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Spring has gone, flowers have been replaced by summer fruits.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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.