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.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
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.
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.)
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, March 9, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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