Sunday, November 30, 2014
Thanksgiving
Today Jena and I attended a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by a couple who works at Meliksah University with us. It was wonderful. When we came home, I made this song. All the tracks are mine except for the drumming, which Garageband supplied. Click here to listen to it: HERE.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Bogus Moment
Lights are out. The movie is playing on this inward curved screen. The movie theater is bigger than US ones. The movie--The Hunger Games: Mocking Jay Part 1--is loud. Turkish subtitles line the bottom portion of the screen.
In the movie, masses of Pan-Am (or whatever) citizens are gathering for a confrontation with the suppressive forces. The movie cuts to the face of one of the soldiers. Then...
Bam. The screen goes black. It's like the power went out. The whole theater is black, except for the exit sign.
The faint words of a friend make shadows in my mind. Something about a smoke break. Jena and I look at each other. We both say: "This must be intermission."
I add: "Good. 'Cause I need to pee."
The screen flares up again, and the cinema company says something in Turkish about how we have ten minutes. Then a commercial or two play on the big screen. Obviously, I'm not sure what happened. I was one my way to pee.
When I returned, I kept thinking: Need to smoke? Need to pray? It's cool. We've got you covered. Ten-minute break. Mid-film.
I sat down, and Jena headed out to use the restroom. But it's not like we needed to save our seats because Turkey is AWESOME and there is RESERVED seating in MOVIE THEATERS. We were exactly where I wanted to sit. Close but not too close, and exactly in the center. Finally, my obsession with being punctual to movies--inherited from my father--has allowed me to reap a reward.
Jena returned. A couple more commercials played. Then nothing. Just everyone in a pitch black room together. Then bam. Two seconds or so before it cut out, we were back in the movie.
In the movie, masses of Pan-Am (or whatever) citizens are gathering for a confrontation with the suppressive forces. The movie cuts to the face of one of the soldiers. Then...
Bam. The screen goes black. It's like the power went out. The whole theater is black, except for the exit sign.
The faint words of a friend make shadows in my mind. Something about a smoke break. Jena and I look at each other. We both say: "This must be intermission."
I add: "Good. 'Cause I need to pee."
The screen flares up again, and the cinema company says something in Turkish about how we have ten minutes. Then a commercial or two play on the big screen. Obviously, I'm not sure what happened. I was one my way to pee.
When I returned, I kept thinking: Need to smoke? Need to pray? It's cool. We've got you covered. Ten-minute break. Mid-film.
I sat down, and Jena headed out to use the restroom. But it's not like we needed to save our seats because Turkey is AWESOME and there is RESERVED seating in MOVIE THEATERS. We were exactly where I wanted to sit. Close but not too close, and exactly in the center. Finally, my obsession with being punctual to movies--inherited from my father--has allowed me to reap a reward.
Jena returned. A couple more commercials played. Then nothing. Just everyone in a pitch black room together. Then bam. Two seconds or so before it cut out, we were back in the movie.
A Day in the Life - Part 2 - Being at Work
Check email. Check coursebook. Review plans for classes--classes which may or may not be consecutive--which will begin in T-minus 27 minutes. Determine whether additional materials need to be printed or photocopied. Commit plans, which have previously remained in your head, to a sheet of paper, folded in half. (It's important to you that this sheet with the Agenda, the Announcements, and the Homework is small. It makes you feel as if everything is more doable. It gives you confidence because there's a finite space to fill up, and it reminds you that you have the ability to improvise when needed.)
Read email. Make mental notes. Mark most emails as unread because you'll deal with them later.
Put computer to sleep. Unplug headphones, mouse, ethernet cable, and power-supply cable. Put computer, coursebook, student workbook, paper-clipped handouts, and half-sheet plan for lessons in computer bag. Wrap up power-supply. Put that in bag, too. Take one more sip of tea from mug. Pick up bag and head out of the office.
Walk along the balcony/corridor, hearing the din of students' voices on the ground-floor below. Say good morning in English and Turkish to a slew of coworkers. Go to the teacher's lounge to get attendance sheet from pigeonhole. Go downstairs.
Say good morning with a friendly tone, but without a smile, to any students who have arrived in the classroom. Set up computer. Make sure the SmartBoard is off by checking this minuscule, hardly transparent button to see whether it is green or red. Type in computer's password. Take the HDMI cable and the USB cable from bag and plug them both into the computer and the wall. Turn on the Smartboard. Hear it make a comforting noise, indicating that it will work. Try touching the projector screen. See that the SmartBoard is actually not working. Switch USB ports. Listen for sounds indicating whether it will work. Sometimes they're there; sometimes they're not. Resolve yourself, annoyed, to the fact that it doesn't seem to be working today. Take pen, marker, clock, and (just in case it magically begins to work) the SmartBoard pen from your computer bag. Write agenda, today's homework assignment, and announcements on the board. Say good morning to more incoming students. Feel a sense of pressure as you note the time and realize that it's T-minus one minute or so. Wonder where half of your students are, but try to be grateful for the punctuality and the bright-eyed looks from the ones who are there.
Begin teaching. Try not to get annoyed by late comers. Try to be patient when students knock on the door before entering. It's not a knock indicating that the student will wait for permission to enter. It's a knock that announces, I'm gonna enter in about one second. And then they enter.
Teach. Use weird, idiosyncratic hand motions to try to make new language more comprehensible. (Ignore the small, nagging voice in your head from your friend who once observed your class and suggested you're hand gestures make you resemble the Abominable Snowman. Ignore the other small nagging voice that reminds you that one of the gestures you're making--as far as you have been informed--indicate that someone is ****ing in the *** according to local interpretations. Ignore the final voice that reminds you that "um," the way you pronounce it, denotes a certain part of female genitalia in Turkish.)
Focus on more important things. Look for instances of students genuinely doing a good job. Praise them. Correct instances of language use that are developmentally appropriate for the class as a whole and individual students. Somewhere, sometime, in each lesson, get a positive, unassailable morsel of enjoyment out of something.
Finish classes. Return to office. Put stuff down. Try to scare up a couple coworkers to join as you make you're way up the campus-road to the cafeteria in the student center at the top of the hill.
Depending on a variety of factors, do your best to make interesting and/or humorous conversation with those around you. On some days just listen. Wait in line for your meal. Scan your ID card, and feel a little pang of guilt because you get this lunch for free. However, your Turkish colleagues don't because it wasn't explicitly mentioned in their employment offer. Sit down at a crowded table, and turn your tray sideways when necessary to make room for others. Eat. Pay attention to the time, especially where you've got afternoon lessons to teach. Finish up. Put your tray in the dirty-tray rack. Walk back down to the English prep-school building that you call home.
Teach in the afternoon.
Return to your office. Take care of what feels like a million administrative issues--recording attendance and participation, answering emails, checking homework, etc. Look over coursebook, and put stars next to activities you'll include in your lessons the next day. Work on specific "materials office"-related assignments, because that's your "committee" for the time being. Do some planning for your American literature class, whether it's putting together a PowerPoint, designing an activity, or grading. Eventually note that most of your officemates have left because the evening has begun encroaching. Hear the office door open, and see the top of Jena's head over the bookcase that obscures your view of the entrance to your office. Make eye contact with her. Know that it's time to go.
Shoulder personal bag. Turn off lights. Lock office door. Find Jena. Head home.
Read email. Make mental notes. Mark most emails as unread because you'll deal with them later.
Put computer to sleep. Unplug headphones, mouse, ethernet cable, and power-supply cable. Put computer, coursebook, student workbook, paper-clipped handouts, and half-sheet plan for lessons in computer bag. Wrap up power-supply. Put that in bag, too. Take one more sip of tea from mug. Pick up bag and head out of the office.
Walk along the balcony/corridor, hearing the din of students' voices on the ground-floor below. Say good morning in English and Turkish to a slew of coworkers. Go to the teacher's lounge to get attendance sheet from pigeonhole. Go downstairs.
Say good morning with a friendly tone, but without a smile, to any students who have arrived in the classroom. Set up computer. Make sure the SmartBoard is off by checking this minuscule, hardly transparent button to see whether it is green or red. Type in computer's password. Take the HDMI cable and the USB cable from bag and plug them both into the computer and the wall. Turn on the Smartboard. Hear it make a comforting noise, indicating that it will work. Try touching the projector screen. See that the SmartBoard is actually not working. Switch USB ports. Listen for sounds indicating whether it will work. Sometimes they're there; sometimes they're not. Resolve yourself, annoyed, to the fact that it doesn't seem to be working today. Take pen, marker, clock, and (just in case it magically begins to work) the SmartBoard pen from your computer bag. Write agenda, today's homework assignment, and announcements on the board. Say good morning to more incoming students. Feel a sense of pressure as you note the time and realize that it's T-minus one minute or so. Wonder where half of your students are, but try to be grateful for the punctuality and the bright-eyed looks from the ones who are there.
Begin teaching. Try not to get annoyed by late comers. Try to be patient when students knock on the door before entering. It's not a knock indicating that the student will wait for permission to enter. It's a knock that announces, I'm gonna enter in about one second. And then they enter.
Teach. Use weird, idiosyncratic hand motions to try to make new language more comprehensible. (Ignore the small, nagging voice in your head from your friend who once observed your class and suggested you're hand gestures make you resemble the Abominable Snowman. Ignore the other small nagging voice that reminds you that one of the gestures you're making--as far as you have been informed--indicate that someone is ****ing in the *** according to local interpretations. Ignore the final voice that reminds you that "um," the way you pronounce it, denotes a certain part of female genitalia in Turkish.)
Focus on more important things. Look for instances of students genuinely doing a good job. Praise them. Correct instances of language use that are developmentally appropriate for the class as a whole and individual students. Somewhere, sometime, in each lesson, get a positive, unassailable morsel of enjoyment out of something.
Finish classes. Return to office. Put stuff down. Try to scare up a couple coworkers to join as you make you're way up the campus-road to the cafeteria in the student center at the top of the hill.
Depending on a variety of factors, do your best to make interesting and/or humorous conversation with those around you. On some days just listen. Wait in line for your meal. Scan your ID card, and feel a little pang of guilt because you get this lunch for free. However, your Turkish colleagues don't because it wasn't explicitly mentioned in their employment offer. Sit down at a crowded table, and turn your tray sideways when necessary to make room for others. Eat. Pay attention to the time, especially where you've got afternoon lessons to teach. Finish up. Put your tray in the dirty-tray rack. Walk back down to the English prep-school building that you call home.
Teach in the afternoon.
Return to your office. Take care of what feels like a million administrative issues--recording attendance and participation, answering emails, checking homework, etc. Look over coursebook, and put stars next to activities you'll include in your lessons the next day. Work on specific "materials office"-related assignments, because that's your "committee" for the time being. Do some planning for your American literature class, whether it's putting together a PowerPoint, designing an activity, or grading. Eventually note that most of your officemates have left because the evening has begun encroaching. Hear the office door open, and see the top of Jena's head over the bookcase that obscures your view of the entrance to your office. Make eye contact with her. Know that it's time to go.
Shoulder personal bag. Turn off lights. Lock office door. Find Jena. Head home.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
A Day in the Life - Part 1 - Getting to School
What is a typical day like?
A typical day begins with my alarm going off at 6:45 in the morning. The alarm has a standard sound--dee dee dee dee *rest* dee dee dee dee. Even though it is cheap, the alarm provides a wealth of information. It says the time (which I have set to military time, so I don't accidentally mis-set the alarm by forgetting to choose a.m. rather than p.m.). It says the day. It says the phase of the moon (maybe this feature makes the alarm popular in Turkey since Qur'anic holidays are set to a lunar calendar). It says the temperature in Celsius (although I can change it to Fahrenheit if I want to). And it says the humidity percentage. But at 6:45 in the morning, I am prone to ignore all of this information because my mind is preoccupied with a sense of indignation that my beauty sleep has been interrupted and now I must do something.
So then I walk across the living room, and there is Jena, sitting at the table. She is listening to NPR from her ipad, and she is applying makeup. She typically rises at least a half hour before me to do Pilates and to shower.
On some days I shower. On others I don't because I've showered the night before. I just douse my head with the handheld shower nozzle which helps to calm down some of my over-excited hairs that are standing on end after a night's sleep.
I eat a breakfast of yogurt and granola that I have made myself. This is one of my favorite parts of the day. One--I really like granola, especially my granola which I've made from honey, peanut butter, and cashews. And two, as I eat, I do some reading. At the moment, I'm slowly making my way through Moby Dick for a second time, although I'm thinking of changing books soon. While I love the book, it is a bit laborious during some sections. What I get out of it these days is mainly the similarities I see between Ahab and my office supervisor at work. After breakfast, I clothe myself, brush my teeth, pick up my bag, and head out the door.
Jena and I walk together to work on most days. We take the elevator down from our crows nest on the eleventh floor. We say, "Günaydın" to the security man. Usually it's the big guy who knows a little English. Sometimes Jena is turned off by his state of perpetual grumpiness, but it doesn't bother me. He seems bored with his job, and he seems like he's been cursed--due to his English--with dealing with all the "yabancılar" (foreigners) day in and day out.
The weather is getting cooler now, but some days are temperate. This was the case this week. The sky is sometimes grey with clouds, but they are often high clouds that don't give you that claustrophobic feeling the way rain clouds do.
We walk through this maze of square fouteen-story apartment buildings. I would compare it to the setting of the film The Maze Runner, but generally the atmosphere is a bit less gloomy than that. As we walk, Jena often wants to talk about our upcoming day at work and the logistics of winter vacation plans--both of which are extremely stress-laden topics for me. At this time of the morning, I prefer silence or music or the news so that I can disconnect from the realities of my somewhat unstimulating daily existence. I often daydream about what life would be like on a whaling ship. Or I yearn for the ability to travel back in time to the middle ages. (I have accidentally become engrossed in Game of Thrones, and normally I would chastise myself for having such a dependance on a television show. These days, though, I give myself a break and view it as a coping mechanism as I go through the requisite phase of adjustment that accompanies moving to another country and beginning a full-time job.)
We pass by a Turkish elementary school each morning, and in the play-yard kids are often running around. Some kids walk to school alone. Others walk with a parent. It's not uncommon to see a father carrying one of those micro-sized backpacks while his child, all bundled up, follows behind. Oddly enough, Jena and I walk by this school at almost the exact same time every morning. Yet, on some days the yard is mostly vacant. On other days the yard is mostly full. Just this past Friday, their bell--which sounds a lot like the Tetris theme song--sounded as we walked by, and all the children went running to the doors with so much enthusiasm that it made me jealous.
When Jena and I get to the top of this little hill, we cross the busy street to the main entrance of our university. I can't think of a better place for a crosswalk or at least a change in speed limit. Since neither are present, we look both ways with an extreme sense of precaution. I should note, too, that this is a divided road, the kind with a grassy median. Looking both ways sounds silly, right? While crossing to the median, you should only need to pay attention to traffic going one direction, right? Not in Turkey. I have been blindsided more than once by a horn from a car going the wrong way.
After this daily little panic attack of getting across the road alive, we walk through the main entrance of the university where things are a bit more mellow. We pass the security checkpoint for cars, and then we get to these gates--I'm not sure what to call them; they're the metal bars that are waist-high that you use in subway stations that revolve after you put your ticket them and push on them. So we get to these things, and on days when my brain has fully shedded the aegis of sleep, everything goes fine. On days when I can't get the damn things to work, and when my Turkish fails me when the security guy comes to help, I begin my days with a heavy sense of frustration and inadequacy. There's slight consolation in the fact that you have to put your ID against the sensor on your left side while you push through the bars on the right side. So counter-intuitive. So Turkey.
The final leg of the walk is pleasant. There are relatively few cars on the street that heads past the auditorium, past the library, and up into the main part of the university. Usually the bread guy drives by. He's one of the bakers who works for the bakery in the bottom floor of the apartment building next to ours. He's pretty patient when I practice my Turkish with him. There's another guy who rides by each day on a bike. I don't know what his job is, but you can tell he's got his ducks in a row. His bike is old, the kind that has a basket in front and those handle bars that bend back toward the rider. He has this piece of plastic, cut from a water bottle and attached to his mudguard. Clearly, he knows from experience that the mudguard, as originally manufactured, isn't working as well as it should. And when he rides up to the university, he does this little move to get around these speed bumps set in place for the cars. The speed bumps are made from these three or four-inch pieces of hard yellow plastic that are attached to the asphalt in two staggered rows. When the bicyclist gets to them, he maneuvers his bike just so between them and doesn't get jostled at all.
To our right on the sidewalk is a small park area. There's a green area that has flowers of various colors along its boarders. There are a few benches under free-standing arches. The scene is symmetrical: a path on the right and one on the left head to two staircases that circle up behind a wall at the far side of the park. Two small waterfalls splash down rocks on either side of the green area. On warm days students hang out here. In the beginning of the school year, there were concerts here as well.
Between the auditorium and the library, you can catch glimpses of the open area down the hill that belongs to the large state-funded university nearby. The university is growing, constantly erecting new buildings; yet, for the time being, there is a magnificent open area that is free from development. It provides a counter-point to the monstrous apartment buildings surrounding its borders.
Our building, the "hazırlık," is the first building on the left, after the main road curves up a steeper hill. Jena and I walk down the sidewalk to the front doors. Sometimes I keep an eye out for stray puppies because coworkers have found them here before. The front doors of our building are sliding glass doors, like those you'd find in a grocery store, but ours are bigger and free from advertisements. They don't have the most sensitive sensors, so sometimes you have to watch your walking pace so that you don't end up running your face into the glass. When the doors don't open, you take a step back and wave your hand up at the black ball at the top. It's not a huge deal, but the action makes me feel like a helpless idiot, nonetheless.
Once inside, we head up some stairs that are beside this strange amphitheater area that is never used for anything official and that faces a wall. The wall crowds in a little too closely on the stage area, and the wall is covered with wallpaper that makes it look like the wall is made from stone. But it's not. I've checked.
Our shared offices are on the top floor of the building, and when we get there, Jena always turns to me and says, "Have a good day." It's very sweet of her. My "You, too." sounds lackluster in comparison. But it's hard to get a longer phrase in because she is quick to disappear into her office, which right at the top of the stairs. I wander down the hall--to my left are more offices and a couple computer labs, to my right is a handrail because the hallway is actually a balcony that looks over the foyer and the amphitheater. When I get to the door at the end, I head in and begin my work day.
A typical day begins with my alarm going off at 6:45 in the morning. The alarm has a standard sound--dee dee dee dee *rest* dee dee dee dee. Even though it is cheap, the alarm provides a wealth of information. It says the time (which I have set to military time, so I don't accidentally mis-set the alarm by forgetting to choose a.m. rather than p.m.). It says the day. It says the phase of the moon (maybe this feature makes the alarm popular in Turkey since Qur'anic holidays are set to a lunar calendar). It says the temperature in Celsius (although I can change it to Fahrenheit if I want to). And it says the humidity percentage. But at 6:45 in the morning, I am prone to ignore all of this information because my mind is preoccupied with a sense of indignation that my beauty sleep has been interrupted and now I must do something.
So then I walk across the living room, and there is Jena, sitting at the table. She is listening to NPR from her ipad, and she is applying makeup. She typically rises at least a half hour before me to do Pilates and to shower.
On some days I shower. On others I don't because I've showered the night before. I just douse my head with the handheld shower nozzle which helps to calm down some of my over-excited hairs that are standing on end after a night's sleep.
I eat a breakfast of yogurt and granola that I have made myself. This is one of my favorite parts of the day. One--I really like granola, especially my granola which I've made from honey, peanut butter, and cashews. And two, as I eat, I do some reading. At the moment, I'm slowly making my way through Moby Dick for a second time, although I'm thinking of changing books soon. While I love the book, it is a bit laborious during some sections. What I get out of it these days is mainly the similarities I see between Ahab and my office supervisor at work. After breakfast, I clothe myself, brush my teeth, pick up my bag, and head out the door.
Jena and I walk together to work on most days. We take the elevator down from our crows nest on the eleventh floor. We say, "Günaydın" to the security man. Usually it's the big guy who knows a little English. Sometimes Jena is turned off by his state of perpetual grumpiness, but it doesn't bother me. He seems bored with his job, and he seems like he's been cursed--due to his English--with dealing with all the "yabancılar" (foreigners) day in and day out.
The weather is getting cooler now, but some days are temperate. This was the case this week. The sky is sometimes grey with clouds, but they are often high clouds that don't give you that claustrophobic feeling the way rain clouds do.
We walk through this maze of square fouteen-story apartment buildings. I would compare it to the setting of the film The Maze Runner, but generally the atmosphere is a bit less gloomy than that. As we walk, Jena often wants to talk about our upcoming day at work and the logistics of winter vacation plans--both of which are extremely stress-laden topics for me. At this time of the morning, I prefer silence or music or the news so that I can disconnect from the realities of my somewhat unstimulating daily existence. I often daydream about what life would be like on a whaling ship. Or I yearn for the ability to travel back in time to the middle ages. (I have accidentally become engrossed in Game of Thrones, and normally I would chastise myself for having such a dependance on a television show. These days, though, I give myself a break and view it as a coping mechanism as I go through the requisite phase of adjustment that accompanies moving to another country and beginning a full-time job.)
We pass by a Turkish elementary school each morning, and in the play-yard kids are often running around. Some kids walk to school alone. Others walk with a parent. It's not uncommon to see a father carrying one of those micro-sized backpacks while his child, all bundled up, follows behind. Oddly enough, Jena and I walk by this school at almost the exact same time every morning. Yet, on some days the yard is mostly vacant. On other days the yard is mostly full. Just this past Friday, their bell--which sounds a lot like the Tetris theme song--sounded as we walked by, and all the children went running to the doors with so much enthusiasm that it made me jealous.
When Jena and I get to the top of this little hill, we cross the busy street to the main entrance of our university. I can't think of a better place for a crosswalk or at least a change in speed limit. Since neither are present, we look both ways with an extreme sense of precaution. I should note, too, that this is a divided road, the kind with a grassy median. Looking both ways sounds silly, right? While crossing to the median, you should only need to pay attention to traffic going one direction, right? Not in Turkey. I have been blindsided more than once by a horn from a car going the wrong way.
After this daily little panic attack of getting across the road alive, we walk through the main entrance of the university where things are a bit more mellow. We pass the security checkpoint for cars, and then we get to these gates--I'm not sure what to call them; they're the metal bars that are waist-high that you use in subway stations that revolve after you put your ticket them and push on them. So we get to these things, and on days when my brain has fully shedded the aegis of sleep, everything goes fine. On days when I can't get the damn things to work, and when my Turkish fails me when the security guy comes to help, I begin my days with a heavy sense of frustration and inadequacy. There's slight consolation in the fact that you have to put your ID against the sensor on your left side while you push through the bars on the right side. So counter-intuitive. So Turkey.
The final leg of the walk is pleasant. There are relatively few cars on the street that heads past the auditorium, past the library, and up into the main part of the university. Usually the bread guy drives by. He's one of the bakers who works for the bakery in the bottom floor of the apartment building next to ours. He's pretty patient when I practice my Turkish with him. There's another guy who rides by each day on a bike. I don't know what his job is, but you can tell he's got his ducks in a row. His bike is old, the kind that has a basket in front and those handle bars that bend back toward the rider. He has this piece of plastic, cut from a water bottle and attached to his mudguard. Clearly, he knows from experience that the mudguard, as originally manufactured, isn't working as well as it should. And when he rides up to the university, he does this little move to get around these speed bumps set in place for the cars. The speed bumps are made from these three or four-inch pieces of hard yellow plastic that are attached to the asphalt in two staggered rows. When the bicyclist gets to them, he maneuvers his bike just so between them and doesn't get jostled at all.
To our right on the sidewalk is a small park area. There's a green area that has flowers of various colors along its boarders. There are a few benches under free-standing arches. The scene is symmetrical: a path on the right and one on the left head to two staircases that circle up behind a wall at the far side of the park. Two small waterfalls splash down rocks on either side of the green area. On warm days students hang out here. In the beginning of the school year, there were concerts here as well.
Between the auditorium and the library, you can catch glimpses of the open area down the hill that belongs to the large state-funded university nearby. The university is growing, constantly erecting new buildings; yet, for the time being, there is a magnificent open area that is free from development. It provides a counter-point to the monstrous apartment buildings surrounding its borders.
Our building, the "hazırlık," is the first building on the left, after the main road curves up a steeper hill. Jena and I walk down the sidewalk to the front doors. Sometimes I keep an eye out for stray puppies because coworkers have found them here before. The front doors of our building are sliding glass doors, like those you'd find in a grocery store, but ours are bigger and free from advertisements. They don't have the most sensitive sensors, so sometimes you have to watch your walking pace so that you don't end up running your face into the glass. When the doors don't open, you take a step back and wave your hand up at the black ball at the top. It's not a huge deal, but the action makes me feel like a helpless idiot, nonetheless.
Once inside, we head up some stairs that are beside this strange amphitheater area that is never used for anything official and that faces a wall. The wall crowds in a little too closely on the stage area, and the wall is covered with wallpaper that makes it look like the wall is made from stone. But it's not. I've checked.
Our shared offices are on the top floor of the building, and when we get there, Jena always turns to me and says, "Have a good day." It's very sweet of her. My "You, too." sounds lackluster in comparison. But it's hard to get a longer phrase in because she is quick to disappear into her office, which right at the top of the stairs. I wander down the hall--to my left are more offices and a couple computer labs, to my right is a handrail because the hallway is actually a balcony that looks over the foyer and the amphitheater. When I get to the door at the end, I head in and begin my work day.
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