Turkish Delight

Oh So Friendly

2010-06-09T00:35:00.000-07:00

Our dear friends Steve and Kristal came to visit us recently. I loved almost everything about their visit. Wonderful conversation, good food, playing games, seeing the country. They jumped right in and loved, played with, and took care of our kids as if they were their own. Kristal even babysat all three of them so that I could take a nap. That act alone will make me sing Kristal's praises until the day I die.

One thing that I loved about Steve and Kristal's visit, though, surprised me. I wasn't expecting their visit to make me love Turkey more. But it did. Somehow seeing my home through fresh eyes reminded me of what an amazingly beautiful part of the world I live in. Turkey is gorgeous. It just is. Not only that, Turkey is full of super friendly, super helpful, super nice people. Sure, not everybody is friendly and nice, but a lot of them are. And today I want to take a moment to remember a few of the examples of people who put a smile on my face just by taking the time to be friendly to a stranger.

While out on our whirlwind tour of Turkish sites, we went through a little village whose claim to fame was an underground city. In the Cappadocia region of Turkey, these amazingly huge matrixes of ancient caves are sprinkled all over. Apparently they could hold 2-3000 people during times of war. Hopefully a future post will tell more about it.

This particular village wasn't on the main tourist route, so although they have a huge amazing underground city underneath them, they aren't swamped with hoards of people coming to see it. That was good news for us because it meant no crowds, and cheaper prices. Some of the local women were trying to capitalize on the trickle of tourists who wander through by making and selling traditional dolls. At only $1.50 a pop, the dolls were a steal.

Kristal and I took the girls across the street to check out the dolls and when the ladies found that I knew Turkish they swarmed us, asking questions, taking turns holding baby Clara, and of course trying to convince us to buy more dolls.

Once we successfully picked out a few dolls, we let the ladies know we were waiting for our husbands who were out buying some bread, cheese, and tomatoes for our picnic lunch. One of the ladies who had been holding and rocking Clara for me under a shady tree looked up disappointed and asked, "But I live so close by. Why didn't you just come over to my house for lunch?"

See, didn't I tell you they were friendly?!

The next morning we walked into a pottery shop where we interrupted an old lady as she ate her cucumber and cheese breakfast. Not only did she insist on showing us how her husband made the pottery and how strong it was by making Kristal balance on a wobbly clay pot (which I'm still kicking myself for not getting a picture of), she also insisted that we split her cucumbers with her.

Nice!

Later that day as we were driving back from our Cappadocia adventures, our tire blew out. We had just passed by a creek and a couple of little restaurants, but the area really looked like a ghost town. We pulled to the side of the road only to see a completely shredded front tire. James and Steve stood there looking at it deciding what to do when a few men came out of the deserted restaurant across the street to see if they could help. Word spread and pretty soon every male in the area was crowded around our car chatting away trying to come up with a solution.

Kristal, the kids, and I meandered over to the empty restaurant (which happened to have a little trout pool and a play area for the kids) and were served free glasses of Turkish tea while the guys across the street finally decided to put James in one of their cars and take off down the road (actually way down the road, the nearest tire selling town being a 35 or 40 minute drive). Eventually they came back, a few guys gathered around, and a couple of them got down in the dirt and changed the tire while James looked on. Finally, James shook hands all around, came over to the restaurant, ate a nice fish lunch, and we were on our way again.

Thank you friendly guys! You made what could have been a big headache into a really pleasant experience! And your fish tastes good too.

Life on the first floor of a ten story building

2010-02-28T09:55:00.000-08:00

A couple of months ago I was talking with my friend Tracy over Skype. She recently moved to a hay farm and was talking about the amazing feeling of walking out your door, looking over acres and acres of land and seeing no one. To Tracy, the open spacious emptiness feels nice, free, peaceful. She said that before moving there (they moved because her husband went to work with his dad on the farm), when she and her family lived in the suburbs in California, her father-in-law would come visit and ask them how they could stand living so close to other people. Just knowing that right on the other side of the fence were more houses, and random strangers were constantly walking by made his skin crawl I guess.

She never got it. Never felt crowded in, wasn't bugged by the small piece of land her family called home. And then they moved to the farm. And then she breathed in and looked out over the open space and understood. She told me that no one just happens to walk by. If a car or truck comes driving up it's because they're coming to see you. And all of that openness and space feels really really good.

So a few mornings ago I was standing in my bathroom brushing my teeth, remembering my conversation with Tracy. I was thinking about the suburbs, about hanging out in the backyard and knowing that you're surrounded by three other backyards. I was remembering a house in California that we lived in for a short time and how people would sometimes walk by who we didn't know. I was trying to decide how I felt about it all.

And then I heard the sound of a man standing directly above my head peeing. And then I heard him flush his toilet.

And that was the first time in my life I ever considered hay farming as my next possible career.

Day Trip

2010-01-20T03:31:00.000-08:00

Last week our friend Chris came to visit. It was a good excuse for us to get out and see some things.

James went to Istanbul to meet Chris at the airport and then tour him around the city a bit. Istanbul is AMAZING. It's one place I would highly recommend to anyone. Absolutely beautiful city with so much rich history. You have to watch out for everyone trying to make a buck off the tourists (carpet salesmen, shoe shiners, people selling all sorts of trinkets) but it's well worth braving that circus to see the sights.

Or is it see the sites? I'm confused on that point, among other things.

I just have to mention here that this is James' second trip to Istanbul since we've been a family of five (the past four months) and I've gone a total of zero times. I stay home and watch the wee ones. I've told James that once Clara is weaned I'll be getting paid back for my multiple sacrifices. He'll stay with the kids and I'll. . . well, I'll go do something. Not sure what just yet. What do mothers of small children do for a weekend away? I don't know. But it will be something. That's for sure.

Upon James and Chris' arrival in Ankara, I forced them back out the door (I think they were hoping to catch a few winks after not sleeping on a night train) and we took a day trip to Beypazari. Just an hour away, but I'd never been before.

Beypazari grows something like 65% of Turkey's carrots. That's a lot of carrots man. They make some tasty stuff with the carrots too. One kind shop owner gave us homemade pieces of carrot flavored Turkish delight. I didn't have high expectations, I mean carrot Turkish delight? Serious? But I was flabbergasted. It was quite possibly the best tasting Turkish delight I've ever eaten. And that's really saying something.

The little town is also full of silversmiths. They make absolutely beautiful jewelry.

I spotted this friendly chap in his shop tinkering away at a delicate silver necklace like the ones displayed on the wall behind him. He told us (and demonstrated) all about cutting the silver, bending it, making it into beautiful things.

I think Elise and I could have enjoyed perusing the sparkly stuff a bit longer, but James wasn't into it. Boys... what are you gonna do?

This is Beypazari's fameous 80 layer baklava. A bit of baklava trivia for you. . . most baklava is 40 layers, but the folks in Beypazari stepped it up a notch or two or 40 and make theirs with 80 layers. Free samples. De-lish.

Hand made soaps in all different scents. I bought pomegranate, orange, and apricot.

Dried peppers, eggplants, spices, and what not. I picked up some dried celery to throw into my soups. Celery stalks are a bit hard to come by around here, so dried celery leaf seems like just the type of thing I need.

Saving the best for last. These ladies are dressed in the traditional clothes for this part of Turkey. I think it is one hundred percent awesome! I mean if I lived here and donned one of these flowey outfits, nobody would know it if I ate too much baklava and turkish delight and gained five or fifty pounds. Beautiful.

The verdict: I LOVE BEYPAZARI. I can't wait to go back. I hear that in May cherries are in season and the thought of fresh cherries and cherry treats makes me giddy with anticipation. And May would be the perfect time to visit Turkey. Chris, do you want to come back?

Nylons

2010-01-04T00:28:00.001-08:00

I went down to the yarn store a couple days ago. Apparently they also sell lady's nylons. Just to make sure everyone knows it, they put one on display out on the sidewalk. So tasteful...

Wait a minute. . . this scene looks strangely familiar. . . could it be the leg from The Christmas Story major award?!

The Pazar

2010-01-02T05:36:00.000-08:00

I went to the pazar again today... I still love it. It's such a feast for the senses. So colorful. So loud. So YUMMY... did I mention before that they are always holding out bits of tasty goodness to try as you walk around? A little section of a juicy orange. A sweet strawberry. A crisp slice of apple. A salty olive. I'm getting hungry just remembering it. Hold on... I'm going to go have a mandarin orange.

Okay, I'm back. So as I was saying, I went to the pazar this morning and took along my camera so you could enjoy it with me... well except for the tastes, sounds, and smell and feels. Is feels a word? Can I use it in that sentence?

I think these are four types of radishes. I haven't been brave enough to buy any of them because 1) I don't like radishes. 2) I'm really not sure if that's what they are... and if not, how do I use them? and 3) Black radishes? Weird.

Fruits and veggies of all kinds. . . I'm getting hungry again.

There are always these little hand made signs trying to let the pazar goers know just how amazingly good the produce is. Usually fruit says "like sugar" or "like honey," but this one, "like baklava" was new to me. Apparently this orange is sweet as a sticky piece of baklava. . . it also has a "thin skin" and is "SUPER!" And if knowledge that an orange is super doesn't make you want to buy it, what will?

More mandarin oranges than you can shake a stick at.

This guy was really excited about me taking pictures. Said I have to get a photo of his beautiful pomegranate flower.

There it is. Ain't that a beaut?! Smack dab in between the mandarins and the Asian pears. Next the pomegranate guy said he wanted copies of the pictures. He asked if I could post them on facebook. Awkward moment because. . .

Rabbit trail. Yesterday I accidently found out that someone had blocked me on facebook. Yes. Blocked me. As in I can't see you, you can't see me, we never cross facebook paths. I was a little sad. But then today I was desperately wishing for a real life face-to-face facebook "block" or even "ignore" button. Because, no offense pomegranate guy who I just met and probably wont ever see again except when I really want a ruby red juicy pomegranate, but I don't really want to be facebook friends with you, and it's awkward telling you that to your face.

Dried fruits and nuts.

An assortment of freshly baked breads. . . Am I the only one who suddenly wants a bagel? Too bad I can't get them in Turkey. But I can get bazlama. Take that bagel eaters!

And see those square tins. They're full of homemade cheese. It's good too! Kind of feta-ish. I bought a bag full.

Saving the best for last. . . OLIVES!

This woman lives along the Mediterranean. She and her family grow and make olives and olive oil (the two bottles on the bottom right are full of homemade olive oil). She's not a regular at the pazar, but came today to sell her olivey goodness. And apparently she also makes stuffed cabbage leaves, since that's what her grandson is eating for lunch. Yummy, yummy, and yummy.

A Christmas Camel Ride

2009-12-29T05:18:00.000-08:00

One great thing about Turkey is that in some places you can find tourist camels. Not camels who are tourists, but camels for the tourists. They live on the roadside in popular destinations like Cappadocia. For a small fee you can climb up a ladder and onto a big cushy camel saddle. For another small fee you can ride that camel up and down the street.

The other day while James and I were driving back from visiting friends for Christmas we drove by a roadside camel and I shouted, “STOP!!” James freaked out and pulled to the side of the road thinking that I had gone into labor or that the car was about to explode or something (not that I’m pregnant or have any special impending explosion sensing powers). He was like, “What?” and I was like, “Hello? A camel! We have to get a family photo!” We had a photo taken a couple of years ago, (as you can see on the side of the blog) but we've had another baby since then and I decided it was time for an update.

So we all piled out of the car, Marie yelling, “Tamoh, tamoh, tamoh!” And running as fast as her little feet could carrier her toward the giant beast, and Elise being dragged out of the car complaining that we were interrupting her Veggie Tales movie. Obviously no real live hairy camel can compare to Larry the Cucumber.

The camel keeper guy set a ladder up and I climbed on first, then James handed up the baby. Suddenly a family camel photo did not seem like such a good idea. I mean what kind of mother holds her tiny baby in one arm while seated precariously nine feet in the air, on top of a wooly camel? Next up was Elise, still mad about us interrupting her movie, then Marie who was freaking out and shouting, “No tamoh... no wan it. No tamoh!” Finally James squeezed his way onto the saddle and the camel guy snapped a few photos.

Elise only lifted her head for the picture upon being threatened to have her movie taken away if she didn’t. Marie quietly cried, and I smiled while silently praying that the camel would stay still and none of my offspring would fall to their death.

Three pictures and a few dollars later we climbed down the ladder, I breathed a big sigh of relief, Marie went running toward the car as fast as her little legs could carry her saying, “No like tamoh. No wan it,” and Elise got back to her precious video.

Threats, smiles, tears... all in all a fairly normal family photo session. Except that instead of in front of a Christmas tree, it happened to be on top of a wooly camel.

I’ve thrown in a few extras I snapped of other tourists getting their camel experience. Enjoy.

These poor girls started screaming the second their dad put them up on the camel. I broke the camera out just a few seconds too late, but at least you all can still enjoy the look of betrayal and utter fear on their faces with me. . . sad but funny. It reminded me of watching kids getting on Santa's lap at the mall... the things parents do for a good photo.

I love this one... I think the camel is asking, "Okay, who's next?"

And two more happy tourists hop on.

The Vacuum Hangers

2009-12-19T11:50:00.000-08:00

These are suction cup hooks that you can hang on the wall so you can hang stuff on the wall.

The front of the package lets me know what they are in both Turkish (Vakum Aski) and English (Vacuum Hnagers), which is really handy for me.... it makes my life easier.

It gets better. The directions for use are on the back. And they are 100% English. Follow along with me as I figure out how to hang up my hangers. . .

1. First choose the right mounting position and clean off the dust and grease on the mounting surface.

2. Like the chart shows installs when please do speak the sucker the lock catch from under upward switchroom

3. Pastes the sucker is assigning the position, the forcibly compaction sucker central position, as far as possible except internal air.

4. After the sucker compaction, downward tightens the sucker lock catch from on, then uses

Um. . . I don't know what went wrong. I was not successful at hanging my vacuum hangers, but I did successfully speak to compacted internal air on a sucker chart in the switchroom. . . so I guess that's worth something.

Dancing

2009-12-18T01:21:00.000-08:00

I LOVE LOVE LOVE to watch Turks dance. One dance is called the halay (hall-eye). Everybody gathers into a line, links pinkies, and then jumps and kicks in unison along with lots of hooting and hollering. The line goes around and around in a big bouncy energetic circle. . . SO MUCH FUN! Sometimes on summer nights we come upon a bunch of people out in the street dancing and celebrating a wedding. Five years ago James and I tried to get lessons... it never worked out, but that's another story for another time...

The other night James' school had a teacher appreciation dinner. The restaurant had a d.j. and at some point a really spunky girl who James says is the schools' computer lab teacher jumped up with a big hoot, pulled out a sequenced hankey, and ran out on the dance floor. Several of the other teachers followed her and lots of fun ensued (usually the one leading the halay line carries a brightly colored sequenced hankey in one hand and has their other hand pinkie-linked to the next dancer).

This is one moment where pictures just don't do justice to the fun scene. I was so sad to get home and see that they look like nothing but blurry people or ladies standing around... believe me, there was so much motion, so much energy, so much noise... I'll show you the pictures, but I am thoroughly disappointed in them.

You see those black boots? I want them.

Now I'm left wondering, do Turks always carry these hankeys around, you know, just in case an opportunity to dance comes up? Or did this girl just decide to tuck it into her purse for that night?

Check out computer girl's face. She was cracking me up. . . such intensity and concentration the entire time.

Obviously these next pictures weren't taken at the restaurant a few nights ago.

Shortly after our arrival in Turkey five years ago, James made a trip with some friends up to Turkey's amazingly beautiful Black Sea coastal region and ended up making friends with a group of Turkish high school students while picnicking in a lush green valley (surrounded by snow capped mountains... how amazing is that?!). Pretty soon music broke out and dancing ensued.

Don't these pictures just make you want to run into a grassy field and belt out, "The hills are alive . . . with the sound of music!!!!" I just had to throw in this last picture, the scene they were all looking at while dancing. . . Now that looks like some dancing I could whole heartedly join into!

Volleyball practice

2009-12-11T13:51:00.000-08:00

James came home from school today with an extra skip in his step. He informed me that several of the staff were getting together for volleyball after school. He said it was some sort of staff vs. students game. He LOVES sports and doesn't get to play often so was really excited to jump into some athletic clothes, jump out the door, jump into the game, and jump up to spike that ball.

He returned about an hour later a bit disappointed. Apparently the man who told James about the game was the girl's volleyball coach. When poor James walked into the gym, ready to get his game on he found that guy and 10 high school girls... the volleyball team.

Apparently there were a few awkward moments and then James joined them for one game... The coach plus 5 girls vs. James plus 5 girls. James' team won. He told me he felt really weird being there... but felt a little more weird about showing up in athletic clothes, obviously ready to play, and then just turning around and leaving, so in the end decided that one quick game was the best solution.

After every point the teams ran to the center for a big group high five. Mostly because he wanted to maintain his distance and not give any appearance of being creepy, James didn't really want to join in the 14 year old girl group high five and tried to stay out of it. Somewhere around half way through the game though, one of the girls did a really nice set, and James spiked the ball. His whole team ran over and surrounded him for the big high five when suddenly one of the girls exclaimed "Wow! Your eyes are blue AND green!!!!" and suddenly James had five adolescent girls all trying to look at his eyes. Not exactly what he pictured when he jumped out the door and over to the school for a volleyball game.

Note: Most, though not all, Turks have dark brown eyes. They LOVE blue and green eyes and almost every time they notice them have to stop and take a look. Once while I was in the middle of delivering a baby (by c-section) a nurse noticed my green eyes, said something about it and everyone in the delivery room gathered around to take a look.

So now I'm wondering about this volleyball coach. Who knows what the guy was trying to explain... perhaps that once in a while staff members join the volleyball team at practice? Perhaps he was just explaining his job to James? Maybe the Turkish word for team and the word for staff are similar? Or maybe he just wanted to trick James into helping out at practice... I'm afraid it's doomed to be an unsolved mystery.

And what were those girls thinking about all this? Would you have thought your high school Spanish or French teacher was weird if he decided to join your volleyball practice? Don't answer that, because my poor husband really isn't that strange... culturally challenged, yes. Lingually handicapped, definitely. Strange, no.

*after writing this post, James told me that the next day at school the PE teacher told him, "James gitti mac bitti" translation: James left and the match was over. Apparently the team continued their tournament but James' team (minus James) lost miserably. Poor girls.

Mmmmm.... Ketchup.

2009-11-22T13:06:00.000-08:00

Warning: The photos on this post are deeply disturbing... please do not proceed if you have a weak stomach...

Or if you are allergic to ketchup.

A few years back my friend Nimet her two teenage daughters and I were eating some leftover spaghetti at my house. I made it your typical American way... noodles with a tomato based sauce on top. Nimet's older daughter asked how I made the sauce (no jars of spaghetti sauce here... I have to do it from scratch).

I explained the whole process - browning some ground beef, chopping peppers, onions, tomatos, garlic... adding things to the pot, simmering, tasting, adding a little more of this or that.

Melike (Nimet's daughter, pronounced Mel-ee-kay) seemed surprised by all the work I'd done just for pasta. As far as I can figure, pasta is kind of a poor man's food here. Unless you can't afford more, you generally don't serve it to dinner guests. It's something you eat for a quick lunch, or when you're in a hurry, or because you can't afford something better. Maybe that's one reason why not much work is put into it.

Melike: Wow! This took you a long time to make (inferring, I think, that if something takes that long it should really taste much better)

Me: Yeah. In America I can just buy a jar of spaghetti sauce, but here I have to make my own.

Melike: A lot of times we just boil the noodles and then put some ketchup on top.

Me: Ketchup... really?

Melike: Nodding an affirmative. Mmmmm hmmm. It's delicious... sometimes we squirt ketchup and mayonaise on top together. You should try it, it tastes really good!

Me: Glancing at Nimet to see if I can catch a twinkle in her eye indicating that her daughter is pulling my leg. It wasn't there.

Nimet: I'm surprised you don't eat it that way! It's so much easier and really delicious!

Me: Realizing they're completely serious... Yeah, um, maybe I'll try that. . . and maybe pigs will fly over Turkey and you'll shoot them down and eat the bacon. Okay, obviously nothing about pigs came out of my mouth... and in case you didn't know it, Turkey is a Muslim country, so eating pork products is a big BIG no no. . . at some point James and I decided that pigs flying was not quite impossible enough so instead of just saying "when pigs fly," we added in the second part too. . . ya know, to make the unlikely even more unlikely. Plus it makes us laugh, but anyway . . .

I had forgotten all about this conversation until I looked at our ketchup bottle a couple of weeks ago and saw this:

Just the thought of covering my spaghetti noodles like this makes me cringe.

Euch... eeew... blech. I've got to look away.... and switch to a brand of ketchup that doesn't have indecent pictures.

The sad part for me is that apparently just the thought of choking down my homemade sauce makes Nimet and Melike cringe.... and they didn't have to just look at a photo of it... I actually served it to them for lunch, poor things. They'd much prefer the scene on the ketchup bottle... a forkful of noodles happily swimming in a sea of ketchup.

*note... if you happen to enjoy noodles with ketchup, please don't hate me because it makes me gag. I'm happy for you and for whoever cooks your food. It's really great that you can enjoy such an easy to make meal, just don't invite me for lunch, okay?

Adventures at the Health Clinic

2009-11-18T22:54:00.000-08:00

The H1N1 shot has just been released here in Turkey for children age 6 mo. to 5 years. Previous to this week only health care professionals and Muslims making the pilgrimage to Mecca (the haj) had access to the shot.

I decided to take Elise and Marie down to the public health clinic to get the inoculation. Clara just turned two months old and was due for another round of shots, so it made sense (in my mind at least) to just get all the pain and agony out of the way in one fell swoop... kill two (or three?) birds with one stone...bite the bullet... go for the gold... you get the picture.

A couple of days ago while James was at work I dressed my children warmly, put Elise and Marie in a double stroller, strapped Clara onto my chest with a baby carrier and headed off to the health clinic.

I should re-state here that Turks in big cities do not normally have children as close together as Americans do. And for reasons that I can't fully grasp, whenever I am out with my three little ones (three is too many kids according to many of my friends) I am stared at as if I came from another planet or am a strange freak of nature. I am asked almost daily if Elise (almost 5) and Marie (2 1/2) are twins, even though Elise is head and shoulders taller than her sister. I think people just can't comprehend me having that many children that close together.

So my freaky brood of kids and I went down the street a few blocks for the dreaded shots. We were stopped 3 times in the 10 minute walk by people who wanted to ask me if I had twins or inform me that my kids weren't dressed warm enough. We arrived at the building to find it crowded with mothers and children waiting to get shots. A nurse noticed the baby hanging off of me and ushered me upstairs for baby shots since downstairs was dedicated to the swine flu vaccine.

Fertile Myrtle (me) and her three kids were put in a small room with two desks, a table for the patient to sit on, and one nurse who first asked if Elise and Marie were twins, then asked if I had all these children on purpose, and why they were so close in age, and then started taking down Clara's information. Another nurse soon joined us with the three shots for poor little Clara, and after getting all the important information (no... not about allergies, medical records, etc... but why I had so many children so close together) she had me get Clara ready for the shots and instructed me on how to hold her still while she administered the inoculations.

The nurse pulled the shiny little needle out and Marie's eyes grew big as saucers. Poor Marie's curiosity drew her closer and closer until she was watching the needles go into her baby sister's arm and legs, and listening to her sad little screams from about 6 inches away. If she wasn't already dreading her own shots, by this point she was pretty much scared out of her socks.

The two nurses decided that since the line downstairs was so long, they would just bring up two H1N1 vaccines for Elise and Marie. So they got on the phone, and soon two more shots and three more nurses were crowded into the small room. I think the new nurses assumed that I didn't know Turkish and so they proceeded to ask the first two all about me. A conversation ensued about how strange and hard it must be to not only be a foreigner, but also to have to look after three small kids. "Why would she do that?" "It had to be an accident!" "They are beautiful... but that's so hard!" "Look at the chart... they are all two years apart! At least she was orderly about it," were just a few of the comments they made to one another... right in front of me. They also laughed about the fact that five of them were upstairs with the yabancilar (foreigners) while only two were left to give vaccines to the masses below.

Marie was next to hop........ er...be dragged... onto the table. By this point I had one nurse still taking down info, one holding Clara, one administering the shot, and two more, plus myself holding down poor kicking, screaming, and struggling little Marie. Screams rang down the hallways, snot and tears flew everywhere and then it was over... well, except the crying.

By this point, Elise had quietly retreated to underneath a desk and was hoping that her freakishly fertile mother and the chatty nurses would just forget about her existence and leave her alone. No such luck. I had to drag her clawing, scratching, and screaming from under the desk, all the while listening to Marie and Clara's cries and to the nurses rehash how close in age my children are. It then took me and two nurses to pry her little hands off her coat, her coat and sweater off of her shoulder, and hold her down so she could have her turn at the dreaded flu vaccine. More screaming, kicking, crying, and snot, and I breathed a big sigh of relief... it was over.

I tried to quiet the girls down with marshmallows and fruit roll ups from a care package from Nana (thanks Mom!), but it was a no go. In the end I had to walk out of the room, down the hallway, past scores of people waiting for shots, all the while holding a baby and dragging along two screaming and crying little girls. More than one person tried to pick up one of my two crying older girls to comfort them, which only made things worse... I mean, really, would you want a stranger grabbing you right after your mom betrayed you by holding you down to be jabbed by a sharp instrument of torture!? Me neither. A few curious people tried to stop me to ask if Elise and Marie were twins... and by this point I just wanted to yell, "Can't you people mind your own business?!! Yes I have three kids! No they're not twins! Yes, I wanted all three of my children, and NO, it's not hard to raise them, I'M HANDLING IT JUST FINE, OKAY!! NOW JUST LEAVE ME ALONE FOR PEET'S SAKE (While throwing chairs, and knocking over tables... yeah, things are fine... just fine. I totally have it all together)!"

It was probably only 30 to 40 minutes start to finish, but I felt like I had just endured hours of torture and was quite honestly just wanting to be left alone when a nurse chased me down, handed me a couple of cards with the girl's names on them, and told me that I needed to come back for round two of the flu shot in a month.

What? I thought this was a one time deal!

Pumpkin Fun!

2009-11-08T23:55:00.000-08:00

In Turkey, it's tough to find orange pumpkins. We usually end up carving a big greyish green one instead. Let me tell you, those things are tough to carve! The rind is at least 3 inches thick, and hard as a bowling ball. Try carving through your kitchen table, and you'll get an idea of the pumpkin carving experience here in Turkey.

James took the pumpkin I carved for our girls to school to show his students and they were impressed and EXCITED. They'd only seen jack-o-lanterns on TV. His tenth graders immediately begged him to bring pumpkins in for them to carve. They all threw in a little cash and sent "Teacher" to hunt them down.

By the way, Turkish students call all their teachers "Ogretmenim (my teacher)," so when they have an english teacher, he automatically becomes "Teacher." In the US, you'd only hear that coming out of a kindergartener's mouth. So it sounded strange to James to be greeted that way by 16 year olds, but I guess he got used to it...

Anyhow, with 20 lira in his pocket, Teacher headed out to the pumpkin patch.... er .... roadside stand... and did his best to pick out a few nice round greyish-green pumpkins.

Kind of ugly, aren't they? And those orange things in the background... the ones that you probably think are pumpkins... I'm pretty sure those are overripe melons. They're supposed to be green, like the melons on the right.

After James chose a few, the melon/pumpkin guy weighed them with his yellow crate and pulley thingy. He threw in a few melons so that James could use up the entire 20 lira.

I'm pretty sure James tried to swipe an extra melon... check out that guilty look on his face.

A few days later the highly anticipated event finally came, and several excited 10th graders got to sink their butter knives into the pumpkins! The administration wouldn't let them use sharp knives, so James made the first cut then handed the hard and warty green pumpkins over for those poor kids to try to continue carving with butter knives. Good thing 16 year olds are strong.

Everybody took a turn digging out the guts...

This girl found a plastic glove to wear while digging out the pumpkin's innards. Smart! She must have a good teacher.

Mehmet and Ahmet. Good friends putting their heads together to design their very first jack-o-lantern.

Gotta love the uniforms. Makes me wish I had one in high school.

The finished product. Three beautiful pumpkins. Twelve happy students. One happy teacher (the guy in the back with the teeny head and a goatee). And the english practice?? They wrote all about it three times. In past, present, and future tense.

James is a great teacher!

Love and Marriage

2009-11-08T23:31:00.000-08:00

Had an interesting conversation with a new aquaintance, Bahar. It gives a good picture of the marriage experience for many women her age, and what things are still like in some parts of Turkey.

Bahar: My granddaughter is 22, she's about to graduate from college with her Master's degree.

Me: Wow! You don't look old enough to have a granddaughter that age!

Bahar: Thank you! I'm 57. I got married young. My mother gave me away when I was 13.

Me: Weren't you scared? Had you met your husband before you married? How old was he?

Bahar: Yes, of course I was scared. I was very scared! We'd never met before. His mother saw me and asked my mother for me, and then we got married. He was 22.

Me: How old were you when you had your first baby?

Bahar: I was 14. I was still a child myself. I liked to play with my daughter's dolls! We grew up together.

When I am 35, I will have a 7 year old, a 5 year old, and a 3 year old. When Bahar was 35, she was a grandma!

Pickles!

2009-10-18T02:04:00.000-07:00

Not long after I arrived in Turkey a friend of mine, Gonul, was showing me how to make stuffed cabbage leaves (which, by the way, are one of the most mouth wateringly delicious little things I've ever eaten). After we were done we had quite a lot of cabbage left over. If you've ever seen a cabbage here, you'll understand why. Anyway I said (or at least kind of tried to say... I used a lot of hand motions during this phase of my life), "What should we do with all this extra cabbage?" I must have communicated somewhat effectively because she looked at me with a smile and a sparkle in her eye, raised a finger in the air as if to say, "Ah ha!" and then started making pickles.

Gonul found a large jar, chopped the cabbage into wedges and stuffed it in. She opened my refrigerator and started pilfering the contents and throwing them into the jar - carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, parsley, bell peppers. Then she grabbed my vinegar, dumped it in along with water, salt, some garlic and lemon juice, and screwed the lid on. Next Gonul pointed to my calendar and showed me that I needed to wait at least a week and then (pointing to the strange assortment curing in the corner of my kitchen and motioning with her hand to her mouth) I could dig in and eat it up, and (patting her tummy, smiling, and saying "mmmmm") I would like it.

What Gonul couldn't have known is that I'd already tried a similar concoction of pickled vegetables at a neighbors house and absolutely hated it. It was, let's see, how can I put this delicately, well, it was absolutely disgusting. But I ate it. I ate a whole lot of it. After choking down one bowl of pickled who-knows-what in order not to offend my hostess, she assumed I loved it and served a second even bigger bowl.

Back to Gonul's pickled assortment. I let it sit for a week so that when she came over she'd see I hadn't just tossed it, then I put it in the refrigerator and every day threw a little bit away. Yep, in order to keep from offending, I basically lived a big fat lie until the giant jar was empty.

Since that time I've learned to speak Turkish and become less scared of offending. Whenever anyone offers me a bunch of pickled stuff I kindly explain that I don't care for pickled stuff. Then, without fail, they say, "Oh, that's because you've never tried MY pickled stuff" As if their recipe is so very very different from everyone elses.

They serve me up a big bowl and wait eagerly while I try it. And without fail, I plaster a fake smile on my face, say, "Oh, you're right... this is better." Then I try my best to choke down at least half of it before lamenting about how full I am and how I can't possibly eat another bite. I lie, I know it's bad, I know I shouldn't, but at least I'm being honest for you, right?

Now I feel like my world has turned upside down. I feel like I've become the thing that I once detested. I've entered a dark and confusing phase of my life.

I make my own pickles. Not only that, I feel really really cool making them, like a pioneer, or a pilgrim, or at least a really homey domestic make everything yourself kind of gal.

It makes me feel so cool that I want to fit it into conversations, just to let people know how crafty I am... but I don't find the opportunity very often.

I keep hoping that one day a friend will be complaining about the price of pickles, and I can say, "Oh really? I wouldn't know... I make my own pickles... from scratch." Or maybe someone will say that they can't decide which brand is best, and I'll say, "Oh, you mean store bought pickles? I wouldn't know. I make my own."

It started with my friend Kim giving me a pickle recipe and a jar of pickles she'd made. This was the first and only time I've ever experienced homemade pickles in Turkey and actually enjoyed it. It probably had to do with the fact that she only pickled cucumbers. She didn't venture into the vile world of pickling vegetables that the Good Lord never intended to be pickled.

Thanks to my new inspiration, I made some pickles too. First I bought cucumbers. Do you see how cucumbers here are much smaller than cucumbers in the States? These are sold in grocery stores as pickling cucumbers.

I tried to take a picture of a cucumber in my hand so I could show you the size, but then I looked at it, gasped as I realized how badly I need a manicure, and immediately deleted it. Here's Marie demonstrating the size for you instead.

I washed these babies up, and threw them in a jar, like so....

Then I put a couple of cloves of garlic (they're called teeth, not cloves, in Turkish... thought you might enjoy a bit of Turkish language trivia). I poured a mixture of boiling vinegar, salt, and water over the top, then tossed in a few sprigs of dill. Last I put on the lid, put it in the fridge, let it sit a few days, and wa-lah! I had myself a jar of pickles. Easy as pie. Or really, it's much easier than making pie.

Sadly, I've now become one of those annoying pickle pushing people I once tried to stay far away from. If you come to my house it wont be long before we're having this conversation:

"So, do you want some pickles?

What? You don't like pickles?? Oh, well that's because you haven't tried MY pickles. Give them a try (pointing at the bowl of pickles that I've shoved in front of your face and motioning hand to mouth) and you'll find they're delicious (saying "mmmmmm" while I smile and pat my belly)."

Third time's the charm

2009-10-13T22:55:00.000-07:00

When a baby is born in Turkey, friends and neighbors bring gold. At least that's what I was told and what I read in books about Turkish culture.

When Elise was born 4 months after we arrived in Turkey, I sat at home and waited for the gold to roll in. Well, not really. I sat at home and watched her breathe, sure that she was so fragile and tiny that she would die at any moment. But somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered the gold. Instead of gold...

I got a little vest someone knitted, kind of like this:

And a box of milk.

Those were nice and all, I mean I was really impressed with a neighbor taking the time and effort to knit Elise a little vest, but inwardly I was a little disappointed that no one brought gold. I decided I didn't get any gold because we didn't know anyone very well. We didn't even speak Turkish yet. I mean if someone had brought us gold, I wouldn't even have been able say, "Thanks for the gold."

Two years and five months later we spoke Turkish, we had friends, knew lots of our neighbors, and had another baby, Marie. This time I was fairly confident that at least a little gold would come our way. So again, in between nursing, watching the baby breathe, and wishing my belly fat would disappear, I wondered when we'd get our first piece of gold.

But this time, we were given about 5 little vests, several boxes of milk, a few baby outfits, and a pair of underwear for Elise.

I thought through the possible reasons why we weren't given any gold. Here's what I came up with:

1. Nobody really liked us very much. Hmmmm, I hope not...

2. All of our good friends were too poor to give us gold. No... we had some pretty wealthy neighbors.

3. Gold is only given to relatives. Maybe

4. This whole gold thing was just made up by somebody. It's a myth. But I've seen the little baby charms in the stores...

5. Giving and getting gold is more of a community savings thing than a no-strings-attached gift. Ah ha! I think I've got it!

I think there's a more official name for it, but it basically community savings has a goes around/comes around type of meaning. Like, we all live together... for the long haul. So, when my baby is born you give me gold, knowing that when your little squealer comes along I'll give you gold. Then, when my daughter says "I do" you give her gold, and when your daughter walks down the aisle I give gold to her. So, we all help each other out, but come out even in the end.

James and I are foreigners so even though we live next door, we're not really a part of the community. We are outsiders. If you give us gold, unless you're on the verge of giving birth yourself, you can't count on getting it back.

This theory made perfect sense to me and made me feel a little better about being shut out of the gold circle. Oh good, I thought when I came up with the theory. People do like me. It's just my foreignness that keeps them from giving me gold.

Two years and three months later, when Clara was about to come along, we had only lived in our neighborhood for about a month and didn't know any neighbors well. We were definitely NOT an established part of the community, so for once I laid my gold wanting greediness aside and had absolutely no thoughts about it. I was sure that as foreigners we were just shut out of that part of the culture. But then this happened:

And this:

Shiny little gold charms. One for me and one for Clara.

Mine says Allah in Arabic. At least that's what I think it says... I don't know arabic, but think "Allah" is more likely than "Congratulations on your new born baby girl!"

Clara's is a little blue eye bead... to protect her from the evil eye.

The other English teachers at James' school chipped in to get them for us. There goes my theories about community savings... guess I'm not as smart as I thought I was.

Unless I give into the whole "people don't like us" idea, the best I reason behind who gets gold and why that can come up with now is third time's the charm. Do you get it? Third time... charm....

Oh, we also got a box of milk and a little vest a neighbor knitted. I think the books on Turkish culture shouldn't go on and on about gold when babies are born. Instead they should emphasize the obviously fashionable and wildly popular baby attire - hand knitted vests. And boxes of milk.

Things I LOVE about Turkey - The Pazar

2009-10-04T05:15:00.001-07:00

Do you see this?

I LOVE it!

Almost every neighborhood in Turkey has a weekly fruit and veggie market. It's kind of like the Farmer's Market that I used to go to in my college town in California. Except on steroids. It's really really really big. Speaking of big... can you see that pile of veggies in my picture? No. . . it isn't the camera angle. . . those veggies really are piled about 12 feet high.
The pazar in our neighborhood happens every Saturday in a big covered concrete lot about the size of a football field. It's chalk full of colorful, fresh, delicious fruits and veggies. Turks are amazing at arranging things in an attractive way, and the result is that you (or at least I) want to visit every booth (and there are rows and rows and rows of them) and buy a little of almost everything.

Don't those carrots look delicious? And did you see the size of the cabbages? They're bigger than watermelons! I've always wanted to buy one of those big cabbages, but I have no idea what I'd do with the 4/5 of it that would be left over after I made coleslaw.
My parents came to visit and I took them to the pazar. They just stood and stared in awe. . . Or maybe it was jet lag. . .
The thing about the pazar is that you have to buy most things in bulk. . . I usually ask for a kilo or two. The first time James and I went to a pazar, he tried to buy one apple. The seller just looked at him then rolled his eyes, muttered something, and handed it over. Apparently it wasn't even worth going to the trouble of weighing it.
Yumm! Apples and grapes. And can you see those super red tomatoes in the background? I wish I had taken a shot of them. They are so so so sweet and delicious, they don't even resemble those tasteless things I would buy at the supermarket in the States.

Mmmmmm!

I love it!

The Ankara Zoo

2009-09-27T04:50:00.000-07:00

A few days before Clara was born we took a trip to the Ankara zoo. There were a few really good exhibits. The monkeys were great, and so were these bears.

They looked pretty content. This one is taking a bath.

He doesn't seem to mind me snapping a few photos.

Can I hug you? You're such a big fuzzy teddy bear!

This guy doesn't look quite so huggable. What is that crust hanging off of his matted fur?

And how do those skinny little legs hold up his enormous body? What kind of animal is he anyway? A yak? A water buffalo? A pointy horned shag carpet?

I've never seen zebras so close before. I was kind of sad... their pens were tiny, but then again it was fun finally seeing those stripes up close.

Hello pretty horsey!

But wait! What's this? A sign pointing to the cat exhibit... not the big cats and lions. We'd already seen them. The house cat exhibit. Am I the only one who didn't know domesticated cats could be a zoo exhibit? Oh, and the arrow also points toward the pigeons. To be fair, I think guvercin can also mean doves, but what kind of an exhibit is that?

Um..... let's skip that one, and instead see the...

DOGS!?

Oh, hello there! What are you doing in the zoo? Don't you belong with a family?

And you too, little dalmatian!

Please take me home!

Definetly NOT what I was expecting in a zoo. Dalmatians, Irish Setters, Huskies, Golden Retrievers, cute little hound dogs, and so many more.

It was the best exhibit of domestic dogs I've ever seen....

But then again, it was the only exhibit of domestic dogs I've seen.

What Does Religion Have To Do With It?

2009-09-25T22:49:00.001-07:00

We're swaddlers. Soon after our babies are born we wrap them up all warm and cozy. They seem to love it.

See Clara, sleeping away, peacefully dreaming her little baby dreams....

The anesthesiologist at the hospital and a nurse came to my hospital room to check on me shortly after Clara came into the world.

Clara was swaddled.

Doctor to nurse: Look! They wrapped the baby up just like we do!

They look surprised and smile at one another.

Doctor to me: So, you wrap up your babies too?

Me: Sleepy and out of it from that I-just-had-a-baby-and-I-can't-believe-it daze, Um, yeah.

Doctor: Wow! What religion are you?

Me: Um, Christian.

Doctor to nurse: I didn't think Christians wrapped their babies up!

She ponders it for a few seconds...

Doctor to me: So, you must be Catholic.

Me: No, we're Protestant.

This is when it finally dawned on me that this was a somewhat strange conversation.

Doctor: Wow! Protestants wrap their babies up? I never knew that.

She then went on to adjust that wonderful medicine going into my spine so I'd feel a little less pain.

I didn't think of asking her what she meant until after she had left the room, and so now I'm left confused and wondering.... what in the world was that all about?

Welcome New Baby!

2009-09-25T22:40:00.000-07:00

We love you soooo much!!!

Clara James Ceylan

September 16, 2009

6 lb 10 oz

Having another baby

2009-09-12T23:13:00.000-07:00

I think every culture has certain ways of doing things that are just the right way. Here in Turkey, when it comes to home and family issues, it seems like old ladies are the ones to enforce the right way. Every time an old lady comes over to talk to me I know she's going to expel her life wisdom on me, usually by telling me something I'm doing wrong - my kids aren't dressed warm enough, or I need to get my baby out of the draft, or I shouldn't let my girls eat ice cream, or I'm holding the baby the wrong way, etc.

I think my friend Kristal has found the same thing in Albania. She hasn't had any kids yet and old ladies feel the need to stop her in the street and tell her to get busy.

I'm facing the opposite problem.

Turks in big cities love kids, but they are very concerned about providing absolutely everything for their kids - spoon feeding them until 3 or 4 years old (sometimes more), hovering under or over them at the park in fear that they'll fall when they slide or climb up steps, walking behind them with their arms extended until the toddler is no longer toddling. Raising small children in America is exhausting. For Turks it is even more exhausting. For this reason and others, it's more common to wait 5, 6, 7, or 8 years between siblings than it is to have them 1, 2, or 3 years apart like we do in the States. I'm about to pop a third baby out into the world before most of my neighbors with children Elise's age have even started thinking about number two.

A few of my neighbors have questioned why I got pregnant, some of them have expressed how sad they are for me that I accidently got pregnant so soon (they look shocked when I tell them I planned and wanted this baby), but it's the old ladies who really let me know what's up.

About a week ago I was at a playground with Elise and Marie. An older woman I'd never met before came and sat by me.

Me: Hello, how are you?

Old lady: Good, good. Are those two blond girls yours?

Me: Yes.

Old lady: They are so cute! Mashallah (that's something you always say after giving a compliment.. it's something like a charm to keep the evil eye away in spite of the fact that you've brought good attention to something).

Me: Thank you.

Old lady: Looking at my giant belly, When are you having your next baby?

Me: I only have about two more weeks. Not long.

Old lady: suddenly very serious. What are you thinking? You can't take care of all three of these children. Let me tell you what you need to do. You need to go to the doctor and get your tubes tied.

Me: sitting in silent surprise.

Old lady: Listen to me. You are losing your youth. You will age too quickly and become old and ugly. These children are way too close together. You have to put a stop to it.

Me: trying to hold in my surprise and laughter and really not sure how to respond to this well intentioned advice (coming from a complete stranger!), Well, I'll have to think about that.

Old lady: No, don't think about it. Just go and do it.

I just sat there for 30 seconds or so, trying to think about what to say. I've learned by now that it does absolutely no good to try to explain different cultures to old ladies. They could really care less that this is the way we do things in America. Their way is the right way, period.

Old lady: in the same natural way she told me to get my tubes tied, Don't forget to wash your kids hands when you go inside. The playground is full of germs.

Me: Thanks, I will.

We sat a little longer then she got up and moved on, probably to find another poor young mother who desperately needed her advice.

Bubble Gum Yogurt

2009-09-07T05:45:00.000-07:00

I took the girls grocery shopping with me this morning. They have a love/hate relationship with the grocery store.

At first it's pure love. I think the colors, the smells, the sights, and all the possibilities of things we may bring home are really exciting. Plus, as two little blond girls they get a lot of attention. Every time I turn around someone is tickling them, or pinching their cheeks, or telling them how beautiful they are. When Elise was first born this kind of attention from strangers really freaked me out I mean Americans pretty much ignore stranger's children, they certainly wouldn't come up and tickle them... but now I'm used to it and as long as the girls like the attention I do too.

Somewhere around halfway through the store it turns to the hate part of the relationship. Mom has said no a few too many times, a few too many strangers have touched them, and they're just about overwhelmed. It's about this time that I look for something cheap and with at least a tiny bit of nutritional value for them to pick out and bring home. Somehow having that little perk carries them through the rest of the trip.

Today it was yogurt. I was examining the cheeses, trying to decide which one might taste close to Jack or Mozerella, and the girls were getting fussy. I noticed the colorful yogurt containers on the lower shelves and told them to pick one out to bring home. After much deliberation they chose little pink containers that had extra little compartments on the lids, full of something to stir into the yogurt. I didn't look too closely, but noticed that the front said something about being a good source of calcium and vitamin D. Perfect, I thought, probably full of sugar, but it's not like I'm giving them lollipops.

We went through the check out with the girls holding tightly to their pink yogurt cups. I strolled the cart home and left it in front of my building. Yes, you read that right... I live just down the street from the market in a 10 story building and just bring the cart right home with me, then when someone else goes to the market they bring it back... very convenient! I LOVE IT!

The girls could hardly wait to eat their yogurt so before I even put away the groceries, I sat them down at the table and started peeling back the aluminum lids. It was at this point that I noticed that the pink containers weren't full of raspberry, strawberry, or cherry flavor yogurt like I had assumed. They were bubble gum flavor. Bubble Gum. What kind of twisted person would even consider that to be an okay yogurt flavor?

Next I opened the little lid compartments and found that they contained what looked like colorful sugar crystals. Resigned to the fact that this was not the healthy treat I'd been hoping for, I handed them over to the girls.

Elise, my little direction follower, stirred hers into her yogurt. Marie smiled and greedily grabbed the "nandy" (her word for candy) and popped it in her mouth.

Then I heard the sound. I don't think I've heard it since I was sitting in the back of a friends car at the age of eleven, but it's one of those sounds you never forget.

Marie's smile turned to a look of surprise while her nandy fizzled and popped around in her mouth. Pop rocks! I bought bubble gum yogurt with stir-in pop rocks!

Yes way.

I'm still cringing when I think about it. Seriously, I just got a gross-out quiver up my spine.

But at least it was a "good source of calcium and vitamin D." (eye roll)

To my relief, neither of my kids were big fans of the disgusting mixture in front of them and said that next time they just want some peach yogurt without those twirly swirly candies.

White Rice

2009-08-12T04:09:00.000-07:00

Our family is back in Turkey, but not in our own place yet. That means that although I can take pictures, I can't download them to my computer to share with all of you (boo-hoo!). Whatever doo-hickey it is we need for downloading is somewhere in the piles of boxes that I'm not brave enough to unpack, and so you and I will just have to wait for the pictures, mmm kay?

A few nights ago James and I went out to eat for our anniversary. Oh, the dining choices we have here in the capital, Ankara. . . so vast, so amazing! The smaller city we moved from didn't have near the selection. When we went out in Kayseri (which was rare) the choice was Turkish food, or Turkish food, or that other kind of Turkish food, plus some hit and miss chinese at a Turkish restaurant or pizza (but don't picture a pizza like you'd see at Pizza Hut or even Murphy's Take n Bake... it really doesn't compare), or McDonalds. . . can't forget McDonalds.

Anyway, the other night we chose Chinese. We ordered a main dish and then pointed to the first item on the rice page of the menu, asking for the plain steamed rice to go along with it.

Waiter: Tilting his head slightly and raising his eyebrows, That rice is cooked in steam.

James: I understand, that's what I want to order.

Waiter: Lowering his pen and pad of paper. No, I don't think so... it doesn't have any salt on it.

Me: Right. That's what we want.

Waiter: It's not normal rice. It was cooked in steam, it wasn't cooked in butter or oil.

James: We understand. We want to order the plain steamed rice from your menu.

Waiter: I just want to make sure you know what you're getting. It's flavorless. Are you really sure that's what you want?

James and I: YES!

Waiter: Reluctantly writing our order on a piece of paper while shaking his head. Okay, if you're sure.

Two things were going on here.

First, Turks LOVE rice. They eat it all the time. It's a great side to almost any Turkish meal. But they (obviously) DON'T love steamed rice. Turkish rice is pilaf. It starts with melting plenty of butter or oil in the bottom of your pan then frying up some small noodles until they're brown and crispy. Next you throw in your white rice (sorted and washed) and fry that in the butter for a while before adding water and salt (or bullion) to the whole thing. It's flavorful, it's oily, and it quickly adds inches to my thighs. Steamed rice is plain. It's flavor is subtle. My Turkish friend Isil told me it was disgusting when she happened to stop by right around dinner time one evening.

Second, in general, Turkish waiters LOVE to make suggestions based on their own tastes. They would probably feel really horrible if a customer got some really gross food and they could have prevented it. Since James and I had asked the waiter to describe a few of the main course items, maybe he assumed we were new to the whole Chinese food thing and had no idea that plain rice is actually repulsive. And even after it was crystal clear, he still could hardly bring himself to have any part in bringing the yucky stuff to us.

In the end, our food came, our rice came, we enjoyed our meal.

Hmmm, I just remembered that in Kayseri, at the hit and miss Chinese place, steamed rice was always on the menu, but never available when we tried to order it. I guess they just couldn't bring themselves to actually make it.

Explanation of some of the randomness

2009-02-16T10:39:00.000-08:00

Fact #9. Arranged marriages.

Not everyone has an arranged marriage, in fact if you're in a big city, it's probably more common for your marriage NOT to be arranged. As far as I know, marriages aren't arranged from childhood, but as kids become adults, their mothers may get antsy and start looking around for suitable matches. This can take a few different avenues...

Turkish newlyweds... don't they look happy?!

1. I've seen women go door to door in a neighborhood that looks like a good socio-economic match for their son/nephew. They knock on the door and ask whoever answers, "Is there a girl in your home?" I don't know how often this method actually works out. I mean it seems to me that a girl's mom would have to be amazingly desperate to consider marrying her off to a family that goes around like salespeople trying to peddle their son.

2. Here's a common one: If a friend or relative is getting married, then the moms, grandmas, and aunts check out all the eligable young maidens while they dance at the wedding or engagement party. This way the prospective bride is somehow connected to you. She's a friend of a friend or a relative of a relative. It's easier to trust people who are connected to you.

I went to an engagement party once. All the women were separated from the men, and the girls had an amazing dance party (I took pictures, but they were lost when our computer crashed... drats!). All the younger unmarried girls got up and danced, and they really put on the moves. Meanwhile, the older women sat back, watched, and picked out a few prospects to ask about. I think it usually goes something like this: The boy's aunt asks who that pretty little thing in the red dress is. After she's told, she finds that girl-in-red's aunt and asks her about the possibility of a union. If things look positive, then the boy's aunt will tell the boy's mom and dad, who then find a way to check out the girl.

3. Many mothers of eligible bachelors are just ALWAYS on the lookout. I've been asked multiple times if I know any sweet American girls for someones son. I've gone into shops with single friends and watched older women approach my poor girlfriends (who are just trying to buy sausage or parsley) and tell them about their son.

Bubbly cup of coffee

Whatever the method of finding the prospective girl, once she's been spotted, the boy's family makes an official visit to check her out. I'm not sure exactly what happens on that visit except that the boy looks at the girl, and his mom looks at how clean the house is (she has to know if the girl is a good house keeper) and everybody tries some Turkish coffee that the girl has brewed up in the kitchen. It has to taste just right and have lots of bubbles. I'm sure I would fail at this part. I am a horrible Turkish coffee maker. Good thing James' family didn't know that!

I think that the next step is often for the boy and girl to go out once or twice just to make sure they can tolerate one another, then once all the okays are given a wedding is planned.

I have one friend who met her husband-to-be during a 20 minute Ramazan visit (she was a relative of his sister's fiance). He came back to her house with his parents for a taste of frothy home brewed coffee a few days later, and they were married about a week and a half after that. I think they skipped the go out alone and make sure you can tolerate one another part. Apparently it was SUPURB coffee and they were pretty eager to get hitched.

Our neighbor's son, on the other hand seemed to put off his wedding forever. He was well into his thirties when his mom finally coerced him into an arranged marriage. He met the chosen girl and seemed to like her alright, but really dragged his feet about getting married. I think he was engaged for at least 9 months. Before the engagement his poor mother's main goal (and she let everyone she ran into know it) was finding him a bride. She asked me for names of friends, and thoroughly grilled me about every girl who entered my home. She told me about meeting girls on busses or in shops and trying to lure them into a wedding with her son.

Arranging a marriage can become an all-consuming venture.

Twenty-five Random Facts About Turkey

2009-02-06T11:42:00.000-08:00

I was inspired by my friend Kristal and her stories about Albania...

1) Saint Nicholas lived in Turkey, but Turks don't celebrate Christmas.

2) Turkey has more mosques per capita than any other country.

3) Turks eat fresh baked bread with every meal.

4) Unlike Americans, Turks don't eat bread with pasta.

5) Turks answer the phone with the phrase, "My Master?"

6) Although 99% of Turks are Muslim, Turkey has a rich Christian heritage.

7) Most Turks drink 10 or more cups of tea a day.

8) Turkish homes have one room containing all their most beautiful furnishings. They only go in it when special guests arrive.

9) Arranged marriages are very common in Turkey.

10) Three percent of Turkey is in Europe. The other 97% is in Asia.

11) Turkish is an agglutinative language, meaning that base words get lots of affixes and suffixes, making them longer and longer. For example, the sentence, "I will be able to come" in Turkish is only one word with lots of endings added to it, gelebilicegim. Supposedly the longest word in Turkish is: Cekoslovakyalilastiramadiklarimizdanmissiniz, meaning, "You are said to be one of those that we couldn't manage to convert to a Czechoslovak."

12) The Turkish word for lion is aslan (anybody a fan of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe?)

13) Jelly beans got started as an American form of Turkish Delight.

14.) Turkey is bordered by eight countries and three seas.

15) Turks are very hospitable. It's not unusual for a perfect stranger to strike up a conversation with you, then invite you over for tea.

16) Baklava, shish kebab, stuffed bell peppers, zucchini, and grape leaves, rice pilaf, olives, lots of fresh fruit and veggies.... Turkey has amazing food.

17) There are about 70 million people in Turkey. That's double the population of California.

18) Bob Dylan is of Turkish decent, and Dr. Oz (the Dr. that Oprah has on her show a lot) is Turkish.

19) You don't really know the definition of sublime until you've tried pistachio ice cream that's been hand churned in southern Turkey... I don't know how or why, but it's so thick and stretchy that you have to cut it with a knife. I also don't know the actual definition of sublime, but it's the only word that comes to mind when I think of this amazing ice cream. I'm pretty sure I'll eat it in heaven...

20) Turkey is full of amazing Roman ruins.

21) Noah's ark landed on Mr. Ararat, which is in Turkey.

22) The first church ever built (St. Peter's Church in Antioch) is in Turkey. The seven churches mentioned in the book of Revelation, in the Bible are all in Turkey.

23) Turks gave the Dutch their famous tulips.

24) Here's a good one to remember next time you sip a mocha. Turks introduced coffee to Europe.

25) You may have been wondering about this one: A case of mistaken identity resulted in the American bird (turkey) being named after the country of Turkey. The Spanish first brought turkeys to Europe from the Americas over 400 years ago. The English mistakenly thought it was a bird they called the "turkey," so they gave it the same name. That other bird was actually from Africa, but came to England by way of Turkey (lots of shipping went through Turkey at the time). The name stuck even when they realized the birds weren't the same.

Nacho cheese!

2009-01-26T21:31:00.000-08:00

My sweet friend Neriman came to my house one day and told me that her building's storage area had been broken into.

Me: Oh no! Was anything stolen?

Neriman: Well, the whole area was a mess when we discovered it. He went through drawers and tubs. He really messed things up. Lots of us keep things down there - pickles, cheese, onions, ya know, that sort of stuff.

Me: Did he take it all?

Neriman: (smiling) Just my cheese. Out of all the food down there he just took my cheese. Some of my neighbors had cheese down there too, but he only took mine.

Turkish women make a lot of foods from scratch. In my entire life I've never made my own cheese, but these women do it all the time. Neriman lives in the city, but she (like many Turks) still has lots of relatives in the village where she grew up. When she visits her village, she comes home with plenty of fresh veggies (tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, cabbage) that she'll pickle, and a bunch of cheese she's started. She keeps the cheese down in the building's cool storage area until it's done, which I guess means it's finished firming up, or fermenting, or cheese-ifying... you know, whatever it is that cheese does. Anyways...

Me: So what did you do?

Neriman: I took my daughters with me down to ghe station and tried to file a police report.

Me: (laughing) Really?!

Neriman: (with a big proud grin on her face) Yeah, They told me there's no way they could get my cheese back. But they said it must have been great cheese if that's all the thief took, especially because he left everyone else's there. Jamie, I wish you could have tasted that cheese.

I'm sure if Neriman had gone down to the basement storage and come across that evil, greedy, cheese eating theif, she would have chased him right up the stairs and out the front door shouting, "That's not your cheese! That's not yo' cheese! That's nacho cheese!" Or at least the Turkish equivalent...

I know it's a really bad joke but I just couldn't pass it up.

Just put me in a cage!

2008-11-23T06:35:00.000-08:00

The other day I was telling a friend about how it feels to be a foreigner in Turkey. I think it can be pretty well summed up in this short story:

One day we went to a local park. The park has a small zoo and aside from two very active monkeys, it's mostly just farm animals and some strange looking birds. Nothing special, but still exciting for kids.

I walked around the cages with Elise, looked at the animals and listened to the people around us:

"Look mom!! It's a goat... and a baby goat!!!! Look at how cute it is!!!"
"I see that dear! What a sweet little goat!"

"Wow dad! There's a monkey! It's looking at me! I wonder where they got that monkey from!"

"Ooooh!! Listen to the noises those birds are making... that's so funny!!"

Elise and I stood in front of the monkey cage and watched while some boys fed them spicy doritos through the fence. She turned and said something to me in English. I answered back. In English. Suddenly all heads turned toward us.

"Look mom! Foreigners!!!"

"Daddy! Look! It's a cute little foreigner. She has blond hair!!"

"Ooooh! The little one has blue eyes!"
"You're right sweetie! I think they must be German!"

"Maybe there's more of them around here! Where did they come from? I wonder what they're saying to each other."

I turned and looked to see if there was an empty cage beside the monkeys. We're obviously far more exciting than they are. And if we lived at the zoo, maybe as an added bonus we'd get some free doritos!!

Candy for Babies... part 2

2008-10-06T15:12:00.001-07:00

A conversation with my neighbor:

Neighbor: I heard that you feed your baby broccoli!
Me: Happily nodding my head in agreement. Yeah. She loves it!! It's one of her favorite foods!
Neighbor: Babies shouldn't eat broccoli. Don't feed it to her again.
Me: Confused. Why not? It's a healthy food, and she enjoys eating it.
Neighbor: It tastes disgusting. It stinks. And it will give her gas.
Me: But she likes it. I do too. It's not disgusting to her.
Neighbor: Babies need soft foods. Things that are easy on their stomachs. Babies need a lot of sugar. They need bread products made with white flour.
Me: Deciding that this is an argument I have no hope of winning... Oh. Well, you know best.

Two things I want to point out about this conversation:

1. One day a neighbor with a baby the same age as mine was complaining to me that she couldn't get her daughter to eat. She asked what I feed Elise (who was about a year old at the time). I told her a few things Elise liked. One of them was broccoli. Two days later the neighbor in the above conversation was over at my house. She had obviously heard the juicy gossip about my broccoli eating baby. We live in a 12 story building, with three flats on each floor. News about my family, like the fact that our baby eats broccoli, spreads like wild fire through all 36 homes in our building (and probably beyond that). I guess that since we're Americans almost everything we do becomes big news that is worthy of spreading.

2. "You know best." This is the polite way of saying, "I've heard what you have to say and although I probably don't agree, I'm not going to argue with you." Unfortunately, I learned this saying the hard way. Younger women like me should NOT verbally disagree with a woman their mother's age. Instead of showing us as capable intelligent people who can think for ourselves, it comes off as rude and disrespectful. Believe me, I've done it. Instead, I've learned to just nod my head, swallow my pride, and say, "You know best."

Candy for Babies

2008-10-03T11:56:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty convinced that in Turkey there is a fifth food group, especially for children.

SUGAR... beautifully delicious white sugar.

I'm a big fan of sugar. In my mind I'd love to be one of those people who cook with alternative natural sweeteners, I'd love to rid my home of the toxic chemical (as my friend Deyna calls it), but in reality I just can't stop eating the stuff. I LOVE sugar. I love foods made with sugar. I can't imagine cakes and cookies and cobblers and freezer jam made of anything else and tasting nearly as good. I eat it and I feed it to my kids. I know that kids around the globe love sugar, but kids in Turkey (and the adults who give it to them) take sugar consumption to a whole new level.

There are some cookies we buy our kids from time to time. They're called Cici Bebek (translation: cutie-pie baby) cookies. They taste like nilla wafers and I think they're basically the same thing, except that the package advertises that these amazing cookies are packed full of vitamins and minerals. They're sooooo good for kids! Interesting, because they taste just like nilla wafers to me... sugar and white flour. But I guess if it says so on the package, then they must have a little bit of vitamins in there somewhere, right?

I don't know if it's because of the misleading advertising, or just because kids love them so much, but these cookies are bought year round by Turkish mothers by the truckload. Stores carry them in all different size containers, from the small bags James and I buy before a road trip to the giant aluminum tins I see in the corners of my Turkish friend's kitchens (to envision the size, think of those big flavored pop-corn tins that we start seeing in the stores around Christmas time). Kids eat the cutie-pie baby cookies as if they're addicted. Come to think of it, they probably are.

The cookies are just one example of sugar consumption. Kids (starting before they can even sit up) drink lots of tea. Turkish tea glasses are tiny. They hold probably 1/3 cup of tea, and yet kids can somehow mix 6-10 sugar cubes in before they drink it. Moms also mix sugar up in glasses of milk before they give it to their little ones.

I bring this up to say that like it our not, our kids end up getting a lot of sugar too. From the holiday visits where they are stuffed full of chocolate and sugary baklava to the random lady on the street who is passing out candy to all the kids that day in hopes that God will see her good works and grant her wish, our kids definitely enjoy sugar.

Honestly it usually doesn't bother me too much, but there have been a few times when the American mother in me just wanted to scream....

One day when Elise was only five or six months old, I went to a tea party with some neighbors. One of the other women offered to hold Elise while I ate the assorted sweet and savory treats on my plate. Elise was a bit fussy so the woman decided maybe she was thirsty. She stirred a bunch of sugar into her glass of tea, then poured it onto the saucer to let it cool. I was watching her, but had no idea what she was doing or that it had anything to do with my to this point only breastfed baby.

The next thing I knew, I had a sarma (stuffed grape leaf) hanging out of my mouth and out of the corner of my eye I spied the woman dribbling sugary caffeinated tea into my baby's mouth! My brain froze... what? why? huh? I really didn't know what to say. No one else in the room thought it was at all strange, and I didn't want to offend the woman by making a scene. I ended up swallowing my sarma, wolfing down the rest of my food, and taking my baby back before too many more spoonfuls of tea went into her little mouth.

Another day a neighbor couple dropped in to visit us. Elise was a little bigger by this point... probably 9 months old. She scooted around on the floor while we sat and chatted. At the end of the visit, the wife of the couple pulled an extra large sized chocolate bar out of her purse. She said it was a gift for Elise and began unwrapping it so she could feed it to her. Luckily this time my brain moved a bit faster and I said something like, "Thanks so much! It's late now and so I'd rather save that for another time." She handed it to me and I set it on the table so I could "give it to Elise later (yeah right!)." As I set it on the table I noticed that it was chocolate covered coffee beans!!! WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?!?

Of course any kid who hears these stories is probably thinking about the sugar (and caffeine) consuming Turkish kids saying, "LUCKY!!"

Baklava Overdose

2008-09-19T13:36:00.000-07:00

There's a holiday coming up. Kids will go door to door and get candy. People will eat sweets and drink cola until they've had enough to keep them on a sugar/caffeine buzz for days to come.

I'm not talking about Halloween.

It's Seker Bayrami... the Sugar Holiday!!

At the end of the month of Ramazan, people celebrate for three days straight by getting together and eating. Isn't that what you'd like to do after a month of fasting? I know I would. Kids get new clothes, sometimes ridiculously nice clothes, like pristine white suits for a 7 year old boys. Women spend the last week or so of the Ramazan cleaning their homes from top to bottom and cooking up all sorts of delicious treats, especially baklava. And then the day finally comes. No one goes to work. Kids get up early, wondering what time they can start knocking on all of the doors to collect candy. All the men go to the mosque for the early morning prayers, and a few hours later the fun begins.

Turks dress in nice new clothes and begin making visits by order of importance. They'll start with their oldest relatives then work their way down. By the second and third day they're visiting neighbors and friends.

The last few years we've taken part in the festivities by visiting scores of friends and neighbors. I always half dread /half look forward to it, and James always LOVES it. The Sugar Holiday is one of James' favorite times of year because: 1) He loves baklava. 2) He loves cola. 3) He loves baklava, and 4) He loves cola.

Here's a picture of what a typical day of making bayram (holiday) visits looks like:

6:30 am: wake up (not by our choice but because our kids absolutely can't sleep past 6:30)
7:00 am: breakfast of fresh bread (delivered to our door that morning by the building door man), tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese, olives, and tea. This is the typical Turkish breakfast, eaten by all Turks every morning of every day. We don't eat it every day, but for some reason we always eat it on Turkish holidays.
8:00 am: We all start getting dressed up in nice clothes. James wears slacks, a nice shirt with a tie, and shiny shoes that he'll complain about the rest of the day. I wear a skirt, blouse, nylons, nice shoes that I'll complain about the rest of the day, and gold jewelry (gold is very very important to Turks, I talk a little about it here, and I'll put a whole post up about it in the future). The girls wear dresses and we tuck a change of clothes into a diaper bag for each of them because we know they'll soon be covered in chocolate.
8:30 am: The early bird building kids are up ringing doorbells and collecting candy. We open the door to be greeted by a bunch of nicely dressed smiling kids yelling "Iyi Bayramlar!" (translation: Happy Holidays!) and holding out their little sticky sugar covered fingers for some candy (or money... but we never give money).
9:00 am: We can hear neighbors stirring - going in and out of homes and up and down the elevator, so we venture out as a family for our first visit of the day. We always go to the old woman in the apartment below us first. I don't know her name. Everybody calls her Haci Anne. That means mother who has gone on the haj (the trip to Mecca that all Muslims are supposed to take at some point in their life). It's not that she's actually gone on the haj. It's just that she's so old that she probably could have. Since she's the oldest, out of respect we visit her first. Here's how it goes: Haci Anne's granddaughter Tuna (yes, her name is Tuna. She's my age.) opens the door to let us in. I kiss her on each cheek and James shakes her hand. We're shown into the salon (the nicest and most richly decorated room in the house, saved just for when guests visit), where Haci Anne is waiting for us. We say "Iyi Bayramlar!" (Happy Holidays!) and kiss her on the back of her hand then touch it to our foreheads. She says "Hos geldiniz! Hos geldiniz yavrum!" (Welcome, welcome my little baby animals! - kind of like saying my dears) and then we all sit down. After a few rounds of how are you and how are all your relatives, her granddaughter brings a bottle of lemon cologne around and douses our hands with it. We rub them together and then they're all clean, disinfected, and lemony fresh! Then Tuna brings out the baklava and the cola. The baklava is homemade (made by Tuna supervised by Haci Anne) and the cola is served in a wine glass.

This time we're also really lucky because in addition to the baklava, there are also stuffed grape leaves (I'm salivating as I write this... my neighbor's stuffed grape leaves are absolutely sublime! I don't know what sublime means, but I can't think of any other word to describe the succulent deliciousness that these stuffed grape leaves embody.) There are also some hard cookies and some other sort of soft syrupy cookie with a hazelnut in the middle. Haci Anne goes all out for bayrams. We eat up all our food, say thank you, chat a little longer, then say, "With your permission we're going to get up now." She says, "But we were sitting so nicely!" (These are the set sayings that everyone says at the end of a visit.) And then she motions to Tuna who brings out some more baklava, and a beautifully wrapped chocolate for each member of our family. James eats his, I put mine in the diaper bag to save it for later. Elise is covered in olive oil from devouring stuffed grape leaves. Since she's grown up in Turkey, she senses good stuffed grape leaves when she gets them, and she goes into vacuum cleaner mode, eating as many as her little belly can hold, and only stopping when someone gives her a piece of chocolate. Elise unwraps the chocolate, and eats it up (all the while I'm cringing and wiping her as quickly as possible because she has olive oil and chocolate covered fingers and is sitting on a white sofa). I forgot to mention that Marie also gets handed a piece of chocolate. Never mind that she's only 3 months old. It's a holiday, so she's given a chocolate too. I generally say thank you and put it into the diaper bag, but sometimes if a neighbor or friend is holding her they actually unwrap it and try to feed it to her!
9:20 am (That's right! That whole sugar and stuffed grape leaf eating fest was only 20 minutes long!): We again ask permission to go, and this time we get it, although it's always given reluctantly. We make our way out into the hallway then up one flight of stairs to ring our next-door neighbor's doorbell. They open the door, we all yell "Iyi Bayramlar!" And the whole baklava-and-chocolate-eating-cola-drinking-frenzy starts all over again. We repeat this process over and over throughout the morning. The same greetings, the same questions, the same almost everything. Sometimes we're only offered baklava and cola. Sometimes we're offered an assortment of other Turkish goodies alongside the baklava, but the basic visit is always the same. Bayram visits are almost always just 15-25 minutes long. You pack them in. It's more of a courtesy than a time to really get to know somebody.

12:00 noon: We have completed 5 or 6 bayram visits, our teeth our covered with sugary sweaters. We decide to go home for a lunch break and to give the kids naps. The only problem is that we don't want lunch. We're stuffed. We try to feed Elise something somewhat nutritious to counter-balance the sugar she's consumed all morning (Haci Anne's stuffed grape leaves were the only non-sugary thing we've eaten all day). Elise is stuffed too. She doesn't want cheese or sandwich. She's exhausted, but high on sugar. We try our best to get her to take a nap anyway. Every time she's almost asleep our doorbell rings and we open it for kids yelling "Iyi bayramlar!" and holding our their hands for candy.
1:30 pm: James and I decide who else we'd like to visit. Some people we visit because they're our friends and some people we visit because they'd probably be offended if we didn't. We're about to leave the house and press on in the visits when Elise finally falls asleep. We tape a bunch of napkins over our door bell ringer so that the sound is muffled and pretending not to be home, we don't answer the door when kids or neighbors come knocking.
4:00 pm: We've taken naps too. Now we're ready to hit the streets again and make more visits. We change the kids clothes and head out.
10:30 pm: We get home from our final visit of the day and carry our sleeping kids to their beds. We brush our teeth, but it just doesn't seem to cut it. Everyone goes to sleep and has strange dreams about floating on pieces of baklava in a cola sea.

The next day looks very similar, and by the third day we're at home more. The third day of the holiday some friends and neighbors come to visit us. Since we're young, and we're not any body's relative, we're pretty low on the totem pole when it comes to visiting order. I serve store-bought baklava (I have no idea how to make the stuff), some homemade cookies, and cola to our guests. We douse their hands with lemon cologne and give them fancy chocolates.

By the end of the three day holiday, I don't want to see another piece of baklava for the rest of my life. When James and I first moved to Turkey we were in the habit of going to a shop and buying baklava for dessert every couple of weeks. After our first Seker Bayrami (our first experience overdosing on baklava), we didn't buy any for an entire year. Now we usually go a few months after Seker Bayrami trying our best to avoid the stuff and then we start buying it again when guests come over.

Since we're in America right now and far far away from the feeding frenzy that's going on in Turkey, James is dying for some baklava. Anybody know a good recipe?

More Ramazan Memories... The Drummer

2008-09-12T09:59:00.000-07:00

Every year when Ramazan rolls in, the neighborhood drummer rolls on in along with it. He's up before the crack of dawn, before any rooster would dream of crowing, before the early bird is up to get its worm. He's punctual and he's LOUD.

Somehow the noise from the drum penetrates walls and spaces so that even though he is on the street below, and we are in our bedroom on the sixth floor, we can hear him as if he is in our living room. During the 30 days of Ramazan, every morning he jolts us awake with his sometimes almost beautiful, sometimes absolutely horrific, serenade.

The first few mornings of Ramazan, I think the drummer silently sneakes up to our building garden then starts in with a LOUD LOUD marching song, making everyone wake up and hop exuberantly out of bed. I suppose if I were Muslim, and if I were observing the fast, I would be happy for the peppy tune getting me up and moving:

Boom batt-a Boom batt-a BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!
Boom batt-a Boom batt-a BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!
Boom batt-a Boom batt-a BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!

But I'm not Muslim, and I don't observe the fast, so instead of hopping jubilantly out of bed, I'm jolted awake trying to figure out why there's a marching band in our home. Then once my brain has un-fuzzed enough for me to realize that it's the Ramazan drummer, and I'm not about to be trampled by the UC Davis Marching Band-uh, I have too much adrenaline in me to drift back off to sleep. On these mornings I generally end up lying in bed awake envisioning myself spilling a bucket of water from my balcony and onto the drummer's head.

Just kidding about the water... maybe.

A few days into the fast, the drummer has lost a little of his pep, and so rather than sneaking up on poor unsuspecting people dozing away in their warm beds, you can hear him slowly making his way toward you from way down the street. He's lost his zip. He's no longer a one man band. He's a tired half-alive man struggling just to lift his hands to his drum:

Boom....ba.....rat-tat....bang.....ba....boom...........booooom.......ba.....bum.....boom.... Blech!

Poor guy. He's out there in the cold. He's tired, he's hungry, he's low on energy from being up so early and from fasting all day long. He sounds like an animal that needs to be put out of it's misery.

On these mornings I roll over and stuff a pillow over my head. I pray that the horrific drumming wont wake my kids up so that I can stay in bed. I try to go back to sleep, but then I start wondering just how many of my neighbors are in fact fasting. I can't help but get up and peek out the window to see how many homes have their lights on. If I spot a home where it seems everyone is still asleep, I pass the news on to James who rolls over, groans, and tells me to shut up. Then he puts a pillow over his head and envisions dumping water on me to get me back for keeping him awake longer than he has to be.

Just kidding about James telling me to shut up. He's more polite than that, even early in the morning. But I think he's thinking it.

Somewhere in the middle of the fast, the drummer seems to have adjusted to his new job, and he's back at jolting me out of bed with his peppy drumming:

Rat-a-tat-a BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!
Rat-a-tat-a BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!

OR

BOOM-ba BOOM-ba rat-a-tat-a BOOM!!!
BOOM-ba BOOM-ba rat-a-tat-a BOOM!!!

and many many more variations along this theme.

After 30 days of waking up this way (did I mention this usually happens somewhere between 2:30 and 3:45 am?!), my nerves are frazzled, and the bags under my eyes extend all the way down to my jaw bones. And then to top it all off, one day he comes to the door asking for a tip. A TIP!!

Everyone in the neighborhood pitches in to thank him for helping them faithfully keep the fast. If you think I was kidding about wanting to dump water on his head in the early morning, then believe me when I say that when he asks me for money for his services, I really really do want to toss water, and the bucket, in his face. But instead, I politely tell him that I'm not Muslim.

He stares blankly back at me. This was not the response he was hoping for or expecting. Probably in his entire carreer as a drummer, he's never ever heard these words and he really doesn't know what to make of it (Turkey is a nearly 100% Muslim country). He generally stands there staring at me until I explain that I didn't observe Ramazan and therefore didn't need or want to wake up early, and for that reason I didn't need or want his services and I'm exempt from giving him a tip.

At this point the drummer either says OK, turns away and goes on to the next neighbor, or he sees it as his opportunity, no, his duty to try his best to convert me to Islam. Let me ask you, if you had suffered from sleep deprivation for 30 days, would you then want someone to try to convert you? Especially to the religion that caused your sleep deprivation, and by the person who woke you up so early every day???

Yeah, me neither.

The Ramazan Fast - Harder Than You Think

2008-09-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

My husband James loves eating. It's one of his favorite pastimes. Aside from when he's asleep, he eats at least every two hours. From time to time James decides to fast. His idea of a fast is to abstain from all solids. Liquids such as water, milk, juice, fruit shakes, protein shakes, root beer floats, steak and potatoes blended to a fine puree, these are okay with him. He'll consume them at least once an hour, probably more. . . . Okay, so I'm embellishing a teensy bit, but the point is that James likes to eat and never completely abstains from it.

So, this past year when James decided he wanted to get to know, understand, and identify with our Turkish friends and neighbors a little more by fasting along with them during Ramazan, I was a little surprised. James wasn't doing the fast for religious reasons. He just wanted to try it out and see what our friends go through. He never had the goal of fasting for the whole 30 days, just a day or two in order to experience it. Here's how his day went:

4:00 am - The drummer comes by and wakes everyone up so that they can eat a morning meal before the sun rises. James stays in bed.
5:30 am - James wakes up and eats a light breakfast. This was already cheating a bit as our neighbors were up eating at least an hour earlier, but James figured it didn't matter that much since he was just trying to get the general experience. He was going to abstain from all food and drink for the rest of the day, until he broke the fast at sundown along with everyone else.
10:30 am - James, low on energy, has a hard time being civil toward a certain member of the family (me).
11:00 am - James says he has a headache and starts getting sniffy even toward the little members of the family.
12:00 - James goes to take a nap (which somehow got him started down a slippery slope).
1:30 pm- He wakes up.
2:00 pm- James decides he needs to break the fast just a little bit by having a glass of milk.
2:30 pm- James reasons that since he already broke the fast, he might as well snack on a few pieces of dried fruit.
3:00 pm- James fixes himself a sandwich.
3:15 pm- James is in the refrigerator eating leftovers from the night before.
3:30 pm- All food in the kitchen (with the exception of a few raw potatoes and the soy sauce) has been devoured by James.
3:45 pm- James takes another nap.
6:30 pm- Our family (including James) eats dinner.
6:40 pm- The cannon shoots off. We can hear our neighbors chairs scooting and creaking above our heads as they have their first bite of food and drink of water since dawn.
6:45 pm- James decides that one day of the Ramazan experience is enough for him. He doesn't want to try it again the next day.

Wow.

A few things we learned:
1. We have a little more understanding and pity for the angry drivers who honk at everyone and are always shouting. Those guys aren't just tired, hungry, and thirsty. They're also having withdrawals from smoking.
2. The Ramazan fast is HARD. We've come to respect people who set out to do it and actually stick to it the entire 30 days.
3. We also have more understanding for why we can't find anyone who is actually getting anything done during Ramazan. It's hard to find a plumber, repairman, etc who will get a job done during this month. One year our toilet flusher broke about 3 days into Ramazan. No matter how many plumbers we called, we couldn't get anyone to come. We ended up flushing by pouring buckets of water down the toilet until well after the month of Ramazan ended. People are either sleeping or wishing they were sleeping during all daylight hours. Since they're not eating or drinking, everyone wants to expend as little energy as possible.

Ramazan

2008-09-03T13:13:00.000-07:00

Since we're currently in the States, I'm pretty out of touch with life in Turkey. The other day a friend mentioned that Ramadan (Ramazan, in Turkey) started a few days ago. If I were in Turkey this wouldn't have come as a surprise to me. There would have been signs of it everywhere - from the posters at the grocery store to the man with a drum walking by to wake everyone up before dawn, to the cannon that blasts in the evening at sun down signifying that the fast is over for the day.

Ramazan is the yearly month of fasting in the Muslim world. All Muslims (with exception of the pregnant, the sick, children, and those who are traveling) are required to fast from all food and drink (and cigarettes too) from sun up to sun down for one month a year. Some people observe this rule more strictly than others. In the city where we were living, Ramazan was very strictly observed. We rarely saw people eating in daylight hours. We didn't want to offend anyone, so when we ate we always hid behind closed doors and curtains.

To be honest with you, I think it's pretty amazing that all these people can observe this tough religious duty. Do you know how much will power it takes to eat nothing all day long, and how much more it takes to keep yourself from drinking any water?! And I really like the community oriented "we're all in this together" mentality of it. But there are also things about it that I don't like. One is the fact that if I eat anything in public I get really really mean looks. If looks could kill then I would have been dead within the first few days of my first Ramazan experience.

James and I were living in Ankara, the capital. Ramazan had been going for a few days, which meant that we were extra tired due to a drummer coming around our neighborhood, banging on his drum around 3:30 am in order to wake everyone up. People get up well before dawn so that they can eat a big meal before the daily fast starts, then they drift back to sleep until they have to go to work. James and I would often be startled out of a deep sleep and then be unable to drift back off... and that's just not a fun way to start the morning, ya know?

James had an office downtown. He would go there to study Turkish and meet with a few college students he'd hired to give him language lessons. On this particular day, I came downtown to do a little shopping and then met up with him after his lessons were over. We were hungry and decided to find a restaurant and eat downtown rather than going home and preparing dinner.

I should insert here that going home and preparing dinner meant waiting up to half an hour for a bus, then getting on that crowded bus (often being forced into someone's armpit in the standing room that was left over), and riding 30-40 minutes home. Once home we would have to prepare dinner. Dinner in Turkey is no 20 minute deal. Forget about using a jar of prepared spaghetti sauce, or anything of the kind. Cooking in Turkey almost always means cooking from scratch. So you can see that if we had waited until we were home, dinner would have come at least an hour and a half later, but I digress.... back to the story.

We found a restaurant that looked good. Iskender (one of our favorite dishes which translated is "Alexander the Great") was advertised on a banner outside as the "Ramazan Special" for an amazing price. It was crowded inside which is always a good sign that the food is tasty. We walked in and immediately noted that no one was smoking. Since it seems almost everyone smokes in Turkey, and we weren't yet used to being in smoke filled rooms without feeling like we were about to choke, we were delighted to see that none of the people in the restaurant were smokers. What luck!

We walked up to the counter and said "Iki Iskender (translation: two iskender)" The man taking the money said a bunch of unintelligable words to us (remember, we hadn't been in Turkey long enough to understand much of anything). We gave him a blank look, held up two fingers, pointed to the picture of Iskender, and repeated, "Iki Iskender." He motioned around and said a bunch more stuff, then he asked us very slowly if we were from Germany (which is the first thing he said that we actually understood.) We said no, we were Americans. He said a bunch more that we didn't understand and then looked at us for a response. Again, we held up our fingers, pointed, and said, "Iki Iskender." Finally the man shook his head, picked up a couple of plates of Iskender, some lentil soup, and motioned for us to follow him.

We followed him down a staircase to a huge crowded dining room. He seated us at the one free table in the entire place (directly in the center of the room), set our plates in front of us, and left. I grabbed my spoon and started digging into the soup. All conversation from the room around us stopped, and I noticed icy cold stares from the rest of the room. James and I looked around and saw that no one else had any food in front of them. No one was drinking water. No one was smoking. The only table that even had a basket of bread was ours. Our eyes grew wide as we looked at each other. It finally dawned on us that everyone, EVERYONE in the crowded restaurant was waiting for the fast to break before they ate anything.

We wanted to crawl into a little hole. We wanted to get up and run screaming for home. We wished we could rewind time and start the day over (preferably with our brains turned on this time). We wished we were anywhere but in the middle of that dining room with everyone else staring at us as if we had a giant neon sign with the word "Infidels" flashing above our heads.

Instead of any of those options, we quickly discussed it and decided that the best thing to do was to eat our food as fast as possible and then get out of there. We thought about waiting for the fast to break, then finishing our food with everyone else, but we'd already started, everyone had already seen it. And, we reasoned, our food might be cold by the time the fast broke.

We tried to ignore the rest of the room as we shoveled the food into our mouths. Finally, just as we were taking our last bites, the call to prayer came over some speakers and baskets of bread started being passed around. Everyone took their eyes off us as they lit up their cigarettes, drank some cool refreshing water, and started their meals. And we got up and left. We walked out of the restaurant with our heads hung in shame, trying to avoid any eye contact.

Once we were on the almost empty bus home (empty because everyone else in the city was eating their evening meal), we laughed about how clueless we were. All the signs were there, including the literal sign advertising "The Ramazan Special." No one smoking. No one eating. The man behind the counter asking lots of questions. All of this pointed to the fact that, Hello! it's Ramazan! Everyone is fasting! But we were such unexperienced Americans that it all floated right above our heads until it was much too late.

After that experience we were much more careful about eating in public. After an experience like that, how can you not be??

Boy am I glad to be in America right now!

Dogs

2008-09-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

While we were getting ready to move, James took down all our light fixtures and then headed down the elevator to get into the basement (which is used as a giant storage unit for all of the people living in the building). We had a few of our home owner's light fixtures stored in the basement and wanted to get them out so we could box our own up.

Our building is kind of run by this guy, the door man, named Mr. Friday. He cleans things up, keeps the garden looking nice, takes out trash, and is just kind of an all around helper. On this particular day, James went to see him because he has the keys to our building's basement.

James: Can you open up the basement for me? I have some stuff to get out of there.
Mr. Friday: You'll have to come back here later. I can't go down to the basement.
James: Why not?
Mr. Friday: There's a belly down there. It tried to bite me.
James: What??
Mr. Friday: There's a baby belly down there, and it's mom. They're dangerous.
James: Totally confused. Um... okay. When should I come back?
Mr. Friday: The owner will be back this evening. We'll go down there then.

James went back up to our apartment on the sixth floor and told me the situation. Together we figured out that there was a KOPEK (dog) in the basement. Not a GOBEK (belly). Sometimes people from our city have an accent where they pronounce K like a G. As if learning a foreign language isn't hard enough, I sometimes think that language-wise, we live in Turkey's version of the deep South.

A few hours later James returned downstairs in hopes of having better luck getting into the basement.

James: So, do you think we can go down there now and get those lights?
Mr. Friday: The owner isn't around yet, but if you really want to, then I'll open the door up for you and you can go down there yourself. Those bellies (translation: dogs) are dangerous. Did I tell you they tried to bite me?

James had been putting quite a bit on hold waiting on the stuff from the basement, so he decided to brave the dogs and go down to the basement.

James: Let's do it.
Mr. Friday: Unlocking the door with a look of complete and utter terror on his face, Okay, if you're sure. But be careful. . . I think they're wolves.

Since Mr. Friday was obviously scared out of his socks, James was a little scared too. Upon hearing that the dogs were actually wolves, James was quite a bit more nervous, but he started down the dimly lit staircase anyway. Mr. Friday armed James with a rake. He bravely followed down the staircase, still uttering warnings from a few steps behind. He was armed with a big push broom (hey, if the main parts of your job include sweeping and gardening, these are probably the best you can do in the way of weapons to fight off dangerous wolves). Pretty soon the wolves made some sort of quiet growling noises from a dark corner of the basement. Mr. Friday shrieked like a girl then ran back up the stairs, and James was right behind him, his heart pounding out of his chest. Mr. Friday re-locked the door with shaking hands, and James decided to put his work on hold until the owner of the wolves was around to help control them.

A few hours later Mr. Friday called up to our apartment to tell James that the owner was back and it was safe to go down to the basement. James went downstairs and looked at the front of our building. He found the owner sitting on the front steps with his "wolves" in front of him. His three year old son had his arms wrapped around the little "wolf's" neck in a big hug and the other building kids were petting it's mother. They seemed to be two of the tamest, friendliest dogs he'd ever seen. Mr. Friday was watching from about 20 feet away, still armed with his giant push broom, ready to take action just in case one of the dogs decided to go for his jugular.

A few things I'd like to point out about this story:
1. Turks are generally scared of dogs. They are usually not seen as pets, but as ferocious wild animals that terrorize the streets (probably because many of the dogs in Turkey really are ferocious wild animals that terrorize the streets).
2. More and more Turks are getting dogs (probably due to western influence), but I'd say that as a whole, unless proven otherwise dogs are seen as vicious and mean.
3. Even if a dog can prove its sweetness and worth to others, some Turks, like Mr. Friday, will never be convinced. They are sure that if a dog comes up to them it is always after raw human flesh, not a pat on the head. Period.
4 After a little thought, we realized that there were dogs, not bellies, in the basement. Imagine how many times people have had perfectly normal conversations with us and we've come away thinking totally strange things, all based around one misunderstood word. This is one instance where we figured it out. Think about all the times we didn't. Yikes!

Excellent Workmanship

2008-08-29T08:07:00.000-07:00

We're living with my parents right now and loving it. We live in the country, in a forest. When I look out the window I see blue skies, mountains, pine trees, birds, a deer now and then.... It's a big difference from our city life, living on the 6th floor of a 12 story building, riding elevators up and down, looking out the window to see more big grey buildings, cars, people, and business.

When I was growing up here my dad always had a project going around the house. He built a deck out back as well as in front, he converted our garage into a family room, and built a bigger garage. He replaced things, painted things, and sanded things. And he always did excellent work. Right now he's putting a french door onto the side of the family room. I've been watching him use his balance to make sure things are exactly straight. He uses some other thing-a-ma-jig tool (I'm not fluent in the language of workshop-ese) to make sure the corners are exactly 90 degrees, and then he measures and re-measures. It brings back memories of watching some amazing craftsmanship in Turkey.

After we'd been living there a few months we decided it was time to buy a table and chairs. We went downtown, picked out what we wanted - a simple dark wood table with 8 chairs - and asked to have it delivered the following week. We didn't know much Turkish and so it was really quite the feat just getting that much communicated.

The next week came and our table arrived. A man carried everything in and set it all up. He then went around the table and one by one checked to see if the chairs wobbled. Apparently he hadn't measured to make sure the legs were all the same length ahead of time. Instead he brought a hand saw with him, and if a chair was a little wobbly, he turned it over and sawed off a bit of the longest leg then turned it upright again and gave it a little shake to see if the wobblieness was gone. He did this over and over with all the chairs until he was satisfied that they no longer wobbled and then he left.

James and I stood watching in confusion and disbelief as our chairs got shorter and shorter. We didn't know Turkish and couldn't really say much about it, so we just watched. After he left we swept up the sawdust, picked up the little squares that were once parts of our chair legs, and re-arranged the chairs around our table. Since the legs had all been cut, some chairs were taller and some were shorter... and they all wobbled. Our flooring wasn't exactly flat, so the only way to keep the chairs from wobbling was by leaving them in the exact places where the carpenter had tested their wobbliness.

Amazing workmanship. When I told my dad about it, he just shook his head.

Every city needs a James

2008-08-27T07:53:00.001-07:00

I was chatting with my friend and former neighbor Cindy yesterday. She told me that a new restaurant has come into town. Cindy lives in the city in Turkey that we were living in up until May.

The restaurant looks like the latest and greatest - big bright and beautiful. And it's located just around the corner from our old house. And it's name...

THE JAMES

What??? Why in the world would a Turk name a restaurant that?? James is a nonsense word in Turkish. So is "the" for that matter.

As far as I know James (my husband) was the only one by that name in that city - possibly ever. I guess they miss us.

Welcome to America!!!

2008-06-05T13:32:00.000-07:00

The final of our four flights that took us from Turkey to my parent's home in California was from Las Vegas to Reno. We'd already travelled something like 27 hours and were exhausted and tired of airports by the time they announced over the intercom that our flight was cancelled. Somewhere around 1 am we arrived at our complimantary hotel where we fell into a heap and slept the rest of the night. The next morning I awoke, took Elise with me, and wandered out to the lobby where James and Marie were already digging into the hotel breakfast.

Me: Tired and squinting at the sun, "Good morning."

James: Devouring an English muffin like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted, "Check out this breakfast! They have English muffins!!"

At this point I'd like to stop and tell you that we haven't eaten English muffins in four years.

Me: running over to the counter where a few breakfast items are arranged, and calling to James from there, "Look! Bagels... AND CREAM CHEESE!!!!"

Note: Bagels and cream cheese can't be found in Turkey.

Me: Giddy with excitement, "Oh my goodness!! A blueberry muffin!!!! And Chocolate muffins too!!! No way..." checking out one of those styrofoam trays that cheap grocery store danishes are sold on "...this is one of those danishes with the cherry jelly in the middle! Wow! This breakfast is AMAZING!!"

Note: The above said items aren't available in Turkey.

James: talking to me loudly from his table, "Jamie, check out the cereals! They have those cool little boxes of fruit loops that you can open the side of and pour milk into! And it's not box milk!!"

Me: loading up my plate with one of everything, "Wow, just wow."

At this point I looked around and noticed that the four or five other hotel guests were staring at James and I like we were from another planet, which actually made us feel pretty at home. Turks are always gawking at us.

WELCOME TO AMERICA!!!!

The Kuafor

2008-04-11T00:03:00.000-07:00

The women in my building all get together for tea every couple of weeks. The first time I went, a neighbor who lives on my left came to my door to let me know the tea was going on. She told me that it was just going to be women so I shouldn't worry too much about it, "just be comfortable." I guess I thought it would be something like if I went to hang out over coffee with some girlfriends in the States, so I went to the tea (at a 10th floor flat) wearing exactly what I had on in my house: Jeans, a maroon colored t-shirt, and silly socks with hearts all over them. I pulled my hair up into a pony tail, and didn't bother putting on any make up.

When I walked in, I took my shoes off (you don't wear shoes inside houses here), exposing my silly socks. I said hello to the hostess at the door, took a look around, and immediately wished I could rewind time and take the entire morning getting ready. The women all looked like they were attending a wedding. A very very fancy wedding. Everyone's hair was done (this was the first time I'd seen most of my neighbors without their head coverings on), they were wearing skirts or dresses, high heels, full make up, and gold. Lots and lots of gold. Everyone had necklaces, earrings, and especially lots of gold bracelets. No one wore pants, let alone jeans. No one had silly socks on.

Turning around and walking out wasn't an option, so I decided to find a little corner chair to sit in where no one would see me. I entered the living room to see that my little corner was not there. The room was arranged so that everyone could sit in a big circle and see everyone else. By watching other women, I picked up on the fact that I was supposed to go around the room and one by one greet each neighbor. If the neighbor was younger, I kissed her on each cheek then said "Hello, welcome." She'd reply by saying "Welcome to you too." If the woman was old, I was supposed to kiss her on the back of the hand then touch it to my forehead. Of course I fumbled that whole ritual up. In fact after a few years of this, I still don't know where the age cut off is for hand kissing vs. cheek kissing. This whole greeting ritual is made even harder by the fact that it's really hard to tell age. I think that life is often hard here and a hard life coupled with heavy smoking (which almost everyone does) makes for 37 year olds who look closer to 55.

I eventually took a seat. Not too far from the door because that's the seat of honor. Not too comfortable because that also should belong to someone who has a higher rank than me (rank mostly measured by age). I looked around and it seemed that EVERYONE (30 or so ladies) was staring back at me. And all at the same time. The ladies looked at me then whispered to one another. I felt about like I do in one of those crazy humiliating dreams where you go to the store then suddenly realize you forgot to wear pants but its too late and everyone has seen you in your undies. Only this was no dream. All the pantyhose and black pumps with spiked heels that people apparently save as indoor shoes for special occasions like this one seemed to mock me and made me feel even worse about my silly socks. My feet were almost itching from the attention they were getting as the women looked me up and down. I was thankful that I brought a black diaper bag which I promptly set in front of me and thus blocked the socks from view.

My sock problem somewhat solved, my brain immediately started focusing on my hair problem. A pony tail. No one but little girls wear pony tails around here. I felt like a big doofus. Everyone else seemed to have perfect shiny hair - some in elegant up-dos, some down but perfectly curled. How, I wondered, did they all get their hair to look so nice? Why, I wondered, does my hair never ever ever look that nice. And my most plaguing question: Why oh why on a day like today did I not even take the time to wash it???

Since that horribly embarrassing day I've figured out where the nice hair comes from: The kuafor.

There are five hair salons on my block. One in my building, two in the building next door, and two in the one next to that. Getting your hair cut or styled, having your make up done, getting your eyebrows plucked, or body hair removed at a hair salon (kuafor in Turkish) is something that seems to happen far more often here than it does in the States. Part of it might be the fact that looking nice (wearing skirts and high heels, or for men, wearing suits) is far more important to people here. I've even seen men in suits shoveling dirt! Part of it might be that it's significantly cheaper (a hair cut at the salon in my building is only about $3.50, getting it styled is the same.) Whatever the reason, the kuafor is a big part of Turkish culture. Men frequently go in to get a shave, women frequently go in to get their hair done.

Usually hair salons have pictures like this on the outside of them, attracting people with the trendy styles.

But sometimes they have pictures like this.

This one says it's a kuafor for girls with head coverings. When I go for a walk in the mornings I pass this window and it almost always makes me wonder. What do they do in there that's different from the others? Do they pin on and arrange head coverings in a really stylish way? Are they talented at doing hair then covering the head back up without messing the hair up? Do they not do anything with hair, but just do make up instead? Does it really take a different kind of specialized skill to work with covered women? Someday I'll have to find the answers to these questions, but for now I guess they'll just remain a mystery.

Signs of Spring

2008-04-06T02:17:00.000-07:00

It's here! My favorite time of year! It seems like just a couple of weeks ago we were snowed in and now the snow is gone and spring is creeping in! I am just itching to get my hands dirty and plant some flowers. The grocery store just got a bunch of pots and soil in and I told James that it took all my will power not to go buy some. I think he was relieved that I held out because 1. We already have about 500,000 pots for our 24 square foot balcony and any rational person would realize that we don't need any more, and 2. We're moving out of our house in only two and a half weeks so if I did plant flower seeds, we wouldn't even be here long enough to see them sprout!

I took a little walk and snapped some shots of spring coming to our neighborhood.

This is the mosque on the corner. It has a beautiful garden around it. Right now this tree is looking great and in a month or so the roses in the garden will start putting on a show that lasts all summer. Actually, every building here has roses around it. Miniature roses, giant roses, climbing roses. Pink, red, yellow, orange, lavender, white, and peach roses. You name it, and when it comes to roses I think you'll be able to find it in my neighborhood. When they are all at their peak blooming time you can step outside and just smell roses in the air. It's a BEAUTIFUL thing. We'll be gone before the roses start blooming and that makes me sad.

But I can still enjoy these flowering trees. I don't know what they are, but they sure are pretty.

I don't know what it is about spring, but it just makes me really happy. Maybe it's all the newness. New leaves, new flowers, new... I don't know.... stuff. everywhere. Sheesh! I wish I had some poetry skills at a time like this.

Everyday I Go For A Walk

2008-04-05T04:02:00.000-07:00

Turkey is a great place in many many ways. One thing I love about living here is the way our city actually encourages people to get out there and get in shape.

Since I have such a wonderful and amazing husband who is willing to give me a chance to get out of the house while he watches the kids, every morning I go to the park for a walk. Today I decided to take my camera. Unfortunately, today it was raining so I can't show you all the people out there walking and exercising. Apparently today I'm the only silly person who was willing to risk getting too cold.

The park is a couple of blocks away and it has a nice long walking track. One lap is 3/4 mile. On most mornings if you go out really early, like 7 am, this track is full of men walking and working out a little before heading off to work. If you wait another hour you'll see more women out here. I love that everyone gets out here and walks together. Oh, and in case you can't tell by the picture, the track is made of that squishy rubbery stuff.

Now here's the part I really really like. Somewhere around two years ago our city started installing exercise equipment in the parks!

There are stationary bikes and stair master type machines. There are ski type machines and machines that you twist and pull and push. I wish there had been people to photograph this morning, that would have made it much more interesting, but you get the idea.

Okay, so this next series of photos is obviously not from today. But just to make this post a little more interesting I found these pictures from a couple weeks ago.

This isn't the same park, its another one that's only about a block away. This is the "I'm kind of trying to lose weight but I'm really out here to talk and gossip" exercise park. I normally don't go to this one because everyone moves at such a slow pace and it's more about chatting it up than about getting some exercise, but on the day these pictures were taken, Elise and I were out "exercising" with some neighbors from our building.

I love that I don't have to buy a gym membership to use these kinds of machines. And I love being one of the many many people out here every morning walking. It's fun. I'm gonna miss this stuff while I'm gone.

A Car Accident and the Breathalyzer Test

2008-04-03T04:38:00.000-07:00

James was in a car accident two days ago. He's fine and considering that it could have been much worse, we think everyone else is fine too. One woman was sent to the hospital with a possible broken leg and if we can get her address from the police, we're hoping to go visit her tomorrow. I really don't feel like writing all the details of the whole yucky business of dealing with hours and hours with the police, James getting fingerprinted and having mug shots taken, ending up on the local news, having to get $1500 worth of repairs on a truck we're trying to sell, etc. So I won't.

In all of this, though, there is this one fun gem that I just have to share. It just shouts "Turkey" to me and is a good picture of the sometimes incomprehensible way things work here.

James was taken by the police across town to a building where he was going to be tested to see if he had consumed alcohol before the accident. He thought maybe they would do a breath-alizer or maybe they'd take his blood. He pictured himself having to walk along a straight line or say the alphabet backwards or one of those other alcohol test types of things.

After arriving he waited and waited, which he was expecting. Then his turn finally came. He stepped up to the main fellow in the room and...

Official Alcohol Level Checker Guy: Alcohol?

James: Uh-uh (raising his eyebrows and clicking his tongue - the Turkish style negative).

Official Alcohol Level Checker Guy: Alcohol?

James: No.

Official Alcohol Level Checker Guy: Alcohol? (Really really loudly.)

James: No! (Really loudly.)

The man then went on to file a report that James was not under the influence of alcohol.

Does something about this official test seem to be missing to you too?

Ugly Children Everywhere!

2008-04-01T01:19:00.000-07:00

This being April fools day I thought it would be fitting to share a normal everyday part of Turkish life. Let me tell you, those Turks, they're tricky.

After Elise was born Turks began coming up to me as I held her, smiling at her, and in a high pitched baby voice saying things like, "Oh! You ugly ugly little baby! Ugly! Ugly! I just want to eat you up! You're such an ugly little thing. Oh yes you are!" Sometimes they'd even follow that by puckering their lips, sticking their tongue through and lightly spitting toward her. And you know what? My feelings were hurt. I mean really, telling a new mom her baby is ugly?! Those are fightin' words!

Elise would usually coo and smile right back at them, oblivious to the fact that they were insulting her.... Or were they??

Here in Turkey, there is this thing, this force, called the nazar. I think in English it's called the evil eye. After many many conversations about it, this is the best I can do at understanding it: Everything has to be balanced. So if there is too much good attention on something then a bad thing will happen to it in order to balance it out. That force that balances things out by causing bad things to happen to them is the nazar.

For example, my friend Nur lost some weight and started styling her hair differently. She was looking really good and went out to visit her relatives in the village. Lots of people commented on how good she looked, then when she was washing dishes a plate slipped out of her hand and broke on the floor. According to Nur, that was the nazar. And Nur was happy that the plate broke because if it hadn't something worse would probably have happened to her. Sickness, an accident, death... who knows. But the point is that a bad thing happened to her to balance the good attention.

Here's another example: My first language helper, Sumru, told me that when her baby was born some people came to visit. They sat in her house, admired her beautiful baby, then they left. When she closed the door behind them she heard a crash in the kitchen. A bunch of glasses had fallen off the shelf and broken. The nazar.

So when people come up to me and tell me what an ugly baby I have, it's really a trick. They're trying to somehow trick this balancing force, the nazar, into thinking the baby is ugly, because if the baby gets too much good attention then something bad might happen to her. I think they even pretend to spit on her to protect her from the force of the nazar.

The thing is that they know, and I (now) know that they're really saying she's super cute. They're really just doing everything in their power to protect the little peanut from that mean old ever-present nazar.

There is WAY WAY more about this nazar business I'd love to share with you, and maybe one day I will, but for now this will have to do. I've gotta keep it short because ...

I have only 24 days until I move out of my house and 29 days until I leave for America and I've gotta pack!!!

Oh. Just one more thing... While Sumru (from my second example) told me about the Nazar, James was with Elise, who was a new baby, in another room. A little later James brought Elise out and Sumru saw her for the first time. Sumru ooohed and aawwed over Elise and DIDN'T say Elise was ugly because she knew I wouldn't understand that and she didn't want to offend me. Instead she told me what a beautiful baby I had. Later on Sumru left and I heard a crash in the kitchen. I went in the room only to discover that a mug had by itself fallen off the counter and shattered all over the floor. Hmmm......

I love this about Turkey... child friendly restaurants

2008-03-31T04:11:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago we went out to eat at one of the nicest restaurants in town. Elise didn't sit at the table with us. Most of the time she was running around between our table and the play area, singing at the top of her lungs. A lot of the time even Marie wasn't at our table. The owner of the restaurant picked her up and carried her around, showing her to kids, other customers, waiters, and cooks.

That experience is a perfect picture of one thing I love about life here. Kids can just be kids, even at restaurants. People just accept it. They smile at Elise and at us when she walks by their table singing. They think its cute. I really don't know what it's like to go out to eat with little kids in the US, but I have a feeling it's nothing like this. I can't imagine people being happy about my kids running between their tables. I really can't imagine the restaurant owner taking our baby so we can eat in peace, and I'm having a hard time picturing the other diners being happy about the restaurant owner bringing a baby over for them to see while they're eating.

That's really a bummer because I love food in America. When we are there (which is only one month away!) I want to eat out. I really really do. I want to have burritos and pizza and steak. I want to have hamburgers and Chinese and Italian food. Am I going to have to train my 3 year old to sit still and quiet while I eat my meal? Am I going to have to take care of my baby rather than pass her on to a waiter or manager? How am I going to eat in peace? Why oh why don't Americans just let kids be kids?

Our next baby will be a boy!

2008-03-25T07:09:00.000-07:00

Do you see this little bluish spot on Marie's forehead?

I think it's some sort of birthmark... I've heard it will disappear by the time she's around one.

My friends and neighbors tell me that when a girl is born with one of these spots between her eyes, it means the next child will be a boy. Hmmmmm.... Maybe they're right about that.... at least 50% of the time.

And in case the title made you wonder, no, I'm not pregnant.

Two Things You Can Find Almost Anywhere On the Planet...

2008-03-20T22:20:00.000-07:00

Coca-Cola and french fries.

I can't think of anything really good for a person that's easy to come by at any restaurant in any country in the world. Not carrot sticks. Not rice cakes. No little cans of slim fast shakes. Not fruit smoothies or whole grain breads or vegetable juice. But when it comes to fried starch and carbonated sugar, be assured of this... you can find it and you can eat it. And we do. The end.

*photos and title compliments of Gary.

I keep my milk in the pantry.

2008-03-19T11:41:00.000-07:00

This is milk.

My thoughts and observations in no particular order...

1. This milk's expiration date is June 29, 2008!! (Wow! That's my 31st birthday... what a strange coincidence.)

2. Until that time I can keep it anywhere - in the pantry, on a shelf, in the hot sun, in the bathroom... well, maybe not in the bathroom.

3. It tastes, um, not exactly like milk.

4. It took some getting used to.

5. James loves the stuff.

6. This kind of milk is much easier to come by around here than the fresher variety we drank when we lived in California.

7. Most Turkish mothers serve it to their children at room temperature (bleck!) With honey.

8. Many Turkish kids' baby teeth rot out before they would naturally fall out. Hmmmmm... too much honey milk??

9. After I open it I have to keep it in the refrigerator.

10. This kind of milk was the main ingredient in the chocolate milk shake we drank recently.

11. Does milk that lasts for months and months with no refrigeration seem strange and wrong to anyone other than me?

A taste of home

2008-03-19T03:10:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago some friends from the US came to visit. We had a wonderful time together and they left us with a delicious parting gift: Jelly Bellies! A box of assorted flavors, including a few things we haven't tasted in a long long time. Dr. Pepper, root beer, and black licorice. Mmmmm! We can't get any of those things around here, and the Jelly Belly factory does an AMAZING job of replicating their flavor. Luckily Elise (who gets one Jelly Belly every time she successfully goes pee in the toilet) doesn't like the flavors I just listed. She has never lived in America and developed a taste for them. That means those ones are all James' and mine and we're loving every last little bean. You know, I didn't drink Dr. Pepper or root beer very often while we lived in America, but now that I can't have it I really crave it. And now that I've had those delicious flavors in my mouth thanks to Jelly Bellies, I am feeling so so ready to step off an airplane onto US soil (or US asphalt) and drink some cold refreshing root beer (with crushed ice... I don't know why but that just makes it taste better).

Today when I opened the box of Jelly Bellies to let Elise have her post-potty treat, I decided to take one of the little treats for myself too (after all, I successfully use the toilet all the time!) I grabbed the pure white coconut variety and as I chewed on it, a memory that I think I've repressed for the past nine years suddenly came rushing back to me. Not just any little memory. A horrible, embarrassing, and painful memory. I could choose to keep it from you but I want to show you my life in a real and complete way... so here it goes.

When I was living in the college dorms, my RA would sometimes plan building activities. I guess he wanted us to bond or something. Most of the time I didn't take part. I was a transfer student and everyone else was in their first year. At 21 and with two years of college under my belt I felt oh so much more mature and cool than all those 18 year old kids who had just gotten out of high school (now that I'm 30 I roll my eyes at thinking 2-3 years is a big difference). Plus I got tired of them asking me to buy them alcohol. There was one particular trip though that I decided to take part in... the trip to the Jelly Belly Factory.

We all loaded into a big bus type thing and set of on our 45 minute journey to Jelly Belly Lane in Fairfield, CA. Once inside the factory we were greeted with the sights, sounds, colors, smells, and TASTES of those delicious little beans of flavor. It was an interesting tour. One thing that stands out in my memory were the amazing mosaics of presidents faces made strictly from Jelly Bellies! Oh the creativity people possess!! Anyway the tour ends up in the gift shop (of course) and as I browsed around, I just couldn't pass up the cheap bags of belly flops (mutilated Jelly Bellies), and the extra extra cheap bags of post holiday Jelly Bellies. I bought the Hanukkah variety - all blue and white, perfect for your family's Hanukkah parties. Oh. Your family doesn't have Hanukkah parties? Neither does mine. I guess that's why this wasn't a big seller and there was so much left over. I took home a good sized bag of blueberry and coconut mix, and another large bag of the belly flops. I told myself I wouldn't eat it all. I lived in a dorm after all! And in the dorm you can just keep your door open and random people who are procrastinating from doing anything responsible stop by and chat. And while they chat, I told myself, I'll have a nice little snack to offer them. I'm so hospitable. Plus, I reasoned, in a month or so I'd be going home for Christmas. And my family would love some Jelly Bellies.

The problem was that everyone else in my dorm bought Jelly Bellies too. No one was very interested in my bowl of post-Hanukkah blueberry and coconut mix. No one wanted the mutilated globs of buttery popcorn or lemon or cinnamon flavored beans. So what did I do? I ate them myself. As I studied Organic Chemistry, I'd pop them in my mouth one by one in an effort to stay awake. As I read my Linguistics book I ate them two or three (or maybe seven) at a time. I guess my thumb and index finger were getting tired of picking them up and I decided it would be easier to scoop? Mid terms came and I went into high gear eating those little suckers. By the time I was through with my exams, I was sleep deprived, sick of studying, and I had blisters on my tongue and raw tender spots all over my mouth from eating indecent amounts of colorful little beans. And my blood sugar levels? Let's not even go there. The bags of Jelly Bellies I had purchased - bags that were big enough to supply a family of 7 with Jelly Bellies for 6 or 8 months - were empty.

I don't know how long I waited before eating them again. Years probably. And when our friend brought us this current box I was filled with excitement and joy at the prospect of tasting the flavors of America again. If only I'd resisted popping that one memory inducing coconut flavored bean in my mouth. Ick! Bleck! Now I don't know if I can eat another bean. Well, maybe just one... or two... or three... or ... 469.

I'm a horrible mother. Reason number 2- ice cream

2008-03-17T03:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it's not really ice cream, it's a popsicle. But the point is that it's cold. And that makes me a horrible mother. I don't know if it's worse than letting your child go sock-less, but I do know feeding your child ice cream when it's cold out is a very very bad thing.

Our first experience with the fear of eating cold stuff came even before Elise was born. One night way back when we first came to Turkey we had James' language helper Ozgur over for dinner. Ozgur was 19 years old and from a village in the north. We were the first foreigners he'd ever met. We didn't know Turkish and he didn't know English but with a lot of signing back and forth and dictionary usage we communicated okay. We ate dinner, and I made cultural mistake number one: no bread. We played Go Fish and translated the name of the game something more like a command toward a fish,"Go fish, go!" which makes no sense whatsoever. And afterward we fed him ice cream.

Ozgur looked a little worried when I handed him the big bowl of vanilla ice cream. But after a little prodding he ate it anyway. I went back to the kitchen to do some dishes and Ozgur chatted with James. If we take out the hand signs back and forth and the frequent dictionary usage, the conversation went something like this:

Ozgur: You know, Turks don't eat ice cream in the winter. Probably hinting that he didn't want to eat it which of course went right over poor James' culture shocked head.

James: Really? Why not?

Ozgur: We think it will make us sick. Again politely letting James know that he didn't want to eat it without just coming out and saying it.

James: Oh, don't worry. We eat it all the time. It wont make you sick.

Ozgur: Slowly finishing off his bowl with a sad and concerned look on his face. Well everyone I know gets sick. I usually stay away from this type of thing.

James: Looks like you finished yours off. Can I get you some more?

Ozgur: No thanks.

Later James and I laughed about the fact that Turks think ice cream or other cold things will make them sick. I mean we eat it all the time! Winter or summer, we love milk shakes and popsicles and ice in our drinks. Two days later James showed up for his language lesson with Ozgur, who had a horrible cold. And we stopped laughing.

Since that time this recurring theme has come up: eating cold things, especially in the winter (but oftentimes even in the summer) will make you very sick. Who knows the ills that will befall you but it's not good. It's not good at all.

Our friend Murat had ice cream with our friend Henry. Afterward Henry threw his back out. According to Murat it was the ice cream that did it, and that wasn't even the winter!

My friend Demet once came and had tea with me. She brought her sister Esra and nephew Eren with her. Before Eren went down for a nap Esra pulled a box of milk out of her bag to fill a bottle for him (yes, I said there was a box of milk in her bag... more about milk boxes later.) I told her she didn't need to open that box because I already had some in the refrigerator. Surprised and shocked, she said, "But I can't give my son your milk. It's cold! He may get sick."

I tell you these stories to illustrate my point. I'm a bad mother. A very very bad mother. I let Elise eat cold things, even freezing cold things. I let her eat them winter or summer, as well as spring and fall! I put her her health and well being at risk on a daily basis.

So, what could become of her? Well, I can't get a really straight answer from anybody I've asked so far. All I know is that her future looks very grim. Here are some examples of what happens to people after they eat ice cream, especially if they eat it in winter.

1. Paralysis.

2. Heart attack

3. Colds, runny nose, soar throat

4. Throwing their back out (as we saw happen to Henry)

5. And the most common thing is they just plain get sick.

Post Script: Turks eat ice cream too! Why? Because ice cream tastes good that's why! They just stay away from it in winter and would definitely not feed it to their kids when the weather is cold outside. I guess they know there's a risk of sickness (in summer too) but are willing to take that risk from time to time.

The travel bed and some nagging questions.

2008-03-17T02:31:00.000-07:00

This baby travel bed was bought around 12 years ago here in Turkey. It was handed down and handed down and handed down from family to family until it eventually ended up with us. It's been great to have around. We use it whenever we go out of town and currently have it set up in our house so that Marie (who is sick with a cold and waking up a lot) won't wake up her big sister during the night (they usually share the same room). The problem is that whenever I look at it I get a bit uncomfortable. I mean I'm grateful to have it and all, but there are a few questions that haunt me whenever we get it out.

1. What?

2. If this is the picture of the "Sweet Kid," what does the mean and violent kid look like?

3. What is that green x on the sweet kid's face? A cross? Bandages from his most recent knife fight? A tattoo?

4. READY... It's OK! Ready for what? What's okay?

5. Did the creators of this pack and play actually know English when they wrote these phrases on the side of it?

6. Will my daughters have any long lasting negative effects from waking up in the morning and seeing a violent looking sweet kid standing by their heads?

7. Does this seem strange to anyone but me?

Going for a drive

2008-03-16T11:05:00.000-07:00

A few days ago James and I were on a long drive. We stopped at a market to buy some snacks and when I walked back to the car James (who was in the drivers seat when I got out of the car) was sitting in the passenger seat, assuming the I'm-all-ready-to-take-a-nap position. Apparently that was my que to take over the driving. I opened the door and climbed in then suddenly my body started filling with that hyper alert, adrenaline pumping "I'm scared" feeling as I realized that what used to come automatically with no thought involved seemed to have slipped away when I was busy doing other things (mainly changing diapers)... I couldn't remember how to drive!

Me: Ummm James, which one of these is the gas pedal? While staring at the three petals at the floor.

James: Jamie. . . come on! Pausing while he slowly realizes I'm not joking. It's the one on the right. Sitting up straight and no longer looking so sleepy.

Me: Okay. Just checking... you have to get these things straight before you drive you know. Trying to downplay the fact that I m pretty sure I'll wreck our beloved Chitty Chitty Bang Bang truck as Elise calls it.

James: Why oh why did I ever marry you??? Okay, so he didn't say that and probably didn't even think it but he sure should have at this point!

To let you know how things ended up, aside from being really scared at first when I had to back out of the parking lot, I did just fine. James didn't get his nap in but that was more due to kids crying in the back seat than to my driving (at least that's what I'm telling myself). And in my defense, I haven't driven in months and months! And on top of that I've probably driven only around six times in the past four years! Plus driving in Turkey is different than driving in the States. So if you think about it I was actually doing great by even remembering that those things on the floor of the truck were pedals and that I made the truck go by pushing one of them.

I can't really speak Turkish...

2008-03-12T02:47:00.001-07:00

The other day I was watching a video of two friends singing. Isik was singing the lead part (what is that called? the melody?) and Linda was singing the second part (I believe that's called the harmony?)

Linda was doing a wonderful job and I commented to Isik (who was watching the video with me), Wow! Linda really does that pee pee sound well!

I said cheesh sesi (pee pee sound) rather than cheeft sesi (two-person sound.)

These are the embarrassing types of things that happen to me everyday. On one hand they make me feel like an idiot. On the other hand they make me fun, funny, and popular. And they provide my friends with good stories to go home with.

It's not that I don't know those words, it's just that when operating in a second lanuage my brain gets twisted up and mushy and tired and begins to resemble overcooked spaghetti. And when that happens strange things slip out of my mouth.

I love this about Turkey... the fruit and veggie market

2008-03-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

Our building is 12 stories tall. Each floor has 3 flats, that makes 36 families living here. A lot of those families aren't just mom dad and kids. They are grandma, grandpa, unmarried uncles and aunts, plus mom, dad, and kids. If I felt like doing the math, I could tell you approximately how many people are packed into this building with us, but as I showed in my last post, I'm lazy, so that's not gonna happen. Even without me doing the math, you can imagine that each building is basically like an entire street of homes in suburban America. One block here holds seven or eight suburban American blocks worth of people, many of whom don't have cars. Having this many people all stacked up on top of each other has quite a few advantages. For example, I never need to get in the car to do my basic shopping (fruits, veggies, basic groceries, bread). There are shops in the bottom of every building, so I have access to all sorts of things. Here are just a few of the shops within a one block distance of my home: 5 hair dressers (that's a low estimate), 3 grocers, a copy machine place, 8 pharmacies (we have a ton of them right here since a hospital is across the street), a kids clothing shop, a butcher, a restaurant, a bakery, and a fruit and vegetable shop, oh, and I almost forgot, there's also Target, Starbucks, and a place that sells hot dogs. Okay, so I wasn't completely honest about those last three, but a girl can dream, can't she? Now even without all that Starbucks business, wouldn't you like to have all those things at your fingertips rather than a car ride away??

The other day James and I took a little walk to pick up some groceries. I snapped some shots in the manav (the fruit and veggie store).

I love this place! It's so colorful!

The fruits and vegetable assortment changes with the season. I can't wait for the strawberries and cherries... and for the white mocha frapachino grande! Oooops, sorry dreaming again....We buy produce by the kilogram here. All this stuff is cheaper than it is in America, and tastier!

We don't even have to mess with touching our fruit until we get home. Here's how it works, we ask for whatever we want and the manav man picks it out and weights it for us... watch!

James: Bir kilo portakal lutfen. (One kilogram of oranges please.)

Doesn't James have great pronunciation??

Manav man: Tamam. (Okay.) Do you see him hopping to it?! That's the kind of effect James has on people. Or maybe it's just the guys job, but either way that was impressive.

Impressive and exciting... Elise is just worn out from all the excitement.

I love the manav!

Can you really potty train a 6 month old?

2008-03-07T11:35:00.000-08:00

I was a psychology major in college. I loved it too. One particular thing that I haven't forgotten (my memory is like a steel trap) is the study this guy Maslow did and how he conditioned his dogs to salivate when they heard a ringing bell... er, I think it was Maslow. Hold on, I'm going to google it... Okay... so Maslow was this other guy who talked about a heirarchy of needs (which of course I totally remember as if I sat in that class yesterday). Pavlov was the guy with the dogs. And really, I knew that all along. I was just, um, I was just testing you guys. Like I said, my memory is like a steel trap. Anyway this guy Pavlov started ringing a bell right before he would feed his dogs. They would salivate when they saw their food, then they started associating the bell sound with food, and eventually they would salivate just by hearing the bell, even if there was no food. Amazing, huh? Doggy drool! So now there's this whole thing called Pavlovian Conditioning which I would thoroughly explain to you because I like know all about it (not really) but I think you should go study that stuff for yourself.

So, back to life in Turkey...

When Elise was a new baby I frequently visited a family down the street. The mom often bragged to me about how she had potty trained her two youngest daughters by the time they were 5 months old. I would oooh and aaah on the outside and tell her how great that was, but on the inside I was secretly thinking, you're either a big fat liar or you have a horrible memory.... Three years and one baby later, my friend Neriman (who I'm convinced has a good memory and is definetly not a big fat liar) told me that lots of Turkish women, especially villagers who can't afford disposable diapers, potty train their babies around 6 months old.

At the time, Marie was about 6 months old and I was sick of the potty training process that seems to have gone horribly wrong with Elise. Neriman told me how they do it and I decided to potty train my 6 month old. No more of this changing diapers till age 3 for me, I thought, I'm going to have this one trained before she can run away and say no!

I set my mind to it and for about a week I worked hard to potty train Marie. Neriman told me it would take about a month, but I only did it for a week. That's how much determination, perseverance, and will power I have.... when I start something I really follow through and finish it... at least until I get tired of it.

Here's how it works. Maybe someone out there who has more perseverance than me can try it out. Maybe one of you can benefit from what I learned. First you figure out the times your baby goes pee. It's usually right when she wakes up, right after she eats, and a few other times. Then you set her on the potty (or hold her over the Turkish toilet) during those times. Now here's the important part... you have to say "Cheesh" with a long drawn out sh sound at the end. Cheesh is how you say pee pee in Turkish. And the word sounds like the sound of peeing, especailly when you really drag out that sh. The baby hears the sound of peeing and goes pee.

Okay so if you follow these instructions then eventually you'll catch the baby enough times when she actually needs to go that she'll start associating sitting on the potty and especially hearing "cheesh" with going pee. Then she'll just start holding it until she is surrounded by those pee pee inducing conditions and wah-lah! She'll be potty trained. Just like those dogs started drooling when they heard the bell, the baby will start peeing when she hears "cheesh."

So I worked faithfully at this Pavlovian conditioning type potty training with Marie for about a week and by the end of the week you know what had happened? I held her over the Turkish toilet and said cheesh and she went... even if her diaper was already wet and she didn't have much to give, she would almost always at least let out a teeny little squirt! She knew that cheesh was the command to pee. It was really amazing!

Sounds great, right? Well here's the problem and here's why I gave up. This method of potty training is not for lazy people. It's not for those people who like to lay in bed for a few minutes after they hear the baby wake up. It's not for people who try to feed their toddler and their baby at the same time and linger a little too long in the kitchen after their baby's last bite. Nope, it's for people who will pop out of bed the second they hear that baby wake up and get her on the potty. It's for people who pay really close attention to when their baby has stopped eating and might possibly start pooping. It's for people who immediately notice a little grimace on thier baby's face, or their baby stiffening their body up just a little indicating that the baby's doing some business down below and can immediately get her on the potty. It takes that kind of determination to train her that the potty (not her diaper) is where she goes pee. Even though I got Marie trained to go on command, I didn't stick with it long enough to train her not to go when she didn't hear the command.

At this point I just put Marie on the potty when I feel up to it. She is far from being potty trained, but I'm hoping that my more lazy method will at least get her trained a little earlier than her sister (and that shouldn't be too unrealistic a goal since at the rate Elise is going, that will be the year 2048.)

I'm a horrible mother. Reason number 1 - bare feet

2008-03-06T23:45:00.001-08:00

I'm at it again... risking my daughter's health by letting Elise go barefoot.

I'm such a bad mother!

My first encounter with the bare feet issue came a couple months after I arrived in Turkey. Serap came to my house to help me practice Turkish. I greeted her at the door wearing big pregnancy overalls, a sweatshirt, and (here's the important part) bare feet. After giving me a kiss on both cheeks (Turkish greeting), she pointed to my feet and with a very concerned look started telling me something. I couldn't speak Turkish yet. I didn't understand a single word, but something about my feet bothered her, so I decided to put on some slippers, and that ended it. Maybe my feet stank?

A couple weeks later my other language helper, Sumru, came over and I was barefoot. Sumru knew a little English and with a frightened look on her face told me that what I was doing was very dangerous for the baby. VERY DANGEROUS. Of course I didn't want to hurt the baby growing in my belly so I asked her what this horrible thing I was doing was. She told me I wasn't wearing socks. She couldn't explain exactly how my bare feet would harm my baby, but since I could tell she was seriously frightened, I went and put on slippers. Slippers weren't safe enough for the baby, I needed socks too. I put them on and we went on with our lesson. From then on I tried to keep my water retaining pregnant feet covered when any Turk was around and that was that.

A couple months later Elise was born. She was a cute little peanut, but colicky. She cried in the morning. She cried in mid-morning too. She cried at noon and afternoon and late afternoon and evening and night. Especially night. Especially right after my eyes finally closed and I tried to sleep for the 345th time that night. Hmmm....now that I think of it, I wonder if the colick had to do with the lack of sock usage during my pregnancy.

I had language lessons while James tried to take care of her and sooth her in another room of the house. As if I knew the answer and was just choosing not to do anything about it, my language helpers always asked what was wrong with the baby. Every time they'd go check on her and find the source of the problem. Socks. I thought I understood that they were concerned that she was crying because her feet were too cold, but once again Sumru helped me understand things a bit more clearly. One day before my lesson with Sumru because I didn't want to hear cold feet again, I put Elise into jammies with the feet in them. Of course at some point during my language lesson Elise started crying. Sumru stopped the lesson, and we brought out the baby for inspection.

Sumru: Is she wearing socks under those pajamas?

Me: Yes. Okay, so she wasn't really and I totally lied, but I was soooooo tired of hearing that I wasn't keeping her feet warm enough and chose to lie rather than hear it for the 17 thousandth time that week. But hey, at least I'm being honest for you!

Sumru: What about booties?

Me: Um, booties under the jammies?

Sumru: Of course!

Me: No. My guilt from the first lie was already getting to me and I just couldn't do it again.

Sumru: Aha! That's why she's crying. She has gas.

Me: I don't understand. I understood maybe she had gas, but what that had to do with her feet was beyond me.

Sumru: She needs to be wearing 3 layers on her feet at all time.

Me: I don't understand.

Sumru: Her feet got cold which gave her gas, which made her cry.

Me: Cold feet gave her gas?

Sumru: Of course!

Me: I didn't know that about babies. . . Do little molicules of air somehow get absorbed by the feet when they get too cold and go into the digestive system??? Have you seriously thought this through? Okay so I didn't say that bit about the air... but I really wanted to.

Sumru: Well, she also could have gas because you had bare feet which gave you gas, which got into your breastmilk, and that gave her gas.

Me: Wow, I'll have to be more careful. And I'll have to remember that my feet are like big sponges for air, which then must go into the bloodstream and wreak havoc throughout my body. Okay, so I didn't say that part about my feet being sponges either, but I still wonder how she would have responded if I had.

From that day forward I tried to keep Elise's feet covered, I really did, but she was always pulling off socks and I got tired of trying to keep up. I like going barefoot in my house and so I usually don't wear socks either, but ever since those conversations I've tried to keep some slippers by the door so that whenever I answer it my feet are covered. I also try to run and put socks on Elise and Marie before guests come in.

Here is a small smattering of the horrible things that happen to people who don't wear socks. I've heard all of these, usually as warnings for what will happen to me or my children when people see us sockless (and I'm talking inside the house here people, not outside... we've never even risked that one).

1. You'll get sick (this is the most common, kind of a catch all)

2. You'll get a kidney infection.

3. Your stomach will start to hurt.

4. You will lose the ability to have children (your uterus freezes from what I've heard)

5. Your back will hurt

6. You may miscarry your baby

Any idea what reason number two is???

milk shake

2008-03-03T22:44:00.000-08:00

So, I'm slowly working on explaining what makes me a horrible mother, but I'm not ready to post it yet. I'm not sure I can bear the shame of exposing my failures and shortcomings. I promise though, it will come soon. While you wait I'd like to tell you about last night.

James and I went out to dinner. As we were in the mood for something a bit more western, we chose a place in town called Park Cafe. Even from the name you can probably tell that it's not your traditional Turkish fare. It's got lots of American-ish food. We arrived at the restaurant a little early so we perused the dessert menu in order to split a sweet treat before ordering the main meal. We narrowed down our choice to splitting a caramel hot chocolate or a milk shake. James decided the milk shake was a little more fun, a little less common than hot chocolate so we went for it. He was right, you can't find a milk shake at too many restaurants in this country. I chose chocolate (the choices were chocolate, banana, or strawberry).

Before I tell you about the milkshake that came to our table, you have to understand a couple of things. First, you have to understand that turkish food is delicious. Really really great. Second, you have to understand that if you want American food you're gonna have a hard time finding it outside of America. And if you try to find it in Turkey you have to be ready for it to taste, well, to taste not quite right. Maybe pizza wont have much sauce. Maybe the ketchup is spicy. We're used to those things and so last night we weren't really envisioning a nice thick milk shake like we'd find at Denny's or Chilli's or even McDonalds, but even with low expectations we were shocked and disappointed at what came to our table.

Chocolate milk. Nestle's Quick. You know, the kind with that bunny on the package of powder. That's what we got. The one difference is that it was a bit frothy, as if it had been shaken together then poured into the glass it was served in. A milk shake. Shaken milk with chocolate powder. For about four dollars. Yes way. Turkish food is cheap, but if you want American food you often have to pay quite a bit for it, apparently even for shaken milk. After it came to our table I remembered seeing Nestle's Quick in strawberry, banana, or chocolate flavor at the grocery store a few days ago, so the flavor choices suddenly made sense. James took one sip then threw his straw into the ash tray in disgust. I drank the whole thing hoping that somehow, somewhere in that glass I'd find a little bit or ice cream, or maybe just a few ice chunks that would redeem things for me. All I found was chocolate milk, straight to the very last sip.

You know, the menu didn't lie. We ordered a milkshake and that's exactly what we got... shaken milk. Now we know.

Fun Photos from Ephesus

2008-03-01T04:13:00.000-08:00

"Only 50 cents is enough to feel the magic atmosphere."

Wow! Does anybody have 50 cents I can borrow??? What a deal!

Gary is checking out the watches.... Wow, that's one nice looking Rolex. And genuine too.... er... maybe.

Old Ruins

2008-02-29T10:39:00.000-08:00

Turkey is neat.

Something you may not know about Turkey is that it has approximately 546,378,002 more historical sites than the United States. Take, for instance the amazing cave churches and networks of underground cities of Cappadocia, or the Hittite ruins about a 20 minute drive from our house (of course, that's not so old. Just the 18th century B.C.). I'm not exaggerating when I say that there is impressive old stuff all over the place around here. And I don't mean old as in Laura Ingles Wilder's house is old, and impressive as in the California Missions are impressive. I mean ancient history, miles of marble columns and walkways, looking at the things you just read about in the Bible (Old and New Testament!) old and impressive.

So, we get lots of chances to bum around and look at old stuff. Every time we do it I wish I could remember the things I learned in history classes growing up a bit better. This week we went on a quick trip to ancient Ephesus with some friends.

I like ruins.

I like messing with archeologists. I take big chunks of marble and move them all around. It makes it harder to reconstruct things. Hee hee hee.

This is the stadium mentioned in Acts 19. Can't you almost see it filled with people angry at Paul and shouting, "Great is Artemis of the Ephesians!" You can't tell from this picture, but it's HUGE, it can seat something like 20,000 people! And it's in great condition. Elton John did a concert in it a few years ago.

Can you believe the houses in this town had running water and flush toilets 2000 years ago! Wow those guys were smart back then!

So, who's ready to come visit us?

Speaking English!!!

2008-02-24T21:03:00.000-08:00

So, as I mentioned a few days ago, we went to Ankara. Actually we're still here. We're heading back home later today but as I'm awake well before anyone else due to a little rooster who was up with the sun, crowing and ready to eat (Marie), I' thought I'd take the time to reflect on one of my favorite things I've done here.

That favorite thing is seeing some of my fellow Americans and speaking English. Friday night I went to a bridal shower for an American woman here who recently got married (to another American she met here). Let me tell you, I walked into that shower and my heart leapt for joy seeing somewhere around 25 (TWENTY-FIVE!!!!!!!) women mingling and chatting. Mingling and chatting in English! Just going around and saying "Hi, how are you?" over and over thrilled my English-conversation-starved-self to the bones. Picture this bridal shower in your minds. First, it was a very crowded room. Second it was crowded with women. Third (and most significantly), several of these women aren't around a lot of other English speakers much of the time and so have a lot of catching up to do. Fourth, the responsibilities of taking care of kids, cooking, etc are all behind them. There is nothing left for them to do but talk. As talking seems to be one of the favorite past times of women everywhere you can only imagine the number of mouths moving at one time, and the speed they were moving (granted, much of that moving was due to all of us stuffing our faces around the snack table). I realize that the picture I'm describing may make some of you men cringe or even run screaming from your computer, but for me it was heaven... sheer heaven.

It's not that I don't normally have anyone to talk to. James is great about chatting with me. I also have Cindy and Andrea, who I love dearly and talk with regularly. But there is something to be said for variety and options. Did I talk with all 25 of those women? No. But I could have, and that's part of what made it so much fun for me.

I'm a horrible mother.

2008-02-23T10:55:00.000-08:00

Here's a picture I took of Elise a few days ago. This picture highlights all, well, two of the reasons I am a bad mother. Do you know why? I am doing two things that no Turkish mother would ever ever never not-in-one-million-years do. Never.

Do you have any idea what those two things are? Make your best guess and I'll fill you in on the answer later.

A weighty issue...

2008-02-21T21:12:00.001-08:00

Americans generally avoid talking to one another about weight. Its a touchy subject for us. We don't want to make people feel bad by telling them they've gained weight, and we often don't even tell people when we've noticed they've lost weight because that would be insinuating that they used to be fat, which is quite a backhanded compliment. Turks, on the other hand, LOVE to talk about weight. It's one of their favorite subjects. This is one place our cultures clash.

Take, for instance, the nine months I was pregnant with Marie. First of all, you have to understand that I'm not one of those pregnant people (like my sister in law Sara) who look like a supermodel the entire nine months, having nothing but a cute little pregnant belly on their small frame. No, the second I find out I'm pregnant I gain 10 pounds. I then continue to swell and gain weight from my water retaining toes to my fat face. When I'm pregnant, I am not just carrying the baby in my belly, it's as if my entire body is carrying another body inside of it. And Turks notice. They don't just notice, they let me know they notice. Here is a small smattering of the MANY comments people made to me during my pregnancy.

It starts off small, "Wow Jamie! You're really gaining weight! It's obvious that you're pregnant."Have you ever felt like crying over a little thing? Because I have...

As the months progress so do the comments, "Jamie, you've gained a lot of weight. You're HUGE! Do you think you'll be able to lose that after the baby comes?" Have you ever wanted to crawl into a little hole and hide? Because I have... o wait, did I say little hole, because according to my friend who made that comment I would need a very large hole to crawl into...

But wait, it gets worse. As the months progressed my size did too. James, who never seems to gain or lose weight at all, would stand beside me and just look thinner than usual. It's not that he actually got thinner, it's just that being next to me made him look thinner. People noticed this as well, "James, you're wife isn't feeding you anymore. You're wasting away! Look at her... she should stop eating all the food and look after her husband a little bit!" Have you ever really really wanted to punch someone in the face? Because I have...

I could go on, but just know that these three comments represent the types of things I heard every time I went out of the house. And its not just pregnancy. This is a subject that people bring up all the time. It didn't end after I had the baby. Just a couple days ago my friend commented, "Jamie, you've lost a lot of weight. Wow! You look so much better when you're not fat." Then to another friend, "Don't you think Jamie looks better when she's not fat?" Ah, they sure do know how to give a compliment around here, don't they?

While writing this I realized that I've always been on this side of the ocean while I've been pregnant. I am tempted to show you all a picture of me pregnant, but I'm not sure I can do it... yes... no, I can't... yes... no..well...okay, here it goes (covering eyes with my hand)...

I'm such a chicken that I only gave you a picture of me from the front... I might as well show you what I really looked like...

Here it is... Or most of it. This is half of pregnant me just a few days before I delivered Marie. I can't believe I'm showing it to you.

Goin' to the city!

2008-02-20T21:44:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned yet that we’re going to the big city, Ankara, this weekend? Ankara is the capital of Turkey. We lived there for one year. It’s crowded and busy and dirty and full. We took hour long bus rides regularly to get from one place to another (this is really frustrating when those destinations would only take 5-10 minutes by car.) After only that one year, we were sick of the smog and the business, and ready to leave, but now that we’ve been away for almost 3 years, well I don’t know... maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder? Here’s a list of the things I hope I get to do while we’re in Ankara. These are things that I can’t normally do.

1. Go to Starbucks. This is always on the top of my list. I (like thousands and thousands of other Americans) LOVE Starbucks. I don't drink coffee but I do drink the creamy sweet deliciousness that seems to only come in Starbucks cups. There is a very special reason why I like Starbucks, and why my love for it has grown exponentially since we've been to Turkey, and here it is: everywhere in the entire world Starbucks is the same. It’s decorated the same, has the same yummy drinks, plays the same music. Starbucks feels like America. Starbucks smells like America. Starbucks tastes like America. And that makes me LOVE it. And no matter what country I'm in, if I go to Starbucks when I'm about half way through my caramel macciato I end up standing up in the middle of the restaurant and belting out God Bless America... but I digress, as well as grossly exaggerate.

2. Talk with my fellow Americans. There is an international church in Ankara and it is just chalk full of people who speak English! Do you know how amazingly fun it is to have conversations in your first language? Oh the depth and the breadth in communicating I can have that I just don’t get in Turkish! Oh, to understand - fully - what the people around me are saying!

The end.

Turkish Cooking: Lesson 1 - the Turkish Omelet

2008-02-19T07:30:00.000-08:00

I'm hoping to use this website to provide you not only with lots and lots of useless information about my life, but also with interesting and educational content. Things that you can use, things you can do. Things that might just change your life... or at least your day a little bit.

So today I thought I'd share some of the delicious foods I make here in Turkey, that way you can surprise your family by making them in your own kitchen. Kind of like "Turkish cuisine for the American" or "Cooking Turkish Food for Dummies" Not that I think anyone is a dummy.

The first recipe I'd like to share is a Turkish Omelet. Let's get started, shall we?

Step 1. Wash your eggs.

No, I don't have chickens nesting on my balcony, and I didn't go visit a farm to get these eggs. These are straight from the supermarket down the street. This is how they come around here. Beauties, aren't they? Sometimes I'm lucky and get a batch with feathers stuck all over them too.

Step 2. Proceed with your omelet preparation as you normally would in America....

The End.

Snowed In

2008-02-19T00:23:00.000-08:00

Turkey was hit by a big snow storm, dropping around a foot of fresh snow on top of the snow that was already here.

I think that the country is lacking a bit in snow removal equipment, and so the roads out of our city are all closed, as is the airport. We're able to get around the city just fine in our truck, but there's just something about knowing that we can't leave. Not that we were planning on leaving today, but it's just that we CAN'T. If I think about it, I get a little stir crazy. Not that I really know what that term means, but I think it has something to do with how I feel.

It's kind of like the feeling I get when I'm flying. Knowing that I'm trapped with a whole bunch of strangers inside a giant tin can with wings, high above the earth, going who knows how many hundreds of miles an hour and I can't get out...not even if I really really want to... not even if I try really really hard. It kind of freaks me out. I do my best to avoid thinking about it, because if I think about it, especially while flying, it freaks me out even more. I mean, I don't want to freak out to the point that I end up having some sort of a break down and then have to be pinned down by a stewardess while they call for an emergency landing. People would probably film me on their cell phones and I'd end up being a crazy lady on the 11:00 news. And that would be really embarrassing, ya know. So I try to avoid thinking too deeply on these things. It's not that I'm afraid the plane will crash, it's just that I'm afraid I'll look really really stupid in front of a lot of people. But I digress....

Yesterday morning, in an effort to avoid stir craziness, before the snow had piled too high, I put on boots and went for a walk. I took a few shots of our neighborhood in the falling snow...

Here’s the cars outside our building buried in the snow. Yeah, I know it’s not that exciting but it shows just how much snow there was, and if just kept right on snowin' the whole day.

You see that grey building? The one beside the green and yellow one? That’s ours! We live right smack dab in the middle of it. Sure, from the outside it’s not too pretty, but it’s home.

Here’s the mosque on the corner. This little gazebo thing in front of it is where people do their ritual washings of their hands, feet and faces before they go in for prayers. Brrrr.... hope they find somewhere else to wash in the winter time. Just imagining that makes me shiver...

Oh look! Here’s a handsome man in a truck. I bet he’s nice too.... oh wait! That’s James, the corner of my liver! He’s picking me up to take me to lunch. Apparently he wants to avoid the embarrassment of seeing me going stir crazy too!

Maybe I should take a lesson from Chevy Chase!

2008-02-18T09:12:00.001-08:00

Maybe if I serve Cola Turka (especially to myself) I'll stop making cultural blunders.

More to come later about my growing love for the potato and onion guy (he's really really great... think 1950s milk man with a mustache and bushy eyebrows.)

Valentines Day: Western Culture comes to Turkey Part 2

2008-02-15T04:15:00.001-08:00

Click on "older post" at the bottom of the page for part one.

So, how did these middle aged Turks first Valentines Day experience go?

Yunus' wife called us while we ate our Valentines Day dinner to say thanks for the cd of love songs. She was sooooo happy. Apparently Yunus followed through with buying and cooking some fish. He and his son made salad, set the table, and even lit candles while his wife relaxed. I think this may have been the first time (aside from when she's been ill) that Yunus has made dinner for his wife. I wish you could have seen Yunus' eyes sparkle as he explained to us step by step how he made dinner and how much his wife enjoyed it.

Neriman has two teenaged daughters. On Valentines Day, one of them came over to my house to walk home with her mom. She was bursting with excitement and couldn't keep her secret in. Every day Neriman gives her daughters a little bit of money to buy a snack or drink with. Apparently they've secretly been saving that up and decided to put it together to buy their mom the ring she's been wanting as a Valentines Day present. I wish you could have seen the glowing smile on my friends face when her daughter told her the news. Doesn't that kind of sweetness just make you want to cry? Because it makes me want to cry, and if it makes me want to cry I can't imagine the pride and happiness Neriman must feel.

It was fun to watch Neriman, Yunus, and their families experience Valentines Day for the first time. And as much as I want to be sad and mad about Western culture invading Turkey, right now I don't really feel that way. I guess I'm just a sucker for a good love story. I think I'll go watch a chick flick now. . . I just can't get enough this love and happiness stuff.

Valentines Day: Western Culture comes to Turkey. Part 1

2008-02-14T22:32:00.000-08:00

Capitalism. Do I know what that word really means? No, but I think it has something to do with what's going on around here. If I'm wrong and it's something else, don't tell me because I don't like to be wrong. Not so many years ago, Valentines Day was unheard of here in Turkey. Then slowly the younger generation, especially in big cities, began catching on and celebrating it. And now it's even reaching the middle aged group.

James' friend Yunus told James the other day that he had just found out about Valentines Day. James asked him what he was going to do for his wife. "Well," he replied, stalling and thinking about it, "I'm going to get her a flower." Since he had only just discovered Valentines Day, it hadn't occurred to him that he could do something nice for his wife until James mentioned it. James told him a flower is good, but suggested he take his wife out to dinner too. "No way! We don't have that kind of money!" was his reply.

James: Well, you could make her a special dinner.

Yunus: That's a good idea. I'll have her cook me a special dinner.

James: No, YOU should cook HER dinner.

Yunus: Um, I don't think so.

James: She cooks you dinner every night. You should give her a break and make her dinner.

Yunus: Well, yeah, I guess I could make a salad, go buy some fish and cook it up, and some bread....

James: She'll love it.

Yunus: Yeah, maybe I can do that...

Since James is well practiced in doing special things for his wife, he decided to help Yunus out a bit by making a cd of love songs to play during dinner.

My friend Neriman was at my house on Valentines Day and was almost giddy with excitement wondering what her husband was going to do for her. I asked what he normally does and she said, "Nothing. This is the first year we've known about it!" She has always wanted a diamond ring. I think cubic zirconium or any sparkly clear stone would work just as well. She just wants a gold ring with a stone in it. Apparently they're all the rage and if you have one everyone notices. She's been asking her husband for one ever since she found out about this whole Valentines Day business.

How did our friends suddenly find out? Well we didn't tell them. The answer lies here.

Do you see all those hearts hanging from the ceiling of our city's mall? This is the second year we've had this big mall. I think last year people were just in awe of the lights, the mirrors, the endless shopping possibilities. By now people are used to the mall and are noticing the finer details, like the Valentines Day advertisements in all the windows.

The world is changing. Western culture is being brought into Turkey by the truckload. The stores say "It's Valentines Day - go buy something for the one you love." And people listen. By the way, not long ago the mall was all decorated for Christmas. Or actually New Years (Christmas isn't celebrated, but people are starting to do the western Christmas thing as a way to bring in the new year). The stores said "It's the New Year! Put up a tree and buy your kids presents!" And people have started to listen.

Oh wait! Look behind those hanging hearts... the Christmas decorations are still up! I wonder when they're thinking of taking those down. Oh well, you can never celebrate too much, ya know? And in case you're wondering, yes, that is McDonalds, the den of sin you're seeing.

So am I a fan of capitalism changing the world? No. Am I a fan of people slowly losing their own culture and taking on Western traditions? No. But, you know what? I can't do anything about it. And I am a fan of love, and of taking time out to show appreciation to people who are important to us, which brings me back to Yunus and Neriman. How did these middle aged Turks' first Valentines Day experience go?

I'll let you know tomorrow....

Reunited, and it feels so good!

2008-02-13T06:31:00.000-08:00

James and I have had a long sweet relationship with each other. James and I have also had a long and sweet relationship with doughnuts. December 2000 James showed up at my house for a Christmas party. That's when our eyes first met and our hearts first went pitter pat pat. My roommates and I had plans of going to a Krispy Kreme Doughnut shop after our party. We invited James and his friends to go with us, but alas the party lasted until the wee hours of the morning and the trip never happened. But I remember it clearly, doughnuts were discussed that first time we met.

James and I started dating. A few months later while sitting and eating that melt in your mouth goodness that is a Krispy Kreme doughnut, James asked me to be his girlfriend. Doughnuts made that beautiful memory possible for us.

Our first year of marriage we celebrated what we affectionately call "doughnut day." The apartment complex we lived in provided doughnuts for everyone on the first Saturday of the month, the day rent was due. I think the intention was that all the tenants could gather in the common area then mingle over doughnuts. That first Saturday James and I got up early and sat around that common area ready to meet our neighbors but we found that the other tenants, mostly college students, wandered in with sleepy eyes, dropped off their checks, grabbed a half full box of doughnuts, and went back home. So we thought, "Hey, when in Rome..." After that we would drop off our rent check and come home with a box filled with delicious sugar coated rings of goodness. We'd eat a few, go back to sleep, wake up, eat more doughnuts, then go to sleep again, or sit and read, or sometimes wander down to the Farmer's Market. And after that... we'd eat more doughnuts! I think sometimes we ate nothing but doughnuts the whole day, because when you're 25, have Saturdays off, and have no children you can do that!

On September 29, 2004 we kissed our families and our doughnuts goodbye, got on a plane and headed off to Turkey. Turkey does not have doughnuts. I repeat, Turkey does not have doughnuts. Do you feel sorry for me yet?? Because I feel sorry for me. And I miss doughnuts.

So why am I dredging up all this sad history? Yesterday we went to Andrea's house and found that she had been busy. Very very busy.

Making doughnuts!!!

People, let me tell you, making doughnuts from scratch is no simple thing. But desperate times call for desperate measures and we're desperate around here! Desperate for doughnuts.

Hello Gorgeous, good to see you again. How about you and I get re-acquainted?

James and I have been singing Andrea's praises ever since. We are soooo happy to have been reunited with our old friend, the doughnut. Andrea even wrapped some up for us to take home. Can you believe she didn't keep them all for herself?! Now that's the true measure of friendship.

What do you call that?

2008-02-11T11:12:00.000-08:00

When we first came to Turkey we were kind of like new babies being born into a different culture. We couldn't talk to people, we didn't know anything about the public transportation system so we couldn't really get around. People looked at us and could easily categorize who we were: American foreigners. Slowly, like a baby, we began talking, or more accurately, we began using a mixture of words and motions to make our desires known to people. I think we probably sounded kind of like Tarzan, "I Jamie. I Turkish learn. You me talk." We looked stupid, we felt silly, but we got our points across. Then after much time and effort we've gotten to where we are now. We hold conversations with people, but we make lots of language mistakes. We get everywhere we want to go, but along the way we make cultural blunders like eating while walking. People certainly don't think of us as Turks. They also don't think of us as Americans. Afterall, Americans don't know Turkish. Americans don't cook Turkish food, watch Turkish sit-coms, or play soccer. I think now many people look at us and say to themselves, "That's certainly not Turkish, but it's not exactly American either. What do you call that?"

It's kind of like... it's kind of like... well, it's kind of like this:

After months of sending Marie to a prestigious crawling academy, just yesterday she finally showed us what she's got! And I have to say we're a bit confused by the results. It's not crawling. Crawling involves two hands and two knees. What Marie is demonstrating involves two hands, one knee, and one foot. Just like Turks probably ask themselves about James and I, we're asking ourselves, "What is that?" The best I can come up with is "Three limbed scootch." Can you come up with anything? Leave us a comment and tell us what you think Marie is doing (and if you think the money we spent on the crawling academy was worth the result). If you have any idea, you can also let us know what you think we are (Americish? Turkican?) Because we really want to know.

Being mistaken for a basketball player

2008-02-11T10:17:00.001-08:00

Turks can be so much fun. They are so curious. Unlike your average American, your average Turk has no problem talking to perfect strangers and asking them about their life. It's pretty easy to meet lots and lots of people and get to know them a bit even while you're just minding your own business. Because we are foreigners, James and I get stopped all the time and end up explaining who we are, where we came from, where we live, what we do, how long we've been in Turkey, why we don't dress our children warm enough, if we eat pork, what we think of President Bush, and approximately 13.4 billion other things that people want to know about us.

Yesterday at the market a sweet woman asked me if Elise and Marie were twins. I explained that Marie is 7 months old and Elise is 3 years (but let's not go there). Noticing my accent she said, "You're not from around here are you?" She then went on to ask 67,489 other questions, and finally asked if I live in the building next door to the market.

When I told her I didn't live there she responded, "Oh, I think I mistook you for another American who lives there. You're a lot like her. She's black and plays for a women's basketball team."

Say what? I mean, my skin color is no where near black and I certainly don't look like I'm in any kind of shape to play basketball for more than 5 minutes without falling over dead. I guess sometimes it's just hard to tell foreigners apart?

And about this basketball player girl, ever since I first heard about her I've really wanted to meet her. I've been told she lives nearby and I even ended up a basketball game that she was playing in once. Here is why I want to meet her: 1. It's just fun to talk to my fellow Americans face to face once in awhile. 2. Apparently she looks like me : ) So basketball girl, are you out there? Are you reading this? I'm your identical twin, separated at birth! Let's be reunited after all these years!

I Love this about Turkey...

2008-02-10T10:48:00.000-08:00

Bread is super important to Turks. They eat it at every meal. On a few occasions I haven't had any bread in my house. When I've offered a friend something to eat (salad, soup, or some other bread-free food), they've given me a confused look and responded, "Jamie, how can I eat if there's no bread?" It's that important. Almost every neighborhood around here has at least one bakery or "bread oven" as the Turks would say. They keep everyone supplied with fresh loaves for breakfast and dinner.

Having a bread oven nearby is a wonderful thing. Last night for dinner we made pide (pronounced pee-day). Pide is kind of like pizza but with no sauce. The pide we ate last night started with me making the topping at home. This time it was a mixture of hamburger meat, onion, pepper, tomato and some spices (really, you can put almost anything on it and it tastes great - cheese, chicken and mushrooms, sausage, spinach...). Then we took a little family walk down to the bread oven, which is just around the corner from our house.

This is the bread dough. See how they have it all ready to bake into loaves? They'll let you just buy this dough if you want, which leads to all sorts of wonderful possibilities - pizza dough, apple strudle (James told me to write that, and I guess it is a possibility for some people but I don't actually know how to make apple strudle), and our most frequently enjoyed choice... cinnamon rolls. We asked them to use some of their dough to make us some pide.
Here's one of the baker guys. He flattened out some dough and is pileing some pide topping on it. He'll spread it all out then hand it to the oven guy.

Now the oven guy is putting our raw pide on a long stick with a paddle at the end and getting it ready to pop into that big oven.

See how long and skinny our pide is? Isn't that fun! We made 4 pides last night and ended up paying about $1.50 for them (the price of 4 pieces of bread dough - plus about 5 cents per pide for the labor.)

Then we brought it home and ate it. Mmmmmm! We even have enough left over for lunch today, and you can't beat that!

We also bought some dough to take home to make cinnamon rolls for breakfast this morning. Not really, but that was our plan. Once we saw that delicious pide come out of the oven we forgot all our other plans and ran home to eat it. James ended up getting up and going to the bread oven again this morning to get our cinnamon roll dough.

I love the bread oven!!

Sins I've Committed... part 3

2008-02-09T06:22:00.000-08:00

I was telling my friend Neriman about the time I had Elif over for tea, explaining how embarrassed I was when Elif jumped to the floor to pick up Elise's bread crumbs. I expected Neriman to try to make me feel better, or to tell me that bread crumbs on the floor are not that big of a deal. I wanted her to be on my side and say that Elif was just being wierd. But I got a completely different response...

Neriman: Yeah, stepping on bread crumbs is very serious Jamie.

Me: Right, but sometimes we just can't help but spill some on the floor, ya know?

Neriman: Well, you just need to be more careful. Allah gave us bread so we could live. When we step on it or throw it on the floor its really really bad.

I felt pretty stupid by this point...

Neriman: You know another thing you do that's bad?

Me: What? (Why don't you just kick me while I'm down...)

Neriman: When your trash gets full you put the bags in the Turkish toilet.

Me: I don't understand.

Neriman: Your trash has pieces of food in it. You shouldn't ever put any food, especially bread in a bathroom. Even if it's trash, it's disrespectful to Allah to put it in the bathroom.

Me: Oh, I didn't know that. (And I'm regretting ever bringing this bread crumb topic up with you.)

Neriman: Every time I come over here I pray (holding hands up in the air and raising her face heavenward) "Allah, please forgive Jamie. Don't hold this against her."

Me: Oh. (and I'm ready to end this conversation now.)

We live in a 12 story building, with 36 separate flats in it. One man, Cuma Bey (translated means Mr. Friday) comes around every night and gathers the trash that everyone puts outside their door. It's shameful to put it out too early because you would stink up the hallway. When our trash can fills up, I throw the full bags into the corner of the bathroom as it's right by the front door. At the end of the day before we go to bed James puts it into the hallway. I guess I'll have to come up with a different place to store my stinky trash bags until evening...

You know, this whole "food in a bathroom is sin" thing makes me think about how horrified all my friends and neighbors would be if they knew to what extent I've sinned in this area. I'm pretty sure that if food in a trash bag being near a toilet is bad then actually eating food in a bathroom is even worse. Don't tell anybody, but sometimes I eat ice cream while I take a bath! And even worse than that, while I was attempting to potty train Elise, I stayed all day in the bathroom with her and we both ate all our meals in there... I repeat... don't tell, I need to maintain a little dignity around here.

Squatty Potty

2008-02-09T01:22:00.000-08:00

So, this is a Turkish toilet (aka squatty potty). This particular one is in our home. Please take note of a few things about our Turkish toilet...

1. The bathroom slippers. Every home has a Turkish toilet and every Turkish toilet has a pair of plastic slippers that you wear upon entering. You don't want your bare feet to stand on that toilet edge, and you don't want your regular house slippers to accidently get wet.

2. The plastic blue pitcher. Every Turkish toilet also has a little pitcher beside it. The idea is that you fill up the pitcher with water then use that to wash yourself off after you do your business (now those plastic slippers are starting to make sense).

3. A lack of toilet paper... actually ours has toilet paper, you just can't see it. But many don't. Why? Because of that blue bucket... and your left hand. That's how you clean yourself up. A friend told me a statistic - the average Turkish home goes through only 7 rolls of toilet paper a year. Most of those are used to dry off hands after hands wipe... um ... you know.

Once an American friend here told me about a Turk he knew who went to America. When he was asked what the hardest thing about living in America was, his honest answer was the bathroom system. Americans just have toilet paper, there is no way to get your hands all wet and get that squeaky clean feeling that only a good wash gives you.

I'd say the same about living in Turkey. The bathroom system is quite an adjustment. I've learned to tuck some kleenex into my pocket whenever I go anywhere because I don't want to be stuck doing what it takes to get that squeaky clean feeling (believe me, that's no fun... but that's another story!)

"Sins I've Committed... Part 3" is coming soon. Check back to find out the sin I committed in the Turkish toilet!

Sins I've Committed... part 2

2008-02-05T23:07:00.000-08:00

Bread crumbs... they seem to be my downfall.

Before we had a car we would do a combination of walking and taking a bus to the office we met in for church. It worked out pretty well except that we would be all ready to go home around 1:30, Elise's nap time, and we'd always have to figure out how to feed her (and ourselves) and keep her awake until we got home. So on the way to the bus stop we usually grabbed a durum (a chicken sandwich that is wrapped in flat bread) and ate it as we walked/rode the bus home. Sometimes people would give us strange looks but we always assumed those strange looks were because we were foreigners. Being Americans in a sea of Turks, we're pretty used to all sorts of looks. Anyway, eventually we'd get home and put Elise into bed, her tummy full of durum.

One day James' friend Serkan was telling James about fast food being sin.

James: I don't understand.

Serkan: The only reason for fast food is so that you can eat it fast, like while you're walking.

James: Okay, but I still don't understand.

Serkan: Eating food while you're walking is sin.

James: I don't understand

Serkan: If you eat food while walking, a little piece might fall on the ground. And then if someone steps on that little piece, especially if it's bread, that's sin.

So, fastfood restraunts promote eating while walking. Serkan boycotts them. They are basically dens of sin.

Aha! So that explains those bad looks we would get while eating on the bus rides home! We've obviously got a lot to learn.

P.S. I'm not the only one I've ever seen eating while walking. Sometimes Turks do it too. So while it's sin, and there is a chance you might spill a crumb which might eventually get stepped on, some people just don't care and even those who do occasionally take the risk when they're hungry.

Sins I've Committed...

2008-02-05T08:02:00.000-08:00

Being an American, many of my neighbors just assume a lot of things about me. Everything they see on TV from America they assume is true of me. One day a neighbor asked me if James and I were married. I guess this particular woman thought that no Americans actually get married. They all live in adultery. Another time when I served a woman a glass of apple juice, she asked if I put beer in it. Apparently she thought that I not only constantly drink alcohol myself (a sin in Islam), I was also trying to trick her into it. When people see my life they are usually pretty surprised that I'm not constantly having a wild house party, that I dress modestly, and that both of my children are also James' children. I used to think that I was doing a pretty good job of living a "clean" life in my neighbors eyes but I've since come to realize that no matter how hard I try I just can't live up to their standards.

One day I had an aquaintance named Elif over for tea. Having tea doesn't just mean having tea. It means you are drinking tea and eating a variety of sweet and savory treats alongside it. On this particular day I was serving a biscuit type thing filled with cheese. Elise was about a year and a half old at the time and she toddled over to me to take a bite of the biscuit on my plate. A few crumbs fell to the floor as she toddled away. Elif was suddenly out of her seat and kneeling at my feet. I sat with a shocked look on my face while the woman carefully picked up the crumbs one by one muttering something about sin.

Me: What are you doing?

Elif: I'm just so uncomfortable with the sight of bread crumbs on your floor. I had to do something about it.

Me: I don't understand.

Elif: This is sin!

Me: I don't understand.

Elif: You have breadcrumbs on your floor!

Me: I don't understand.

(Are you seeing a theme here?? Obviously my language abilities weren't very good at the time.)

Elif: If bread is on the floor someone might step on it. And if someone steps on it that's really bad. Really really bad. It's a sin. I just can't stand to look at bread crumbs on the floor.

Me: Oh.

After explaining to me the ins and outs of sinning through allowing bread to be on the floor or by accidently stepping on it, Elif lit a cigarette up and proceeded to smoke it in my living room, beside my one and a half year old daughter, allowing some of the ashes to drop onto the carpet and not bothering to try to pick them up.

Me: I don't understand.

Superbowl Monday

2008-02-04T21:57:00.000-08:00

Since we're 10 hours ahead of Pacific Standard Time, we can't exactly have a regular Sunday afternoon Superbowl party. If you subscribe to the right TV channel (which our friends do), you can watch the game live at 1 am Monday morning or you can watch a re-run later that day. All of us (except Cindy) chose the latter. We went to Henry and Cindy's around 10 am Monday morning for a day of fun, food, and of course football.

While James and Henry were glued to the screen and making all those football watching noises (OOOOH! NOOOOO! AY! YAPMA, YA!!) that you'd expect to hear coming from guys enjoying a good game (or at least American guys in Turkey watching a good game), Cindy, Andrea, and I were in the kitchen cooking up a delicious bountiful American Superbowl feast. Since I can care less about football and can care more (is that even an expression?!) about yummy food, Superbowl Monday for me was just an excuse to be together with friends and make and eat treats. And boy did we!!!
Along with these delicious hogie sandwiches we had spinach and artichoke dip, chips and fresh salsa, veggies with blue cheese(!) dressing, and buffalo wings! Mmmmm-mmmm good!

We interrupt Superbowl Monday to bring you...

Mayonaise!

As I was making the blue cheese dressing, I had to chuckle at the labels on the mayo bottles. This Mayonaise bottle says "Eat lots and lots of mayonaise." Does that seem strange to anyone but me? Well thanks, mayonaise bottle, I intend to do just that.... hmmmm, if only I had more ideas for how to use mayonaise.

Oh look! This other mayo bottle has a picture of someone dipping their french fries in mayo. Thanks mayonaise bottle for the serving suggestion!

These are the little things about living here that bring a smile to my face. But what I really smile about is...

Yummy Superbowl Monday!!!!

Happy Birthday Elise

2008-02-03T06:18:00.003-08:00

Happy Birthday Elise!!

You came out of my womb and into the world three years ago. You were born 10 time zones away from the place your parents still call home. The first language you heard was Turkish from the doctors and nurses, followed quickly by English. Even though you're an American citizen, you have yet to actually live in the United States. You've flown internationally more times in your short life than I had by the time I was 25! You live in a tall building and ride an elevator to and from your home daily. You usually speak English but throw Turkish in now and then too. The things that we think are crazy about life overseas are simply normalcy to you. You've seen some amazing things in your 3 years... I think you'll turn out to be a very special woman. You're already a unique and special little girl. I'm glad you surprised us by coming when we weren't planning you! Happy Birthday Elise!!!

Five ways to let her know you care

2008-01-25T21:06:00.000-08:00

Tired of the same old terms of endearment for your sweetie? "Honey" and "Dear" just not sounding so fresh and meaningful anymore? Try out a few of the Turks favorites and maybe it will give your relationship the spice it needs:)

1. My turtle

2. My little butterfly

3. Center of my soul

4. My passion bug

and my all time favorite...

5. Corner of my liver

"Happy New Year, Corner of my liver!"

Awwww James, you sweet talker you.

Smells like she got too cold.

2008-01-24T08:11:00.000-08:00

This is my good friend. She loves Marie. I mean LOVES. She told me the other day that she was mad at me when I got pregnant because Elise was still so small and needed her mom. She thought it was a bad idea for me to have another baby so soon. Fast forward a year or so. Every time I see her she says, "I'm so happy you gave birth to Marie!" She says she's never loved another baby so much. According to her, Marie is the smartest, cutest, happiest baby she's ever seen. Of course I don't argue with that ;)

My friend (and everyone else living in Turkey) is unbelievably afraid that Marie will get too cold. Getting too cold in this country is the source of all ailments - The sniffles? You got cold. You threw your back out? Well you must have gotten too cold. Heart attack? Too cold. Baby crying? Mom's breastmilk was cold. And the list goes on. I am not joking! But I digress. So Marie wasn't wearing socks and my friend, although she's pretty used to the way I dress my kids, was worried about the temperature of the baby's feet. Marie spits up a lot. Although my friend is used to this, today after noting the lack of socks, she told me that Marie got too cold. She could tell by how the spit up smelled. Say what?

Sledding above the "cloud"

2008-01-23T11:27:00.000-08:00

We took Elise sledding on the mountain above our city a few days ago. She loved it and has been asking to go sledding again ever since.

Wheeeee!!!!!

Will you sled wif me this time Baba?

Check out how sunny and clear the sky was.

We decided to go back down the mountain after Elise almost fell asleep while I pulled her and her sled back up the hill. We were looking forward to enjoying the sunshine, the fresh winter air, and the glistening snow in the city below. But wait, what's that we're driving into?! ACK! Check out that layer of smog!

Cough. Choke. Sputter. Wheeze.

So much for enjoying sunshine and fresh winter air.

If you look close you can almost make out buildings hiding in the thick grey gunk. One million people, including the four of us live down there. Welcome home! Try to avoid breathing whenever possible.