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?

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.

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.”