Some apartments in Istanbul that were built in the 1970s and ‘80s were equipped with very basic bathrooms. For example, the shower consists of a shower head and a drain on the floor. These may be situated close to a toilet. In subsequent years, the bathroom may have been modified. Mine is one of those. A square plastic “floor” with a shallow rim sits below the either hand-held or stationary shower head. It is surrounded by a curtain suspended by a rod held by a chain from the ceiling. Because the room is small, and due to the above-mentioned modifications, taking a shower requires preparation.
Except during the hottest days of summer, turn the water heater dial to 2. While waiting for the little light to turn green, make and leisurely drink a cup of coffee and contemplate the day ahead.
When the water temperature has sufficiently risen, remove the mop and corresponding bucket and the clothes basket stored in the shower and place them under the sink.
Lift the drain cover below the toilet brush holder and place the end of the plastic hose extending from the shower “floor” and behind the toilet over the opened drain. Since we tried to unclog the shower with commercial drain cleaner (the package said the product was safe to use on plastic pipes: unfortunately it deformed the hose) this hose must be propped against the drain cover and the toilet brush holder to prevent a large puddle from forming on the floor. These procedures take less time to perform than to describe and soon become habit.
While taking a shower, be careful to avoid water from escaping the immediate area to further prevent puddle formation.
Accept that no matter how diligent you are, or how carefully you have propped the hose, you will invariably cause water to leak behind and in front of the toilet. This usually happens when you are in a hurry or late for work.
Following your shower, mop the floor, pushing water down the drain. Reverse the above preparatory procedures, i.e. replace the mop, bucket and clothes basket, and turn the water heater back to zero.
Have a second cup of coffee and resume contemplating the day ahead.
Washing clothes in the same room also requires certain procedures, yet in comparison, these are much simpler.
The washing machine in our bathroom is hooked up so that water can enter the machine, but not automatically exit it through a drain. After loading the laundry, remove the hose from behind the machine and place the hook shaped end into the toilet. Failure to do so will result in a flooded bathroom. Adjust the dials to the desired temperature. Push the power button and jam a toothpick in the space between it and the adjacent button so that the power remains on.
Be grateful that you have a washing machine in the apartment.
To be clear, I’m not complaining. I like my apartment, and don’t mind the bathroom at all.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
I Kind of Hated My Job
My unexplained absence for the past few months has been due to a lack of computer. When I left my previous job, I had to hand in my laptop. (See below.) This is not to say that I have not made some priceless observations. Au contraire. I’ve got them stored right up here. (You can’t see me, but I’m tapping my forehead with my index finger. Not a hammer.)
I’m now writing to you from my new, indeed my very first brand new to me, computer. That I bought it and the office software package all by myself and primarily in Turkish, is a point of pride.
While I take time to organize my thoughts on a recent trip to the States, the end of my first year teaching in a private school, and the 25th high school reunion which I did not attend, I leave you with the following. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t post it earlier.
I Kind of Hated My Job
Due to lack of teaching space in the school, I used to teach on the ground floor of a converted villa. It was alternately used as a ballet room for the little kids, a storage space, the chess activity room, an office for teachers and administrators who wanted to hide for a few hours, and an English classroom. Since the beginning of the year, I fought with the powers that be to respect the space as a classroom. Every week it was something new: cleaners and maintenance people doing little repairs or moving furniture in the middle of class, the chess teacher rearranging everything and trying to muscle his way into the space... My younger students had the attention spans of one tsetse fly between them and didn’t really need such distractions.
The school also had, and as far as I know still has, a cat. He was a dirty -should- be -white -but - sidewalk –colored, and was "adopted" by the school when he was a kitten. The director is so full of himself that he baptized the cat with a feminine version of his own name. Unlike the director, the cat dropped a pair of testicles, but retained his given feminine name. The housekeeping staff left food for him during the week. A constant presence in the school, he habitually slept directly in the middle of the floor in front of the first floor staircase, ignoring children and teachers who would carefully walk around him. For a few weeks, he took it upon himself to spray the desks in the English department offices, rendering it impossible to work in them. We were going to take up a collection to get him snipped, but he must have gotten wind of it because he subsequently chose to mark the 6th grade room instead.
One Monday morning, I went to the villa early to set up a projector to watch Bowling for Columbine, and to chase out the two women who usually worked in there until after I brought my students to it and reminded them that I had a class. (They were always shocked that I was going to use the room for teaching purposes. Clearly, a teacher leading 8 students carrying notebooks wasn’t much of a clue.) Much to my surprise there was one desk in the room. Hmmm. How to hold class with one desk and no tables? I found the principal, in whom I had little confidence, who feigned surprise at the lack of proper classroom furniture. Indeed she was the one who instructed the staff to move them in the first place. She decided to look for a different classroom for me, as if one would magically appear in a broom closet. I told her I didn't need desks immediately as we were watching a film, but when and if she did find some, to replace them during recess so as not to interrupt my lessons.
The kids were happy to relax, and asked permission to use the large pillows stored on the side of the room opposite the classroom area. (The room was quite large as it was the bottom floor of a converted house.) Two minutes later, the girls had installed themselves in the place farthest from the projector to concentrate intently on something. Ah, it was the cat. As if it was a rare treat to caress a filthy creature that they saw roughly 20 times a day. I noticed that there were food and water dishes and a litter box in the corner. Hmmm. It did not bode well.
I gave the group my usual, "look at this face and tell me how happy it isn't about wasting time therefore don't aggravate me anymore" speech. Because I can be quite threatening, they complied and soon we were watching the film projected against the whiteboard. Not 3 minutes later, the cat started to traverse the floor with one leg twisted underneath and behind him. Michael Moore became priority number two. Slowly, the cat dragged himself to the litter box where he proceeded to make a deposit of the same number. Of course, all eyes were on him, including mine. My classroom had become a large kitty box. Since the smell of cat deposit makes me want to lose all 3 of my morning cups of coffee, I opened windows as the cat continued his ass-scraping, post litter box journey across the floor. Perhaps prompted by my angry reaction, one student asked the rhetorical question "And this is supposed to be a classroom?" Because the students were concerned about the cat, I'm not so cold-hearted that I didn't notice something was wrong, and because I wasn't going to get anything done otherwise, I told one of the girls to pick the cat up gently, set him on a pillow and pay attention to the movie.
During break I shot an e-mail to the principal to tell her that the lack of desks was disrespectful to me and my students, and that while I have sympathy for injured animals (we later learned that he had been hit by a car over the weekend and was put in the room by the security guards,) my classroom was no place for a cat to relieve himself.
Sometime during recess, a few desks were replaced in the room and I could proceed with my young tsetses as usual. I had warned them that the cat would be in the room, that he was injured, and that they were in no way shape or form to bother him. 10 minutes before class ended, the friendly maintenance man entered the room with a cardboard box, put the cat in it and took him outside. The litter box full of presents was, of course, left in the corner. It took me a few minutes to redirect the attention of the boys, my flightiest of tsetse flies, and a long moment to calm my anger.
When I left, the cat was sitting in the box near the exterior door of the villa.
When I returned to the classroom two days later, the litter box and deposits remained. I resisted the temptation to tip its contents on the principal’s desk.
Post Script
1. I want to emphasize that not all aspects of my job were intolerable. The majority of my colleagues were (and probably still are) remarkable people.
2. Despite the fact that some of my students had the attention span of a tsetse fly, I do love them and will miss them.
3. The cat was subsequently taken to the vet hospital where his broken hip was repaired. For about a month, he kept a low profile but recovered nicely. He was not, however, fixed.
I’m now writing to you from my new, indeed my very first brand new to me, computer. That I bought it and the office software package all by myself and primarily in Turkish, is a point of pride.
While I take time to organize my thoughts on a recent trip to the States, the end of my first year teaching in a private school, and the 25th high school reunion which I did not attend, I leave you with the following. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t post it earlier.
I Kind of Hated My Job
Due to lack of teaching space in the school, I used to teach on the ground floor of a converted villa. It was alternately used as a ballet room for the little kids, a storage space, the chess activity room, an office for teachers and administrators who wanted to hide for a few hours, and an English classroom. Since the beginning of the year, I fought with the powers that be to respect the space as a classroom. Every week it was something new: cleaners and maintenance people doing little repairs or moving furniture in the middle of class, the chess teacher rearranging everything and trying to muscle his way into the space... My younger students had the attention spans of one tsetse fly between them and didn’t really need such distractions.
The school also had, and as far as I know still has, a cat. He was a dirty -should- be -white -but - sidewalk –colored, and was "adopted" by the school when he was a kitten. The director is so full of himself that he baptized the cat with a feminine version of his own name. Unlike the director, the cat dropped a pair of testicles, but retained his given feminine name. The housekeeping staff left food for him during the week. A constant presence in the school, he habitually slept directly in the middle of the floor in front of the first floor staircase, ignoring children and teachers who would carefully walk around him. For a few weeks, he took it upon himself to spray the desks in the English department offices, rendering it impossible to work in them. We were going to take up a collection to get him snipped, but he must have gotten wind of it because he subsequently chose to mark the 6th grade room instead.
One Monday morning, I went to the villa early to set up a projector to watch Bowling for Columbine, and to chase out the two women who usually worked in there until after I brought my students to it and reminded them that I had a class. (They were always shocked that I was going to use the room for teaching purposes. Clearly, a teacher leading 8 students carrying notebooks wasn’t much of a clue.) Much to my surprise there was one desk in the room. Hmmm. How to hold class with one desk and no tables? I found the principal, in whom I had little confidence, who feigned surprise at the lack of proper classroom furniture. Indeed she was the one who instructed the staff to move them in the first place. She decided to look for a different classroom for me, as if one would magically appear in a broom closet. I told her I didn't need desks immediately as we were watching a film, but when and if she did find some, to replace them during recess so as not to interrupt my lessons.
The kids were happy to relax, and asked permission to use the large pillows stored on the side of the room opposite the classroom area. (The room was quite large as it was the bottom floor of a converted house.) Two minutes later, the girls had installed themselves in the place farthest from the projector to concentrate intently on something. Ah, it was the cat. As if it was a rare treat to caress a filthy creature that they saw roughly 20 times a day. I noticed that there were food and water dishes and a litter box in the corner. Hmmm. It did not bode well.
I gave the group my usual, "look at this face and tell me how happy it isn't about wasting time therefore don't aggravate me anymore" speech. Because I can be quite threatening, they complied and soon we were watching the film projected against the whiteboard. Not 3 minutes later, the cat started to traverse the floor with one leg twisted underneath and behind him. Michael Moore became priority number two. Slowly, the cat dragged himself to the litter box where he proceeded to make a deposit of the same number. Of course, all eyes were on him, including mine. My classroom had become a large kitty box. Since the smell of cat deposit makes me want to lose all 3 of my morning cups of coffee, I opened windows as the cat continued his ass-scraping, post litter box journey across the floor. Perhaps prompted by my angry reaction, one student asked the rhetorical question "And this is supposed to be a classroom?" Because the students were concerned about the cat, I'm not so cold-hearted that I didn't notice something was wrong, and because I wasn't going to get anything done otherwise, I told one of the girls to pick the cat up gently, set him on a pillow and pay attention to the movie.
During break I shot an e-mail to the principal to tell her that the lack of desks was disrespectful to me and my students, and that while I have sympathy for injured animals (we later learned that he had been hit by a car over the weekend and was put in the room by the security guards,) my classroom was no place for a cat to relieve himself.
Sometime during recess, a few desks were replaced in the room and I could proceed with my young tsetses as usual. I had warned them that the cat would be in the room, that he was injured, and that they were in no way shape or form to bother him. 10 minutes before class ended, the friendly maintenance man entered the room with a cardboard box, put the cat in it and took him outside. The litter box full of presents was, of course, left in the corner. It took me a few minutes to redirect the attention of the boys, my flightiest of tsetse flies, and a long moment to calm my anger.
When I left, the cat was sitting in the box near the exterior door of the villa.
When I returned to the classroom two days later, the litter box and deposits remained. I resisted the temptation to tip its contents on the principal’s desk.
Post Script
1. I want to emphasize that not all aspects of my job were intolerable. The majority of my colleagues were (and probably still are) remarkable people.
2. Despite the fact that some of my students had the attention span of a tsetse fly, I do love them and will miss them.
3. The cat was subsequently taken to the vet hospital where his broken hip was repaired. For about a month, he kept a low profile but recovered nicely. He was not, however, fixed.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Signs of Spring: Tulips
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Enginarchitecture
At the bottom of the horrifically steep hill on which I live, there is a covered market. I stop there regularly to buy fruits, vegetables and greens for the bunnies. The merchants recognize me and nod hello. The man who sells dried fruit sometimes invites me to sit behind his counter to drink tea.
If you never stepped outside the market walls, you could still tell the season by the changing piles of food. Recently, strawberries came in season. Mounds of cherries will be ripe soon enough, but now are too expensive. Later there will be mullberries, so fragile that if you're bag of them is heavy, half of that bag will be full of mullberry juice by the time you reach home.
Enginar (artichokes) are now in season, and bless them but their's is a long one. Some vendors sell nothing but. They sit with huge piles of them, deftly cutting and discarding the leaves and choke, then selling them in plastic bags with water.
Today at the market, one vender had built himself a green fortress of carefully stacked artichokes, as if prepared for a seige. Surrounded by three and a half walls, he sat in the middle, littering the floor with a speed that demanded my respect.
If you never stepped outside the market walls, you could still tell the season by the changing piles of food. Recently, strawberries came in season. Mounds of cherries will be ripe soon enough, but now are too expensive. Later there will be mullberries, so fragile that if you're bag of them is heavy, half of that bag will be full of mullberry juice by the time you reach home.
Enginar (artichokes) are now in season, and bless them but their's is a long one. Some vendors sell nothing but. They sit with huge piles of them, deftly cutting and discarding the leaves and choke, then selling them in plastic bags with water.
Today at the market, one vender had built himself a green fortress of carefully stacked artichokes, as if prepared for a seige. Surrounded by three and a half walls, he sat in the middle, littering the floor with a speed that demanded my respect.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
The Deaf Leading the Yabanci
As a reward for sending a slew of CVs and cover letters yesterday, and because today is, if not technically at least in reality, the last day of vacation, I decided to explore an area of Istanbul I had never seen. In the current issue of Cornucopia, an upscale magazine about Turkey (some think it’s too chichi, I like the photos) there is a short article on Itfaiye Caddesi. Running parallel to Atatürk Bulvari, it is apparently a place where many from Southeast Turkey have immigrated. According to the article, you can hear Arabic spoken in the neighborhood. Additionally, it is peppered with Byzantine churches. Most importantly perhaps, there you can find excellent honey in the comb. These are three things that please me: listening to Arabic, (I don’t understand a thing, but I’m used to it) Byzantine churches and the honey I have just recently learned to appreciate.
I armed myself with a detailed map of the area ripped out of a magazine. Often, maps are useless to me. I couldn’t find my way out of many bathrooms with one. I always have to turn them upside-down or sideways to match the direction in which I am going. My sense of direction is nearly hopeless so I rely on large monuments to guide me. Still, when I successfully follow a map, I pat myself on the back.
There was no back patting today, not yet. As I was walking down Itfaiye Caddesi (I got there by accident) I stopped to locate a museum which was across the street on my torn out map. An old man clutching prayer beads stopped and asked me where I wanted to go. After several attempts at telling him, he motioned to his ears, shook his head, took a folded piece of paper out of his canvas case, and motioned for me to write. Haaaa (this means “now I understand"). He’s deaf. I wrote the name of a Byzantine church for which I was also looking. I didn’t want to look stupid because the museum was within sight just across the street. Regardless, or possibly because of our difficulty communicating, he took the map from my hands, motioned for me to follow him and stepped out into traffic. Unable to tell him that my PTSD (due to being struck by a car several years ago) now and then rears its ugly head, I followed. Apparently there is a god who protects small children and elderly deaf men. And me, but only by association. He stopped a man standing in a store front to ask directions. The man didn’t know, but closed the door and took us down the street to what I believe was an emergency vehicle station. The emergency vehicle man looked carefully at the map, circled a place on it, gestured as he gave us directions and wished us a good day. I could pinpoint the moment he understood that before him was a Tarzan-Turkish-speaking foreigner being led by a deaf man by the subtle change in his expression. There was no disrespect, just curiosity. I had an image in my head of three blind cartoon mice.
My new friend and I ventured, he with a slight limp, a tilt, an occasional stumble and a giggle, across Atatürk Bulvari. Clearly, he is not fazed by regular suicide missions. I was pretty sure the church was in the other direction, but he was already halfway across the street. We stopped frequently to ask the location of the old neighborhood church. He stuck his head in several stores, loudly declaring "Yaaabanci (yabanci means foreigner) wants to know…" I think he was enjoying his position as tour guide. At one point, he walked into an open door onto someone’s private property. Unaware of the barking German shepherd and the house owner, he tried to get directions from a woman and small child. The owner looked at me quizzically. I pointed to my guide, my ears and shook my head. After the man gave us directions he left, only to pull up beside us in his car. All of us had a good laugh before we were deposited at a parking lot facing a small, brick, Byzantine church turned mosque. It was lovely and unexpected, with remnants of mosaics in the small pumpkin domes. The interior was painted a pristine white. It was not, however, Zeyreki Kilisesi.
I armed myself with a detailed map of the area ripped out of a magazine. Often, maps are useless to me. I couldn’t find my way out of many bathrooms with one. I always have to turn them upside-down or sideways to match the direction in which I am going. My sense of direction is nearly hopeless so I rely on large monuments to guide me. Still, when I successfully follow a map, I pat myself on the back.
There was no back patting today, not yet. As I was walking down Itfaiye Caddesi (I got there by accident) I stopped to locate a museum which was across the street on my torn out map. An old man clutching prayer beads stopped and asked me where I wanted to go. After several attempts at telling him, he motioned to his ears, shook his head, took a folded piece of paper out of his canvas case, and motioned for me to write. Haaaa (this means “now I understand"). He’s deaf. I wrote the name of a Byzantine church for which I was also looking. I didn’t want to look stupid because the museum was within sight just across the street. Regardless, or possibly because of our difficulty communicating, he took the map from my hands, motioned for me to follow him and stepped out into traffic. Unable to tell him that my PTSD (due to being struck by a car several years ago) now and then rears its ugly head, I followed. Apparently there is a god who protects small children and elderly deaf men. And me, but only by association. He stopped a man standing in a store front to ask directions. The man didn’t know, but closed the door and took us down the street to what I believe was an emergency vehicle station. The emergency vehicle man looked carefully at the map, circled a place on it, gestured as he gave us directions and wished us a good day. I could pinpoint the moment he understood that before him was a Tarzan-Turkish-speaking foreigner being led by a deaf man by the subtle change in his expression. There was no disrespect, just curiosity. I had an image in my head of three blind cartoon mice.
My new friend and I ventured, he with a slight limp, a tilt, an occasional stumble and a giggle, across Atatürk Bulvari. Clearly, he is not fazed by regular suicide missions. I was pretty sure the church was in the other direction, but he was already halfway across the street. We stopped frequently to ask the location of the old neighborhood church. He stuck his head in several stores, loudly declaring "Yaaabanci (yabanci means foreigner) wants to know…" I think he was enjoying his position as tour guide. At one point, he walked into an open door onto someone’s private property. Unaware of the barking German shepherd and the house owner, he tried to get directions from a woman and small child. The owner looked at me quizzically. I pointed to my guide, my ears and shook my head. After the man gave us directions he left, only to pull up beside us in his car. All of us had a good laugh before we were deposited at a parking lot facing a small, brick, Byzantine church turned mosque. It was lovely and unexpected, with remnants of mosaics in the small pumpkin domes. The interior was painted a pristine white. It was not, however, Zeyreki Kilisesi.
We stopped to look at two tombstones; one of the poet Necati Beyin Kabridi (I think), the other of the historian/ philosopher Katip Celebi. My guide silently uttered a short prayer.
On the other side of the boulevard and up the hill, I noticed a Byzantine dome. I gestured to it. My friend started to cross the busy street without looking again, so I pulled on his sleeve and pointed to an underground passage. Up the hill, around a café and past a series of ancient columns. This indeed was the correct church. We attracted enough attention – my friend speaks very loudly – so that, although the church turned mosque turned museum was closed, the man holding the key agreed to let us enter. According to a sign, the building has been recognized as a UNESCO Heritage Site, and I have recently learned that restoration on it has been halted due to lack of funds. Unfortunately, photographs of the interior are forbidden. I would love to have images of the brick walls and high domes, all in various states of decay. There are seven extant original floor mosaic motifs, one of which is visible when a sort of fake grass colored rug is pulled aside, a padlock is unlocked, and a small wooden door is raised. This one is of Samson getting his hair cut.
My guide and I silently agreed on a sort of communication by writing on a piece of paper, nodding and gesturing. I learned that he is 76, has been in Istanbul for 55 years but had never seen Zeyreki Kilisesi before, studied law and became deaf sometime during a bout of meningitis and TB. The whole time, I kept hoping that he would not ruin the experience by asking if I had a husband, if I had kids, or telling me about an estranged wife. An Italian man of the same age would give me a sad marital story before giving me a wink and a nudge. As if. As far as I can tell, there was no hint of such hopes on this fine day. For that, I was very grateful, particularly because this man apparently has no fear.
Following a short bus ride, we went to another small Byzantine church turned mosque. He motioned for me to follow him behind the building to look at brickwork, a bit of sculpted marble and the height to which the ground has risen since the church was built. As I was taking photos, he motioned me to a building across the street with a cultural center in it. After climbing four floors – the man is quite nimble for one with a slight limp and a tilt - he knocked on a few doors until someone opened for us. Apparently, we interrupted some kind of meeting, but were welcome after I was introduced as a teacher who wanted to take pictures from the balcony. We were offered tea and a mercemek köfte, a kind of meatball made with red lentils. One of the men in the meeting gave me a quick tour of the center, pictures of folk dancers and their website address.
Sensing that I might otherwise find myself in all of the Byzantine churches turned mosques in the near vicinity and needing to buy dirt and hay before the stores closed, (a person needs hay for bunnies and more dirt to grow parsley for them) I wrote that I was going to Taksim to meet friends. Certainly, my grammar was far from perfect, but he understood. Since I can’t pat myself on the back for my map-reading skills, I will for my level of Turkish. I realized that I know more than I thought, and might actually be able to use the future tense correctly every once in a while. But I wasn’t allowed to leave quite yet. Across the street from the church is a Federation for the Deaf where I was introduced to a group of men who clearly have respect for my new friend. Tea in a café followed (Simitizza anyone?). Soon, we were writing bits and pieces on the paper. We finally introduced ourselves, and Remzi wondered why I have a Jewish name if I’m not. He also wrote me a little note, part of which I understood and concerns visiting the buildings designed by Mimar Sinan. I have been instructed to have a Turkish friend translate the whole thing for me. Not one wink or nudge.
Oh, I did hear Arabic spoken in a garage-like structure where several men were building cheap particle board desks, but I didn’t have the chance to buy any honey.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Anne geldi
My room mate's mother recently visited us for a weekend. I like her. She kind of reminds me of my Italian-American gramma. She sometimes points to my "Turkish balcony," or slightly pudgy stomach, as if to say "Where did that come from?" and then pushes food. Every morning, she prepares an elaborate kahvalte (breakfast) with cheeses, eggs and sucuk (a garlicky sausage), olives, and sometimes my favorite balkaymak. Bal is honey, kaymak is usually translated as clotted cream, but I think that's not quite right. In essence, it's a potent combination of fat swimming in naturally produced sugar. Liberally spread on freshly baked bread, it's one good reason for living. In her honor, I bought a special tea glass with a blue "A" (anne means mom) fused to the side.
I've learned to live with one of her habits, and from an informal survey of friends, have discovered it's quite a normal one. Each time she visits, she rearranges. One day I came home to discover that the door leading to the living room had been taken off its hinges to make room for the new furniture arrangement. Just last week, I discovered that the same door had been discretely stored behind the kitchen cupboards for months. After she leaves, I have to search for the new locations of spices, the trash can... She does clean out the fridge and that's a good thing. Sometimes, in her fervor but with a lack of options, she puts things back in the same order as she originally found them on a previous visit. Keeps me on my toes.
I've learned to live with one of her habits, and from an informal survey of friends, have discovered it's quite a normal one. Each time she visits, she rearranges. One day I came home to discover that the door leading to the living room had been taken off its hinges to make room for the new furniture arrangement. Just last week, I discovered that the same door had been discretely stored behind the kitchen cupboards for months. After she leaves, I have to search for the new locations of spices, the trash can... She does clean out the fridge and that's a good thing. Sometimes, in her fervor but with a lack of options, she puts things back in the same order as she originally found them on a previous visit. Keeps me on my toes.
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