all in one day

There was rain. Then there was thunder. Then there was an earthquake. The streets are filled with rushing water, the air is sneezing up bolts of electricity, and my cheese is sliced in waving lines to match the waggle of my apartment building. And I feel really good about all of it.

This news article makes the quake sound much more "violent" than anything I experienced, but here's proof: http://guardianlv.com/2013/12/earthquake-5-8-violently-hits-turkey-egypt-and-cyprus/ 

This article will also be used (by me) as part of an introduction to the passive voice on Monday. Two birds, one storm. Or something like that.

On the weekend

On the weekend, I make an egg-in-toast sandwich for breakfast instead of yogurt with granola. I open the drapes in my kitchen and leave them open all day. I listen to Christmas music instead of the BBC news. And I put two little heart-shaped cubes of sugar in my morning coffee instead of just one. Somehow, that makes all the difference.

a moment of real

if you could just get your students to sit down, things would be okay. but they just keep standing there, grumpy that you made them move into new groups and talking in turkish. in a recent written assignment in which you asked them to tell you what they thought teachers should do in class, to practice modals of advice, they all wrote about how teachers should be funny, teachers should be friendly, teachers should play music, teachers should play games all the time, teachers should speak turkish, teachers shouldn't assign homework, teachers shouldn't make class boring. you think about this advice as the students stand there in the middle of the classroom, not sitting down, not even hearing what you're trying to say because they won't stop talking turkish. so you stop. you just stop. and stare. and wonder what anyone else would do in this moment. not a single student is listening. not a single student cares that you spent an hour planning this thing that it turns out they hate. not a single student is learning anything. tired of trying to talk over them. tired of trying to explain things. tired of the students' wish for fun and amusement all. the. time. tired of the assumption that it's your fault if it's not fun and amusing and it's your fault if the students do poorly on the test and it's your fault if they're not engaged in class and it's your fault if they check their cell phones every 2.5 seconds. it's all your fault. as you stand there, dumbfounded, tired, staring at the floor. this moment of chaos is all your fault.

and you kinda don't care cause it weighs way too much to care all the time. and you kinda start looking at other jobs. and you kinda hate yourself for being incapable of sticking with anything, anyone, anywhere.

i feel like i've been thirty two for a decade.

Story Birdie

Most teachers here have an extra class called Creative Use of English (or CUE) in which they get to pursue their interests and design a fun, one hour a week activity to do with students who share the same interests. It would work great if we had more time to dedicate to it and if students weren't so busy and had more enthusiasm to put...well, enthusiasm into it. Last module I did a drama CUE that was kinda chaotic, but, in the end, fun. This module, I'm doing a story writing CUE that has been a bit of a drag so far just cause I don't know what to do with it. BUT, tomorrow I'm showing them how to take the story they got from an old relative and turn it into a digital story on story bird. I'm really excited about it, probably way more than the students will be, but that's ok. Here's the story I'm going to share with them and hopefully it will inspire them to get excited about story bird and sharing stories, too:
http://storybird.com/books/lost-at-sea-how-my-great-grandparents-met/
(who knows, maybe it'll even inspire you to share a story.)

btw, the story is based on truth (it involves the Titanic!), though I added in some details and embellished things when I didn't know exactly what happened.

Finally, today is my lovely mother's birthday. I think the story is a good one to share on her birthday. Maybe she can help me straighten out the details if I'm way off. Sending across the ocean birthday hugs and kisses and cookies.

In Training.

I wasn't very nice yesterday. Usually, I consider myself a pretty alright person when it comes to being polite and considerate, but yesterday's a different story. I was rude. I was a bad student. A student who mutters unpleasantness about every task and roles her eyes and doodles incessantly and stands up to leave the moment it seems possible to do so. And now, of course, me being me, I feel a little guilty about it. One thing I've always wondered about is breaking points. In myself and others. Just how many insults can a person take before they strike back? For some it may be 1, for others it may be 90. How many punches can one withstand before they either run or retaliate? And just how many asinine and pointless activities can I, or anyone, be asked to do before we start flinging chairs across the room and overturning tables? I still don't know, but came the closest I ever have to finding out yesterday. Looking around at my colleagues faces, some calm and resigned, others confused and frustrated, and feeling the red tinge of anger rising in my own, I realized my fuse may be shorter than I'd like it to be. Imagining the glass walls of the cell surrounding us shattering or the heaters warming the room catching fire or the sea swelling up and engulfing the city or an earthquake tearing a whole in the ground and swallowing the building, just to escape inanity, are thoughts better left unthunk. At times like that, I wish I could escape myself and enter the minds of the resigned and think the thoughts that look pleasant and calm on their faces, instead of my own thoughts that probably leave me looking ugly and ready to fling chairs.        

The Others

Sometimes when I walk down the street with a group of people, I imagine us turning into a herd of monsters. Our shoulders bubble up into huge hairy bulges, our necks become thick and knotted ropes, our shirts split at their seams, our backs hunch and twist, and our knuckles scrape along the ground, searching for boulders to break. We slowly pound the length of the earth with our moldy feet, as though it did something wrong, and we gather our strength for a fight. Our deep grunts rise up and out of the decaying depths of our intestines and spread through the air, incomprehensible and offensive. The others cower behind their closed doors, praying the sound of their twisting lock is lost upon our wax laden ears. And it is. We do not hear them, we do not see them. But we do smell them. And oh what a stench.  

conversation of the week

It's getting cold here. Coat, scarf, mitten, boot weather. Sadly, I'm short on appropriate footwear. Yesterday, I wore my little thin flats to class and one of my students noticed and here's the conversation that ensued:

Student: Teacher! Aren't your feet cold?
Me: Actually, they are a little cold. I need to get some new shoes.
Student: Yes. It's so cold out....teacher! You can borrow my socks if you want.

As kind as his offer was, I didn't take him up on it.

not to post twice in one day

but i want to remember the things that i discovered today because they all make me really happy.

1. i can see the sea from my apartment. i discovered this when i opened a curtain that i had never really opened before.

2. instagram on the internet (see previous post).

3. i can magically send and receive text messages from my family and friends all the way back home on my iphone. i'm not sure how, considering that i don't have a sim card installed, but in the last 15 minutes, i've texted with my mom, dad, and little brother. and i've seen a picture of my sister with my little brother and it's nice to feel connected to home for the first time in a while. if you have an iphone and my phone number, it'd make my day to hear from you.

that's all. time to finish lesson planning.  

instagram

This makes me happy. I haven't really used Flickr much since coming back from China. When I got my iPhone, I started using its camera to take all of my pictures and about a year ago, I got Instagram. I've been putting my favorite pictures up there and just now, literally 1 minute ago, I discovered that you can access Instagram photos on the internet, without a smart phone. So here's the link: http://instagram.com/aldricherin. Now you can have some visuals to go along with all of these scintillating tales. Ha.

in reno

It's midnight and snowing in Reno. Little white flakes drifting lazily to the ground, getting caught here and there in a current of cold, dark air. Blankets and mittens are keeping hands and feet warm, tea and hot chocolate fueling everything else. I would wake up in the morning, Saturday morning, a day off, look out the window, and do a little hop of glee. I'd strap on my boots and wrap myself up in a big winter jacket and help tackle all the cars stuck in the snow downtown. Shoving with all my might on the count of three and then simply walking away once the car skids free. With shouts of thank you following. I'd buy a coffee and a cookie at Bibo and read in my favorite corner for the afternoon, watching the city burrow deeper under its white wintery blanket. At the moment when the hidden sun has nearly set and things seem just a touch dangerous outside, I'd wander home. Sliding around on the back alleys and avoiding strangers and tripping over buried potholes. I'd shake the snow off my jacket and stamp my boots four times each on the sidewalk and go home, where I'd bake cookies and think about all the Christmas decorations I'd like to put up, but never actually will.
But I'm here. Not in Reno. Trying to master the art of creating equally fine winter days, minus the snow. Minus the Bibo.

dream ink

In my dreams lately, my shoulders are being tattooed. Again and again. Tattoo ink is being pressed and pinched into the skin running along my shoulder blades and I can hear the buzz and feel the sting of hundreds of needles. It doesn't bother me, though. I can't see the tattooer or what they are permanently etching into me, but I know that it's profound and perfect. When I wake up, my shoulders itch and I wonder what it was my dream tattooer left there. Perhaps my dream shoulders are now covered in tree branches and blooms. But I know that that's somebody else's tattoo, not mine. Perhaps it's the night sky inverted - the white sprinkling of stars tattooed black and my back creating the vast expanse of nothingness in between. Or could it be excerpts from Moonlight Sonata? Or would Hall of the Mountain King be a more appropriate fit? None of these things seem right. A beautiful quote from a favorite book? No. It bothers me that when I wake up every morning, I can't fathom the image that was just being placed there. The image that I feel close to and understand when I'm asleep, but lose track of the instant the dream ink retreats. I don't even want a tattoo on my shoulders, anyways.          

other life

Today, after I tried to get lunch in between my grammar class and coordinators' meeting, but failed because the line was too long and I only had 15 minutes, after I felt my students' attention slip for the hundredth time, after I once again questioned my ability to teach, after I tried to explain the percentage breakdown in Engrade to the best of my ability, after all of that, I went to the bathroom. As I approached the bathroom, a voice sang out from within, loud and clear, just for a few seconds. Then it corralled itself back up into a loud, wavering hum. In the bathroom, I found one of the cleaning ladies. She was wiping down the mirrors, humming to her heart's content, and smiling at my reflection with a slightly embarrassed grin as I darted into the stall. She never stopped humming. For quite a while afterward, during the meeting, during my last lesson, during my rush to gather my things and catch the bus, I kept hearing her voice. Seeing her smile. I think I envy her. Her contentedness. Her humming on the job. Her other life.  

my normal size

If I miss anything from Flagstaff, other than people, it's the sky. Especially on a clear night in the dead of winter. Leaving a friend's house or a bar or the PIE a tad too late, fearing what's on the other side of the door, knowing that the cold will sink through my two jackets and paralyze my breath in midair, but not caring once I remembered that sky. I would walk all the way home with my eyes glued straight above if I could. I felt huge underneath that sky. Growing bigger and bigger with each step, soaking up all those tiny spotlights, absorbing the worlds that orbit them. Luckily, no one was ever around to see how big those stars made me. If I went on for too long, I had to duck underneath airplanes and hop over telephone wires and shoo away the ravens nipping at my clothes. It was beautiful up there. I could rearrange the clouds and strum a tune on Lyra and steal a feather from Cygnus and play tag with Orion and chew on the Milky Way until it was time to fish out my speck of a key and unlock my coin sized door and push my way in till I was back to my normal size. I'm always my normal size here. The spotlights have burnt out and Lyra's strings have all broke and Cygnus has taken to feather-plucking and Orion has lost his sword. The Milky Way has melted and the clouds have pushed everything away. And I am always my normal size.    

Additional SUP DATES

Because I'm a little bit bored and giddy and feel like communicating into the abyss.

1. Over the summer, I rated speaking tests for a certain ESL proficiency exam. One of the tasks was for the test taker to describe a picture for a minute. Before each rating session, I had to go through a calibration process where I rated past speaking tests. Every time I did the calibration, the picture described was of a banana stand where people were buying bananas. There were huge stacks of big, yellow bananas and lots of people standing around weighing them, judging them, peeling them, and eating them. Listening to people describe the picture over and over, saying things like "the bananas are so good", "people want the bananas for a snack", "bananas are very good for you", "the best fruit in the world is the banana", I would inevitably really want a banana by the end of the calibration process. I started buying bananas again because of this picture and sometimes I'd eat two after listening to how great bananas are. I just ate a banana and I think of that picture every time I have one. In a small way, it changed my life.

2. I've taken aerobics classes in the U.S.A., Romania, China, and now Turkey. No offense to the other places, but America sure knows how to work up a good sweat and I am convinced that I'll never find a replacement for Freestyle Martial Arts Kickboxing. I know my country is one of the most overweight, which makes it weird that we have, in my opinion, the best workouts. I challenge the world to make me change my mind.

3. I've also had haircuts in all of those previously mentioned countries. My first haircut in Turkey was by far my favorite. It was from a man with long dread locks folded back into a thick pony tail. His scissors changed color depending on the way the light hit them and he had to hoist up a huge wall mirror each time he wanted me to see the back of my hair. All I could do was smile and nod with sincerity.

4. There's a symphony here that plays classical music concerts every Friday for 5 lira (about $2.50). I've gone twice and it is now my preferred Friday evening activity. I've decided that I'm too old and quiet for loud bars. At least that's how I feel most days.

5. I'm surrounded by wonderful people who are deeply interested (and thoroughly knowledgeable) in language, art, literature, and history. Things that, like most things, I am only superficially interested in. I have to remind myself regularly that I'm not dumb in all ways. Just some ways.  

UP. DATE.

Before launching into the second 8 week module of the school year here at AIU's English language prep program, I thought I'd run through a little synopsis of the life and times of me as of late.

1. I taught intermediate listening and speaking to two classes of about 15 students. One class loved me and my lessons and everything about life. The other class did not love me nor my lessons, and I don't know how they felt about life. Each lesson felt awesome with one group and horrible with the other. I've never experienced that kind of extreme class personality difference before and it made for a roller coaster-ish module. Here's a picture of me with one of my classes on the last day of class. My hair is much shorter now, but not as short as it has been in the past.

2. I've been deemed (without merit) the intermediate level coordinator. I'm not sure yet if I enjoy the added stress, but I do enjoy trying new things. Mostly, I pass on information and agonize over group emails and think about how I would want a level coordinator to treat me. And wake up with a racing heart at 3am with no real reason.

3. A Turkish friend who is sweet and kind and gentle invited me and a few of my colleagues to her sister's wedding in the tiny village where she grew up. We stayed with her aunt and ate some of the best food I've had while here. People can be indescribably hospitable.

4. A friend and I took a trip to Izmir. We met up with some of my old grad school buddies who are also teaching in different cities in Turkey. Reconnecting with them made me miss the grad school chapter of my life quite a bit.

   There were beautiful ruins (Ephesus) combined with stunning cats.

There was also plenty of this:

 5. Another friend and I went to Cyprus for a couple of days. The northern half is occupied by Turkey and speaks only Turkish and uses Turkish Lyra. The southern half is Cyprus and speaks Greek and uses Euros. Between the two is a block wide division of abandoned buildings and fields, armored guards, and barbed wire.

I can't explain the history very well, but an interesting documentary on Cyprus could help and is found here:

Despite the division, it's a very nice place to visit. The highlights were amazing frozen yogurt, a bar with delightful and open minded young owners and sweet, delicious wine, cool graffiti, orthodox churches that reminded me of Romania so much it kinda hurt, and this:

Cool graffiti sample (just so you'd believe me):

Sweet wine bar + travel buddy (cause I like the lighting):

6. It's 10:30pm and I need to get up at 6am tomorrow for the start of our second 8 week module. But real quick:

I've also taken weekend trips to Olympos and Phaselis. They're both about an hour from Antalya and combine ancient Roman ruins with Mediterranean beaches in a really pleasing way (see the cover photo of this blog).

I'm trying to learn Turkish, but am not doing very well at it. One of the gifts of the Peace Corps is the language training, I now realize. Turkish classes started last week at our university and I'm hoping the 2 hours a week plus my random Turkish apps will help me get somewhere.

I bought a keyboard and am tickled pink that I'm painstakingly coming up with a new song. One lesson I've learned recently - I should not go for too long without playing the piano. I'm also trying to learn this little ditty. Betcha a Lyra you'll recognize it if you were born within ten years of me. Who knew it was originally a Russian folk song?

I am planning on planning a trip to Romania and possibly Croatia over the two week break we have between the second and third module. The thought of visiting Romania again is both thrilling and nerve wracking. More on that later; time for a book and a sleep.

And with that, I complete this UP. DATE. Thanks for reading and iyi geceler.

 

Future Plans

It's official. I've decided. When I'm a ghost, I'm going to haunt the Brewery Arts Center in Carson City. I'm going to sweep the stage clean when the crew leaves a light on for me and chew holes in the costumes when they don't. Darn moths, they'll say. I'm going to whisper the lines into the ears of the shy kids, like a ghost once did for me, and leave ectoplasm in the lunch boxes of the brats. When the wind blows just right, I'll play Moonlight Sonata on the old piano in the attic and wait for the night watchman to come and yell at the air and at the creaking of this old building and in his old bones. Later, feeling lonely and a little guilty, I'll watch re-runs of Ozzie and Harriet over his shoulder and try to keep his coffee warm. On opening night, I'll keep the cast company in the green room, feeding their jitters and pestering them with props that never stay in one place when left unattended. No one is off the hook with me as a ghost and I'll have to make sure to blow a fuse on at least one performance, sending the stage manager and light board operator into a delicious tizzy full of furious whispers. It is simply part of my duty, as a ghost, and must be done. I'll make it up to them, though, through several performances with lights that fade just right and clever, witty insights whispered over the headsets. I'll run along the rafters and I just might accidentally get tangled up in one of the scrims, just as it's about to drop, making it catch about halfway down, leaving the stage looking like half of Never Never Land and half of Wendy's bedroom. Sorry about that, it will be an accident. The fly operator will panic. The stage manager will whisper vicious yells at him over the headset. Not knowing what else to do, the curtain will come down about 20 minutes too early in the first act and the audience will feel uncomfortable, but a little bit excited about witnessing the magic of a play breaking down. I will untangle myself as quickly as possible and all will resume as normal. After that, I will help the fly operator, whose hands will now be shaking, lift the heavy loads, and feel a tad baffled at his ability to so swiftly fly scenes on and off of the stage. On closing night, I'll sit in the audience. In an empty seat high up in the mezzanine. I might throw some popcorn at the audience, but mostly I'm just going to watch and feel satisfied, and a little bit sad. I know that one day, they'll look back on my mischief with longing. I'll still be there, though, re-writing lines behind actors' backs and leaving lint in the coffee pot, waiting for opening night to return.                

Create

A friend on the bus this afternoon told me that we are our happiest whenever we are creating something. I had never thought of that before, but I want to remember it forever. Cookies, pictures, scarves, stories, and songs. I bought an electronic keyboard over the weekend and I could play the same song one hundred times in a row just to keep the warmth in my chest whirring. Somebody's whistling a pretty tune outside my window and the song will be stuck in my head all night and it just might wind up in my keys tomorrow.

Worth

Eyes that once charted their surroundings with curiosity had been drained of their glow. A lonesome ache existed where there once were words, stories, creativity. Ash covered moths hung from the chords of long lost beating organs. No longer worth knowing, dissolving into dust.

A Day

Today was a holiday here. Republic Day. Close enough that I felt like I had Nevada Day off for the first time in 6 years. On this day 90 years ago, Turkey was officially recognized as a republic and shortly thereafter, Ataturk was unanimously elected as the first president of the Republic of Turkey. Seemingly overnight, red flags with the white crescent and moon were strung up all over town, alongside huge portraits of the beloved first president. A Turkish friend I met recently told me that the holiday used to be more festive. That people celebrated more in the past. She said that the holiday has been dampened in recent years by the current government's attempts to return to a more traditional Turkey. Instead of everyone attending parades and cheering, many people go to protests and yell for more freedom.

Despite this, the holiday was still, as far as I could tell, thoroughly celebrated. I spent the day alone, my morning on reading and lesson planning, my afternoon on working out, and my evening on walking. My apartment smelled like a BBQ pit the entire time, thanks to my neighbors' feast fixing skills. There was a thrilling-sounding airshow that I could only hear from my apartment. Had I not been mid-workout and un-presentable, I would have joined the throngs rushing through the streets to catch sight of it.

Anxious to somehow participate, maybe spot a stray air plane or find the tail end of the parade, I showered and went for a walk. What I found was not a celebration, but the end of one. The part where everyone wants to leave as quickly as possible so they can get home for dinner. The part where everyone's pushing a double wide baby stroller shoulder to shoulder the opposite direction of you and not budging an inch to let you pass. The part where there are so many cars on the street, going in all sorts of directions, that they all just stop, sit there, and honk for a to-be-determined amount of time. I could tell that a celebration had been had, but the aftermath of such is never pretty.

My walk progressed haltingly and at one point, a man sitting on a bench stopped talking in Turkish to his friend and said loudly to me, "I love you, baby baby. Oh baby, I love you." Before I could control my impulses, I told a person out loud for possibly the first time ever to fuck off, thankfully not loud enough to be understood. By the time my second impulse of throwing my caramel macchiatto in his face surfaced, my self-control had been regained and I walked on. As I navigated the crowd, the call to prayer sang out from a nearby mosque and I started to feel a little bad for swearing. Especially when I realized that those were the only words I had said to anyone all day long, other than "a small caramel macchiatto, please." I usually only swear when drunk or really, really mad about something. I felt neither towards that man. Heck, at least I'm loved.

I walked, bothered by my impulses and by being called baby and by all these cars making all this smoke, until Migros, the huge mall a mile or two from my neighborhood, magically appeared. The safe, car-free interior of the mall sounded perfect. Inside, a crowd had gathered around a stage and I scuttered about until I could see what was going on. Just as I settled into my spot, a conductor took the stage and a small orchestra started playing one of those super famous classical violin pieces by Bach or Beethoven or Chopin. You'd recognize it if you heard it.

I had never really listened in a mall before and the amount of sound all around was...annoying. But it's a mall and that's how malls are and regardless of all the mall sound, I could still hear the violins meeting the cellos meeting the bass and I could see the straight-backed musicians in their tidy black gowns and suits and the conductor's bouncing wand and the lights glowing on their hair and skin and instruments, and I felt happy. I stayed there for a while, listening. After some time, a lady walked by and handed me a tiny Turkish flag and I tucked it into my backpack and headed home, finally content with the holiday.    

           

Bones

My hands want to burrow under this skin and claw through the muscle and dig up the milky cartilage, to straighten out these bones.

Flip Flop

Back when John Kerry was running for president, whenever that was, I remember people criticizing him for flip flopping. I remember people saying that you couldn't trust somebody who changed their mind on serious issues. It's a sign of weakness. A strong person would stick with their beliefs solidly.

I think about that and John Kerry every time I feel my ideas and beliefs morphing into something new, changing and altering. All political views and whatnot aside, I really liked that John Kerry changed his mind. I liked that he collected information, thought about whatever issue it was, listened to both sides, took time to roll things over in his head, and was strong enough as a person to let the change happen and to see the world from a different angle. I don't remember what the issue was, but I do remember that he had the courage to change. A mind that changes is, to me, a mind that thinks. One that takes in data and input and does stuff with it to make a fairer judgement of the world around them.

I use this idea and my appreciation for John Kerry's changing mind to calm myself when I don't understand what is happening in my own head. There was a time in high school when I considered myself an atheist and being religious was a sign of stupidity and religious people would only try to change me. Obviously and thankfully, those beliefs have significantly softened over time and it makes me sad to think about the conversations and friends I didn't have due to the strict labels that I applied to myself and others. But I grew up a little bit, met some great people, and my mind started to change.

Believing in science is easy. I can look at the stars and track their movements and wave at their distant twinkles. I can dream about Voyager 1 and feel a chill at the thought of it entering interstellar space. I can read books about evolution and listen to stories about apes that learned to talk. I can feel fascination towards the changing colors of the fall leaves and get engrossed in a two-hour long internet search about photosynthesis. I'll always believe in science and think scientifically and want a clear, scientific explanation for everything. Science is comforting in its ability to be observed.

But I've seen the ancient, marble lined floor of the cell where parts of the bible were written. I'm living in a place not far from where Mary once slept. These places carry such memory and weight. Religion feels like it's throbbing out of every patch of land and these stories that I've grown to appreciate as stories are starting to seem possible and true and utterly confusing. I don't understand any of it and the more I learn, the more complex it seems, yet also the more plausible.

I'm realizing now that I want to understand religion because it's hard. It takes work and imagination and trust to really believe a story, but how could I not at least try when living somewhere that continuously provides support for it? I think I'll say that I'm still comfortably agnostic, but I've never felt so open to religion before and I kind of like the feeling. Like a large, heavy door finally being pushed open. I'd like to think that John Kerry would understand the feeling and offer his flip flop support. Even though he really has nothing to do with this, other than reminding me that it's okay to change one's mind.

I've got so much to read and learn.



               

Every Day

I'd like to think that I'm alone in here, but people change who I am every single day.

Farewell to an Artist

About a month ago, my landlord introduced me to his friend who has an art studio across the street from me. With my landlord semi-translating, she showed me her paintings and her students' paintings. I liked them. I tend to like anything that a real, live person creates simply because they created it. I liked her, too. And her cat. Their super short buzz cuts matched and she's the one and only female I've seen here with very short hair. Her cat's the only shaved cat I've seen here, too (excluding the puffy fluff ball left at the end of the tail). I felt like some sort of friendship could form there and despite our language barriers she'd be my Turkish friend. I could see myself spending many afternoons there, drinking tea on the studio's balcony while she painted or directed one of her students in watercolor. She could help me learn Turkish, maybe teach me some painting, and I'd provide her cat with hours of free pats in exchange. And maybe some cookies. She'd be my little drop of peace corps in an otherwise rather American experience so far. I could see it and wanted it to happen. Then school started and my days filled up and I saw her painting peacefully in her studio with her students and cat while I rushed past on my way home every evening, too tired to think of a single Turkish word, too tired for small talk over tea. Not realizing I was sacrificing a potentially lovely friendship for a pat on the back at work. All consuming work that I so easily let consume me. Yesterday, my glance into her studio was met by blank walls and emptiness. No tranquil painters to bring me a glimmer of a different life and no shaved cat to disapprovingly meow at my hurried pace. She's moved and I'll never be friends with her and my Turkish is going nowhere, as is my ability to paint.    

Apology

The days are getting shorter and colder and my life is exactly as I've carved it out to be. So let's just wait here quietly until it all feels right again.

Coffee and Pancakes

I woke up smelling coffee and pancakes and warmth. For the briefest moment, I was ten and my dad was in the kitchen making his usual Sunday breakfast, listening to Car Talk. My parents were still married and my sister was one of the best gymnasts in town, her medals all lined up on her shelves. Carson city was the capitol of America and the center of the universe. I wrote short stories about horses and drew pictures of flowers and felt jealous of everyone because everyone could do something better than me. The walls of my room were papered with roses that matched my bedspread and my trashcan and I was looking forward to wearing makeup. My fingers were not yet long enough for Fur Elise and still fumbled over Mary Had a Little Lamb. I spent hours wandering the field across the street, pretending that I was a giant and the little weeds were trees and I was destroying a forest as I walked. Growing pains sometimes made it hard to destroy the forests. I didn't wear glasses or contacts and didn't know how trees looked from a distance, with their leaves separated by shadows and depth instead of being one big blob of green. I couldn't recognize people's faces until they were right in front of me, but I could impress my dad by finding the tiny United States of America written in Franklin's collar on the hundred dollar bill. Other than the grandpa I barely knew, no one close to me had died. My grandma still made her famous pumpkin pie with us for Thanksgiving and my Aunt Joanne was roaming her Christmas tree farm in Portland and putting thistle theed out for her bird friends. My friends and my future friends were all healthy children, just like me. Ozzie and his memories were non-existent and Taco and Kurbsy were kittens who liked to run across the piano and had no idea how long they'd live nor how suddenly and sadly they'd leave. My parents' friends told me I'd grow up to be a heart-breaker and I didn't like that because it sounded mean and made me blush, but I kinda liked it because it made me think I'd turn out to be something special. The pancakes and coffee faded and I opened my eyes to my darkened bedroom and thought about how 32 years is a lot of years. And there are still quite a few to go.        

Observing

I say very little these days. Not that I've ever said much, but each day it becomes more apparent that there's nothing I can add that hasn't been added before. Teaching's thrilling and tiring. Students are wonderful and difficult. Our brains are getting smarter and dumber. The ocean's getting trashed while we research how we're trashing it. Religion causes problems and soothes problems. Authors write good and bad and interesting books and new music pulses out of every corner and the cheese is amazing and the beer is bland, but I don't like beer that much anyways. Do you?

I've always wondered how people who are good at talking and getting others to talk choose what to say. Of all the questions and topics and intriguing tidbits to say to someone, how do you choose? How do you choose the one or two things that will lead to anything new for either of you, or at least lead to a connection and a good conversation and a better understanding of who that person is? Other people are mysterious planets to me and one of the few ways of trying to understand them is by talking. Conversing. It's such a basic, daily ritual that I've never really thought about until now. Now that it's slipping further and further from my comprehension, along with the words that I've stopped saying because they feel pointless. It seems to be making me an outsider against my will, but in some ways I'm okay with that. I've almost always preferred observing over participating.

Though I do miss feeling close to anyone.        

I can pretend

I don't know if it's dumb or conceited or what, but listening to the silly recordings of the songs I wrote last year has been weirdly comforting lately. Maybe it's 'cause I miss the keys more than I want to acknowledge. Maybe it's 'cause I doubt I'll ever write songs again. Maybe it's 'cause keyboards are pricey here and I'll just have to pretend for an undetermined amount of time that I'm playing. And I miss those blinds and the pine trees on the other side of them.

Life from a balcony

Last night I ate dinner on my balcony for the first time. I frequently eat breakfast out there, at 7am, standing and staring into the layers upon layers of 7 story apartment buildings and wondering about the day, chewing and waiting for the coffee to brew. The metal spoon against the glass bowl always sounds really loud and embarrassing at that time and I try to not let them meet, but that's surprisingly difficult to do. There's usually this guy across the street and one floor up out on his balcony, too, but he's always staring in the opposite direction, puffing on cigarettes. As far as I know, he has never taken notice of me, nor been bothered by my breakfast utensil clinks. He just sits and stares and, other than his smoking arm, doesn't move for the entire 10 minutes that I am out there. His stillness and smoke make him seem sad to me. Like the day is too difficult to bear and the people milling about 6 stories below are too terrifying to face. But he can't do that forever and every day I hope he'll get up or turn around or go inside or do SOMETHING before I have to leave, but that day has yet to come. I silently bid him farewell and go about my day and hope for better luck and higher spirits tomorrow. Last night, though, I discovered that everything balcony-related is different in the late hours. Everyone's on their balcony, eating as a family, shaking out laundry, watching the city lights slowly turn on, entertaining friends, chatting across alleyways with neighbors. The clinks of my own cutlery don't even register in comparison to the nighttime balcony life of my neighbors. It's like a little sneak peek into a more intimate side of their lives. Like having the walls of all of their living rooms removed for me to see, and it's delightful. Especially when it comes to my sad neighbor across the street. Last night, as I slowly worked on my plate of sauteed pumpkin and carrots, I could hear him telling what I assume, based on the laughter, were jokes to his wife on their balcony while they ate. He was still smoking, but it had become the least of his mannerisms instead of his entirety. The darkness of the morning had evaporated and been replaced with a wide smile, a loud laugh, and a kind voice. I think I'd like to get to know him. I think I can relate to his reluctance to embrace the day, but his eventual acceptance and ultimate love of being alive. I can relate to not wanting the silence to end, but then also not wanting it to begin. And I can definitely relate to not being a morning person.

And now I'm going to go stand on my balcony for a while, listening to life and feeling like a part of something I'm really only a witness to.          

The Lunch Line

It starts in the school lunch line, a place that feels awkward at any age, day after day. First with pointing and either nodding yes or shaking no, smiling either way and getting quantities beyond my capacity. Next I try out pointing and saying either "hayir" for no or "evet" for yes and achieve the same result, but in a slightly more civilized manner. Then comes my botched "cok az", which means very little, but I only say "cok", which means lots, so I get a pile of pasty mashed potatoes on half of my plate. The next day I get it right and end up with tidy little piles of okra, chicken, and rice that don't get mixed up too much in the process. And soon I'm adding in the words for what I what I've learned (which isn't much and relates almost entirely to food) - cok az patates, lutfen, ve cok az pilaf, ve bu. A few potatoes, please, a splash o' rice, and that (chicken), and I'm set, desired food in hand and grateful that the servers smile and bid me a pleasant meal no matter how crude and uncivilized my manner of ordering is. Only they are bearing real witness to my puny, snail-paced language development and I kind of love them.      

A Summary

Antalya so far, in a brief summarized summary format:

The bus drivers take your bus fare by hand and return the correct change and kindly smile at you as you clamber up the bus steps. I get the feeling they really don't want me to get lost.

Pomegranates grow wild. You can pick them off the trees in your neighborhood. Meaning that you can eat a pomegranate grown on the same street as where you live, which two weeks ago would have sounded like utter madness. Also, figs are really good in their pre-dried form. Who knew?

Even the cucumbers have flavor. I don't need to add any dressing to a bowl of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, onion, and feta cheese (my new favorite meal, ps) for it to taste good. Egg yolks are dark gooey yellow and I don't know why that fascinates me. They look more real than the neon egg yolks I'm used to.

People stare a little bit. Not much, but just a little. Then I smile at them and a wide grin spreads across their face and everything's okay.

My new Turkish friends don't make me feel like an oddity for wanting to live alone or for not being married - a cross cultural first for me. Perhaps being alone and loneliness are separated here, as I prefer them to be.

Most people think I'm German and say auf wiedersehen to me as I leave, which I find kinda charming and don't mind in the least bit. American tourists are actually pretty rare here, I've heard, which is both nice and confusing. Americans are missing out.

I haven't swam in the Mediterranean Sea yet and feel surprisingly little desire to do so, even though it's the thing to do here. Even though it's a deep azure blue in spots with twinkling little gray stones reflecting the sunlight underneath. One thing I've discovered about myself: I'm not a beach person. I don't want a sunburn. I hate wearing sunglasses. I hate wearing hats even more than I hate wearing sunglasses. Walking around in a wet swimsuit underneath regular clothes feels disgusting.

The mountains are tall and meet the sea. Their tops are an ashy gray color that I've never seen on mountains before. I like imagining my hiking boots and legs covered in that ashy dust, once the weather cools down. I don't mind hiking sunburns.

The heat and humidity make me sweat instantly. Even when sitting still and doing absolutely nothing other than waiting for my tomato, cucumber, carrot, onion, feta salad to arrive. Getting up from the table and seeing damp sweat spots in the creases of my shorts is horrifying. But then I see that everyone else has darkened sweat spots in the creases of their shorts and everything's okay. We're not all peeing our pants. We're just sweating. Which is healthy and detoxifying, right? Plus, almost everywhere has air conditioning and that first brush of air conditioned air is always full of inexplicable relief.

History is everywhere and I want to start learning about it. I also really need to find a Turkish tutor because what I've learned of the language so far (which is minuscule) is blowing my mind a little bit. Suffixes! Prefixes! Infixes!! A whole sentence can be communicated in one gigantor word. Madness!

The Future

I'm leaving soon.
In nine days, I'll board a plane in Reno and in ten days, I'll get off a plane in Antalya, Turkey.
In a couple of weeks, I'll hopefully have my own apartment within walking distance of the Mediterranean Sea and in about three weeks, I'll go through some sort of teacher orientation and training.
In a little over a month, I'll start teaching English as a second language at Antalya International University while hopefully learning Turkish grammar and history, drinking Turkish coffee, baking Turkish cookies, and making Turkish friends. And, with luck, other nationalities of friends.
For the first time, I am doing this on my own, without Peace Corps, and I think I can already see some of the pluses and minuses.

Minuses:
Without a doubt, one of the minuses will be not getting the PC language training. As difficult as it was, I now realize what a blessing it was to receive 4 hours of intense language study 5 times a week. If I learned anything during grad school, it's that you need to be exposed as much as possible to a second language in order to really learn it.

Not living with a host family for 3 months. Living with a host family is completely awkward and I would never opt for it, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to explain why this was a benefit of the PC. You're exposed constantly to the language, culture, and habits of the people around you. Without the host-family requirement, it's going to be hard to force myself into those awkward cross-cultural experiences that PC practically forced down our throats (in a kind, loving sort of way).

Not having an immediate cohort of like-minded friends. There are new foreign teachers who are starting at the same time as I am, but I can't imagine that we'll go through the same bonding experiences that we did in the PC. Who knows, I could be wrong, though.

Not having everything taken care of for me. Only now do I realize how nice it was to have the PC apply for my visas and buy my plane tickets and pay for my health care and doctor visits. It's all up to me now (with the help of the kind Turkish friends I'll hopefully make).

Pluses:
Money! I know that's a lame plus, but dang it, I'm looking forward to making a semi-decent salary for once in my life.

Freedom. I chose Antalya. I chose the university I'll be working at (after being offered a job there and all that jazz, of course). I wasn't "assigned" there. I'll be able to pick out my apartment and if I don't like it, I can move without having to go through all the PC motions. On my days off, I can travel around the country, or outside of it, without having to notify anyone. I don't need to develop a secondary project or apply for a SPA grant or fill in another VRF form ever again.

It's a real job in a real university...not a job that felt, at times, fabricated for the sake of bringing a free foreigner into a business or school.


I don't know if the pluses outweigh the minuses, but it's time I try this on my own and I think I've had my fair share of the PC. I'm very excited to start this new chapter, but, as always, it's going to be so hard to leave again. It never gets any easier. Never.    

Dear Stranger

I hope you don't mind my writing to you, but I must ask you a question. You don't know me, nor I you, but I saw you last week. You probably don't remember me. I was standing, waiting for the crosswalk signal to change so I could safely traverse a busy intersection when you pulled to a stop at the closest stoplight. We were both waiting. But then your light changed to green and that's where my question comes in. Where did you go? In that one minute space of time where your light was green and you did not budge, despite staring directly in front of you, towards the greenness of your traffic light, unblinking and neutral-faced, where on earth did you go? Had you been there in your car, you would have noticed the changing colors and proceeded as usual through the light, but you weren't there. And no car was behind you to impatiently beep you away from your journey. I'd like to know because the possibilities are endless and I've been dreaming up new ones ever since. Were you visiting some long lost childhood friend? Clasping hands and climbing limbs and dangling upside down, knees crooked over the highest branch they could find. Or were you watching the first soccer match you ever won...ponytail askew and legs green up to the knees with the dust and dew of morning grass. Or were you rehearsing your big monologue...pausing for the laughter of your audience and trying not to look directly into the spotlight. Or were you walking through hospital doors, pushing against their weight and inhaling the medicinal draft, on your way to a room that I do not want to imagine. This is why I'm asking. This is why I want to know. So many possibilities, and too often we leave our surroundings only to go to the painful places in our lives. But your face looked so calm, so neutral, staring into the bleak green signal, that I have hope for you. Hope that you're one of the few who are capable of using such journeys to be happy. I know it's a strange question, but I hope you can see why I want to know so badly. The depths of the mind never cease to mystify. So, please, where did you go?
           

Innies and Outties

It seems to me that everyone leads two lives - an internal and an external one. Maybe this is nothing new and is common knowledge, but I've been thinking about it lately and how important / difficult it can be to balance the two. The internal life is composed of what you create in your mind - your dreams, stories, ideas, and emotions - both in waking and sleeping hours, while the external life is made up of what you show to people and the world - your words, actions, interactions, and products. They're separate lives, yet they're impossible to completely untangle from each other. Your internal life is influenced by what you say and do in the external world around you, and your internal life guides the external face that you present to others. When a person takes something from their internal life and expresses it externally, they create art. Stories typed or spoken from a person's imagination, notes strung together to make a new melody, images from a dream brushed onto a canvas - all are external expressions of a person's internal life and I think it's what separates us from other animals, other than the mighty opposable thumb. I am entirely open to being wrong, but it's hard for me to imagine dogs dreaming up a new contraption for playing fetch or bears whistling new tunes to themselves while they work. They live entirely in their external world. That's not to say that they don't have thoughts or ideas or aren't intelligent, but most of those thoughts are instinct-driven and are nothing new or original. Like a cat silently stalking a mouse - they are planning out how to pounce, but the plan is likely extremely similar to every other cat's pounce plan. It's what their instinct and training tells them to do. Where people, when confronted with a problem or situation, draw on their internal lives to help them out and spark a more inventive solution. Guess it's called critical thinking and creativity. Often times, though, the balance is tipped in favor of one of the lives. A person's internal life can be more vivid and active than their external life, or vice versa. I think this is where the idea of introverts and extroverts comes from. Introverts have more active internal lives and can therefore happily while-away the hours fueling their dreams and ideas on their own, while extroverts get more satisfaction and find more fuel in their surrounding world and would rather spend an hour talking out a problem with a friend than an hour typing out the problem for their own eyes only. Every single person has both lives and at times favors one over the other, but I think most people live consistently more strongly and vividly in one life. If either are neglected too much, though, bad things happen. Introverts need the time to let their inner lives develop and grow with no one around to interrupt it, but they should also not let their surroundings fade and darken too much or their life will only be half lived. I also imagine that extroverts need others to help them create a stable and secure outer life, but must take care to not neglect their own inner dreams and ideas or they won't be contributing their full potential to the pot.

I don't know why I'm typing this out. Sometimes I struggle to maintain a balance because my internal life wants so badly to forever be in control. It can make it hard to focus on what people are saying. It can make me dread parties and social activities and not let me leave my apartment all day. All the while my withering external life is hating me and clawing for attention. I think it helps to recognize that both exist in everyone and that we all probably struggle at least a little bit to find balance and not drive others or ourselves crazy.

Material Girl

I try to not put much value into material things, especially as I get older. Even sentimental value. I can't, otherwise I would need a permanent place to call home and keep all of the tidbits I've collected over the years. Perhaps that's the reason why most people want to buy a home or rent an apartment or stay in one place for a long time. So they can keep all of their things and not have to go through the agony of deeming the long-ago Christmas gifts from their mother as ready for Goodwill, or the decades-old sketch books half-full of half-complete and poorly formed penciled figures as garbage, or the well-worn and falling apart piano books that taught them how to play as no longer necessary. It's sad to go through boxes that have been stored for 6 or 7 years now, and feel only a tired numbness towards these things that once made up my environment, my life. There's a sting of guilt at disposing what were gifts, but it's the memory that counts and I cannot keep them all. I simply can't. I'd have to change my whole life plan in order to. Out of the ten or so boxes of the stuff that, 7 years ago, I thought I'd keep forever, I've retained enough to fill one large box, the majority being books and photo albums. I'm starting to think that it's a painful combination - being both a wanderer and a sentimental one. One who wants to explore as much as possible with little on her back, yet also wants to keep everything and pour over completed chapters and never let the past go. It's a life of constant tension and clashing emotions. My life is so sparse right now. Pruned right down to the bone. But I think I'm okay with that. If I wasn't, I'd be leading a different life.

The Art of Saying Goodbye

If you've been wondering how to properly say goodbye to someone you care about but will not see for a long time, if ever again, I've come up with a step-by-step guide that might help. This happens when either you or they are moving to a different city, state, country, or even continent. After moving away several times and leaving numerous amazing people, people who I'd much rather keep in my life, but can't 'cause that's how my life works, I've developed the following strategies that make said move easier (though never pain free). Warning: This guide may not work for you, as it has only been implemented by one person. Me.

Step 1: Prior to a month before your (or their) departure, don't think about it too much. Let it sit meekly in the back of your mind that the end is nearing, but do not let it start to taint your time with your friends and family. Go about life as usual, despite also needing to make flight / passport / visa / moving arrangements in your free time.

Step 2: When there's about a month left, think about who is important to you and make individual plans with them to do the things you usually do together. It might be one person, it might be 10, but make sure you make individual plans with every person that you even faintly enjoy being around and care about. For me, this helps to close doors and move on without feeling like something has been left unresolved. Also include the people who seek out spending time with you. You never know who you're important to and who wants to say goodbye.

Step 3: About a week prior to departure, only spend time with those closest to you. Don't waste time on the people you're not particularly fond of or the people who didn't treat you well (hopefully that doesn't sound cruel). Still, don't let your looming departure sadden your time with this closest group. Continue to carry on as usual, knowing in the back of your mind that the end is drawing near, but keeping things positive instead of sad. Don't let your final memories with your friends be full of sorrow. Make new, positive memories together that will stick with you for the rest of your life.

Step 4: When the time comes to say goodbye for the last time to someone, especially your closest ones, don't skimp, but don't go on too long. If you're a hugger, give the person a meaningful hug. Be honest. Tell them that you'll miss them. Tell them that you're sad to leave and that they really had an impact on you and that you hope to see them again in the future. Let it show, now, that it really is hard to leave. You've been holding it in for the past month, but now is the time to let them know that they really, truly will be missed and will always be missed. Try not to cry too much or make too much of a scene because it just gets awkward after a while. But, most importantly, make your goodbye honest and genuine towards each unique person. Now's not the time for false words, overly dramatic farewells, or holding back thoughts the person would probably like to hear.

Step 5: Leave. Don't drag it out forever. Say goodbye meaningfully to each person you need to say goodbye to, and leave. But, don't be afraid to look back and catch one last glimpse of that marvelous soul. It very well may be the last time you'll ever see them.

Step 6: When the time is right, let all of the sorrow and tears completely out. Embrace the sadness and let it momentarily engulf you. For each person, the right time is different. It might be an hour later, in the nighttime window of your thankfully dark plane. It might be twenty hours later, in the quiet of your darkened room. It might be a week later, in your car pulled off to the side of the road en route to your new home. At some point, let it happen.

Step 7: Carry your friends and family with you wherever you go, tucked safely into the little chambers of your heart. Keep them there and don't forget about them, no matter how little you talk to them. They're a part of you, just as you're a part of them.

Step 8: Go out and say hello to the new people around you. You never know which might become the ones you'll eventually have to say goodbye to.          

Ozzie

Yesterday, our sweet Oz-monster, Oz-log, KamakOzzie, Mister Ozzie would have turned 17. I'm going to deeply miss this little old wonderful man for the rest of my life.

I hope you're resting well, my dearest old friend. You have no idea how much you mean to me.

Let's Dance

Is this a tango? A samba? I don't know. I also didn't know how to end it, so it just...ends. The final semester of my grad school experience starts tomorrow and I'm looking forward to diving into work and coming up for a fresh breath of air at the end. Hopefully in the form of a fellowship with the English Language Fellows program. Hopefully in Chile. Or Mongolia. Or Argentina. Or Belarus. Or Turkey. Or South Africa. Or ... you get the picture. Or Reno. It is always there, being missed.