Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas Thoughts
Christmas Eve. I think if I tried hard enough I could remember every Christmas Eve. This Christmas Eve I won’t forget. I went to a Catholic mass in Beyoglu, but left early because it was too crowded, and the choir sounded like they were choking on birdseed. I exchanged gifts with my girlfriend, and went alone to a coffee shop to read the new book she’d gotten me about Istanbul. All day I had been trying to delay the loneliness, keeping myself busy with errands, emails, anything that might take my mind off my family, who was together back in New York.
When I got home the loneliness began to settle, like the snowflakes that land quietly outside your window on Christmas. It’s a small pang, easy enough to brush away, but come back to it ten minutes later and there’s a fresh dusting. So, like most lonely writers, I write. And when I write, I am happy. There’s something about sitting down in an attempt to write the perfect sentence—concentrating on the appropriate syntax, listening for subtle assonance, selecting not a good word, but the word—that makes most of one’s problems go away. Or perhaps writing augments them. When you read that perfect sentence, you remember your subject matter, and typically the writer’s truest material is derived from sadness.
Oh, you are sad, you ask? No, not sad. Just… I have an anecdote. I bought eggs tonight, because tomorrow I am making cheesy eggs for my flat mates. We’re going to spend Christmas morning together. We call ourselves orphans because we’re all stuck in Istanbul for Christmas.
There was barely anyone at the supermarket. I remember a man taping boxes together with packing tape. There were two men talking quietly in the egg aisle. The man behind the bread counter paced back and forth with his head down, as if he were waiting for news he knew would be devastating. I waited for the cashier to insert a new role of tape into the register. My mind began to wander.
I imagined that I was back in New York. Mom, ever prescient about possible, impending food debacles, realizes at 9:45pm that we have no eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast. She hands me five dollars and sends me off to Stewart’s. I leave everyone chatting in the living room, or watching television, or eating cookies and drinking wine or cider at the scarlet clothed dinner table. At the supermarket, I leave the car idling in the lot with the heat blasting furiously, like how Old Man Winter blows cold air and freezes whole lakes in those old cartoons.
I can’t help but notice that the place is empty, save for a hefty cashier who wishes me a Merry Christmas and inquires after my sudden presence on Christmas Eve.
“Oh, we forgot eggs for breakfast tomorrow,” I tell her. She remarks that it’s a good thing I got there when I did, because she was closing the place in ten minutes. I shoot a look outside to make sure the car is still there.
Although the place is empty, it gives me a distinct comfort because I know there is a warm bustling back home. Soon I’ll step through the back door, stomp my boots, and enter the dim kitchen. I’ll put the eggs in the fridge and go to the living room and sit by one of my brothers. We’ll chat about football, chide each other about some old joke, and then everyone will head to bed. I will stay up reading beneath a lamp. Perhaps I’ll write a little. Then when I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, I’ll go to bed.
The loneliness at Stewart’s, when experienced in contradistinction to that which I’ll experience at home in five minutes, is a lovely feeling. The eggnog cartons stand rigidly in the fridge. The cookie boxes are piled in perfect symmetry, and will remain so for at least two more days. No one will handle them. They’ll all soon be plunged into darkness, staring out the window like paralytics, following the occasional passing car or the whirling orange lights of a snowplow with only their eyes. I have my eggs, but staring at these perishables gives me a sort of comfort. They will be alone tonight, but I will not. While they languish, I will experience the warmest human contact I’ve felt in a year.
“You gonna buy those eggs or what?” the cashier remarks with a smile.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I reply. “Just thinking about what else my mother might need for tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m closing, so unless you want to spend the night here, you better let me ring those eggs up.” I hop over to the register. She laughs.
“I knew you wouldn’t want to spend the night here,” she smiles as she passes the scanner over the cardboard barcode.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re right about that.”
Yerebatan
I've had a few days off of work because of the holidays. Yes, the school is generous enough to give us time off for Christmas, but not enough to go home. God forbid we they give us TOO much time off, lest we lose, in absentia, what remaining motivation we have for working for the place. But I digress.
I went to the underground Roman Cistern the other day, which is just underneath Topkapı palace. It was built in the 6th CE by the Romans, but after they left it wasn't discovered again until the 16th CE, at which time the Ottomans used it to supply water to Topkapı palace. It's a bit of an eerie place, which the Istanbul Municipality attempts to augment with some rather contrived, scary organ music. Nonetheless, the lighting is excellent, and the entire cistern is very well maintained. In 1994 they brought fish in in an effort to restore it as closely as possible to its original nature. It leaks in certain places-no one really knows why-and there are two pillars built atop giant heads of Medusa. One lies sideways and the other is upside down. As always, copy the link below to your address bar and you can see the photos I took on facebook.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059789&l=51189&id=26310454
In other news, I'd like to wish all my family and friends a very Merry Christmas. I badly wish I could be home in New York, especially since you've gotten all that snow already! I have to say, I've been missing New York a lot lately, and I'm looking forward to coming home for a month in the summer. I can't believe I've already been here for five months! Just six more months and you'll all get to see me (well, most of you). Take care...
Thursday, December 20, 2007
A Science Exhibit!
In Istanbul’s Taksim Metro Station—perhaps the busiest in the city—my friend and I noticed a beautiful feline skull sitting on a pedestal just outside a large room. It was smiling, as all skulls do, and seemed to bid us enter the room.
“Let’s see the science exhibit,” my friend said, tugging on my sleeve. Excited that there was a free and public exhibit much like those in New York, I enthusiastically agreed. The New York City Municipality does a great job at educating the public with art, culture and science exhibits scattered all over Manhattan. One can’t help but to feel a strong affinity towards a city that so readily spends its money on its inhabitants’ cultural enrichment. I will never forget the “You are in an art museum” signs all over New York’s subway stations and trains. I honestly can’t remember the works of art plastered on the walls, an obvious sign of my firm belief in the maxim about tossing the cheap gift aside while embracing the donor for their thought, but I will always appreciate the effort. I entered the exhibit feeling a distinct satisfaction. It was now clear that the Istanbul Municipality too placed an importance on my personal betterment.
I shuffled through the first area of the exhibit, which was mainly comprised of beautiful fish, feline and leaf fossils, as well as glossy posters of skeletons. My Turkish is awful, so I read what I could and ignored the rest.
I stared down at a complete fossil of a fish, which looked something like a Perch. Beside the fossil was a glossy photograph of the species of the fish, accompanied by the words, “25 MIL YILIK.”
“Wow,” I remarked to my friend. “This one is 25 million years old.”
I sidestepped to the next, a medium sized leaf fossil replete with the stem and a clear imprint of every vein. 53 MIL YILIK. Again, a modern day photograph of the green leaf. I was amazed at the age of these wonderful fossils, which dwarfed the span of those Roman and Nabatean ruins I’d seen in Jordan to the most miniscule of proportions. Granted, the ruins are the products of human hands and minds, while the fossilized organisms are natural occurrences, vestiges of those things created without first being conceptualized in a mind and drawn on paper or scraped on a sandstone wall.
I wondered, though, what was so special about fossils of organisms that had yet to be extinct. As I pondered this point, I came upon a dark poster of classic Darwin, outsized beard and all, sitting at his desk and staring off in thought. The title said something like, “Darwin’s Hatred of the Turks.” My friend translated a bit of the white text below, which drew on one of Darwin’s letters saying that “an endless number of lower races will have been eliminated by the higher civilized races throughout the world,” using the “so-called Caucasian races’” victory over the Turks in their “struggle for existence” as an example.
I had to admit that I never knew Darwin was a racist. Nonetheless, I initially thought the exhibit was on Darwin and evolutionary theory, but the poster on Darwin’s “hatred of the Turks” didn’t seem to make any sense. But if you’re targeting an exhibit at Turks, then I suppose its success does, to a certain degree, depend on its relevance to a Turkish viewer’s life. But how could anything be more relevant to one’s life than an exhibit on evolutionary theory? I ruminated. I moved on.
I crossed the room and came to a poster positioned at the end of the exhibit entitled in Turkish, “Why Is the Struggle Against Darwinism Important?” Below it another picture of Darwin, but in this one his hat is pulled low over his brows, his wrinkled face is distant but stern, and his beard is as thick and white as God’s in The Donnadio. My friend translated it, her eyes getting wider and her voice getting higher with each new sentence; “Communism, Fascism, Nazism are all based on Darwin’s theories;” “If you still believe in Darwinism you are blind to the truth,” “Darwinism is totally incompatible with the Holy Koran,” etc, etc, etc.
The veil had lifted from our eyes. I looked about nervously for further proof of my worst fears about the exhibit. I found an English poster on the “myth” of the evolution of the horse. I read it over quickly, feeling the heat in my face begin to rise. To my left a well-dressed man with a warm smile and perfect stage presence moved about in front of a large screen with DNA models projected onto it. He lectured a large group of young couples, old men, and mothers with their children. I became embarrassed and I began to laugh.
I quickly moved away from the lecture, stopping in front of a new poster. This one looked more like a horror film advertisement. The title said, “Darwinist Ideology: Communism and Fascism.” Below it was a sea of blood dripping from a large picture of Darwin—bald, bearded, and severe looking—and onto pictures of Mao, Mussolini, Stalin and Hitler. The backdrop featured a pile of naked bodies. At the bottom of the poster three cheetahs pounced upon and sank their teeth into a gazelle. I hadn’t realized that cheetahs were fascists, but considering their dinner time behavior, I could understand how one might draw a connection.
By this point my friend and I were laughing quite loudly. A man who’d heard us speaking English approached my friend to tell her that there was an English speaker there who’d be happy to tell me about the “exhibit.” I gladly accepted.
His name was Altug. He was tall and had a quiet demeanor. I resolved to be respectful and let him do most of the talking. I had a feeling these might be a persecuted people, the type that Darwin hates, so gentleness seemed the best approach. He told me first of their ideas: evolution is a myth; there are no fossils of intermediate species; there were many more species millions of years ago than there are now; those species living today are not related to those of the past.
“As time moves forward, the number of species gets lower,” he told me in perfect English. He formed a triangle with his hands as he said this. I appreciated the makeshift graphic. It made me think, for a moment at least, about where my life was headed.
I had to admit, what with the scientific terminology he threw around, as well as the numbers he put out, it was somewhat convincing to a mind not well versed in science. I took a few notes on his theories and numbers, resolved to check them online at home, and moved on to questions about the organization. There were no posters advertising the sponsors of the exhibition, raising my friend's and my suspicions. Altug told me the exhibit was put on by the Science and Research Foundation, founded by a man named Harun Yahya. Again, vague, yet very authoritative sounding name—my suspicions grew.
He finally said that they were creationists, but did not use God or verses from the Koran, like Americans used the Bible, to promote their ideas. Furthermore, they did their work all over the world, had literature in schools and universities, and their books were translated into 40 languages. I asked him what he thought Darwin would say about the idea that he, as the progenitor of violent political and social movements, is directly responsible for the murder of millions of people.
“I think Darwin would be very sad and disappointed to learn that he caused so much suffering,” Altug said. If I were Darwin, I thought, I'd be pissed at the fact that you people don't use a more flattering photo of me. I shook his hand, thanked him for his time, and said, “Iyi aksamlar.” He wished me a goodnight in return.
At home I googled Harun Yahya. I first visited his website, which is a labyrinth of links, texts, images, and movies dedicated to the refutation of Darwinism and atheism and the promotion of Old Earth Creationism. It would have looked very academic had it not been for several graphics featuring an army of animals, a pair of celestial, golden doors, and a colorful Eden with the words, “Jesus will return,” the last of which might have been inserted by some young, mischevious, Christian creationist hacker.
I went back to my original search and clicked on a link saying, “Who is Harun Yahya?” I found out he is something of a hybrid of L. Ron Hubbard, the Reverend Moon and David Koresh. His real name is Adnan Oktar, but he generally goes by his nom de plume. He never graduated from university, and he has been to court for charges ranging from blackmail, to possession of unlicensed weapons to sexual intercourse with minors. Unfortunately, he and his group hold considerable influence in Turkey. In fact, one website (www.wordpress.com) published an article attacking Adnan Oktar. Oktar took the site to court, charging it with libel, and the Turkish judiciary blocked the entire site to all of Turkey. I tried to access the site and sure enough, a message came up saying, “Access to this site has been suspended in accordance with decision no: 2007/195 of T.C. Fatih 2.Civil Court of First Instance.”
It seems that Oktar is loosely connected with Turkey’s most powerful political party, the mildly Islamist AK party. He has recently published an 800 page Atlas of Creation, a 13 pound book with glossy pictures of ancient fossils and pictures of their modern counterparts whose superficial resemblances are supposed to prove that species don’t evolve into other species; they are created. The book has been sent, rather mysteriously, to thousands of schools and universities all over the world without the name of the sender or a note. The Turkish Education minister hinted a while ago that he would like to see the book added to a list of Turkish textbooks.
I looked up a picture of the imposter Harun Yahya. The many flattering pictures on his website portray him, for one, as entirely self-indulgent and narcissistic, and, two, as if he were a model human specimen himself. In his profile shots, yes shots, he stands rigidly, chest thrown out, eyes squinted ever so slightly. He wears a bright, white suit, dark fashion sunglasses and a neatly trimmed beard. His skin is waxy and oleaginous, and his salt and pepper hair is slicked back. My computer had downloaded 22 pictures, and I still had yet to scroll more than half way down the page. I suddenly became very depressed and closed my laptop.
I felt cheated and duped. What appeared at first glance to be an innocent science exhibit turned out to be a cunning assault on logic, science and the life of the great Charles Darwin. It was manipulative. It was brainwash. It was approved by the Istanbul Municipality, which happens to be run by AK party. Worst of all, I thought, the thousands of people exposed to these factoids and blatant lies, presented albeit with a scientific veneer, will so easily fall for it. I tried to find a silver lining, but could think of none. I decided to simply go to bed.
“Let’s see the science exhibit,” my friend said, tugging on my sleeve. Excited that there was a free and public exhibit much like those in New York, I enthusiastically agreed. The New York City Municipality does a great job at educating the public with art, culture and science exhibits scattered all over Manhattan. One can’t help but to feel a strong affinity towards a city that so readily spends its money on its inhabitants’ cultural enrichment. I will never forget the “You are in an art museum” signs all over New York’s subway stations and trains. I honestly can’t remember the works of art plastered on the walls, an obvious sign of my firm belief in the maxim about tossing the cheap gift aside while embracing the donor for their thought, but I will always appreciate the effort. I entered the exhibit feeling a distinct satisfaction. It was now clear that the Istanbul Municipality too placed an importance on my personal betterment.
I shuffled through the first area of the exhibit, which was mainly comprised of beautiful fish, feline and leaf fossils, as well as glossy posters of skeletons. My Turkish is awful, so I read what I could and ignored the rest.
I stared down at a complete fossil of a fish, which looked something like a Perch. Beside the fossil was a glossy photograph of the species of the fish, accompanied by the words, “25 MIL YILIK.”
“Wow,” I remarked to my friend. “This one is 25 million years old.”
I sidestepped to the next, a medium sized leaf fossil replete with the stem and a clear imprint of every vein. 53 MIL YILIK. Again, a modern day photograph of the green leaf. I was amazed at the age of these wonderful fossils, which dwarfed the span of those Roman and Nabatean ruins I’d seen in Jordan to the most miniscule of proportions. Granted, the ruins are the products of human hands and minds, while the fossilized organisms are natural occurrences, vestiges of those things created without first being conceptualized in a mind and drawn on paper or scraped on a sandstone wall.
I wondered, though, what was so special about fossils of organisms that had yet to be extinct. As I pondered this point, I came upon a dark poster of classic Darwin, outsized beard and all, sitting at his desk and staring off in thought. The title said something like, “Darwin’s Hatred of the Turks.” My friend translated a bit of the white text below, which drew on one of Darwin’s letters saying that “an endless number of lower races will have been eliminated by the higher civilized races throughout the world,” using the “so-called Caucasian races’” victory over the Turks in their “struggle for existence” as an example.
I had to admit that I never knew Darwin was a racist. Nonetheless, I initially thought the exhibit was on Darwin and evolutionary theory, but the poster on Darwin’s “hatred of the Turks” didn’t seem to make any sense. But if you’re targeting an exhibit at Turks, then I suppose its success does, to a certain degree, depend on its relevance to a Turkish viewer’s life. But how could anything be more relevant to one’s life than an exhibit on evolutionary theory? I ruminated. I moved on.
I crossed the room and came to a poster positioned at the end of the exhibit entitled in Turkish, “Why Is the Struggle Against Darwinism Important?” Below it another picture of Darwin, but in this one his hat is pulled low over his brows, his wrinkled face is distant but stern, and his beard is as thick and white as God’s in The Donnadio. My friend translated it, her eyes getting wider and her voice getting higher with each new sentence; “Communism, Fascism, Nazism are all based on Darwin’s theories;” “If you still believe in Darwinism you are blind to the truth,” “Darwinism is totally incompatible with the Holy Koran,” etc, etc, etc.
The veil had lifted from our eyes. I looked about nervously for further proof of my worst fears about the exhibit. I found an English poster on the “myth” of the evolution of the horse. I read it over quickly, feeling the heat in my face begin to rise. To my left a well-dressed man with a warm smile and perfect stage presence moved about in front of a large screen with DNA models projected onto it. He lectured a large group of young couples, old men, and mothers with their children. I became embarrassed and I began to laugh.
I quickly moved away from the lecture, stopping in front of a new poster. This one looked more like a horror film advertisement. The title said, “Darwinist Ideology: Communism and Fascism.” Below it was a sea of blood dripping from a large picture of Darwin—bald, bearded, and severe looking—and onto pictures of Mao, Mussolini, Stalin and Hitler. The backdrop featured a pile of naked bodies. At the bottom of the poster three cheetahs pounced upon and sank their teeth into a gazelle. I hadn’t realized that cheetahs were fascists, but considering their dinner time behavior, I could understand how one might draw a connection.
By this point my friend and I were laughing quite loudly. A man who’d heard us speaking English approached my friend to tell her that there was an English speaker there who’d be happy to tell me about the “exhibit.” I gladly accepted.
His name was Altug. He was tall and had a quiet demeanor. I resolved to be respectful and let him do most of the talking. I had a feeling these might be a persecuted people, the type that Darwin hates, so gentleness seemed the best approach. He told me first of their ideas: evolution is a myth; there are no fossils of intermediate species; there were many more species millions of years ago than there are now; those species living today are not related to those of the past.
“As time moves forward, the number of species gets lower,” he told me in perfect English. He formed a triangle with his hands as he said this. I appreciated the makeshift graphic. It made me think, for a moment at least, about where my life was headed.
I had to admit, what with the scientific terminology he threw around, as well as the numbers he put out, it was somewhat convincing to a mind not well versed in science. I took a few notes on his theories and numbers, resolved to check them online at home, and moved on to questions about the organization. There were no posters advertising the sponsors of the exhibition, raising my friend's and my suspicions. Altug told me the exhibit was put on by the Science and Research Foundation, founded by a man named Harun Yahya. Again, vague, yet very authoritative sounding name—my suspicions grew.
He finally said that they were creationists, but did not use God or verses from the Koran, like Americans used the Bible, to promote their ideas. Furthermore, they did their work all over the world, had literature in schools and universities, and their books were translated into 40 languages. I asked him what he thought Darwin would say about the idea that he, as the progenitor of violent political and social movements, is directly responsible for the murder of millions of people.
“I think Darwin would be very sad and disappointed to learn that he caused so much suffering,” Altug said. If I were Darwin, I thought, I'd be pissed at the fact that you people don't use a more flattering photo of me. I shook his hand, thanked him for his time, and said, “Iyi aksamlar.” He wished me a goodnight in return.
At home I googled Harun Yahya. I first visited his website, which is a labyrinth of links, texts, images, and movies dedicated to the refutation of Darwinism and atheism and the promotion of Old Earth Creationism. It would have looked very academic had it not been for several graphics featuring an army of animals, a pair of celestial, golden doors, and a colorful Eden with the words, “Jesus will return,” the last of which might have been inserted by some young, mischevious, Christian creationist hacker.
I went back to my original search and clicked on a link saying, “Who is Harun Yahya?” I found out he is something of a hybrid of L. Ron Hubbard, the Reverend Moon and David Koresh. His real name is Adnan Oktar, but he generally goes by his nom de plume. He never graduated from university, and he has been to court for charges ranging from blackmail, to possession of unlicensed weapons to sexual intercourse with minors. Unfortunately, he and his group hold considerable influence in Turkey. In fact, one website (www.wordpress.com) published an article attacking Adnan Oktar. Oktar took the site to court, charging it with libel, and the Turkish judiciary blocked the entire site to all of Turkey. I tried to access the site and sure enough, a message came up saying, “Access to this site has been suspended in accordance with decision no: 2007/195 of T.C. Fatih 2.Civil Court of First Instance.”
It seems that Oktar is loosely connected with Turkey’s most powerful political party, the mildly Islamist AK party. He has recently published an 800 page Atlas of Creation, a 13 pound book with glossy pictures of ancient fossils and pictures of their modern counterparts whose superficial resemblances are supposed to prove that species don’t evolve into other species; they are created. The book has been sent, rather mysteriously, to thousands of schools and universities all over the world without the name of the sender or a note. The Turkish Education minister hinted a while ago that he would like to see the book added to a list of Turkish textbooks.
I looked up a picture of the imposter Harun Yahya. The many flattering pictures on his website portray him, for one, as entirely self-indulgent and narcissistic, and, two, as if he were a model human specimen himself. In his profile shots, yes shots, he stands rigidly, chest thrown out, eyes squinted ever so slightly. He wears a bright, white suit, dark fashion sunglasses and a neatly trimmed beard. His skin is waxy and oleaginous, and his salt and pepper hair is slicked back. My computer had downloaded 22 pictures, and I still had yet to scroll more than half way down the page. I suddenly became very depressed and closed my laptop.
I felt cheated and duped. What appeared at first glance to be an innocent science exhibit turned out to be a cunning assault on logic, science and the life of the great Charles Darwin. It was manipulative. It was brainwash. It was approved by the Istanbul Municipality, which happens to be run by AK party. Worst of all, I thought, the thousands of people exposed to these factoids and blatant lies, presented albeit with a scientific veneer, will so easily fall for it. I tried to find a silver lining, but could think of none. I decided to simply go to bed.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I have decided to officially, however that might work, drop all grandiose notions that previously accompanied my blog, and thus lowering my reading public's expectations by making the following three statements:
(i) I am aweful at keeping a blog. I am busy with work, and simply have not had the time nor the energy to put as much of an effort into it as I had promised.
(ii) I will continue to post on my blog, but most likely with the same frequency with which I've been writing these past few months.
(iii) Number three's actually good news. It's the link to the photos I took on my trip to Jordan. Just copy and paste the URL below into your address bar!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2058459&l=bedcb&id=26310454
(i) I am aweful at keeping a blog. I am busy with work, and simply have not had the time nor the energy to put as much of an effort into it as I had promised.
(ii) I will continue to post on my blog, but most likely with the same frequency with which I've been writing these past few months.
(iii) Number three's actually good news. It's the link to the photos I took on my trip to Jordan. Just copy and paste the URL below into your address bar!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2058459&l=bedcb&id=26310454
Monday, November 12, 2007
General news
Ok, a new post. Work has been very busy as of late, especially with our final term exams last week, as well as all the hectic preperations preceding our upcoming week off. Honestly, I can't wait to go away next week. I'm heading to Jordan with a good friend of mine, an Aussie named Bed. This is very exciting for me because I've always wanted to see the Middle East. So many people in the U.S. talk about the region as if they're experts, but the longer I'm here the more I realize most people back home have no idea. Yes, Istanbul is in Europe, but there are a number of conspicuous Middle Eastern elements that make Istanbul the unique city it is. Istanbul is a great launching pad for someone who wants to better understand the Middle East, and I see these next two years-actually, a year and eight months now-as a sort of prerequisite for what I hope could turn into a career in Middle East studies. I am pretty fickle when it comes to my future plans, so who knows if or when I'll change my mind. But Turkey and the Middle East, as well as all of the accompanying idiosyncracies, has captured my interest, and I plan to learn as much as possible.
Other news: its getting cold, its rainy, I might get a used couch soon, the Turkish lessons are coming ok-peaks and valleys, as they say. I tend to assess my overall happiness on a numerical scale every three days or so. Tonight I give it a...7. But that's a positive assessment, and it typically flirts around 5 or 6. Why so low? I work too damn much. A solution will come.
Other news: its getting cold, its rainy, I might get a used couch soon, the Turkish lessons are coming ok-peaks and valleys, as they say. I tend to assess my overall happiness on a numerical scale every three days or so. Tonight I give it a...7. But that's a positive assessment, and it typically flirts around 5 or 6. Why so low? I work too damn much. A solution will come.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Today was Cumhuriyeti, which I guess means Republic Day. This year's Republic Day was particularly nationalistic, some friends told me, because of recent attacks by PKK rebels on Turkish soldiers. It was very interesting. The parade, which really consisted of thousands and thousands of people walking down one of the main thoroughfares, began in Ortakoy, where I live, and ended in an area called Besiktas. There were a lot of Turkish flags and a lot of chanting, but overall it was pretty festive. I guess the chants had something to do with their soldiers dying, Turkey remaining a secular democracy, long live Ataturk, etc. The fireworks were actually better than anything I'd seen in the U.S., and it was very cool to see how much Turks love their country. Sometimes I wish young people in the U.S. had such a sense of ardent patriotism, but I suppose right now there isn't much to foster solidarity. Turks seem to see the usefulness in demonstration as well, and I think that's something that we're missing in the U.S. too. The last time I remember so many people taking to the streets were the immigration protests in the summer of 2005. I hope we never forget our right to dissent.
I posted some pictures of Cumhuriyet on my facebook, and you do not need to have facebook to see them. The link is:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2055376&l=429cf&id=26310454
It's basically a bunch of flags and lights. My photos make it look much less interesting than it really was. Also, I posted video on youtube.com but right now the video is still loading, and I need to go to bed. I'll post the link tomorrow. Well, I hope everything is going well with all of you. Feel free to email me any thoughts, comments, criticisms, etc, at chip_hubbell@yahoo.com. Chao for now.
I posted some pictures of Cumhuriyet on my facebook, and you do not need to have facebook to see them. The link is:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2055376&l=429cf&id=26310454
It's basically a bunch of flags and lights. My photos make it look much less interesting than it really was. Also, I posted video on youtube.com but right now the video is still loading, and I need to go to bed. I'll post the link tomorrow. Well, I hope everything is going well with all of you. Feel free to email me any thoughts, comments, criticisms, etc, at chip_hubbell@yahoo.com. Chao for now.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Wow, a post!
Ok, the blog is back! I have to apologize for not keeping in touch with you all, but I didn't have internet in my apartment until a week ago. So, you're probably struck with a mild interest in what is going on with my life here in Turkey; otherwise, why would you visit this site, right?
Well, work is going ok. I teach 9 1/2 hour days, and it's starting to wear on me. Because of the extraordinary trafic problem in Istanbul, an otherwise 30 minute commute to school in the morning turns into a one hour+ commute home in the evening. I don't get home til after 6pm, and I feel like that's really no way to live. My solution? We will see.
I generally spend my weeknights at home reading a lot, writing a little bit, or trying my hand at traditional Turkish cuisine once in a while. Weekends I spend with friends, but this weekend is huge. Do you know why? Because the Red Sox are back in the WS, baby! I've been getting up at 4am to watch the games, and while I'm dead tired during the day, I'm wicked excited at night because we are just bashing teams all over the field.
News about Turkey: it's hard to imagine Turks being any more nationalistic than they already are, but in the last week there's been a wave of ultra-nationalism that ranks right up there with immediate post-9/11 America. Turkey has recently moved into Northern Iraq to attack PKK terrorist camps, against the advice of the US. That combined with Monday being Republic Day (celebration of the founding of modern Turkey) results in an insane amount of Turkish flags, hanging from houses, cars, lightpoles, trees, skycrapers, bridges, etc. Also, American sentiment is pretty low right now because of the Armenian genocide bill going through the US House.
Anyway, it's Sunday and I'm about to take a walk along the Bosphorus. It's been very cold and rainy lately, so today is a nice change with lots of sun.
That's all for now. Kendinize iyi bakin! Sizin seviyorum!
Well, work is going ok. I teach 9 1/2 hour days, and it's starting to wear on me. Because of the extraordinary trafic problem in Istanbul, an otherwise 30 minute commute to school in the morning turns into a one hour+ commute home in the evening. I don't get home til after 6pm, and I feel like that's really no way to live. My solution? We will see.
I generally spend my weeknights at home reading a lot, writing a little bit, or trying my hand at traditional Turkish cuisine once in a while. Weekends I spend with friends, but this weekend is huge. Do you know why? Because the Red Sox are back in the WS, baby! I've been getting up at 4am to watch the games, and while I'm dead tired during the day, I'm wicked excited at night because we are just bashing teams all over the field.
News about Turkey: it's hard to imagine Turks being any more nationalistic than they already are, but in the last week there's been a wave of ultra-nationalism that ranks right up there with immediate post-9/11 America. Turkey has recently moved into Northern Iraq to attack PKK terrorist camps, against the advice of the US. That combined with Monday being Republic Day (celebration of the founding of modern Turkey) results in an insane amount of Turkish flags, hanging from houses, cars, lightpoles, trees, skycrapers, bridges, etc. Also, American sentiment is pretty low right now because of the Armenian genocide bill going through the US House.
Anyway, it's Sunday and I'm about to take a walk along the Bosphorus. It's been very cold and rainy lately, so today is a nice change with lots of sun.
That's all for now. Kendinize iyi bakin! Sizin seviyorum!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
new photo link
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2051146&l=47e84&id=26310454
This is the link to my photos. You don't have to be a facebook member, so sorry about posting a link before that only took you to the facebook.com sign up page.
This is the link to my photos. You don't have to be a facebook member, so sorry about posting a link before that only took you to the facebook.com sign up page.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Update!
Oh my gosh! A blog entry! Sweet mother of Jesus, I can't believe it! Ok, so I haven't had internet in my house, and I only have time for internet fun when I make the trek to the local Starbucks and connect to their wireless. I began an entry on my recent trip to Mt. Olympus in Greece, but it's nowhere near finished. Just be patient and you'll be properly informed in no time.
Anyway, here's a terse narrative of the recent events of my life. This week is HUGE because we start teaching...finally! I've spent the last month preparing all kinds of things (including the curricula for my classes) so it'll be a relief to do some teaching. I met some of the students and their parents on Saturday when we had back to school day. Açı school is definitely a school for the children of Turkey's elite: academics, musicians, artists, writers, journalists, etc.
I started my Turkish classes today (Sunday). I think it's going to be fun to learn a new language. Türkçe seviyorum! Haha What else...the weather has suddenly changed from blazing hot and humid to a crisp autumnal climate. I'm getting very used to İstanbul. The people, the traffic, the city plan itself is all becoming familiar. My life is fairly predictable but every now and again I meet someone new or venture to an unexplored area of the city, and I remember that I'm living in a different country that's not technically my home. I'd like it to feel like home, and as of right now it's the next best thing to New York. When I returned from Greece, I exited the train and walked down the platform smiling because I felt like I was where I should be--in İstanbul.
That's all I can say for now. I really do have an epic tale about Mt. Olympus, but I just need to find time to write the story. In the meantime you can moisten your visual palet with some pictures I took in Greece. Go to
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2051146&l=47e84&id=26310454
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=510082299084
Well, that's it for now. I'll have internet soon and I'll be able to keep you all updated. Kendine iyi bak.
Anyway, here's a terse narrative of the recent events of my life. This week is HUGE because we start teaching...finally! I've spent the last month preparing all kinds of things (including the curricula for my classes) so it'll be a relief to do some teaching. I met some of the students and their parents on Saturday when we had back to school day. Açı school is definitely a school for the children of Turkey's elite: academics, musicians, artists, writers, journalists, etc.
I started my Turkish classes today (Sunday). I think it's going to be fun to learn a new language. Türkçe seviyorum! Haha What else...the weather has suddenly changed from blazing hot and humid to a crisp autumnal climate. I'm getting very used to İstanbul. The people, the traffic, the city plan itself is all becoming familiar. My life is fairly predictable but every now and again I meet someone new or venture to an unexplored area of the city, and I remember that I'm living in a different country that's not technically my home. I'd like it to feel like home, and as of right now it's the next best thing to New York. When I returned from Greece, I exited the train and walked down the platform smiling because I felt like I was where I should be--in İstanbul.
That's all I can say for now. I really do have an epic tale about Mt. Olympus, but I just need to find time to write the story. In the meantime you can moisten your visual palet with some pictures I took in Greece. Go to
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2051146&l=47e84&id=26310454
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=510082299084
Well, that's it for now. I'll have internet soon and I'll be able to keep you all updated. Kendine iyi bak.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
photo link
For photos of my day-trip to Princes' Island, go to the following link:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2047472&l=608e8&id=26310454
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2047472&l=608e8&id=26310454
The Ezan
Cliches simply don’t work. In describing Istanbul, tired phrases like “east meets west,” “very European,” or, “Islamic but secular,” suffice only in reporting what one already knows. Yes, east does meet west, but these directional terms are hollow and make us jump to conclusions at best. When you look at the details, however, at what a superficial observer might call the minutia piled atop these foundational clichés—that is when Istanbul comes alive and transcends the hackneyed phrases that visitors use to classify such a place.
I don’t profess to know anything about Istanbul at all. I’ve been here for one week and have seen so much that my mind has become a muddled mess. I feel as if I’m on vacation, waiting for my two weeks to end, for my plane to bring me back to New York. I don’t feel like I’m going to be here for two years. My mind is constantly trying to grasp and store everything it processes, like one of those housewives who’s won a $5000 shopping spree, careening down the aisle, using her forearm to plow the shelves of all their contents into her already overflowing shopping cart. That is my mind.
While I can’t yet give any definitive description of this city, nor do I think I’ll ever be able to, I can tell you a little about that minutia I mentioned before. I can tell you about the piercing minarets that rise above the smooth domes of the countless mosques, giving an otherwise horizontal cityscape a touch of verticality. They are very tall and thin, wrapped in two galleries where a muezzin would have sung the call to prayer if it weren’t for modern audio technology. They reach up, up and up to the blue sky and taper off into a conical shape at the top.
Earlier, I saw the Blue Mosque, built in 1603-1617 on the site of the Great Palace of Byzantium. It is called the Blue Mosque because of its blue inner tiles as well as the light blue color of the tops of the six minarets and domes. As my teacher friends and I approached the main entry, we saw a few more-devout Muslims washing their feet at the outdoor faucets. Nearly everyone else didn’t bother to wash; we just took off our shoes and carried toted them with us in a plastic bag inside the mosque.
When I saw my first mosque here, which couldn’t have been more than five minutes after leaving the airport, I felt a little jolt, like how I feel when I’ve been dreaming about falling and I suddenly wake up just before smashing into the ground. I’ve never seen a mosque before in person, only on television when CNN or the History Channel has some feature on Islam or the Middle East. The Muslim world, in spite of all the attention it gets in the news, is a place so far removed from our minds and personal experiences that it might as well be in a completely different universe. We truly know nothing about that with which we think we are so familiar. Do you think that the seven o’clock news provides all your necessary knowledge of Islam? The news is nothing more than reportage on terrorism and why, ostensibly, the Muslim world “hates us.” I can’t tell you how many people cringed when I told them I’d be traveling to Istanbul—a safe, cosmopolitan city in a free, democratic nation, not to mention populated by an exceedingly hospitable people. I haven’t yet gone to Syria, Lebanon, Jordan or Egypt, and I’m sure those countries are vastly different from Turkey. But I am nonetheless in a Muslim country, and I’ve had to flush my mind of all the preconceived notions I was fed by the media. Now, every corner I turn I find myself faced with that exotic, fairy tail-like image of the mosque, as if I were reading a picture book of Cinderella, and, taking a break, I look out my window and discover the castle from the book cover looming royally in the distance. And I’m now reworking my notions of Islam and the Muslim people simply by observation. Simply by staring at a mosque and listening to the ezan.
The ezan; that seemingly melancholy song of the muezzin, undulating between desperate highs and poignant lows. The call to prayer has become cliché to the West; we hear it in the opening credits of movies, as the camera pans smoothly over sandy dunes or shakily makes its way through the streets of a desert town; or in tourism commercials, where beautiful dark skinned people stroll down white beaches. Nevertheless, it is a beautiful song of supplication, God’s praises washing over the varying notes like rolling whitecaps, flooding the alleys of the city with a sudden piety. The first verse is comforting and slow, like the motion of a cradle rocked by a mother’s invisible hand, back-and-forth, “Allah is the greatest, Allah is the greatest.” Later the rhythm remains the same, but the ezan gains urgency, the high notes fluctuating like the footsteps of a runner gaining speed; “Make haste towards prayer. Make haste towards welfare.” It ends abruptly, and you find yourself waiting by the window, ears straining to make out the next note, but it never comes. Only a car horn sounds in the distance and for a moment you think the ezan has begun again, but it hasn’t.
Shortly after the fall of the Ottoman Empire in 1918, in a fit of Turkish nationalism, the ezan began to be sung, according to a new law, in Turkish. It is interesting, considering Arabic is considered to be the language of God, how nationalism trumped religion, such to the point where Turkish could, in some capacity, replace Arabic as a liturgical language. This was obviously the mild manifestation of an otherwise aggressive agenda that has dictated, until less than a month ago when the Islamic rooted AK Party won a landslide election, much of modern Turkey’s history—that is, fundamentalist secular agenda replacing fundamentalist Islam, the brand of Islam we associate with other Muslim countries, particularly Iran and Saudi Arabia. In 1933, according to islamonline.net, the muezzin Tobal Khalil was beaten and arrested by police after he delivered the ezan in Arabic at a mosque in Bursa. President Ataturk promptly stated through the Turkish News Agency that the question was less about religion than about the language, and that such offenders would not go unpunished. In the late 1940’s Adnan Madris defeated Ataturk’s successor and abolished the provision that banned the Arabic ezan. I'm glad because I can’t imagine the ezan being sung in any other language.
True, today the ezan is played over speakers that sit atop the gallery rails of the minarets like gray pigeons surveying the stone streets and orange roofs before taking flight. But in spite of the song’s lack of authentic delivery, it still sends a sensation of reverence through me. In the early morning, when only the shopkeepers and stray cats populate the streets; in the afternoon, when bronzed shoe-shining boys shed their dull clothes and stern faces and dive from the cement banks into the Bosporus; just after sun set, when the wind begins to blow in my white curtains and a skittish dog yelps in an adjacent neighborhood; all throughout the day, the call to prayer reminds of the reverence with which I am to remember God. Today, the ezan sounded in the evening, and, looking up to the closest minaret, I realized my gaze was overlooking a stone Christian church, whose simple cross sitting atop the peak of the roof was dwarfed by the rising towers. The minarets seemed to grow taller during the song, and I felt as if they were leaning down like a parent and nudging me in the direction of holy ground; their singular voice tried to coax me through the doors of God’s house, be it the stout mosque or the stony church. I remained in the street a while, looking up at the cross and the minarets. I entered neither the church nor the mosque, but I lingered and my thoughts were on God.
I don’t profess to know anything about Istanbul at all. I’ve been here for one week and have seen so much that my mind has become a muddled mess. I feel as if I’m on vacation, waiting for my two weeks to end, for my plane to bring me back to New York. I don’t feel like I’m going to be here for two years. My mind is constantly trying to grasp and store everything it processes, like one of those housewives who’s won a $5000 shopping spree, careening down the aisle, using her forearm to plow the shelves of all their contents into her already overflowing shopping cart. That is my mind.
While I can’t yet give any definitive description of this city, nor do I think I’ll ever be able to, I can tell you a little about that minutia I mentioned before. I can tell you about the piercing minarets that rise above the smooth domes of the countless mosques, giving an otherwise horizontal cityscape a touch of verticality. They are very tall and thin, wrapped in two galleries where a muezzin would have sung the call to prayer if it weren’t for modern audio technology. They reach up, up and up to the blue sky and taper off into a conical shape at the top.
Earlier, I saw the Blue Mosque, built in 1603-1617 on the site of the Great Palace of Byzantium. It is called the Blue Mosque because of its blue inner tiles as well as the light blue color of the tops of the six minarets and domes. As my teacher friends and I approached the main entry, we saw a few more-devout Muslims washing their feet at the outdoor faucets. Nearly everyone else didn’t bother to wash; we just took off our shoes and carried toted them with us in a plastic bag inside the mosque.
When I saw my first mosque here, which couldn’t have been more than five minutes after leaving the airport, I felt a little jolt, like how I feel when I’ve been dreaming about falling and I suddenly wake up just before smashing into the ground. I’ve never seen a mosque before in person, only on television when CNN or the History Channel has some feature on Islam or the Middle East. The Muslim world, in spite of all the attention it gets in the news, is a place so far removed from our minds and personal experiences that it might as well be in a completely different universe. We truly know nothing about that with which we think we are so familiar. Do you think that the seven o’clock news provides all your necessary knowledge of Islam? The news is nothing more than reportage on terrorism and why, ostensibly, the Muslim world “hates us.” I can’t tell you how many people cringed when I told them I’d be traveling to Istanbul—a safe, cosmopolitan city in a free, democratic nation, not to mention populated by an exceedingly hospitable people. I haven’t yet gone to Syria, Lebanon, Jordan or Egypt, and I’m sure those countries are vastly different from Turkey. But I am nonetheless in a Muslim country, and I’ve had to flush my mind of all the preconceived notions I was fed by the media. Now, every corner I turn I find myself faced with that exotic, fairy tail-like image of the mosque, as if I were reading a picture book of Cinderella, and, taking a break, I look out my window and discover the castle from the book cover looming royally in the distance. And I’m now reworking my notions of Islam and the Muslim people simply by observation. Simply by staring at a mosque and listening to the ezan.
The ezan; that seemingly melancholy song of the muezzin, undulating between desperate highs and poignant lows. The call to prayer has become cliché to the West; we hear it in the opening credits of movies, as the camera pans smoothly over sandy dunes or shakily makes its way through the streets of a desert town; or in tourism commercials, where beautiful dark skinned people stroll down white beaches. Nevertheless, it is a beautiful song of supplication, God’s praises washing over the varying notes like rolling whitecaps, flooding the alleys of the city with a sudden piety. The first verse is comforting and slow, like the motion of a cradle rocked by a mother’s invisible hand, back-and-forth, “Allah is the greatest, Allah is the greatest.” Later the rhythm remains the same, but the ezan gains urgency, the high notes fluctuating like the footsteps of a runner gaining speed; “Make haste towards prayer. Make haste towards welfare.” It ends abruptly, and you find yourself waiting by the window, ears straining to make out the next note, but it never comes. Only a car horn sounds in the distance and for a moment you think the ezan has begun again, but it hasn’t.
Shortly after the fall of the Ottoman Empire in 1918, in a fit of Turkish nationalism, the ezan began to be sung, according to a new law, in Turkish. It is interesting, considering Arabic is considered to be the language of God, how nationalism trumped religion, such to the point where Turkish could, in some capacity, replace Arabic as a liturgical language. This was obviously the mild manifestation of an otherwise aggressive agenda that has dictated, until less than a month ago when the Islamic rooted AK Party won a landslide election, much of modern Turkey’s history—that is, fundamentalist secular agenda replacing fundamentalist Islam, the brand of Islam we associate with other Muslim countries, particularly Iran and Saudi Arabia. In 1933, according to islamonline.net, the muezzin Tobal Khalil was beaten and arrested by police after he delivered the ezan in Arabic at a mosque in Bursa. President Ataturk promptly stated through the Turkish News Agency that the question was less about religion than about the language, and that such offenders would not go unpunished. In the late 1940’s Adnan Madris defeated Ataturk’s successor and abolished the provision that banned the Arabic ezan. I'm glad because I can’t imagine the ezan being sung in any other language.
True, today the ezan is played over speakers that sit atop the gallery rails of the minarets like gray pigeons surveying the stone streets and orange roofs before taking flight. But in spite of the song’s lack of authentic delivery, it still sends a sensation of reverence through me. In the early morning, when only the shopkeepers and stray cats populate the streets; in the afternoon, when bronzed shoe-shining boys shed their dull clothes and stern faces and dive from the cement banks into the Bosporus; just after sun set, when the wind begins to blow in my white curtains and a skittish dog yelps in an adjacent neighborhood; all throughout the day, the call to prayer reminds of the reverence with which I am to remember God. Today, the ezan sounded in the evening, and, looking up to the closest minaret, I realized my gaze was overlooking a stone Christian church, whose simple cross sitting atop the peak of the roof was dwarfed by the rising towers. The minarets seemed to grow taller during the song, and I felt as if they were leaning down like a parent and nudging me in the direction of holy ground; their singular voice tried to coax me through the doors of God’s house, be it the stout mosque or the stony church. I remained in the street a while, looking up at the cross and the minarets. I entered neither the church nor the mosque, but I lingered and my thoughts were on God.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
On Ortakoy, Teaching and Very Busy Clerks
This is my blog. Read it in remembrance of me. Yeah, so I envision this blog as being half literary and half not literary. What I mean is I'll post updates on what's going on in my life: school stuff, travel stuff, Istanbul stuff. Things that most of you want to hear--at least, I think most of you want to hear it--minus the boring details. But I'm also going to post essays about my Istanbul experiences, which will contain, as any good piece of writing should, a lot of details. But first, I'll begin with a general update.
I flew in late Friday night and a driver brought me to this beautiful neighborhood of Ortakoy. It's right on the Bosporus, just south of the Bosporus Bridge, and a few miles north of the famous Taksim/Beyoglu neighborhoods. The old section of Ortakoy has narrow, stone streets running every which way, with little cafes, restaurants, and steet vendors. Along the water is an open kind of yard with benches, where a lot of young people sit all throughout the day and evening. I was told that a long time ago, the Jews, Christians and Muslims all lived together in Ortakoy. Even now, as you'll see in my next piece, there are several mosques and a Christian church. Across the main road, the new part of Ortakoy begins, which is basically comprised of hotels, shops and banks. It's nothing special, but it is very central; it reminds me a bit of Astoria. My hotel is in the new section, but it only takes me a minute to walk to the old section. My apartment, which I'll be moving into in a week or so, is another minute or two up the road, further into the newer part of Ortakoy.
Yesterday I went with two of my colleagues (two Aussie girls named Yolandi and Tracy) to the school where we're going to teach. I found out that I'm going to teach fourth grade. I was quite dissapointed, but I consider it a tradeoff. The school is bright, airy, and the teachers and staff are kind and caring. It's also really close to my apartment; I could even walk to the school. The middle/high school (grades 6-12) is very far away, up near the Black Sea. It would take at least an hour to get there by bus. Considering I have to be at the school from 8-5, I'd rather not be commuting two hours a day. Besides, last summer in Costa Rica I taught older students ranging in age from 13-21, but it was a veritable nightmare. I had major discipline problems and the living/commuting conditions were horrendous. Here, I won't be teaching the grades I want, but I'll have ample free time, decent wages, a curriculum (thank God!), and a studio in a beautiful neighborhood. I'm here to live, not to work. Work is just a means to the ends of a fulfilling experience.
I begin my orientation on August 6th, but the school year doesn't begin until the beginning of September. So these days have been a vacation. I haven't gotten out of my "Ortakoy bubble" too much yet. Took a tour the other day of the Golden Horn area and saw the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, a lecture on carpet making, which was more of a sales pitch than anything, and an old Christian church, which the Ottomans so kindly left us, but not before destroying many of the beautiful iconic paintings and mozaics of Christ, Mary and the Disciples.
Yesterday I got a taste of Turkish bureaucracy. Yolandi, Danielle and I went to the police station to get our six month residency papers. We visited all three floors at least twice, bringing one paper to one clerk, taking another paper to another clerk. Luckily we had a very nice Turkish girl doing most of the work for us. Her name is Nilufen and she is the pre-school director's personal assistant.
The whole six hour bureaucratic experience was entertaining, though, particularly when we began a running commentary on one of the bald clerks. He and three other fat men sat at their desks behind one much younger and skinnier clerk serving the entire line of people waiting for their papers. The four fat men sat hunched on their desks or slumped in their chairs, chatting aimlessly, staring and pointing at the air-conditioner in the window. They finally dispersed to their respective desks, but did no work. The bald one stared at the queue and began taping his fingers, while the others stared at the pile of papers on their desks, at their pens, at the wall, at the queue. This lasted for five minutes.
"Uh, now he's biting his nails," said Yolandi. The bald clerk did this for another five minutes. He then turned his chair, opened the blinds with his finger, and stared out the window.
"He's looking at something," I said.
"Is it a chick?" Yolandi asked. The clerk muttered something and one of the other clerks made the same motion, turning his chair, fingering the blinds, staring out the window. He laughed and muttered something back.
"Yeah, it's a chick," Yolandi said.
We were getting annoyed with the inaction. The line would have gone much quicker if at least one or two of the sedentary clerks hopped up to the front desk and took papers.
"How do you say 'Are you retired?' in Turkish?" Yolandi asked. We both laughed, and I looked it up in my dictionary and wrote it down: Sen emekli misin? I pushed the paper over to Nilufen so she could tell me if the sentence was correct.
"Me?!" she asked.
"No, no," I whispered. "We're talking about one of the clerks." As I tried to clarify, the bald clerk came over and looked at the piece of paper with great interest. I pretended that I was asking Nilufen how to use adjectives in questions.
"And how do you say, 'Are you tired?'" I asked. Sen yorgun musun? she wrote. The clerk stared down at us for a few minutes, but said nothing. I felt myself turning red in the face and I waited for him to tell me off via Nilufen. He returned to his desk smiling, though, and began talking with Nilufen, nodding his head to me, raising his eyebrows mischievously, laughing at his own comments. She looked a little embarrassed, but I don't think he knew we were talking about him. She wouldn't translate, though.
After we left the room, Yolandi smacked my arm. "You bloody bloke!" she cried. "I can't believe he saw what you were writing. Do you want to get out of here with our papers or not?" We did get our papers, though, and had some fun in the process.
I flew in late Friday night and a driver brought me to this beautiful neighborhood of Ortakoy. It's right on the Bosporus, just south of the Bosporus Bridge, and a few miles north of the famous Taksim/Beyoglu neighborhoods. The old section of Ortakoy has narrow, stone streets running every which way, with little cafes, restaurants, and steet vendors. Along the water is an open kind of yard with benches, where a lot of young people sit all throughout the day and evening. I was told that a long time ago, the Jews, Christians and Muslims all lived together in Ortakoy. Even now, as you'll see in my next piece, there are several mosques and a Christian church. Across the main road, the new part of Ortakoy begins, which is basically comprised of hotels, shops and banks. It's nothing special, but it is very central; it reminds me a bit of Astoria. My hotel is in the new section, but it only takes me a minute to walk to the old section. My apartment, which I'll be moving into in a week or so, is another minute or two up the road, further into the newer part of Ortakoy.
Yesterday I went with two of my colleagues (two Aussie girls named Yolandi and Tracy) to the school where we're going to teach. I found out that I'm going to teach fourth grade. I was quite dissapointed, but I consider it a tradeoff. The school is bright, airy, and the teachers and staff are kind and caring. It's also really close to my apartment; I could even walk to the school. The middle/high school (grades 6-12) is very far away, up near the Black Sea. It would take at least an hour to get there by bus. Considering I have to be at the school from 8-5, I'd rather not be commuting two hours a day. Besides, last summer in Costa Rica I taught older students ranging in age from 13-21, but it was a veritable nightmare. I had major discipline problems and the living/commuting conditions were horrendous. Here, I won't be teaching the grades I want, but I'll have ample free time, decent wages, a curriculum (thank God!), and a studio in a beautiful neighborhood. I'm here to live, not to work. Work is just a means to the ends of a fulfilling experience.
I begin my orientation on August 6th, but the school year doesn't begin until the beginning of September. So these days have been a vacation. I haven't gotten out of my "Ortakoy bubble" too much yet. Took a tour the other day of the Golden Horn area and saw the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, a lecture on carpet making, which was more of a sales pitch than anything, and an old Christian church, which the Ottomans so kindly left us, but not before destroying many of the beautiful iconic paintings and mozaics of Christ, Mary and the Disciples.
Yesterday I got a taste of Turkish bureaucracy. Yolandi, Danielle and I went to the police station to get our six month residency papers. We visited all three floors at least twice, bringing one paper to one clerk, taking another paper to another clerk. Luckily we had a very nice Turkish girl doing most of the work for us. Her name is Nilufen and she is the pre-school director's personal assistant.
The whole six hour bureaucratic experience was entertaining, though, particularly when we began a running commentary on one of the bald clerks. He and three other fat men sat at their desks behind one much younger and skinnier clerk serving the entire line of people waiting for their papers. The four fat men sat hunched on their desks or slumped in their chairs, chatting aimlessly, staring and pointing at the air-conditioner in the window. They finally dispersed to their respective desks, but did no work. The bald one stared at the queue and began taping his fingers, while the others stared at the pile of papers on their desks, at their pens, at the wall, at the queue. This lasted for five minutes.
"Uh, now he's biting his nails," said Yolandi. The bald clerk did this for another five minutes. He then turned his chair, opened the blinds with his finger, and stared out the window.
"He's looking at something," I said.
"Is it a chick?" Yolandi asked. The clerk muttered something and one of the other clerks made the same motion, turning his chair, fingering the blinds, staring out the window. He laughed and muttered something back.
"Yeah, it's a chick," Yolandi said.
We were getting annoyed with the inaction. The line would have gone much quicker if at least one or two of the sedentary clerks hopped up to the front desk and took papers.
"How do you say 'Are you retired?' in Turkish?" Yolandi asked. We both laughed, and I looked it up in my dictionary and wrote it down: Sen emekli misin? I pushed the paper over to Nilufen so she could tell me if the sentence was correct.
"Me?!" she asked.
"No, no," I whispered. "We're talking about one of the clerks." As I tried to clarify, the bald clerk came over and looked at the piece of paper with great interest. I pretended that I was asking Nilufen how to use adjectives in questions.
"And how do you say, 'Are you tired?'" I asked. Sen yorgun musun? she wrote. The clerk stared down at us for a few minutes, but said nothing. I felt myself turning red in the face and I waited for him to tell me off via Nilufen. He returned to his desk smiling, though, and began talking with Nilufen, nodding his head to me, raising his eyebrows mischievously, laughing at his own comments. She looked a little embarrassed, but I don't think he knew we were talking about him. She wouldn't translate, though.
After we left the room, Yolandi smacked my arm. "You bloody bloke!" she cried. "I can't believe he saw what you were writing. Do you want to get out of here with our papers or not?" We did get our papers, though, and had some fun in the process.
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