Kayseri: The Next Generation 8/24/14

When it comes to this blog, it seems that no news is not necessarily good news. I think I am unintentionally following the Web 2.0 credo by only wanting to broadcast good news or news that portrays me and my setting in a positive light. When these types of news are missing, or when they are overpowered by, say, culture shock, it is difficult for me to find the motivation to write about how awesome my life is.

Yesterday or the day before, I commented to Jena that I wouldn’t even know where to start if I tried to blog right now. We have just moved to Kayseri, where we’ll be for the next year. Our life has therefore shifted from a vacationing lifestyle to a more work-centric and integration-oriented lifestyle. Jena, being supportive and compassionate said, just pick three things to write about. So today, I am going to make an attempt to see clearly through a haze confusion to blog about two things (not three) that have been going through my mind recently: Interpreting One’s Life through Star Trek: The Next Generation and the Relative Travails of Getting a Haircut.

Interpreting One’s Life through Star Trek: The Next Generation

After some convincing, I have finally gotten Jena to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation (TNG) with me. (This comes after she has been game this summer to watch other favorites of mine including In Therapy and Twin Peaks.) The central premise of TNG, for those who are unfamiliar with it, is concisely explained by the short monologue from Captain Picard in the opening to each episode: "Space... The final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. It's continuing mission, to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no one has gone before."

For Jena and me, it has sometimes been helpful to understand our journey here in Turkey under similar pretenses. Viewing ourselves as explorers who are interested in exploring our environment allows us to simultaneously remain distant from the culture, while slowly integrating into it. For instance, when we eat lunch at our university, which we have been invited to do each weekday, although we’re technically not on contract yet, Jena and I are, as far as I can tell, the only Westerners in the faculty dining room. For Jena, this experience must be amplified by the fact that she is often the only woman in the lunchroom line, or the only woman at our lunchroom table. Our only method of survival seems to be to eat our lunch (always Turkish cuisine) with our coworkers while doing our best to follow the TNG Prime Directive, which essentially dictates that members of Starfleet will not unduly disturb or impose upon existing cultures. An added complication comes from the notion that members of Starfleet must simultaneously protect themselves. And so must Jena and I. (Refer to my entry "Don’t Eat the Soup" for details of how adhering to the local customs may become problematic.)

Jena and I are fortunate that Kayseri is relatively unused to—and somehow unphased by—foreigners. When we were previously in Finike, a smaller town with somewhere around 30,000 people, we didn’t have this luxury. Finike is kind of a tourist town, but primarily for Turkish tourists. The local mentality seems to be that international tourists ought best be quarantined to the more popular destinations of Side, Çıralı, or Kaş. I imagined our experience was similar to one that a Chinese couple in a small American town might have. We were conspicuous and not necessarily welcome, presumably due to the otherness we represented.

Here in Kayseri, people may stare at us from time to time, but I don’t get the sense that it is with disdain, or at least I haven’t yet. Additionally, there’s not a culture of tourism, especially not in our suburb of Talas, so people aren’t persistently trying to sell stuff to us to make a living. This makes for more peaceful walks in town. I was amused, for instance, last night when we walked by a restaurant and a waiter said, “Hello.” We looked at him and said, “Hello,” back. He said, “I am here.” We smiled and said, “Okay. Thanks.” This was such a pleasant low pressure interaction compared to what we have been used to in İzmir, İstanbul, and even Finike at times.

So, as Jena and I watch TNG each night to decompress, it fulfills another function, which is to provide an interpretive lens through which to view our transition into life here. Currently, we are most definitely visitors from another land, and our mission is largely intellectual and, we hope, benign. Each day we begin with a sense of disorientation as we remember where we are and why we are here. In my head, I hear another set of words from TNG that begin each new episode, "Captain’s Log, Star Date …." (It makes me wonder if there’s an alarm clock that actually says that; if so, it’s certainly on my wish list.) And then Jena and I begin each new day of exploration to boldy remain stoic and flexible while coping with all that this new world has to offer.

The Relative Travails of Getting a Haircut

For the past week, I have been sporting my shaggy, unkempt hair in Kayseri, and normally I wouldn’t care since I rather appreciate hair styles of this sort. However, during the past week I have also been making my first impressions on my new boss, and I don’t want to give the sense that I’m completely disregarding the dress code: smart casual. While I interpret this as, My clothes are smart; my hair is casual, I can see that no one else at our university takes the same approach. In fact, the kempt-ness of one’s hair may even be prioritized here in Turkey, although I’m honestly not sure.

After a month of putting it off, on Thursday I finally went out for a haircut. I laboriously found pictures of a good haircut that I once had, and Jena graciously took pictures of them with her iPad. Armed with these and our combined knowledge of about 100 words of Turkish, we set off for the Erkek Kuaförü (male hair stylist).

Our apartment is not in a hopping area by any means, so finding an Erkek Kuaförü over the past few days had been somewhat of a challenge. A coworker suggested we look in downtown Kayseri at the mall, which we did but to no avail. Our only other lead was that there might be one or two in our suburb of Talas, but I had been warned that the quality of a haircut here might not be as good (though I pretty much ignored that comment since any haircut would probably be better than none at all).

While out on a run, one evening, I had finally spotted an Erkek Kuaförü, so that’s where Jena and I went. Fortunately, it was open, and the hair stylist, a guy in his young twenties, was incredibly friendly and enthusiastic, though he only spoke two words of English throughout the haircutting process: “Yes?" and “Finished?” During the haircut, Jena and I put our Turkish to the test by saying things like, “I would like to cut.” And, “This short.” In my regular life, I’m a nervous haircut client regardless, and this haircut, which tested language and cultural skills, had me sweating like a madman under my smock. At times things seemed relatively normal, and we tried to chat about our ages, where we were from, and whether we were married or not. At other times, however, the hair stylist did disconcerting things such as blow drying my hair so that it all stood on end. At this moment, he took a step back and asked something I didn’t quite understand. I thought he was saying he was finished, and I imagined walking back to the apartment looking like a strawberry blonde David Bowie from the Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars/Aladidn Sane phase. While I would have liked that style at one time of my life, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be sporting it around in the notoriously conservative city of Kayseri, Turkey.

Fortunately, with enough body language and butchered Turkish phrases, I made it through such high pressure moments. The stylist seemed to be quite understanding, and he eventually made it look almost exactly how I wanted. The cost, in case anyone is wondering, was five dollars! And he wouldn’t accept a tip. After most haircuts (again, in regular life), I like to return home before I go out in public again in order to spend some time getting my hair to look presentable, but after this one I felt good enough that I had the energy to agree with Jena’s suggestion that we explore a new grocery store across the street from the stylist’s shop. (Finding grocery stores is a common activity for Jena and me because we want to know what’s available and where. It’s like charting where you can get more health, ups, or hearts in video game.) At the store we bought certain sought after items such as mushrooms and tiny adhesive felt pads to stop our doors from rattling so much. And then, with the breeze grazing the tops of my ears, we strolled back home.

Conclusion

The haircut experience, I realize, is another one of those look-how-awesome-my-life-is stories. It’s one of resilience and fortuity. As I noted in the beginning, I wish I could say that these have defined my experience in Kayseri so far, but they haven’t. Life is progressing at a slower pace, and we are already facing those moments of uncertainty about where we are and what the hell we are doing. We wake up wondering, for example, whether or not our university’s bureaucracy will spoil us as much as we’d like. This is sort of a familiar feeling, but whereas we once wondered whether our university in Arizona would give us free printing as graduate teaching assistants, we now wonder whether the university will do anything about the weird and almost insufferable smell emanating from open pipe in our apartment's bathroom. But, because there are enough things that are pretty decent about our apartment, this may be a condition we’ll have to endure. And possibly further investigation of this new world will reveal that most apartments have this condition, and we are simply following the Prime Directive and being polite by tolerating this phenomenon in this new society in which we now live.

Yesterday in a Timeline 8/13/14

11:30
We're standing beside the highway, feeling optimistic. We're smothered in sunscreen; yet we've got a patch of shade from a tree to stand in. Our apartment building is about 100 yards away, and being in sight of our place makes everything feel under control.

The first dolmuş (a shared minibus/van) that pulls up is going to our stop, so we clamor into the vacant front seats, of which there are two. My leg quickly adheres to Jena with sweat.

12:20
We're at our first stop--a rest stop. The day is hot, but there's a nice view off a covered balcony. We can see how the mountains descend toward the sea in the distance. We're headed down there to a so-called village that ideally contains ruins, a beach, and an eternal flame from methane spewing out of the rock.

12:40
A guy with funky teeth and a beaten up blue teeshirt wanders up to us and asks us in English if we'd like anything to drink. Although Jena and I are somewhat wary of talking to strangers, the guy's unhurried manner of speech makes him seem trustworthy. By way of an answer, I point a thumb to Jena since she has just remarked that she's thirsty. The guy lists off what they have, looking at me and ending with whiskey. I laugh and say, "Whiskey değil," which I hope means what I want it to mean: not whiskey.

12:55
Jena has now finished her can of iced tea. I am working on some Turkish grammar exercises in a book. I ask Jena whether she wants to practice reading sentences aloud, and she says something disparaging about studying in this heat. When I make conversation after that, she remarks I'm interrupting her whenever she's trying to read.

1:05
Nothing has changed. The signs in the windshields of the stream of dolmuşes we have seen do not say they're going to our destination. Because there's a group of guys with guitars who load into a certain dolmuş and I figure they must be going the same place as us. I speak to their driver. He says I've got the wrong dolmuş, but he tells one of the rest stop guys where where going. The rest stop guy makes a call and tells us it'll be a minute.

1:20
Our dolmuş pulls up. I read online that they arrive hourly. Or, maybe they just arrive after you talk to the rest stop guy and he gives them a call. Regardless, Jena and I are on our way once more. We're in the front seat of this VW bus, feeling like we're falling down the steep foresty road that winds down into our village. The driver asks me in Turkish which hotel we're going to. I say the beach.

1:25
We don't actually want to see the beach that much, but while we're here, I note that it's pretty--long, with thin rocky points that jut our at either end. But we'd rather head to the eternal flame, which I think it a short walk away. By some luck, there's a billboard with a map. The main road down here makes a loop. We're at the exact opposite end of the six-kilometer loop from the flame.  It's a longer walk than I thought. Jena is not happy. I start to walk. She miserably follows.

1:40
Jena: Can you take whatever is jingling out of your front pocket?
Alan: Why? (These are important things, which make me feel better to know that they are there--keys, money, and ID.)
Jena: It's giving me misophonia.
Alan: (Puts things in his backpack. Walks a little faster ahead because he's annoyed.)

2:00
The hundred degree heat is beginning to set in. Jena has asked that we stop to buy to drink. I have requested that we keep walking. To her, she needs to remain comfortable. To me, I want to finish this death-march as soon as possible so that we can relax. These are the types of disagreements you work out during your first year of marriage. But knowing that about them doesn't make the heat go away.

2:20
We're still on this godforsaken, desolate dirt road, where no one else is driving, biking, or walking. We're not speaking now, and our only interactions are comprised of the times when I stop, offering Jena sunscreen and her water. She says she doesn't want more suncreeen--she'll only sweat it off. Water she takes. We try to have a mature conversation about what we're both feeling. The heat makes us too obstinate for a resolution.

2:30
We know we're on track now, as we make our way up the driveway of the Eternal Flame National Park. There are these surrealistic paintings of a goat/bear/human/snake creature wandering through a flaming background. There's a phase painted at the top which says, "The Legend Continues." I would love these paintings if I didn't feel like I were walking through a flaming background as well.

2:45
The hike up to the eternal flame is a one-kilometer rough rock stairway and trail. As I see other couples taking care to walk together, I try to stick to Jena's side so that I can offer her water. When we reach the top at last, our first sight of the eternal flame (fire coming out of a blackened grey crag of rock) is spoiled by a guy roasting three hot dogs on a stick. Two kids are squirming with excitement and holding a plastic bag of hotdog buns.

3:00
We hike to the second spot in this barren, volcanic area where another flame burns. After being asked to take a picture for a group of Italians, Jena sees whether they'll take a picture of us. It's one hundred plus degree weather. With the flame burning beside our calves, we pose and are brought together by the notion that if we smile and act as if we love each other, this moment can transpire faster.

3:05
We're making our careful descent down the rock shelf and back to the trail when Jena whispers, "Look at her shoes." A woman is wearing six-inch wedges and walking across the rock with the confidence of a mountain goat. It's amazing, and I smile at Jena. Later, we'll see this woman at the bottom of the trail enjoying a cigarette and a bottle of water while her husband drinks a beer. Jena and I reach the trail and match paces. When she wants to rest, I am happy to do so as well.

3:35
We're wandering around new unknown roads now, and with the shade and some patience, we enjoy a conversation about the kinds of fruits that are growing on the trees. We're headed back to the village to secure our third dolmuş of the day.

4:00
We hop into a dolmuş that we think is headed the right direction, though we soon find out it's not. Together we speak to the driver, and he drops us on the highway.

4:30
We're still walking along the shoulder like common hitchhikers. A taxi driver pulls up and Jena and I work together to negotiate in Turkish, but we decide his price is too high. After he pulls away, we're left again on the highway again with the uncertainty of whether a dolmuş will ever pass us going the right direction.

5:30
I've told myself that everything is going to work out alright, no matter what happens. So far both on this trip and in my life, everything has. The feeling comes back to me now as Jena and I sit down in an air-conditioned dolmuş headed back to our town. Jena is beside me, practicing her Turkish. She wants to ask the driver to stop near our apartment. She shows me her little book, and and we go over the phrase together to make sure it's right.

Blogging 8/10/14

The blog post is a tricky medium, especially for amateurs. It’s even trickier for people who have resisted it on the basis of its potentially solipsistic nature.

I have come to the medium with such hesitations.

Like all social media, a blog is the child of Web 2.0, in which human interactions have changed from 1 to 1 correspondence to 1 to Group correspondence. We’re still in the broadcast phase, the look at me phase, the carefully groomed Facebook profile or faded Instagram selfie phase. A blog post, especially a personal blog is of similar ilk.

So what does one DO with a blog post? And what form should it take?

The first question is a question of purpose. Do I want to fall into that “Look how awesome I am” category where everything is rose-colored and happy? Even if I am awesome. Is it awesome to unabashedly propound awesomeness all the time? Maybe that’s interesting for the reader or the quick internet skimmer, but it doesn’t seem very human to me. I want the bad along with the good. BUT, if we present the bad—and by that I mean embarrassing or harrowing stories where things don’t end up okay and one has merely conveyed a strong sense of inner turmoil—does that turn the blog into a journal that is better suited for a more private audience: oneself, close friends, a psychologist? Overall, this ambiguity presents a problem. Without knowing the purpose of my blog per se, it is more difficult, I think to answer the second question, what form should it take?

In my view the best form for a blog is one that is post-modern, combining narratives and scenes with lists, asides, etc. (See the stuff on … what’s that obnoxious website called? … oh yeah, McSweeneys.) The general post-modern form is one I despise for its perpetual cleverness and carefully, or dare I say perfectly, crafted presentation. (Give me some good old fashioned narratives or the rough around the edges proto-creative-non-fiction of The Grapes of Wrath or Moby Dick that play with the notion of blending narrative and expository forms). At the same time, I appreciate the openness of post-modern forms. It’s as if literary endeavors have gone from merely using paint to blending mixed media. I hate it, and I love it, as long as it’s messy enough to have raw character.

These issues of purpose and form come to mind because each time I post on my blog, Jena has often posted on her blog as well. A seasoned blogger with fewer qualms about the nature of forms and of art, Jena is able to produce lively, witty descriptions of her experiences. She does so in a candid and honest tone through which the reader knows that the author behind the words is going to be okay. (In fact, this is one of her primary purposes—to tell her loved ones that she is still alive.) While I am jealous of her posts, and of her prolific ability to crank them out, I also wouldn’t like to emulate her style.

I’d rather be rougher around the edges. Have you ever seen the show Twin Peaks? You know in the intro of the show that precedes most episodes when they show that smoothly moving saw sharpener that comes down to the teeth of the brown sawmill blades. Sparks fly, and the saw sharpener lifts. The blade advances one tooth ahead and the sharpener descends again. That’s the kind balance of roughness and smoothness I want in blog posts.

So far I’ve experimented with narratives, but let’s face it; mainly they are rambly, unsophisticated, and boring. The only inertia created within them for the reader is the knowledge that it’s a blog post and as such it will end soon. In other words, they are not turning out the way that I’d like.

Then there are my occasional lists, with which I’ve had limited success. As with most lists in literary or comical genres—post-modern writings, newspapers, humor magazines, the David Letterman Show—a list is only as good as its weakest item (unless the point is to begin with mundanity and to progress to complexity or to the point of excessive mundanity or something like that). While I would like to refine my lists so that they have internal integrity, I find that doing so begins to violate one of my other unspoken rules of blogging, which is one that relates to time.

I have chosen to blog despite all my contentions with the medium because of the pressure it places on me to publish. Without a ticking time limit, I know that my habit is to refuse to lay an egg until I’ve gone over the beauty of its shell a thousand or more times to ensure that it’s as perfect as I can get it. This obsessive mentality has been the unfortunate result of having been in writing groups where it’s ultimately embarrassing to present less than one’s best foot forward. You waste everyone’s time. They give you feedback that you could have given yourself if you only had more time to go over the piece of writing. AND when you do present your best foot forward, it’s not uncommon to receive a lot of praise which increases your sense of autonomy (at the price of a billion hours of behind the scenes work, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing).

Regarding blogging, I think I have reached a few answers here in that I have chosen to exploit this medium to train myself to find a balance between writing carefully and publishing rapidly. It’s hard. And I make a lot of mistakes. Forgiving myself for these mistakes is a purpose in an of itself as well. Knowing this, actually helps me to answer my first question. While Jena’s posts may be more oriented toward conveying that she is okay to the outside world, mine only have that as a tertiary purpose. And that’s acceptable to me. The second question, What form should a blog post take? I’m still not sure. But if I return to my purpose, I’d say that it’s not a bad idea to stick to what I’m doing—to choose a mode (narrative, expository, or so on) and write till the end of the post. If I recognize opportunities to enliven the prose, I can go for it. If I choose to play with a list, maybe I can make it a little shorter to refine the elements until they are all of the quality that I desire. Finally, and importantly, since my purpose is to exploit the medium so that I learn to publish faster, I can be creative. I don’t need to limit myself by expectations of length or narrative arcs or perfectly refined lists (that level of perfection is actually the the stuff I detest). I can throw something on the wall and see if it sticks. Even if I turn away readers, that’s an acceptable outcome because my goal really is really quite solipsistic. And that might just be okay.

A Day in Istanbul 8/7/30

On account of the overwhelming nature of Istanbul (the powerful heat, the dense crowds, and the competing music from the three bars below us that persisted until 2, 3, 4 AM) Jena and I slept until eleven in the morning. My first concern upon waking was the last minute lodging reservations that we made the night before. After two hours of debate with our laptops open and various websites up (Airbnb, VRBO), we opted to book an expensive apartment in Side for ten days because it would be easily accessible from Antalya and it would have certain necessities—internet, AC, grocery stores nearby, etc. (It did not have laundry, which was a point of concern, especially after our days in Istanbul, which produced plenty of clothing drenched in sweat. That said, the place promised that the reception could provide a laundry service.)

Mainly, the apartment was on my mind because of the price, which was more than 700 dollars. While I had already agreed that this price was acceptable because it ended our debate and promised to be easy to get to, I had of vague memory of the price of an apartment I had looked at a day prior. We had scratched this alternative apartment due to its location—in the less touristy and harder to get to destination of Finike. But the price of this alternative apartment  was hard to beat at just over 300 dollars.

Secondly, the apartment—the expensive one—was on my mind because we hadn’t received a confirmation email from the property manager. In the age of digital immediacy, the lack of confirmation was driving me up the wall since our time in Istanbul was ending in twenty-four hours. Jena told me to remember that the property manager probably had a busy schedule and that everything would work out.

Because we needed to shed the anxiety produced by the situation, we took to the streets to eat breakfast—though it was almost lunchtime. We chose to walk to the bus stop for the Istanbul regional airport (just to find scout out it’s location) with the hopes that we might see a breakfast spot on the way. We didn’t, though we found the bus stop easily enough and found out where to buy tickets the next morning—we’d buy them on the bus.

What happened next was somewhat typical of our travel adventures together. Jena said, “Let’s find some breakfast somewhere between here and our hotel.” I glanced around and thought the area looked expensive. Taksim Square is similar to Times Square in New York, though the prices aren’t that high, so I figured we’d be being suckers to eat in the popular area. I countered her suggestion with the idea that we see what the other side—the less touristy side —of the square had to offer.

As I said, this was a typical Alan move. Were there restaurants on the other side of the square, the area where there were fewer tourists? Nope. None but one or two in the lobbies of these giant hotels like the Hilton and the Marriott. We seemed to be on the financial side of the square and everyone was in suits coming in and out of buildings. So then I suggested that we walk to the second farthest point on the square from all the touristy restaurants. No dice. By the time we found a restaurant, we had made nearly a full circle. It was in the heart of the touristy area, the prices were reasonable, and the breakfast was wonderful.

(Heidi would find this situation familiar as well.

Alan: My car battery died.

Heidi: How old is it?

Alan: I don’t know. Old.

Heidi: Well, they don’t last forever. Do you want me to drive you to a car parts store to buy a new one?

Alan: No, thanks. That sounds expensive.

Alan borrows a battery charger from Duncan and tries a billion times to get the battery to hold a charge over the next four days.

Alan: Hey Heidi? Can you take me to the store to buy a new battery?)

Back in Istanbul, Jena and I ate our “Cajun” Turkish-style breakfast. I’m not sure what was Cajun about it, except that the name of the restaurant was “Cajun.” We enjoyed our meal and had wonderful service, noting that this restaurant might be a nice place to return to for dinner. Toward the end of our time there, Jena got the wireless internet working on her iPad, and we had received an email from the property manager of the expensive place we had booked. She said it was unavailable. She offered us an alternative or a full refund. Jena and I looked at one another and headed back to our hotel.

Jena worked out the refund while I contacted the guy about the apartment in Finike. To be honest, this was where I had wanted to stay all along, though I knew it would be a pain in the ass to get there. (And my lord, it was. See Jena’s blog for details.) This guy responded almost immediately and said that we could rent his apartment. My relief was tremendous. Finally, we had secured a place to go next. It’s really hard for me, I’ve noticed, to cope with the ambiguity of not knowing what I will do with myself without a home base. I tell myself that there are always hotels and hostels, but from my point of view, it’s like a see a calendar where the dates without lodging are blacked out. And I picture myself falling into a hole for eternity when those days occur. Then, when things do work out, when I step into that ambiguity once in a while and find out that everything is okay, it’s as if I’m being born again. Well, having  secured a reservation finally, I was back on my feet.

Jena and I then took to the streets. I had wanted to go to some of these audio shops near the instrument shops in Taksim, so that was our vague destination. However, the sky had darkened with clouds at that time, and I was the only one with an umbrella. When we turned back, the rain had begun to pour with the heaviness of the summer monsoon rains in Flagstaff. Jena grabbed an umbrella from our hotel, and because we wanted to spend some time outside of our hotel room, we ducked into the bar next door.

The place was vacant except for a jovial guy who seemed to be cleaning up. He didn’t speak any English, but that didn’t stop him from smiling and talking to us about the rain. For us, we really didn’t have any Turkish vocabulary for rainy weather, so we made a lot of “Whoa!” sounds and faces.

The bar had no glass in the windows, so the rain was splashing in at us from the tables on the sidewalk. Nevertheless, our seats were dry enough for us to sit with a tea and to study some Turkish. Jena wrote a letter to our former teacher, and I wrote a postcard to Özge. We looked up the word for rain.

Eventually, we ordered beers, and eventually, we were burnt out on studying. On top of that, two men who I think would be labeled as Arabs came in to order a hookah. (I later found out from our front desk clerk that Turks draw a distinction between themselves and Arabs, whereas in my mind I had previously lumped them all together as Middle Easterners. Jena pointed out that my schema is geographical. The Turkish distinction is more cultural. What is more, the front desk clerk told me that some Turks are not fans of the Arabic tourists. He didn’t provide a reason why except that five years ago Arab tourists had begun to overwhelm the inner city of Istanbul where Constantinople once stood. This is also the area with the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque.)

In any case, these two men were speaking English to communicate with another one of the bar workers. They swore at him in English, and then they took a seat anyway. While this interaction really had nothing to do with us, it still made us uncomfortable to hear our language spoken in such a hateful tone. Keeping an eye on these guys, we later saw them make up with the bar worker. Yet, they continued to speak to him with English curse words.

As Jena and I have seen, the use of English as a lingua franca is disconcerting at times. While it facilitates travel in a place like Turkey and especially in Istanbul (it’s spoken by tons of people), it is also the language people use to get angry at one another. (Jena and I saw an intense afternoon of this when we were stuck in the Istanbul airport due to a weather delay. Again, see her blog for details.) To me as someone whose culture is rooted in and shaped by the English language, hearing English used as a tool for altercations feels personally disturbing.

Needless to say, Jena and I were feeling uncomfortable, so we decided to settle up with the bar worker. Unfortunately, the jovial English guy wasn’t an official waiter, so we spoke to the English speaking bar worker instead. I’m not sure what kind of beer and tea we had been drinking or whether a mandatory tip was in place, but the bill was extraordinarily high. Possibly the guy was just tired of tourists for the day. Since Jena and I didn’t feel like disputing it, we paid and got out of there.

(Note: Nothing against Arabs here. They just happen to be the jerks in this story. Could have been two guys from any culture.)

Since the rain had let up by then, we decided to take another stab at exploring Taksim on our way to the audio stores. Istikal Street (which is more or less an incredibly large and crowded pedway) had fewer pedestrians although as Jena said, “If there’s one way to make a crowded walkway more awkward, give everyone an umbrella.”

As were we walking, I felt the dampness of my socks increase to the point that it was miserable in one shoe and hardly tolerable in the other. This is natural when walking in rainy conditions, but it’s also a consequence of having holes in the bottoms of both your shoes, which I did. (I wear my shoes hard. I use the same pair most days, and like a Honda, I want them to last forever.)

Jena asked how my feet were doing and asked if I wanted to buy some new shoes. I said I was fine. Shoes in a place like Taksim were certain to be too expensive.

As we walked, we both noted that we were feeling shaky from having eaten hours ago and from having tea and beer on top of that. Jena, in an uncharacteristic flash, saw a fish restaurant just off of the main street, and suggested we go there. “You want fish?” I asked. Just a day or two before, when Özge had said that Istanbul was known for its fish, Jena had said that she didn’t really have a palette for it. “I’m okay with it,” Jena said. “I need to eat something, so if it comes down to eating a snack now and having dinner later or eating dinner now, it will be cheaper to eat dinner now.” I consented.

We walked up to the place and had barely grazed the menu with our eyes when one of those annoying hosts came us to persuade us to come into the restaurant. He was pushy, and although we didn’t know it, he was the only adults with whom we would interact at this place. He kept on talking, comparing his restaurant’s prices to others (a bad sign). Because I had told Jena that she could make the call on this one and she said, “Okay,” we went in.

While we were walking, I noticed how deeply perturbed I was. I felt angry. In that moment, it occurred to me how much I hate taking the first option of something. How I like to have a large sample size so that I know I am choosing the best option out of those available. (It takes me hours to go grocery shopping, but I’m usually able to keep my total bill pretty low.) Here, I felt like I was falling prey to some trap that would ultimately lead to financial ruin. I have noted too, in another blog post that I don’t really “value” food, and this may be related to what is possibly a lower than average sense of smell. I like food and flavors, but they don’t really have the complexities for me that they seem to have for other people. So, if I’m already working from a limited stance of food appreciation, there are even more problems when I’m upset. My stomach tightens, and my appetite completely disappears.

At this seafood restaurant, a teenage worker lead us toward the stairs to the second floor. Here, another strange thing happened. Clearly, another customer and his child were coming down the narrow staircase, but the teenager didn’t stop from ascending the stairs. Up we went, awkwardly creating a traffic jam. The sense of being rushed again came over me.

On the cramped balcony where we were to eat and where other patrons were in the midst of their meals, the street noise was loud, and the children of a large family were crying. At the risk of sounding like a snob here, I’ll say that I have a really low tolerance for noisy situations. Let’s say that I may overcompensate for my lack of taste and scent with an acute sensitivity to noise. Good music to me is pure bliss. Certain soundscapes can be as beautiful to me as picturesque sunsets. On the other hand, shitty soundscapes such as that present on this balcony are hellish. Another bad sign.

At the table, an even younger teenage worker than the one who led us up opened a bottle of water and poured our glasses. This was a nice gesture as the tap water isn’t drinkable in Turkey and water isn’t always included in the meal. On the other hand, breaking the seal of a water bottle mildly connotes the contractual monetary agreement between the customer and the restaurant. After the young teenager left, another reappeared with menus. He told us about a sea bass special for two. Jena said it sounded good. I asked how much it cost in Turkish. With some scorn, he asked if we were going to speak in Turkish or English. The price was more than twice what we had been quoted outside. Jena said we needed to think about it.

When he left, Jena asked me if I wanted to leave. Her words were like the prick of a pinhole in a balloon. I exhaled and said yes. The waiter came back for a moment, and Jena told him that she was unexpectedly feeling sick. This guy, a teenager, nearly sprinted up to the next floor where the kitchen was. I guessed that he knew he had screwed up and that when the adult, the host and possibly his parent, saw us leaving the place, the kid would be punished.

Back on the the main street, Jena and I got lost in the crowd immediately because we, too, had that sense of having done something wrong and wanting to escape. When we had walked a block or two, I asked Jena if she wanted to split a simit (bagel-like thing). She said yes, and I successfully ordered one in Turkish from a guy at a stand. It was the best one-lira simit I’ve had.

From there we didn’t know what to do, but I felt happy despite the dismal weather and my wet feet. I asked Jena if she would go shoe shopping with me, and she did (though I’m sure she noted the irony). I found some well-made, waterproof, and reasonably priced shoes with an aesthetic I liked. I even had a great time speaking with the shoe salesman in Turkish and English. He ended up giving me a deal on the shoes, possibly because they didn’t have the exact color scheme I had wanted.

After that we returned to the hotel so that I could change shoes and socks, then we headed out yet again. This time we went up an alley that Jena and I had both noted during another walk. It looked like a place where the chic locals go since it was just off the main drag and not full of tourists. Jena chose a wonderful restaurant where, as she put it, “The meal looked better than it did in the picture on the menu.” I had chicken curry. Jena had a chicken salad. We both had some beers, and dinner came with complementary tea. I got such a good sense from the hipstery guys in their twenties who were running the place that I left a big tip.

We went to sleep that night feeling the way landlubbers do when they have their first night back on land after spending a few nights on the sea. The next morning we were headed to Antalya and from there we would adventurously follow the morsels of directions I gleaned off Trip Advisor to get to our place in Finike.

Some of My Thoughts Today and Last Night 8/5/14

1. İstanbul is big. Çok büyük (very big).
2. It's much more manageable in the daylight and without a fifty-pound suitcase each.
3. The crowded pedway in Alsancak, İzmir was nothing compared to Taksim Square at 10 pm on a Monday night. What are all these people doing? It's like being lost in one of those ultra-packed schools of sardines you see on David Attenborough documentaries.
4. For some reason, the busses coming into the İstanbul Otogar (bus station) take you through a labyrinthine basement before surfacing at the terminal. I swear I've seen places like this in my nightmares. First, you see sparse yellow lighting that dims in the distance down the dark tunnels to your right and left. Buses with damaged axels are jacked at strange angles. Other busses have their engines exposed, although no workers are fixing them. The cement beams of the roof of this multi-floored basement are just above the busses' roofs which makes you keenly aware of your own claustrophobia in your dark bus seat. Eventually, you see ramps climbing upward toward the surface (that you hope is above); yet, the ramps are constructed at inclines that you are certain your bus cannot ascend. (The groaning of your bus's engine suggests you are right.) When you do get a rare glimpse ahead, you note at least five busses halted in front of yours. Some drivers use their horns more than others, although it's to no avail. During this bizarre processional, occasionally the light of unexpected terzi (tailor) storefronts shine brightly through the bus windows. The shops, stalls really, advertise cleaning and clothing repairs for bus attendants. White, starched shirts hang like bleached skeletons on crowded racks. Between these shops there's a sitting room with a few men in chairs and a television which resembles the set from Sartre's No Exit. Your bus takes a sharp upward turn that defies the laws of topology. These turns continue as the yellow light of the corridor dims in and out again. Finally, the deep blue night sky begins to appear out the windows, and you continue to ascend to the terminal. When the bus does come to a halt in the middle of a mess of bus traffic, you're let off, given your baggage, and then you're walking through bus traffic three-lanes deep. These massive vehicles slide by your nose like moving walls, and you advance forward one lane at a time until you're finally on the safety of a six-inch curb. Just as you're hoping that soon you can leave this Dante-esque environment behind, Jena says, "I could really use a bathroom." So then you're dipping into the nearest building, following dented backlit signs that promise a WC, and where do they point, but down a stairwell--back down into the gloom. Jena leaves her bag with you, arms herself with one lira to pay for what will probably be an uninspiring squat toilet, and channeling the breath of Eurydice utters, "If I'm not back in ten minutes, you can presume I'm dead."
5. Having a tour guide who is also a close friend in İstanbul is AWESOME, especially when she meets you for breakfast in front of your hotel. However, seeing a close friend can make you pretty homesick.
6. There are dolphins in the Bosphorus. Who knew?
7. Whenever I hear that a place in Turkey is touristy--like İstanbul--I always presume there will be a million annoying American tourists speaking English and sounding dumb. (Like I probably sound.) But, around Turkey, there are lots of Turkish tourists, European tourists, and other Middle Eastern tourists. And a few Asian tourists.
8. Street food in Turkey is pretty great, as it is in most places. Today I had my first plain simit (round thing like a bagel) and spent a lot of time contemplating whether or not it was better than a bagel. At this point I side with bagels, but I'd rather make a simit if I were to make one of them at home. That might persuade me to their side.
9. I have now been introduced to the best baked potato I've ever had (kumpır). Jena and I plan to emulate it at home. (I didn't necessarily have the toppings described in that picture; I would argue that the ones I selected went better together.)
10. Touring a city like İstanbul is freaking tiring. Especially when it's hot. Luckily cold water is pretty cheap and easy to come by.
11. Baklava is really tasty. (Duh.)

Written Yesterday (I think) 8/4/14

At the moment, I’m on a long distance bus ride (to Istanbul) and feeling much more comfortable than I did on my last bus ride (to Izmir). This time it’s daytime, and the bus ride is scheduled to take almost half the time of the last ride. Additionally, I didn’t step onto this bus with the suspicion that I was coming onto a bout of food poisoning.

Now that we’re out of the city of Izmir—the third largest city in Turkey after Istanbul and Ankara, respectively—the landscape is rolling hills covered with green foliage and brown grasses. I see wind farm windmill blades peaking at me from a distance. Groves of farm land for crops I can’t identify sneak into view; their shapes are un-uniform patches of a verdant quilt.

Jena and I have been in Turkey for just about a month, and thanks to our Turkish class, we now have the ability to have basic conversations. Most of these involve a large amount of codeswitching between English and Turkish, and I’m hoping that over time, the ratio of Turkish to English will increase.

If there’s one thing that’s wearing on Jena and me this summer, it’s the lack of work. I wouldn’t say that the two of us are the best candidates for taking a large amount of time off because we both appreciate the regular schedule that work provides and the assurance that what one is doing on a daily basis is making a difference either to others or to oneself. As teachers, I think we tend to favor the notion of making a difference to others, and I know that for myself, I tend to favor the notion of making a monetary difference to my future self. Acknowledging that this extended break from work this summer is making a difference to our current selves is a thought that Jena and I are both likely to avoid since we both have trouble with such self-centered actions. I know on some level, however, that the break is acceptable for us, and that developing a deeper appreciation for work may assist me when it begins on September 1st.

Because we’re scheduled to begin living in Kayseri on August 18th, we now have about fourteen days we’re not sure what to do with. We looked into options like an Aegean tour. We thought about going to Greece. In the end, we have decided to stay in Turkey and tour around. (Largely, this decision resulted from concerns about our visas; they are single-entry, after all.) While this sounds easy on a superficial level, Jena and I are a little wary.

I think my main concern is cost. And when I think about cost, I can accept that we have to pay for our lodging each night. That is fine with me. It’s the notion of eating out, for every meal, that's difficult for me to accept. Jena and I had our first introduction to this phenomenon when we went to Mazatlan, Mexico for a week last year. A week was a little too long, we found out, for us to do nothing. To some extent, the trip turned into conversation after conversation about where we would eat our next meal. Because we were traveling on a budget, these conversations were often quite involved. Here in Turkey, I think we’re going to face a similar pattern unless we can find a place with a kitchen to rent. That’s probably doable; it just comes down to deciding on a location and spending a few hours doing research on the internet.

Whenever I reflect on my concerns about eating out, I often tell myself that I’m not exactly adept at eating out in my regular life. As my friend Heidi can tell you, I decline about a hundred invitations to eat out for every one I accept. Mostly, cost is on my mind because I don’t place a very high value on food. I’d rather, for instance, use my daily living money for gas, beer, and savings.

What this amounts to when traveling is the irrational logic that if I spend all this money on meals out, I have to make a compromise wherein I don’t get the things that I want—gas, beer, savings. I suppose it would be worthwhile for me to remember that on this trip, I’m not spending money on gas (which is quite expensive here), so there’s some consolation for me. As for beer and savings, I’m okay with cutting back on beer consumption. As I think I’ve noted, it’s not very good here anyway. Mineral water isn’t a bad replacement since the carbonation dances in one’s stomach in the same manner as beer. About saving money, Jena and I did take the cost of our travels this summer into account when we created a joint account with the generous monetary gifts for our wedding. Moreover, we’ll be moving to a fairly inexpensive city (Kayseri), and we’ll have at least two major elements of our accommodation covered by our jobs—rent and daily lunches. In other words, maybe, I can put my fears about being miserable and going bankrupt aside for the next fourteen days. It’s going to be okay.

What is really exciting about our first stop on this little self-created Turkey tour is that tomorrow we’ll be meeting up with Özge in Istanbul. Özge was Jena’s housemate in Flagstaff for the past year, and she is from Zungaldok (sp?), a town on the Black Sea. She is an incredibly warm and helpful person, and there have been many instances in this first month, when I have found myself saying, I wish Özge were with us. She’d make this SO much easier.

So we’ll see Özge before she leaves for America. We’re hoping to have her show us how to be a Turk in Turkey. We’re definitely going to do breakfast—what is probably the best meal to get in Turkey—and from there, we might go to the bazaar. Who knows. In any case, it’s going to be awesome to see our good friend on her turf since she dealt with us being know-it-alls about Flagstaff for the past year.

Now that Jena and I are further down the road on this bus ride to Istanbul, the setting looks much the same. I see a minaret poking out of a grove of trees beside the highway. The color of the rock that’s been cut back for the highway is a creamy white. In the distant hills, a high valley cradles a town. The roof tops of the one or two-story structures (an uncommon sight in this country) are a faded red from the clay roof titles.

For myself, it’s time do some reading or tackle some more Turkish grammar and vocabulary while our stop in Istanbul awaits.