sigh. I feel as if I’ve been here longer than two weeks and that I’ve been sleeping in the same comfortable bed in a room with an amazing view for a quite some time. Istanbul is far away in more ways than one.

I’m going to have to trade my breakfasts of cheeses, olives, honeycomb, halva, Şerife Anna’s home made yoghurt, freshly baked bread, and freshly squeezed orange juice, with my back to the stove, and cats peering in the window in front of a panoramic view of the sculpted and snow covered Goreme Valley, Red Valley, Avanos Valley, Love Valley and Mount Erciyes for a quick simit and cheese at my desk. I won’t get to sample fresh baklava, traditional Cappadocian desserts and gourmet meals. Instead of following the sheep trail through knee-deep snow to look at caves and fairy chimneys, and possibly annoying the elderly, nearly toothless shepherd, I’ll be walking down Serencebey Yokuşu to the bus stop. (I think the shepherd realized I’m harmless when I patiently waited for him to let the sheep out of their cave stable and didn’t scatter them by accident.) No more sitting in the warm office with the dogs, Ihsan who roasts chestnuts on the stove and tries to teach me how to shoot pool Turkish style. No more wandering around Uchisar village, making friends with random dogs and throwing snowballs with mischievous boys, or drinking tea with my new friend in the tourist shop. It’s back to Shakespeare and grammar. And no one is going to wait on me hand and foot or make my bed with clean sheets every day. Again, sigh.

Once, at a friend’s birthday celebration in Sardinia, I learned a funny saying. When someone receives a lot of gifts, her friends might say “You’ve got a big ass.” It’s a compliment, but also an expression of slight envy. Here in Cappadocia, my ass is huge. In addition to the oyas, the staff has presented me with hand-knit hats and scarves, many hugs and kind words. Add those to the presents I’ve bought for myself… The other day, rug dealer in Goreme offered me a summer job selling carpets because, as he says, I’m “clever and have an artist’s eye.” This of course may have been a ruse to get me to buy a rug.

Tomorrow morning, I’m supposed to wake up very early to watch the sunset while hiking with the dogs. We’ll see how motivated I am at 5:30.

Now I better get packing.

There is a book about 1000 things you should do before you die. Forget the book. In my humble opinion, this is one of those things everyone should do: take a balloon ride in Cappadocia.

Just in case you're not convinced.