I sat in the perfect seat on the bus. The Bosphorus was directly in front of me, the full and hazy moon shone just off to the left. It’s best to ride the bus at night, when ugly buildings are obscured by darkness and points of light reflect off the water.
An elderly lady got on the bus at Beşiktaş. A young man kindly gave her his seat just next to the door before she would have ricocheted from one side of the bus to the other as the driver accelerated. She was short and round. She wore the usual nondescript clothing, but the scarf lightly wrapped around hair was playfully patterned. I have never seen a face so wrinkled, like a topographical map of a mountainous region. At one time, she must have had the most sparkling, twinkling, clear blue eyes, but now they looked as if they were coated with a thin film of melted Vaseline. In one hand, she held a bright red, promotional balloon on a white stick. She was very pleased about something, maybe the lights on the Bosphorus, maybe with some secret thought, maybe with the balloon. Whatever the reason, she smiled continuously and spoke animatedly to the driver. I stared at her, forgetting that it’s rude, and smiled myself.
As she got off the bus, I imagined her skipping down the sidewalk.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Dropped from the Sky
As I was turning a corner outside the Spice Market today, I heard two women asking a salesman about leeches. You can buy them from a number of large water bottles around the market. The women checked their phrase books and notes while speaking to the leech seller, but spoke to each other in French. Well, a) I’m kind of fascinated by the leeches, and b) I’m kind of a whore when it comes to speaking French. By that I mean, I’ll speak it when and where I can and will often insinuate myself into a conversation if I can find a way in. I’ve given many directions and much advice on trams and on the street. Since these women weren’t getting the leech information for which they were asking, but were clearly having a good giggle, I did indeed insinuate myself into their conversation.
According to the leech man, the blood suckers don’t eat anything. Water is sufficient. Frankly, I’m sure they must eat something, but suspect they aren’t fed once up for sale. We talked about how they’re good for migraines, how they swell when applied to the skin, and speculated on what to do with them once they have been used. Apparently, one just gets rid of them. They don't make the best of pets.
The conversation continued. Did I know if French schools here hire French nationals? How would one’s sister go about applying? How long have I lived here, has my behavior changed since moving here, have I notice that some women refuse to speak when asked for information? (Yes, apply over the internet, 4 years, yes but in subtle ways I don’t notice until I go back to the States, no.) The women’s traveling companions joined us. Did I know of a change bureau? They were out of lira but didn’t want to change more than a small amount just to get back to the hotel before heading to the airport.
I accompanied them to buy Turkish Delight (I really dislike the texture but don't refuse it when offered it on holidays). The traveling companions were a bit nervous about getting back to the hotel on time because they hadn’t been abroad before, but I didn’t detect any impatience from the first two women. Between the market and the train, we had a short but rich conversation about vegetarianism, their very moving visit to the mosque in Ëyüp, karma, happiness, humbleness, and how we really just appreciate a good tagine. In the underground passage leading to the tram stop, I helped one of the nervous women buy a battery operated, dancing zebra doll. I always wondered who bought them. Now I know. With contact information exchanged, I brought them to the correct side of the tram station and used my newly topped up akbil (short for akıllı bilet, meaning “smart ticket,” a magnetic thing used on public transportation) as each of them pushed through the turnstile and onto the tram. No need to exchange 5 Euros to get back to a hotel.
According to the last woman to make her way to the tram, I was dropped from heaven into their path. I don’t know about that, but I had a fine 16 minutes with some people with whom I'd like to be friends. In French on top of that.
According to the leech man, the blood suckers don’t eat anything. Water is sufficient. Frankly, I’m sure they must eat something, but suspect they aren’t fed once up for sale. We talked about how they’re good for migraines, how they swell when applied to the skin, and speculated on what to do with them once they have been used. Apparently, one just gets rid of them. They don't make the best of pets.
The conversation continued. Did I know if French schools here hire French nationals? How would one’s sister go about applying? How long have I lived here, has my behavior changed since moving here, have I notice that some women refuse to speak when asked for information? (Yes, apply over the internet, 4 years, yes but in subtle ways I don’t notice until I go back to the States, no.) The women’s traveling companions joined us. Did I know of a change bureau? They were out of lira but didn’t want to change more than a small amount just to get back to the hotel before heading to the airport.
I accompanied them to buy Turkish Delight (I really dislike the texture but don't refuse it when offered it on holidays). The traveling companions were a bit nervous about getting back to the hotel on time because they hadn’t been abroad before, but I didn’t detect any impatience from the first two women. Between the market and the train, we had a short but rich conversation about vegetarianism, their very moving visit to the mosque in Ëyüp, karma, happiness, humbleness, and how we really just appreciate a good tagine. In the underground passage leading to the tram stop, I helped one of the nervous women buy a battery operated, dancing zebra doll. I always wondered who bought them. Now I know. With contact information exchanged, I brought them to the correct side of the tram station and used my newly topped up akbil (short for akıllı bilet, meaning “smart ticket,” a magnetic thing used on public transportation) as each of them pushed through the turnstile and onto the tram. No need to exchange 5 Euros to get back to a hotel.
According to the last woman to make her way to the tram, I was dropped from heaven into their path. I don’t know about that, but I had a fine 16 minutes with some people with whom I'd like to be friends. In French on top of that.
Observations
I just got back from my first Kurban. I won’t give you the details of the sacrifice as it might be disturbing, however, I will tell you what I thought about as I witnessed from the balcony. It felt a little like watching an opera from the box office.
First, I thought about what little I know about the Mithras cult and its rituals, of purification through bloodletting, and how dangerous, sticky, and smelly the process must have been, and how very manly those Roman warriors must have felt.
I thought about ritualized community bonding. Sacrificing a heifer is not a one man job. There is necessary cooperation and knowledge passed from one generation to another. Hold this, cut here, no like that, wait, slowly slowly, stop. Health to your hands.
I thought about wintertime wood cutting as a family, hauling and loading logs onto the truck, stacking them in the garage, chopping, then bringing them into the house. Don’t tell anyone, but I really liked hauling and stacking and chopping.
I thought about being an observer. Here in Turkey, I usually listen more than contribute to conversations, though I’m able to understand more and more, slowly slowly. I can often follow, but by the time I can throw in my two cents, the subject has already changed. Oddly, this role of observer is almost the same one I used to play during holidays at home, watching and listening to my own language, seldom if ever participating in the traditional, competitive and dreaded (by me) game of charades. Here, as there, I’m more comfortable being the observant outsider.
First, I thought about what little I know about the Mithras cult and its rituals, of purification through bloodletting, and how dangerous, sticky, and smelly the process must have been, and how very manly those Roman warriors must have felt.
I thought about ritualized community bonding. Sacrificing a heifer is not a one man job. There is necessary cooperation and knowledge passed from one generation to another. Hold this, cut here, no like that, wait, slowly slowly, stop. Health to your hands.
I thought about wintertime wood cutting as a family, hauling and loading logs onto the truck, stacking them in the garage, chopping, then bringing them into the house. Don’t tell anyone, but I really liked hauling and stacking and chopping.
I thought about being an observer. Here in Turkey, I usually listen more than contribute to conversations, though I’m able to understand more and more, slowly slowly. I can often follow, but by the time I can throw in my two cents, the subject has already changed. Oddly, this role of observer is almost the same one I used to play during holidays at home, watching and listening to my own language, seldom if ever participating in the traditional, competitive and dreaded (by me) game of charades. Here, as there, I’m more comfortable being the observant outsider.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Nostalgia
Once again, I’m in Cappadocia on a school holiday. This Friday is the first day of Kurban Bayramı which commemorates the near sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham. On that day, I will for the first time witness the sacrifice of an animal, a calf I believe. The animal will then be cut up and distributed amongst the poor, family members, and friends. Such distribution falls within the tradition of charity promoted by Islam. Not for the faint of heart, it will probably also be the last time I witness such an event, yet I am curious about it.
In the meantime, I visit friends and acquaintances, walk in valleys where I’m prone to stealing crisp apples (no one else seems to be picking them in forgotten orchards), revisit favorite places and look for wooden tools and boxes in antique stores. Recently, I found an old knife sharpener fashioned from a forked tree branch, some nails and a cylindrical stone. Beautiful in its own rustic way, but too large (and probably too expensive) to carry home, I have to be satisfied with a photo of it.
I love one small street in Uçhisar in particular. Its houses are ramshackle, and there is always some kind of activity in front of them, usually related to food preparation. On any given day, a shalwar wearing woman might be making pekmez, often called grape molasses, in a huge circular pan set over a smoldering fire. Another might be opening walnuts with a knife, or emptying pumpkin-like vegetables for their seeds. Chickens and goats vie for the leftovers, clambering over a shallow pile of manure waiting to be brought to a field. Sometimes, a cow makes itself heard from behind a door. In the autumn, both men and women patiently chop wood with short-handled axes, seated on low chairs or tree stumps next to piled twigs. There is no natural gas heating in Uçhisar, so many people heat their houses with a ceramic stove fueled by coal and or fire. These stoves generate great but very localized heat. I’m reminded of how much time and energy the process of living and feeding can take.
The other day I went to Ortahisar to look at the “castle” and the antique stores around it. As I was walking through a very narrow street, probably gawking at houses, I heard a merhaba (hello) behind me. An elderly gentleman named Hasan led me through a grapevine surmounted door to his home. At one time, the stone house must have been quite magnificent, with an inner but small open area, stairs and doors leading to various rooms. Now, it is a cluttered shithole with piles of potatoes in corners, apples in crates, dusty jars of pickles on shelves, and all manner of junk jumbled in piles on the windowsills. It’s as if nothing can be thrown away just in case it might by some miracle work again or prove of value to some unnamed someone. While his wife, Cahide, made tea, Hasan showed me his three sheep in an adjoining building. I drank enough tea to float to the dolmuş stop. I was fed more than acceptable grapes from the vine, and questionable apricots and apples in homemade pekmez. Cahide ceremoniously pulled a stack of scarves with oya trim out of a bag and “convinced” me that a gold-sequined one would look wonderful on me. Although I have stacks of oya trimmed scarves at home, I purchased one from her at a slightly inflated price. I’m prone to making such pity purchases and she knows how to work a customer. Cahide showed me one room in the house, her very small bed and sitting-room, the arched ceiling and walls thick with white paint and the atmosphere equally thick with an accumulated odor. Maybe Cahide and Hasan accost every foreigner wandering behind the castle, and maybe those wanderers also make pity purchases, I don’t know.
I’m still awed by stone houses with their vaulted rooms. Abandoned houses on the hillside are often marked by crumbling foundations and a standing arch supporting air instead of walls. I like to explore the interiors of extant houses, testing wood floors before putting my full weight on them, and venturing into their littered cave rooms. Some have simple but beautifully carved fireplaces and blackened walls. I wonder what it was like to live inside them, how they would have looked covered in textiles, how they might have smelled like fresh bread, stew, people and animals. Currently, there is much restoration in the old village of Uçhisar. Caves are being emptied of trash, and ruins are being cleaned before rebuilding begins. Part of me welcomes such restoration because it means the architecture is appreciated and jobs are created. Another part of me prefers the ruins, the disorder and the possibility of discovery. Would this village be as attractive to me, all brand-spanking, newly restored? Is it possible to be nostalgic for something I never knew?
In the meantime, I visit friends and acquaintances, walk in valleys where I’m prone to stealing crisp apples (no one else seems to be picking them in forgotten orchards), revisit favorite places and look for wooden tools and boxes in antique stores. Recently, I found an old knife sharpener fashioned from a forked tree branch, some nails and a cylindrical stone. Beautiful in its own rustic way, but too large (and probably too expensive) to carry home, I have to be satisfied with a photo of it.
I love one small street in Uçhisar in particular. Its houses are ramshackle, and there is always some kind of activity in front of them, usually related to food preparation. On any given day, a shalwar wearing woman might be making pekmez, often called grape molasses, in a huge circular pan set over a smoldering fire. Another might be opening walnuts with a knife, or emptying pumpkin-like vegetables for their seeds. Chickens and goats vie for the leftovers, clambering over a shallow pile of manure waiting to be brought to a field. Sometimes, a cow makes itself heard from behind a door. In the autumn, both men and women patiently chop wood with short-handled axes, seated on low chairs or tree stumps next to piled twigs. There is no natural gas heating in Uçhisar, so many people heat their houses with a ceramic stove fueled by coal and or fire. These stoves generate great but very localized heat. I’m reminded of how much time and energy the process of living and feeding can take.
The other day I went to Ortahisar to look at the “castle” and the antique stores around it. As I was walking through a very narrow street, probably gawking at houses, I heard a merhaba (hello) behind me. An elderly gentleman named Hasan led me through a grapevine surmounted door to his home. At one time, the stone house must have been quite magnificent, with an inner but small open area, stairs and doors leading to various rooms. Now, it is a cluttered shithole with piles of potatoes in corners, apples in crates, dusty jars of pickles on shelves, and all manner of junk jumbled in piles on the windowsills. It’s as if nothing can be thrown away just in case it might by some miracle work again or prove of value to some unnamed someone. While his wife, Cahide, made tea, Hasan showed me his three sheep in an adjoining building. I drank enough tea to float to the dolmuş stop. I was fed more than acceptable grapes from the vine, and questionable apricots and apples in homemade pekmez. Cahide ceremoniously pulled a stack of scarves with oya trim out of a bag and “convinced” me that a gold-sequined one would look wonderful on me. Although I have stacks of oya trimmed scarves at home, I purchased one from her at a slightly inflated price. I’m prone to making such pity purchases and she knows how to work a customer. Cahide showed me one room in the house, her very small bed and sitting-room, the arched ceiling and walls thick with white paint and the atmosphere equally thick with an accumulated odor. Maybe Cahide and Hasan accost every foreigner wandering behind the castle, and maybe those wanderers also make pity purchases, I don’t know.
I’m still awed by stone houses with their vaulted rooms. Abandoned houses on the hillside are often marked by crumbling foundations and a standing arch supporting air instead of walls. I like to explore the interiors of extant houses, testing wood floors before putting my full weight on them, and venturing into their littered cave rooms. Some have simple but beautifully carved fireplaces and blackened walls. I wonder what it was like to live inside them, how they would have looked covered in textiles, how they might have smelled like fresh bread, stew, people and animals. Currently, there is much restoration in the old village of Uçhisar. Caves are being emptied of trash, and ruins are being cleaned before rebuilding begins. Part of me welcomes such restoration because it means the architecture is appreciated and jobs are created. Another part of me prefers the ruins, the disorder and the possibility of discovery. Would this village be as attractive to me, all brand-spanking, newly restored? Is it possible to be nostalgic for something I never knew?
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Chicken Report Part 2
I received the following message from B the other day:
one of the chicken hatched and if ı can find a photo ı will atach it with the e-mail(his name is çiki and he is 2 days old)
According to the vet, "çiki" (pronounced "cheeky") is a rooster. According to B, (see previous installment) he's very noisy. He will be paying a visit to our English lesson tomorrow.
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Chicken Report
While writing a letter about himself to me, one of my 6th graders asked an interesting question. He wanted to know the word for “when birds come out of their eggs”. Although I had no idea how or why the word “hatch” had any relevance to the assignment at hand, I wrote it on the board for him.
The following day, while marking the letters, I learned that B likes technology, inventing machines, and “hatch chicken eggs” because it “helps” him. Curious. He didn’t, however, tell me how it helped him in that or the following letter draft.
Intrigued, I caught B in the corridor. I told him that he’s a very interesting person, and wanted to know exactly how hatching chicken eggs is helpful to him. B is a little thing with an impish grin. He first looked at me as if I have eight heads, and then he shot me a broad smile.
“It helps me with technology.”
“How many do you have?”
“Two.”
“What do you do with them?”
“We’re going to put them in a cage.”
He looked at me as if I had sprouted a ninth head when I told him I wanted to see pictures.
Later that day, B caught me before the lesson, still grinning.
“Miss Rebecca, what day do you want to see?”
“Day? How many are there?”
“7.”
“OK, I want to see 7 pictures.”
When his printer was fixed, he proudly brought me a picture of an egg incubator, a domed contraption with two eggs in it. He explained that he doesn’t have to turn the eggs because the machine does it by itself. Clearly it was the 6th day as indicated by the number in the corner. No need to see the others because I’m sure they’re almost identical.
Every day, B gives me a new report. His sister is going to film the chickens when they hatch. Well, she can only film them if they hatch in the morning. They’re going to hatch on either Saturday or Sunday. She’s going to bring them to school.
Clearly, B and I have bonded over the chicken report. I’m not sure what we’ll talk about after the chicks have hatched and turned into ugly adolescent birds. We’ve got a while to think of something.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Burning Bridges
Even as a kid, I was aware of my over-sensitivity. I held people to unrealistic standards which, unfortunately, they often couldn't meet, (could I? I don't know.) resulting in my great disappointment. For example, when I was in early primary school, I can't remember exactly how old I was, Francisco visited Bloomer with family members from Venezuela. I loved him. Of course, anyone from another country who could speak another language was an exotic human being in my book. I loved him because he was an adult who actually paid attention to me, to us kids. We were special to him, and I especially appreciated it as the middle child lost amongst many. We weren't shooed out from under his feet in the kitchen. He actually listened to what we had to say and played a mean game of King of the Hill.
One day I stopped talking to Francisco altogether. We were going on one of our family day trips to somewhere in the car. While I enjoyed these trips, I always hated the pre-trip tension, the I-can't-find-my-shoes, do-you-have-the-fill in the blank... On this day, I couldn't find the pair of shorts I was supposed to wear. In a panic, I grabbed someone else's elastic waist-banded ones from the clean laundry basket, not realising they were my brother's, and somehow managed to pull them on backwards. When Mom informed me of both, Francisco laughed. He could have been responding to something else, but I was certain he was laughing at me. My buddy Francisco laughed at me. I was so hurt and disappointed that I never spoke to him again until he eventually asked me, down at my level, directly in my eyes, why I was ignoring him. I squirmed, and couldn't answer. I don't think I had the words, and I certainly didn't know how to deal with my hurt pride and embarrassment. At the same time, I think I was kind of ashamed because good little Catholic girls are supposed to be forgiving and forgetting.
Apparently, I am now an adult, though I sometimes have my doubts about that. I’m still too sensitive. Friends tell me not to be bothered by things I can’t change, yet I remain bothered when I think people are being mistreated. Unlike my younger self, however, I can at least distinguish if the mistreatment is intentional, or at least done by someone who should know better. And sometimes I still burn bridges, though now I have language to express my anger and disappointment.
There is a bridge I want to burn. The bridge I want to burn is attached to an institution, not one person, but then again, institutions are made of people. I don’t appreciate liars. I don’t appreciate the misogynist boss who makes inappropriate jokes, who revels in the humiliation and discomfort of others, knowing that his underlings cannot speak out for fear of losing their jobs. I have no respect for the immediate superior who feigns innocence when confronted with a, to her, difficult question, who ties my hands and forces me to be a page-turner rather than a teacher. I have less respect for an institution that plays loose with labor laws, who treats its employees with disrespect, unprofessionalism and an utter lack of compassion, a group that allegedly promotes education while fixing the grades of its “best” students for the sake of appearance, thus undermining its teachers and those students who are not the "best." An institution that sees fit to wait until the last day of classes to clear out its foreign language department by firing teachers who were still hard at work when they got the call to the principal’s office. Although it is still possible for native speakers to find decent jobs for the fall, it is nearly impossible for the Turkish ones to do so.
I want to burn this bridge and scatter its ashes. I want to scald the ground on which the bridge was built, make it unliveable, destroy all its plants to their roots and curse it a thousand times.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Stuff I Made
Today I went to the Pera Museum to see the exhibition Masterpieces of World Ceramics from the Victoria and Albert Museum. The V&A is one of my favorite museums. I often consider going back to London just to visit it and the British Museum. I often find ceramics to be equally, though differently, as moving as paintings or sculptures. They’re tactile. I’m drawn to simple, rough pieces that have no interest in hiding their dirtness, pieces with earthy glazes and odd or even sophisticated shapes. When I’m in the Louvre, I usually skip the painting rooms (too much drama, too much flesh) and head to the ancient Near Eastern archaeology sections. Today, I probably embarrassed myself by doing more than one little happy dance before more than one exhibition case.
I know I really like a piece of art or craft when it makes me want to paint or make something, and I’ve wanted to paint or make since this afternoon. Although I spend large portions of my free time making silver and semi-precious stone jewelry, I miss getting my hands dirty. I miss the texture and mass of wet clay, rolling a flat piece in the slab roller, stamping and incising, coiling and joining, cutting tiles, not to mention obsessive compulsive glazing. I miss flipping open my idea book, taking stamps and needle tools out of my art box. Since I don’t have available studio space, I’m going to pat myself on the back and show you pictures of things I made a few years ago, inspired by pieces in museums and pictures from the archaeology section of the Bryn Mawr College library. The actual things are in shoeboxes, stored in a friend’s attic, waiting for me to figure out how to get them to Turkey without breaking them.
I call this group the cavalry.
This is my version of a Boetian bell idol. Her legs are clappers. She makes a pleasant, musical little sound when shook. She sounds nothing like she looks.
These are my little boat people. This is my least favorite of my versions of the subject, but the only one of which I have a picture. My favorite one is on loan (probably permanent) to an archaeologist friend. It would be nearly impossible to get it acrosss the ocean without mishap unless I called on the V&A packing crew.
I am most attached to this one. He's an abbreviated version of an ancient one with four horses. His little hat is separate and has holes in it for string intended to attach to his head. His hands and the horses muzzles have holes for reins, though I never got around to putting the string through the holes. I never got around to fixing the axles with string either.
I call him Ben Hur. I didn't quite understand how to structure the chariot to hook up to the cart correctly. Next time.
I don't think of myself as an artist. Instead, I'm more of an amateur. It seems to me that many real artists and craftspeople don't get emotionally attached to what they produce, maybe because they produce so much, or accept that what they make will (hopefully) leave their hands for someone else's. I'm highly attached to my little guys, even if I can't get at them.
I know I really like a piece of art or craft when it makes me want to paint or make something, and I’ve wanted to paint or make since this afternoon. Although I spend large portions of my free time making silver and semi-precious stone jewelry, I miss getting my hands dirty. I miss the texture and mass of wet clay, rolling a flat piece in the slab roller, stamping and incising, coiling and joining, cutting tiles, not to mention obsessive compulsive glazing. I miss flipping open my idea book, taking stamps and needle tools out of my art box. Since I don’t have available studio space, I’m going to pat myself on the back and show you pictures of things I made a few years ago, inspired by pieces in museums and pictures from the archaeology section of the Bryn Mawr College library. The actual things are in shoeboxes, stored in a friend’s attic, waiting for me to figure out how to get them to Turkey without breaking them.
I call this group the cavalry.
This is my version of a Boetian bell idol. Her legs are clappers. She makes a pleasant, musical little sound when shook. She sounds nothing like she looks.
These are my little boat people. This is my least favorite of my versions of the subject, but the only one of which I have a picture. My favorite one is on loan (probably permanent) to an archaeologist friend. It would be nearly impossible to get it acrosss the ocean without mishap unless I called on the V&A packing crew.
I am most attached to this one. He's an abbreviated version of an ancient one with four horses. His little hat is separate and has holes in it for string intended to attach to his head. His hands and the horses muzzles have holes for reins, though I never got around to putting the string through the holes. I never got around to fixing the axles with string either.
I call him Ben Hur. I didn't quite understand how to structure the chariot to hook up to the cart correctly. Next time.I don't think of myself as an artist. Instead, I'm more of an amateur. It seems to me that many real artists and craftspeople don't get emotionally attached to what they produce, maybe because they produce so much, or accept that what they make will (hopefully) leave their hands for someone else's. I'm highly attached to my little guys, even if I can't get at them.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Wisteria Lanes
Spring has gone, flowers have been replaced by summer fruits. In either season, my neighborhood is a colorful one. These are some of the flowers that are gone.
I walk up this street every workday morning to the bus station. The doorman at the apartment building just beyond the bend is forever sweeping and clipping.
Like thickly clustered, fragrant grapes, wisteria creep up and cascade down the wall below the blue house. A sign says "Beware of the dog." I've never seen the dog.
Along the Bosphorus, the hills are covered with Judas trees. I don't know whom they betrayed. New leaf greens and reds stand out against evergreens and trees not yet awakened.
I walk up this street every workday morning to the bus station. The doorman at the apartment building just beyond the bend is forever sweeping and clipping.
Like thickly clustered, fragrant grapes, wisteria creep up and cascade down the wall below the blue house. A sign says "Beware of the dog." I've never seen the dog.
Along the Bosphorus, the hills are covered with Judas trees. I don't know whom they betrayed. New leaf greens and reds stand out against evergreens and trees not yet awakened.Privacy Interrupted
Recently, as I was watching the cats play in the trees outside my kitchen window, I caught a movement on a neighbor’s balcony out of the corner of my eye. I had never noticed anyone on that balcony before. An elderly woman in a long printed skirt, nondescript sweater and dark headscarf sat down on a chair. She had the deep-set, darkly rimmed eyes and etched wrinkles of a dried apple doll. Although I felt guilty for watching her, I couldn’t help myself. She leaned her head forward and covered her face with weather worn, swollen hands. She sighed. She looked up then down, then covered her eyes in a gesture that could have been despair. She sighed again. After five minutes, she stood and slowly entered the apartment.
I wondered what her story is, with whom she lives, whether she suffers or is in good health. I thought about the stories she could tell and hoped that someone takes the time to listen to them.
I wondered what her story is, with whom she lives, whether she suffers or is in good health. I thought about the stories she could tell and hoped that someone takes the time to listen to them.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Decisions, Decisions
It is once again Sunday, sunny and hot. Normally I clean on Sundays, with or without the aforementioned Attention Deficit Housecleaning Disorder. This fine day, I’m not frantically moving from mess to mess, but slowly shifting and organizing. I shift and reorganize far too often, never quite finishing, fully aware that doing so is a reaction to no small amount of displeasure at being unsettled, of unhappiness with the immediate surroundings of my room, of not living in that ambiguous picture of my perfect space but instead amidst strangely arranged but wonderful objects collected between here and there. Enough.
At the root of this disorganization is, I think, an unsettling feeling of always being in transition, not quite where I want to be personally and professionally. Enough.
I used to think that at about the age of 27, life would automatically be sorted. Career, home, marriage, kids… I also used to be disappointed that random people don’t actually break out in song as they do in television commercials. OK, maybe I’m still a little disappointed in the lack of spontaneous singing and dancing, which may be the reason why I do both while walking the hallowed halls of school.
Recently, I made a career decision, one that will hopefully ground me in other areas of my life. I had hoped to go back to teaching at a university, English instead of art history, either preparatory or academic writing courses. Get a little critical thinking back into my teaching, sink my teeth into something meatier than the ridiculous and soulless ESL books we force on kids who hate them. Such a switch might or might not have involved moving house once again, possibly to Ankara, and possibly to my own place. Without a signed contract, I can’t make decisions about where to live or even what to do for the summer.
To make a long story short, I am going to sign a contract next week to teach middle school English at a bit of a distance from where I live. There is a service bus for teachers that will pick me up near the bus stop and drop me off at school. I will stay in my apartment. It’s not an ideal space, but I love my neighborhood. Because I will take a cut in pay, I can’t afford to live by myself, especially not in Rumeli Hisarı. Although I’m very happy to live alone, I’m also quite happy with my current housemate. So we can’t have the beautiful furniture I would love to have because the cats sharpen their claws on the chair and couch. We have, however, decided to make the improvements we can, to paint the walls and get the kitchen in more practical working order and somehow insulate the rooms better so they’re not quite so clammy in the winter. Eventually, I will have my own space, but for now, I’m fine with sharing.
What is most sobering is accepting that I will continue to teach adolescents instead of university age, young adults. An acquaintance who taught at one of the private universities made me aware of the reality of teaching prep courses. Often, those students in prep are spoiled rich kids who have studied English for at least 8 years but can't pass a proficiency exam. They can be very difficult to teach.
My decision to sign was influenced by several factors. First, unlike at my current place of employment, there is a curriculum. I will be able to teach literature, real books, unwatered down by editors who suck all meaning out of a text. I will be the only teacher for my students. Most importantly, the teachers whom I met are happy with their work (staying in one school for 5 and 8 years is telling) and by their honesty. So the administration doesn’t really take great care of their foreign teachers, at least I know this up front. In other words, they weren’t blowing any smoke up my backside. I appreciate that much more than the empty promises and superficially warm greetings I have received. Hopefully, with this new job I can begin with a clean slate and a more accepting attitude towards ridiculous decisions I did not make and cannot unmake.
Enough. I’m going back to shifting and organizing. Hopefully, I will actually finish.
At the root of this disorganization is, I think, an unsettling feeling of always being in transition, not quite where I want to be personally and professionally. Enough.
I used to think that at about the age of 27, life would automatically be sorted. Career, home, marriage, kids… I also used to be disappointed that random people don’t actually break out in song as they do in television commercials. OK, maybe I’m still a little disappointed in the lack of spontaneous singing and dancing, which may be the reason why I do both while walking the hallowed halls of school.
Recently, I made a career decision, one that will hopefully ground me in other areas of my life. I had hoped to go back to teaching at a university, English instead of art history, either preparatory or academic writing courses. Get a little critical thinking back into my teaching, sink my teeth into something meatier than the ridiculous and soulless ESL books we force on kids who hate them. Such a switch might or might not have involved moving house once again, possibly to Ankara, and possibly to my own place. Without a signed contract, I can’t make decisions about where to live or even what to do for the summer.
To make a long story short, I am going to sign a contract next week to teach middle school English at a bit of a distance from where I live. There is a service bus for teachers that will pick me up near the bus stop and drop me off at school. I will stay in my apartment. It’s not an ideal space, but I love my neighborhood. Because I will take a cut in pay, I can’t afford to live by myself, especially not in Rumeli Hisarı. Although I’m very happy to live alone, I’m also quite happy with my current housemate. So we can’t have the beautiful furniture I would love to have because the cats sharpen their claws on the chair and couch. We have, however, decided to make the improvements we can, to paint the walls and get the kitchen in more practical working order and somehow insulate the rooms better so they’re not quite so clammy in the winter. Eventually, I will have my own space, but for now, I’m fine with sharing.
What is most sobering is accepting that I will continue to teach adolescents instead of university age, young adults. An acquaintance who taught at one of the private universities made me aware of the reality of teaching prep courses. Often, those students in prep are spoiled rich kids who have studied English for at least 8 years but can't pass a proficiency exam. They can be very difficult to teach.
My decision to sign was influenced by several factors. First, unlike at my current place of employment, there is a curriculum. I will be able to teach literature, real books, unwatered down by editors who suck all meaning out of a text. I will be the only teacher for my students. Most importantly, the teachers whom I met are happy with their work (staying in one school for 5 and 8 years is telling) and by their honesty. So the administration doesn’t really take great care of their foreign teachers, at least I know this up front. In other words, they weren’t blowing any smoke up my backside. I appreciate that much more than the empty promises and superficially warm greetings I have received. Hopefully, with this new job I can begin with a clean slate and a more accepting attitude towards ridiculous decisions I did not make and cannot unmake.
Enough. I’m going back to shifting and organizing. Hopefully, I will actually finish.
Bubble Burst
I think my most joyful moments are those with little significance. Ephemeral. Soon forgotten. Making faces at little kids on the bus. Singing the Friday song. (This song has only one word and means “Friday” in Turkish. It is sung, obviously, on Fridays.) Eating a Magnum ice cream bar while walking home without dropping a bit of chocolate coating on the ground.
My recent favorite moments have to do with soap bubbles, the ones that make my hands between sticky and slimy. I blow them on the sometimes empty playground and watch them, shiny and reflective, between the ugly concrete buildings. When there is a little wind, they are picked up and swirled in circles towards open windows and above the top floor. Surprisingly, the high school boys, who spend an inordinate amount of energy being cool, fight, almost giggling, to take the bubble bottle from my hands. The football (“soccer” no longer sounds right) playing 7th graders chase them. One very observant boy asked me why they’re different colors. They all think I’m a bit crazy, and that’s fine. I have a reputation as the nutty teacher with funny glasses who sings to herself and dances down the halls to uphold.
Last week, I blew bubbles all the way home. Random taxi drivers smiled and said something incomprehensible, macho boys, their shirts unbuttoned one too many, laughed. Some women looked at me disapprovingly. That too is fine, as I have provided them with a moment in which they can feel superior to another human being.
I like to watch as the bubbles get caught in the turbulence of passing cars. Some brave ones manage to cross the street and float in front of those who are indifferent. Some are much longer lasting than others, slowly fading in shininess, no longer oil-slickly reflecting, barely an outline between themselves and nothingness, until they disappear. I try to pinpoint that split-second between something and nothing, yet never succeed.
The other day, I saw that the lower primary kids were having a picnic on a small patch of grass, all gathered around their plates. I blew a stream of bubbles over their heads to their great amusement. Several jumped to their feet to chase and squeal. One of the teachers snapped pictures. I was pleased with myself. Shortly thereafter, a woman came up to me and verified my name. She told me she didn’t think what I was doing was a good idea. Just look at the teachers’ faces. And the kids had been sitting so nice and quietly. I had to respect her for approaching me. I don’t remember if I said anything, but quickly made my exit. I thought about it for probably too long, about how I would feel if I was a teacher in charge of the kids and a random school employee imposed herself on my picnic in such a way. I guess I understood. It took the wind out of my sails, and I didn’t blow any more bubbles that day.
My recent favorite moments have to do with soap bubbles, the ones that make my hands between sticky and slimy. I blow them on the sometimes empty playground and watch them, shiny and reflective, between the ugly concrete buildings. When there is a little wind, they are picked up and swirled in circles towards open windows and above the top floor. Surprisingly, the high school boys, who spend an inordinate amount of energy being cool, fight, almost giggling, to take the bubble bottle from my hands. The football (“soccer” no longer sounds right) playing 7th graders chase them. One very observant boy asked me why they’re different colors. They all think I’m a bit crazy, and that’s fine. I have a reputation as the nutty teacher with funny glasses who sings to herself and dances down the halls to uphold.
Last week, I blew bubbles all the way home. Random taxi drivers smiled and said something incomprehensible, macho boys, their shirts unbuttoned one too many, laughed. Some women looked at me disapprovingly. That too is fine, as I have provided them with a moment in which they can feel superior to another human being.
I like to watch as the bubbles get caught in the turbulence of passing cars. Some brave ones manage to cross the street and float in front of those who are indifferent. Some are much longer lasting than others, slowly fading in shininess, no longer oil-slickly reflecting, barely an outline between themselves and nothingness, until they disappear. I try to pinpoint that split-second between something and nothing, yet never succeed.
The other day, I saw that the lower primary kids were having a picnic on a small patch of grass, all gathered around their plates. I blew a stream of bubbles over their heads to their great amusement. Several jumped to their feet to chase and squeal. One of the teachers snapped pictures. I was pleased with myself. Shortly thereafter, a woman came up to me and verified my name. She told me she didn’t think what I was doing was a good idea. Just look at the teachers’ faces. And the kids had been sitting so nice and quietly. I had to respect her for approaching me. I don’t remember if I said anything, but quickly made my exit. I thought about it for probably too long, about how I would feel if I was a teacher in charge of the kids and a random school employee imposed herself on my picnic in such a way. I guess I understood. It took the wind out of my sails, and I didn’t blow any more bubbles that day.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Happiness: a definition
Recently, I became obsessed with buying a hammock, the kind with its own metal support. It’s easy to find those you can hang between trees, but you need trees sufficiently large and properly spaced to hang one. After several frustrating shopping trips, I found a rope hammock to my liking and a support for it. Unfortunately, one wasn’t made for the other. Thankfully, my housemate is more gifted than I at making do with what one has, and the hammock is now installed on the lower level of the small front garden, in a spot almost tailor made for it.
I like a good rope hammock, the kind that conforms itself to my form and the effects that gravity has on it, suspended, but not so low that my backside touches the ground and not so high that I have to do gymnastics to get myself in it. I like to lay almost still, hands behind my head, thinking of nothing and everything. For some reason, I can’t be anxious about the recent decisions I’ve made about my job, home, future… I look at my feet and am happy that I am still pleased with my tattoos. That’s a good thing because they’re going to be with me for a very long time. To my right, I can still see a sliver of the Bosphorus and between houses and trees, the moon as it rises. The plum tree sometimes drops a fruit. The neighbors’ dog might stop by for a short visit and a pat on the head, disappointed that there’s no game of fetch.
My happiness is marred by one thing. On the slope of the hill below the garden is one of the biggest fig trees I have ever seen. Countless figs are growing large and heavy on its many branches. Due to the steepness of the slope and the height of the tree branches, I will be able to reach very few of them; my definition of frustration.
I like a good rope hammock, the kind that conforms itself to my form and the effects that gravity has on it, suspended, but not so low that my backside touches the ground and not so high that I have to do gymnastics to get myself in it. I like to lay almost still, hands behind my head, thinking of nothing and everything. For some reason, I can’t be anxious about the recent decisions I’ve made about my job, home, future… I look at my feet and am happy that I am still pleased with my tattoos. That’s a good thing because they’re going to be with me for a very long time. To my right, I can still see a sliver of the Bosphorus and between houses and trees, the moon as it rises. The plum tree sometimes drops a fruit. The neighbors’ dog might stop by for a short visit and a pat on the head, disappointed that there’s no game of fetch.
My happiness is marred by one thing. On the slope of the hill below the garden is one of the biggest fig trees I have ever seen. Countless figs are growing large and heavy on its many branches. Due to the steepness of the slope and the height of the tree branches, I will be able to reach very few of them; my definition of frustration.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Do you know what this is?
One of the great advantages to living in Turkey is easily available, really good produce. Tomatoes taste like those grown in the backyard garden. Strawberries are deep red, fragrant and sweet. Seldom if ever does anything from the street market have the taste or texture of cardboard. There are, of course, new discoveries. Right now, green plums are in season. These are quite sour and require some getting used to. My current favorite is called "yeni dün" (“new world”) though the significance of the name escapes me. They look a bit like apricots and have three smooth pits. The tree in the front garden is loaded with them. You might find me under this tree wearing a broad grin and eating just to the point of nausea.
There is another kind of produce in season at the moment, though I’m not sure if it’s a fruit or vegetable. At first I thought it was a variety of asparagus with a horrific skin condition. The photos are actually flattering. Apparently, you peel back the outer layer and eat the center. If I understood correctly, they taste a bit like little green plums. I bought a bunch but couldn’t bring myself to eat them.If by chance you do know what it is, would you be so kind as to tell me?
There is another kind of produce in season at the moment, though I’m not sure if it’s a fruit or vegetable. At first I thought it was a variety of asparagus with a horrific skin condition. The photos are actually flattering. Apparently, you peel back the outer layer and eat the center. If I understood correctly, they taste a bit like little green plums. I bought a bunch but couldn’t bring myself to eat them.If by chance you do know what it is, would you be so kind as to tell me?
Attention Deficit Housecleaning[*]
I woke up restless at an ungodly early hour this morning. I did the dishes. For someone who doesn’t cook much, I generate mountains of them. The alarming number of ants scurrying to the compost bucket under the sink prompted hours of attention deficit housecleaning. I accept ants, but do not embrace them.
Attention deficit housecleaning is self-explanatory. In the middle of one mess, you notice another and proceed from hither to yon, kitchen gel with bleach in one hand, vacuum at the ready, potentially creating a greater mess in the process. I think it results from a scattered mind. Mine has been more than characteristically untidy lately.
It seems as if I’m always in search of a job. I’ve had the same one for two years now, but can no longer tolerate it. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, maybe I’m too idealistic in that I care about education over appearances, maybe, as a therapist once said, I have difficulty being an adult, maybe I need to accept that those in positions of power over me are, more often than not, idiots. Maybe. Maybe the problem lies with me, not others. Oh…. wait a minute. I’m only part of the mini-exodus of native English speakers from school. Whew. Still, there’s the matter of a job. And without a clear picture of what will happen in the fall, I can’t solidify plans for the summer. I do have options, I probably will sign a contract with another school if they would just send it to me already.
And another thing. I just finished proofreading a survey on architecture. It was like visiting old friends: why yes, I remember giving that lecture on San Vitale in Ravenna and haven’t thought about Peter Behrens in ages. Then I remember how much I really miss teaching art history, how good I was at it, especially in front of a classroom of reluctant artists taking their obligatory survey courses. I then think of the pile of notes and photocopied articles from various London libraries stashed in the storage space under my bed. Not knowing what to do with them, reluctant to recycle the papers yet knowing I’m never going to write that dissertation (well, I wrote about 30 pages of it), I shift them from one space to another during the winter-summer, summer-winter clothing switch. No, the world didn’t stop turning when I officially opted for ABD (All But Dissertation or All But Dead, take your pick) instead of PhD. And yet, I think of those less intelligent and even less enamored of art history than I with their completed dissertations…
But wait, there’s more. I regret the time wasted playing Spider Solitaire, yet I can’t seem to stop myself. I drink too much coffee, can’t seem to quit smoking despite the acupuncture treatments that oh so many years ago were highly effective.
I won’t bore you with all the “what ifs?”, the rehashing of long-dead but damaging relationships, the woulda-coulda-shoulda’s, the “why can’t I just get myself together and be more productives?” especially since I know full well that the weird little paths that I’ve either followed or made in the past years have gotten me here, here where I’m generally quite happy and at home.
The kitchen is nearly spotless, and the grout in the shower a different color. I’d like to say that my thoughts too are in order, but that would be a lie. I think a little ironing is in order.
[*] I wish I could take credit for the title; however, I stole it from a friend.
Attention deficit housecleaning is self-explanatory. In the middle of one mess, you notice another and proceed from hither to yon, kitchen gel with bleach in one hand, vacuum at the ready, potentially creating a greater mess in the process. I think it results from a scattered mind. Mine has been more than characteristically untidy lately.
It seems as if I’m always in search of a job. I’ve had the same one for two years now, but can no longer tolerate it. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, maybe I’m too idealistic in that I care about education over appearances, maybe, as a therapist once said, I have difficulty being an adult, maybe I need to accept that those in positions of power over me are, more often than not, idiots. Maybe. Maybe the problem lies with me, not others. Oh…. wait a minute. I’m only part of the mini-exodus of native English speakers from school. Whew. Still, there’s the matter of a job. And without a clear picture of what will happen in the fall, I can’t solidify plans for the summer. I do have options, I probably will sign a contract with another school if they would just send it to me already.
And another thing. I just finished proofreading a survey on architecture. It was like visiting old friends: why yes, I remember giving that lecture on San Vitale in Ravenna and haven’t thought about Peter Behrens in ages. Then I remember how much I really miss teaching art history, how good I was at it, especially in front of a classroom of reluctant artists taking their obligatory survey courses. I then think of the pile of notes and photocopied articles from various London libraries stashed in the storage space under my bed. Not knowing what to do with them, reluctant to recycle the papers yet knowing I’m never going to write that dissertation (well, I wrote about 30 pages of it), I shift them from one space to another during the winter-summer, summer-winter clothing switch. No, the world didn’t stop turning when I officially opted for ABD (All But Dissertation or All But Dead, take your pick) instead of PhD. And yet, I think of those less intelligent and even less enamored of art history than I with their completed dissertations…
But wait, there’s more. I regret the time wasted playing Spider Solitaire, yet I can’t seem to stop myself. I drink too much coffee, can’t seem to quit smoking despite the acupuncture treatments that oh so many years ago were highly effective.
I won’t bore you with all the “what ifs?”, the rehashing of long-dead but damaging relationships, the woulda-coulda-shoulda’s, the “why can’t I just get myself together and be more productives?” especially since I know full well that the weird little paths that I’ve either followed or made in the past years have gotten me here, here where I’m generally quite happy and at home.
The kitchen is nearly spotless, and the grout in the shower a different color. I’d like to say that my thoughts too are in order, but that would be a lie. I think a little ironing is in order.
[*] I wish I could take credit for the title; however, I stole it from a friend.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Pause Pipi (Pee Break)
Recently, I stopped off at the Louvre. (Let me interrupt here just to note how nice it is to start a story with “Recently, I stopped off at the Louvre.”) It’s usually best to visit a restroom upon arriving at such places, especially if, like me, you tend to get lost despite a familiarity with the building, the plan for which is gripped tightly in your hand.
Close to the museum entrance, there was a newish boutique called “Pause WC” (Toilet Break) its shelves stacked with designer toilet paper, a wine with “pissoir” in its name, and a selection of appropriately themed books. The boutique was attended by uniformed men and women both friendly and professional.
A sign at the cash register discreetly showed the pee break prices: 1Euro for a special toilet, 1.5Euro for the “spa japonais.” I don’t know what was special about the first because I was distracted by the promise of the Japanese one. I paid the fee. For the price it had to be good. A very kind attendant asked me to wait patiently because someone was using the remote control. I waited.
Behind a curtain and a door, I was given a lesson in using the toilet. First, you have to sit down, but don’t worry; each one is cleaned with 99% bacteria killing antibacterial cleanser after each use. You must sit, because the spa only works when it detects weight.
“To use the remote control, aim there at the side of the bowl. This button is for a stream of water, these are for massage and this one is activates the dryer. I suggest you try all the buttons.” I learned that such toilets are "smart" ones in that they remember a person by their weight and will automatically adminster that person's preferred massage sequence. I of course waited until the instruction giving attendants had exited and quietly closed the door.
First surprise, a warm seat. For this, I was unprepared. I tried the buttons. The first sent a perfectly aimed stream of water. I marveled at its accuracy. The second emitted a steady ps-ps-ps-ps, also accurately aimed. The third was a variant of the second, pssssss-psssss- pssssssss. I cannot say if it was an entirely pleasant experience, yet it was indeed memorable. I finished with a very powerful air dry.
Upon exiting, I returned the remote control to the cash register attendant, and announced, “That was the best pipi break I ever had.”
Close to the museum entrance, there was a newish boutique called “Pause WC” (Toilet Break) its shelves stacked with designer toilet paper, a wine with “pissoir” in its name, and a selection of appropriately themed books. The boutique was attended by uniformed men and women both friendly and professional.
A sign at the cash register discreetly showed the pee break prices: 1Euro for a special toilet, 1.5Euro for the “spa japonais.” I don’t know what was special about the first because I was distracted by the promise of the Japanese one. I paid the fee. For the price it had to be good. A very kind attendant asked me to wait patiently because someone was using the remote control. I waited.
Behind a curtain and a door, I was given a lesson in using the toilet. First, you have to sit down, but don’t worry; each one is cleaned with 99% bacteria killing antibacterial cleanser after each use. You must sit, because the spa only works when it detects weight.
“To use the remote control, aim there at the side of the bowl. This button is for a stream of water, these are for massage and this one is activates the dryer. I suggest you try all the buttons.” I learned that such toilets are "smart" ones in that they remember a person by their weight and will automatically adminster that person's preferred massage sequence. I of course waited until the instruction giving attendants had exited and quietly closed the door.
First surprise, a warm seat. For this, I was unprepared. I tried the buttons. The first sent a perfectly aimed stream of water. I marveled at its accuracy. The second emitted a steady ps-ps-ps-ps, also accurately aimed. The third was a variant of the second, pssssss-psssss- pssssssss. I cannot say if it was an entirely pleasant experience, yet it was indeed memorable. I finished with a very powerful air dry.
Upon exiting, I returned the remote control to the cash register attendant, and announced, “That was the best pipi break I ever had.”
Thursday, April 2, 2009
On the Street Where I Live...
Istanbul is a city of both great beauty and equally great ugliness, sometimes on the same street. Rumeli Hisari remains one of the "authentic" areas of the city, complete with old and crumbling wooden houses, restored ones, gece kondu ("night" houses illegally built), modern rectangular blocks...
The photo above is of my neighbor's house. She's the one who wanders the streets collecting bits of wood with which to build a new one. From the image, you can't quite appreciate the scope of the scrap pile. The one in the back is even more impressive. My kitchen window looks out onto her mess and several plum trees. I like to watch the cats play in the trees.
Recently, I stopped to say hello to my neighbor. We went through our usual ritual, "Who are you, where do you live, what do you do?" She then abruptly dismissed me with a flick of her hand. I accepted my dismissal. While headed down the stone path, I turned back to see her giving me a friendly wave.
The other day, she was seated on the curb in the sunshine, shoes and socks removed, examining her feet and talking to several people. My housemate told me they were asking her to sell her land so they could build a new residence in is place. While her home is indeed an eyesore, I hope she said and will continue to say no. For some odd reason, I like her and her determination.
I live on the ground floor of a three level building where there is access to a garden and sort of patio area. This is Ayda, the top floor neighbor's dog. We often play catch, although she doesn't understand the rules of the game.
This is my building. As an apartment, it's nothing outstanding, though the views from the balconies are. I have balcony envy, though we do have limited views of the Bosphorus from the garden.
Out the front gate and to the right is an abandoned house. Sometimes I'm quite sure there are squatters inside, though I have no direct proof. I dream of winning the lottery, then buying this house and restoring it. In fact, I dream of restoring several houses within a two-block radius. To the left and downwards is a shell of a building. Recently, parts of its wall collapsed onto the stone path in front of it. These paths are actually streets with names. Apparently there are many in Rumeli Hisari. This one is Durmus Dede (Grandfather) Sokak. It is slippery when raining, and always steep. In front of the collapsed house and during the right season, it is spattered with figs and a pomegranite or two.Sunday, March 29, 2009
More decisions
Again, thank you for your comments. Wish I had another gripe about English. I'm sure one will come up sooner or later.
To take a decision is something a group does and it's an action that was done in the past.".... That decision was taken.... , they then took a decision on the matter"...and really the word would be " made" in 90% of the time.
My British neighbors, who are quite daft in most ways, TAKE decisions all the time, even though they're usually wrong. They have bad judgment in general and she is drunk by noon on most days. I think it's an Anglo thing--a Britishism. But since you are in Istanbul, it doesn't really matter, since although most Americans MAKE decisions, they are apt to also MAKE a mess.
Real people make decisions and take actions.
Committees, because they don't actually do anything except make decisions, would like to flatter themselves by considering decisions to be actions; thus they speak of themselves "taking decisions."
To take a decision is something a group does and it's an action that was done in the past.".... That decision was taken.... , they then took a decision on the matter"...and really the word would be " made" in 90% of the time.
My British neighbors, who are quite daft in most ways, TAKE decisions all the time, even though they're usually wrong. They have bad judgment in general and she is drunk by noon on most days. I think it's an Anglo thing--a Britishism. But since you are in Istanbul, it doesn't really matter, since although most Americans MAKE decisions, they are apt to also MAKE a mess.
Real people make decisions and take actions.
Committees, because they don't actually do anything except make decisions, would like to flatter themselves by considering decisions to be actions; thus they speak of themselves "taking decisions."
Monday, March 23, 2009
Taking more decisions...
More comments - thank you!
I'm from the midwest and we all make our decisions. I've never taken mine anywhere.
In Hollywood, one takes a meeting...to make decisions.
Because I now do considerable editing work, I am intrigued by the question you raise about "taking a decision." I did a tiny bit of Internet sleuthing and came up with three sets of comments that seem to conclude that "taking a decision" is a Britishism. Are a number of your English-speaking colleagues either British themselves or the products of having learned their English from British teachers? That might explain the use of "taking." I myself always use "make a decision," or, if the end result is generated by deliberation by a group, I think I would use "arrived at a decision."
I'm from the midwest and we all make our decisions. I've never taken mine anywhere.
In Hollywood, one takes a meeting...to make decisions.
Because I now do considerable editing work, I am intrigued by the question you raise about "taking a decision." I did a tiny bit of Internet sleuthing and came up with three sets of comments that seem to conclude that "taking a decision" is a Britishism. Are a number of your English-speaking colleagues either British themselves or the products of having learned their English from British teachers? That might explain the use of "taking." I myself always use "make a decision," or, if the end result is generated by deliberation by a group, I think I would use "arrived at a decision."
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Taking decisions... comments
Thank you for the comments! The following were sent to my e-mail account. If you don't see a comment you sent directly to the blog, I might have accidently deleted it... Please forgive and resend??
A decision is made, or in the case of consensus, "come to", "reached" or "arrived at". This indicates a journey of sorts, weighing pros and cons, considering possibilities along the way and then arriving at a place where deliberation stops and action (or non-action) is "taken". My two cents.
Yes, groups "take" decisions. It's perfectly correct. But it's also a quite formal, and perhaps somewhat pretentious. A lawyer or a clerk of the court might write/speak this way, but I don't think it's normal. In academia, at least the parts I'm familiar with, a department would, after discussion, "conclude" or "decide". If there were a lot of argument, the department might "reach a conclusion". I can imagine the faculty as a whole "taking" a decision, though, or a board of directors, so probably the phrase has legal, or legalistic, overtones.
I make decisions. My children make decisions. The committee made a decision.
I take pills. My children take pills. The committee takes no chances.
I outen the ligh--- oh no that's Pennsylvania Dutch.....
I think the difference has to do with British/American English. In England, people regularly take decisions. In America we make them. I think.
Taking a Decision
One of the hazards of being an expat is developing the potential to use your own language incorrectly, not in big glaring ways, but in little ones, and not realizing it. Once in a while, I catch myself saying “I opened my phone” instead of saying “I answered” it, even after many frustrating attempts to convince a student that one turns on the lights/projector/television etc. I’ve almost resigned myself to “opening” rather than “turning on.”
There are misuses of certain words, however, that irritate. Forget about kids who announce “Hocam, I’m boring,” (indeed Tolgay, you are) in the middle of the lesson, or those who say “funny” instead of “fun,” or “scary” rather than “scared.” I can’t really be too fussy about that, especially since I only learned grammar through studying other languages.
No, the examples that grate on my nerves usually come up in the English office. For a group of people whose job it is to foster communication, we do it very poorly. Announcements are not announced in meetings, but are posted on the walls, bulletin boards and storage spaces. Posts have included such gems as: “All unit plans must be sent until Friday.” (“Until” instead of “by” is frequently tossed around because, I think, it’s the same word in Turkish.) I fixed it after about the 3rd such notice.
The following example annoys me no end, and not just because I really like to be right as often as possible. At my school, we “take decisions.” To me, this is like nails on a chalk board. Never in my life have I heard of a “decision taken” until I started to teach here. Where I come from, we make them, we don’t take them. Like “opening the lights,” the source seems to be from a direct translation from Turkish. Finally, I asked – and politely thank you! – if I could change the notice on the white board to read “made” rather than “taken” and explained my reasoning. We just don’t say it.
The following morning, my colleague opened a Longman dictionary (the same one we insist the kids buy but seldom if never use) to show me that decisions are indeed taken, but when they are taken by a group after deliberation. Far be it from me to argue with the dictionary. The dictionary has all kinds of good, useful but not often or differently used words. I admitted the error of my ways.
And yet, I’m still bothered. As a result, I’d like to take an informal survey of my fellow native English speaking friends. Do you ever take decisions, with or without a group, sans or avec deliberation? Please don’t look it up in the dictionary, just let me know how you express the completed act of coming to a decision. I'll post your responses.
I thank you in advance.
There are misuses of certain words, however, that irritate. Forget about kids who announce “Hocam, I’m boring,” (indeed Tolgay, you are) in the middle of the lesson, or those who say “funny” instead of “fun,” or “scary” rather than “scared.” I can’t really be too fussy about that, especially since I only learned grammar through studying other languages.
No, the examples that grate on my nerves usually come up in the English office. For a group of people whose job it is to foster communication, we do it very poorly. Announcements are not announced in meetings, but are posted on the walls, bulletin boards and storage spaces. Posts have included such gems as: “All unit plans must be sent until Friday.” (“Until” instead of “by” is frequently tossed around because, I think, it’s the same word in Turkish.) I fixed it after about the 3rd such notice.
The following example annoys me no end, and not just because I really like to be right as often as possible. At my school, we “take decisions.” To me, this is like nails on a chalk board. Never in my life have I heard of a “decision taken” until I started to teach here. Where I come from, we make them, we don’t take them. Like “opening the lights,” the source seems to be from a direct translation from Turkish. Finally, I asked – and politely thank you! – if I could change the notice on the white board to read “made” rather than “taken” and explained my reasoning. We just don’t say it.
The following morning, my colleague opened a Longman dictionary (the same one we insist the kids buy but seldom if never use) to show me that decisions are indeed taken, but when they are taken by a group after deliberation. Far be it from me to argue with the dictionary. The dictionary has all kinds of good, useful but not often or differently used words. I admitted the error of my ways.
And yet, I’m still bothered. As a result, I’d like to take an informal survey of my fellow native English speaking friends. Do you ever take decisions, with or without a group, sans or avec deliberation? Please don’t look it up in the dictionary, just let me know how you express the completed act of coming to a decision. I'll post your responses.
I thank you in advance.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Moonlight
Unless it’s raining or I’m wearing impractical shoes, my favorite part of the day is walking home from the bus stop. Turn right at the mosque and down the steep hill. Below and to the left, the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge spans the Bosphorus. The endless stream of cars crosses under its lights contrasting with my peaceful street.
Last week, there was a full moon. In the evening, the ever present clouds cleared. The moon shone brightly to the right of the bridge, visible between buildings flanking the street. An elderly woman walking ahead of me set her bags on the ground. She turned moonwards, and with eyes closed and elbows bent, placed her hands palms up in a gesture of prayer. She mouthed silently. I didn’t want to interrupt her private moment, yet couldn’t help sneaking peaks at her as I passed. I doubt she knew that she had provided me with a most beautiful instant.
Last week, there was a full moon. In the evening, the ever present clouds cleared. The moon shone brightly to the right of the bridge, visible between buildings flanking the street. An elderly woman walking ahead of me set her bags on the ground. She turned moonwards, and with eyes closed and elbows bent, placed her hands palms up in a gesture of prayer. She mouthed silently. I didn’t want to interrupt her private moment, yet couldn’t help sneaking peaks at her as I passed. I doubt she knew that she had provided me with a most beautiful instant.
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