Sometimes kids surprise me

I'm so proud of my 6th graders that I wanted to share one of their projects. We're currently reading The Tale of Despereaux, the story of a tiny mouse that falls in love with and saves a princess. He also loves the light and is fascinated by the colors that spill onto the floor from stained glass windows. One of my teaching partners had the brilliant idea to have the kids make stained glass windows out of paper and colored acetate, and have them describe what the windows symbolise and how they might fascinate Despereaux.

Objects of Desire

A few weekends ago, I was in the Spice Bazaar stocking spices for my dad. He likes the ones for potatoes, chicken and meat. The spice mixtures, teas and henna are mounded in barrels and scooped into plastic bags to be vacuum-packed for shipping. Because I want to practice speaking, and because I think it's respectful to at least try and communicate in the language of the country in which I live, I haltingly requested my dad's spices in Turkish. (I do realize that it is more than slightly hypocritical of me not to speak Turkish better than I do and not to make more of a concentrated effort to learn the language. I have a full shelf of Teach Yourself Turkish books but only read them for a few weeks after buying them before I get distracted by something else. Lessons are a possibility, but just the thought of sitting in a three hour lesson, three evenings a week after teaching all day exhausts me. And my weekends are sacred. But I digress.) After I had chosen a selection of spice mixtures, the salesman said "I want to say this in your language. Thank you for trying to speak to me in my language." Often, salespeople will tell me that I speak very well with varying degrees of sincerity. This man, however, appeared genuine in his compliment, and struggled to express himself in English. I was enjoying the encounter enough to buy a few more mixtures, even though I'm sure my dad has no need for lemon pepper and special flavorings for rice.

Several months ago, I was on a mission to find something in particular in Çukurcuma, a section of the city near Taksim Square known for its overpriced antique shops. I never found the thing for which I was looking, but that's beside the point. A series of signs advertised a new store called "Objects of Desire," a place where one can find unique and memorable items for the home. I found the store and was taken by the amount of very cool objects inside, vintage sunglasses, toys, kitchen wares, clothes, crowding every centimeter of shelf space, spilling over into the narrow passageways. It was a bit claustrophobia inducing, but I pressed on from one room to the next and spotted a thing or two that might have fit the description of the object of my mission. Since I don't like plastic and didn't want metal, I tapped gently on the sides of the display cases that might have been worthy of my hard-earned cash.

The very surly man, the owner I assumed, answered my grammatically incorrect questions with impatience. Determined, I continued to look and ask until finally he looked at me with the greatest contempt he could muster and snapped "Look, why don't you just tell me what you're looking for!" Taken aback, I imagine that my facial expression first conveyed shock, then anger. "Well, you keep on babbling in Turkish!" This time, I am sure my face immediately registered acute anger, and I replied with all the indignation I could muster in return "I'm leaving" which was answered with a snotty "Fine" over the man's shoulder. I think I'm a polite person, at least I usually try, but I couldn't just leave without comment to this man who until the previous minute had not given any indication that he spoke English and allowed me to continue in a manner that clearly offended him. "Most people appreciate that I at least try to speak in their language, but if you're going to be a complete asshole, I'm not going to buy anything from you."

I tried not to let the experience bother me, especially because vendors often compliment me on my language skills with varying degrees of sincerity, and because there's a man in the Spice Bazaar who is genuine.

The Crone

For as often as I make the pilgrimage between here and there, I'm sure I cross paths with some of the same people more than once but never notice them either because they blend into the crowd, or I'm not paying attention. There is one woman, however, whom I have seen on half a dozen occasions and for whom I've kept an eye out for the past few years. She's hard to miss, but not for her great size. I have no idea what her age is, but it's very, very old. If she could stand up straight, she might reach my nose, but as she's nearly doubled over at the waist, she comes up to just below my shoulder. Because she's old and hunched over, she has a very slow and awkward gait. Despite her lack of speed and mobility, and with her backside swinging slowly from side to side, she fearlessly makes her way across the street regardless of the color of the light, and as often as not, stops traffic for a moment or two. Once, I helped her carry her bags across the street and made sure she got on her bus without mishap. Another time, I sat next to her for several stops. She told me about her heart and blood pressure problems, smiling, as if she were talking about good weather.

I hadn't seen her for a while and sometimes wondered if she was still amongst the living. While returning from the Spice Bazaar recently, the tram at Eminönü stopped, doors open, much longer than usual. Those of us who had craned our necks to see of there was a problem soon realized that the hold-up was due to my favorite crone being guided onto the train by a kind stranger. I say crone with affection, and because she is covered from head to toe in black, skirt, blouse, large head scarf longer than a nun's, with face and hands exposed. Immediately, a seat was vacated for her. She spoke to no one and everyone, her sharp chin jutted, her tongue seemingly too large for her mouth from of her lack of lower teeth. All eyes were on her as she dramatically flapped her thickened, claw- like hands. "I was so scared, oh I was so scared!" And yet, she had that talking-about-the-beautiful-weather smile on her face. Several women approached her to ask where she was going, a question she either didn't hear or didn't care to answer directly. Between her declarations of fear, she must have said something funny because half of the people in the tram car laughed. The women insisted and volunteered to accompany her.

As she exited the bus, with one woman on each side to support her, I watched to make sure she reached her bus. As usual, she crossed the street with her very kind strangers against a red light and stopped traffic for a few moments.