Contrasts

While I was dreaming this morning, I opened my left eye. The bright morning lit our ceiling, our wardrobe, the window, and my nose. Although my thoughts were deeply somnolent, I commanded myself to touch my nose to guarantee my location as fully present whether within a dream or awake. I felt myself touching my face. I saw no change from my open eye. This test having been tried three or so times, I was condemned to this half-world until I called out to myself, jumping up. I went to wipe my face, though now I saw my hands were deep under the covers.

"We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy your bodily warmth some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm." -Melville, Moby Dick

We explored ancient ruins today. Four Americans who had pulled to the side of the road in Turkey. To the side of a windy dirt road in the foothills. Across the valley from the mighty snow-capped Mt. Erciyes whose ashes once covered all our surroundings and were compacted into loose rock, easily chiseled. We ascended the foothills and dove in and out of man-made caves. Some were multi-story. Some had shelves, cubby spaces for beds, and chimneys clogged with fallen rock. This landscape is our home for now. It exists in parallel with those homes we left, the state we have in common that instilled us with the dialect and culture that so easily brings us together in this foreign land.

Cappadocia

Another epistolary post.

Today Jena and I explored a little of Cappadocia. It's a big area, kind of a region, containing a few towns that's known for its houses and underground cities that are carved into the rocks. Somewhere around 1900 years ago, some of the first Christians hid in the area because of persecution from the Romans, I believe. Now the place is totally touristy, kind of like Sedona, if it had ancient history sites everywhere you look. There are lots of "cave" hotels, for instance, that you can stay in. They're built into rocky mountain sides.

To me, the place looks like Bryce Canyon in Utah, although I don't think I've ever been there. The colors here are less spectacular, though. Put another way, it's kind of like the Valley of the Goblins in Goblin Valley, but many of the goblins have been hollowed out for living.

In any case, I thought of you two today because Jena and I stumbled into this place that reminded me a lot of the Fire Furnace in Arches because you couldn't really see where you were going--there were all these waves of rocks and ups and downs and trees and whatnot. There was a mess of narrow trails that went every which way.

Most interesting and scary was this human-made tunnel that went below and through all the rock formations. At times, it was completely black, and since I didn't have a flashlight, I had to use my camera, which produced an eerie orange light for me for a few seconds before the flash went off. At other times there were small holes in the roof that reached to the surface and let some light in. I didn't explore the whole thing because a) I was afraid of the pitch black sections when I could only see so far and so much with my camera, b) I was worried I might trip in the darkness and smack my head, thus leaving Jena with no idea where I was, and c) I had no idea where I'd pop out at times. There were some places where the tunnel was open to a hole above, but the floor of the tunnel was ten feet down or so. What would have really improved the experience would have been a flashlight, so maybe I can go back and do that another day. In fact, I think Jena and I are going back to Cappadocia tomorrow (we have rented a car). We may return to the place we were, but we may just dive into to another area.

American Literature in Turkey

Disclosure: This is an excerpt from an email I wrote today to a close friend of mine in Flagstaff. Since it's also an overview of one of the classes I'm teaching, I thought it would be interesting to post it. After coming across epistolary literature for my American literature class, like Christopher Columbus's letters, for instance, I have a new interest in the medium. Ideally, I'm not breaching too many privacy concerns.

Yesterday I had my first day of teaching the American lit. class. I had a nice group of eleven students. Honestly, I hope I don't get many more students because I like small classes. My students are an interesting mix with regard to their nationalities: a South African, a Russian (the only male in the class); two Nigerians, a German/Turk, and a handful of Turks. It makes me wonder how one decides to up and come to Turkey for one's undergraduate education. I understand that the school offers a lot of 50-100% tuition-paid scholarships, so that's probably a contributing factor. Like PIE students, though, I can't imagine showing up to a place, having one year (unlike the PIE's two and a half) to become fluent in the country's language and enrolling in classes. Possibly it's easier if you are going into the English Language and Literature major, and you already know English.

In any case, my first class was a long one. The boss said not to give the syllabus and go (like many other teachers do and did); rather he wanted us to make use of the copy machines and keep the students there for the full three hours. And that I did. By the time I was on my fourth PowerPoint, I was like, Holy shit, I do not blame my students for looking worn out. (One of these PowerPoints was actually Syllabus jeopardy, which went really well; it may have been the most engaging part of the class.)

After a discussion of What is Literature? during the second hour of class, we got into Yankee Doodle. What a dumb song. It was one of the first songs I memorized on piano as a kid, and I have probably played it more than 1000 times. I still think it's totally dumb in spite of its interesting origins. Luckily, though, the ridiculous diction and tune didn't seem like it was apparent to my international group of students. Or, at least they didn't act like it was. They even listened patiently to a professional performance of it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzRhFH5OyHo

I guess the whole time I was viewing the lesson through the eyes of American high schoolers, who would probably have turned off at the notion of listening to what has become a child's song over time.

When I explained the original context of the song--from the Brits about Americans--one of my students said, "I think it's really sad." I asked why. She said, "You said that every American child knows this song, and it's about how stupid Americans are." That comment made me really happy. And it prompted an explanation of the American reappropriation of the song. I really wanted to say, it's like what rappers have done with the n-word, or what queer individuals has done with a slew of slurs. But without knowing how that explanation would go over, I decided to say it's like having a rock thrown at you, and you catching it instead of letting it hurt you.

I think some students got it. I wish I had a better diagnostic information about my students, but I'll probably get that with their first writing assignment which is due next week.

Anyway, thanks for listening to all this about my first day of class. It's simultaneously exciting and confusing, and it's also a ton of work. I feel like I would have told you all this while hanging out in the kitchen at the old Leroux house. Has the tradition of kitchen hanging out continued? I hope so. I guess it's still warm enough to be in the dining/living room, so maybe that's where you'll are these days.

Aside from work, life here is still an adventure. Lots of daily discoveries. Daily existence kind of reminds me of digging a hole in the backyard as a kid. Some of the stuff you find is worth taking note of (the location of grocery stores, places to go running, amiable street animals to pet); some of it's dangerous (fucking every intersection because of the drivers here, open construction sites, holes in the sidewalk). And some of it is just muck to get through (like taking the hot and crowded public transportation). Overall, it's survivable. The good news is that most Turks are really damn nice.

That That Surrounds Me

Granola is baking in the oven. The oven came from a generous coworker named Justin who had an extra one. It's like a family-sized toaster oven. Justin gave it to us at work, and I carried it home.

My wrist brace is on as I type. The combination of playing basketball and using a computer mouse at work has left me with a case of tendinitis. The wrist brace makes me feel like a cyborg. First, the pharmacy had to order one. When it came in, it was for the wrong hand. Eventually, I got the right one. The guy at the pharmacy put it onto my hand at the counter. I felt like a child and had to loosen it outside.

Our basil plant is dying on the coffee table. Ela, my officemate, took us downtown one day, and when we were walking past the plant stores, I stopped and wanted to buy it. I gave the man what would amount to a twenty dollar bill. He began to go from shop by shop to get change. This happens often. At the florist. At the corner market. Ela pulled the exact amount out of her purse and gave it to the man. She said to take the basil as a gift. Today I've pruned it and tried to give it more sun. I'm not sure how it will fare.

The card for our internet company sits on the coffee table next to the basil. On the card is a phone number in case I want to call them. I don't. Although I've never tried it, I'm guessing that speaking on the phone in Turkish is not my forte. It's hard enough to understand people in person when I have the help of paralinguistic gestures to guide me. The internet we have now is faster. I can use YouTube. But it cuts out sometimes, and I think it's the wiring in the building. On the night that we began the internet-getting extravaganza, the internet guy showed up to my officemate-and-neighbor's apartment earlier than expected. By the time I showed up our translator, another coworker, seemed as if she needed to go. I rushed to agree to a contract. The guy had me sign some papers and gave me a modem. Then he asked for my passport. I asked how long he needed it. My coworker said, "You'll go with him to the store now." I was in my slippers.

Our new bed is made and to my left in the bedroom. It is a queen, I think. One day this week the security man asked for our key. We gave it to him without knowing why. When we got home we had a new bed.

My legs are sore, although I rested all of yesterday and today. On Fridays the male coworkers play soccer together. I know it's called football here, but in the midst of conversations, I always forget and call it soccer. My coworkers say, "It's okay. We understand." I am fairly worthless when I have the ball. I have kicked the air more times than I'd like to admit. I have touched the ball with my hands. I have taken a shot from six feet away from the goal and despite deliberately aiming to the right of the goalie I have kicked it straight at him. Nobody knows what hackey-sacking is here, but I assure them that I can do that.

To my left, Jena is writing an email. She is the only person who understands ours trials and errors as closely as I do. And she is amazing. Case in point: We're at the home improvement store, and she knows the centimeter size for fitted sheets. Meanwhile I'm wondering to myself how I can say "Not King" to a store worker. Another example: After getting her haircut, she walked around with me in the sun today helping me to collect small Weeping Willow branches that I think I can make into baskets. I know this doesn't sound like much, but having a hobby, one that is fairly mindless and something that I can do while watching Star Trek, seems very important right now. Before we left, a professor of ours said that that Jena and I were lucky to begin our married life in a new country together. We could grow together strongly that way. Right now it feels like we have.

Work 9/2/14

work

meetings
people
trips to get water or chai (tea)
constructing a syllabus that is more internally consistent than it needs to be and that will change immediately upon the beginning of classes
distractions
realizing this is the most time Jena and I have spent apart for the last two or three months
trips to the bathroom
trying to remember everyone's names
getting computer errors in Turkish
learning about my "committee"--materials development and curriculum design
feeling competent thanks to four years of graduate education
finding out how to use the bus website
going on a "tour," which was really an excuse to buy plants, a toaster, bread, and salt and pepper shakers
discussing D. H. Lawrence with a Brit
asking Jena how her day was
easily being tired at night

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.