Excellent Workmanship

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

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!!!

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

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.