Better than a Job

Less than a week left officially. I have been "pursuing" summer jobs in Turkey that fall directly into my lap making the date of my "ex-pat" title abdication a much debated question in American circles. My pseudo-application process ended today with an interview that I don't see following through to employment so I will leave Istanbul for Munich on Tuesday and be in DC a week from today.

The summer jobs were all nannying types although one was distinctly for the position of "governess" because the family already had a nanny. I have yet to figure out the difference between nanny and governess or where the comma is on Turkish keyboards. Today's interview was fun. It started with the mother paying for two tall Starbucks iced coffees with a 200TL ($140) and it ended wıth the father outlınıng the house hierarchy for me (I outrank the cook maid and driver but not them or their child).

I had emailed my sister Margit yesterday who responded that there was no longer a point in nannying for the wealthy because the book and it's Hollywood manifestation had already been published and produced and what else worthwhile could come of my summer? I remain unemployed but at least I get a blog post out of it.

Sailing Toward Byzantium

Laissez-faire familial tendencies go out the window when the nearest and dearest become the farthest and most exotically located. My dad, a prime example, skippered a crew of seven in Bodrum, Turkey, over my spring break. Land lover though I am, I decided there are worse things than sailing the Aegean and Mediterranean, and joined my shainghai'ed sister aboard the Dost for a week of perfect sailing weather and learning from Skipper Tim what it is to 'blanket the jib.'

Margit arrived in Istanbul a week early to see the city. But instead of trolling the city, she spent most of the week sleeping in my apartment, waking only to free animals in the bazaar-style pet store and to compare her English major self to Stephen King's Misery protagonist, an author held hostage by a crazed fan. In her comparison, I am the crazed fan.

My dad was in Istanbul briefly but found the Turkish enthusiasm over state founder Ataturk hagiographic and was joined by Margit in nationalist skepticism. I don't think they'll like my Ataturk Photo Journal.

Skipper Tim returned to the States. Margit left for Jerusalem, came back, left for New York, and left me with a new desktop background.

Absence Makes the Readership Stronger

Better part of a month since my last blog post, but it's not because I've left my host country, like my Olaf classmates who are already back in the states or shortly en route to the land of standard cooking measurements, toilet paper-flushing toilets, and litter stigma. I still have a month left in Istanbul but the looming prospect of my domestic unemployment might propel me to stay in Turkey where my visa provides my excuse, "employment prohibited."

My month has been blog-prohibiting with a week busy hosting my sister Margit, spring break week sailing in the Aegean and Mediterranean, another week with Margit in Istanbul, and concluding with a week of generic blog negligence. This will be amended in the month of May.

Istanbul Training Camp

After two and a half years of being in the best shape of my life I decided that I needed hit the refresh button by "letting myself go" for a bit before starting up summer training, and there seemed like no better way to do so than by going abroad: weight gain is inevitable when trying to conform to international stereotypes of obese Americans and the jump rope my coach "suggested" I bring along was just too big for my bag. Four months of clogged arteries and flabby calf muscles never seemed so definite!

Unfortunately for me and my almost-perfect plan to (1) assure myself of no improved moods, (2) increase my risk of chronic disease, (3) pack on some extra pounds, (4) give my arteries a rest from working so dang efficiently, (5) sleep less like a rock, (6) take the spark out of my sex life (...? ), and (7) get the excess amounts of fun in my life under control, (the 7 benefits of exercise), I have failed. I chose the wrong country, I think.

This country has hills. Steep ones, and ones that I must climb daily to get to, from, and around school. Turks have well-developed quads underneath their long pants and skirts. This country has public transportation, which is fun, but I'm living 4km away (that's right, we're on metric) and the shortest walk is along the Bosphorus strait, and it's just better to walk home along the water than take a crowded bus. This alone wouldn't have ruined me except that I have to walk fast, to the point of an increased heart rate, or risk being accidentally hooked in the eye by the back-casting fisherman along the water. I've yet to experience or see this happen, but I feel it is a legitimate risk for slow movers.

I'm without mother or meal plan, and cooking for myself I find that fruits and vegetables are among the cheapest things here, so I've been eating a lot of eggplant and zucc's. The meals of Turkish delight, Nutella, and baklava that I had been imagining for months have yet to appear on my dining room table, and whenever I get a craving for something sweet, dried apricots (health benefits of apricots) are what I want most. I failed with food.

And not wanting to tax myself academically-- I can read in Minnesota, I don't need to do it here-- I signed up for two gym classes in lieu of a fourth "real" class. Unfortunately, PE142 West African Dance is turning out to be no joke. It's 45 minutes of arm-waving, major jumping (everything but the rope, really Coach), and a lot of focusing on which direction I'm supposed to moving, all sandwiched between 45minutes of core strengthening and stretching. I'm with the rest of the class in my inability to keep up with our rainbow patchwork MC Hammer pant-wearing instructor. PE 150 Advanced Swimming could have been the farce I was seeking: there is no workout given, people may arrive/leave anytime within the hour, and the boys in my lane spend more time dangling their feet than swimming. I made the unfortunate mistake of actually trying at the beginning to make up for having skipped the first three classes (fun stuff had been going on and I didn't really know where the pool was) and consequently became the coach's demonstrator of proper technique. When I'm not being shouted at in Turkish to start swimming again, I'm trying to make sure that the boys in my lane know that just because I'm female doesn't mean I won't pass them. (This is my gross cultural perception that I'm unfairly generalizing onto my lane partners, but my form improves when I think I'm swimming for the dignity of women everywhere.)

And as though speed walking to class up hills, stupid fresh and healthy food, African dance, and swim class weren't hurdles enough in my grand scheme, there is yet another, the most major of all; I have velcro running shoes that make the most satisfying noises when taken off and I can't take them off unless I've put them on and our apartment is a non-shoe living space, leaving me no choice but to go for a jog.

Sigh. Still in have a resting heart rate under 120.

Istanfull

Friday night I went to Turkish Dinner, a one-meal homestay with a Istanbullu family. My Turkish Dinner escapade included one other American girl, two German boys, and more courses than language barriers.

Dinner was contrastive experience for me because I was a vegetarian for 3years, a pescetarian for 5 years, and have now been a flexetarian for almost two weeks. This, plus my lifelong inability to burp on command, has resulted in little meat or carbonated drink in my diet, which was undone in a single sitting. Beef! Chicken! Lamb! TurkaCola! Some would say this was a bad idea. Luckily, I do what I want.

After dinner, we moved to the living room where we told stories and sang songs from our respective cultures. Being a melting-pot American, I felt justified in using the folklore and melodies of any culture I wanted. I used my high school-gained knowledge of Deutschland and its rich culture to tell a reduced Brothers Grimm tale, sing the first three lines of "Edelweiss," and severely irritate the German boys. Ich mach was ich will.

At the end of the evening, we were all given diş kirası which translates directly as 'tooth rent' and is a present given in thanks for having eaten in the host's home. I enjoy being jointly fed and gifted and intend to attend many more Turkish Dinners, which shouldn't be difficult considering my history of yapiyorum ne ben istemek.

Unrelated to Turkish Dinner, but I'd like to give a shout-out of congratulations to my little brother, Johnny, who will be at Auburn University in the fall. He, too, does what he wants, it seems.

The Lovely Town of Bursa

This weekend I ferryboated across the Sea of Marmara to check out Bursa, early Ottoman capital and home of the famous Iskender kebab. Bursa should also be famous, I think, for the formal wear sold by a disproportionate number of its windowed stores. In such windows, it's a 50-50 split between poofy-skirted dresses (including but not limited to wedding dresses) and sequined-and-feathered white outfits for boys ages 6-12. In this context, "outfit" means pants, shirt, vest, turban, cape, and scepter. Lucky boys get a sash indicative of royalty or a high school homecoming court nomination and those afraid of looking like a powder puff are appeased with a Spiderman cape.

Tourists, like myself and the Japanese, haven't spoilt Bursa nearly as much as Istanbul. It has the nickname "Green Bursa" for it's parks, but is largely an industrial city now, which doesn't attract as many crowds. We weren't hassled in the market, prices weren't as inflated, and people obliged our picture taking.

This happy town will doubtless continue operating this way until 2012 when the Mayan calendar predicts that the poofy dress district will produce a terror imaginable by only the Japanese tourists who don't even go to Bursa: BRIDEZILLA!

(Dun, dun, duuuuun.)

Holy See of Gelato

The Great Italian Gelato Tour: Guidance for the Journey

--In accordance with the teachings of the Catholic Church and the travel goals of Jessica Nelson--

1. You shall never repeat a flavor.
2. You shall always order a triple scoop. 
3. You shall never spend more than 1 Euro per scoop.
4. Remember to record the name, flavors, and an image at each establishment.
5. Honor the gelato by eating it before reduced to liquid.
6. You shall not buy gelato at a gelateria with a giant cone outside. 
7. You shall not not share with your travel partner.
8. You shall make every effort to be near a landmark when eating gelato.
9. You shall not have more meals than gelato. 
10. You shall not buy gelato from somewhere that also sells pizza; you shall not buy from somewhere that also sells spaghetti, nor calzoni, nor cannoli, nor biscotti, nor espresso, nor anything that is not gelato. 

This was all part of a pilgrimage--a hajj if you're into syncretism--to tour the gelato of the Italian country side, eventually building up to the Pope's favorite gelatoria.  When the Powers that Melt brought us unexpectedly to Il Gelato Di San Crispino we were still holding a triple scoop of torroncino, zab aione and zuppa inglese.  But as it was by the Grace of all that is Good and Creamy, we downed the Caffe Ai Tre Tartufi-1896 production in accordance with commandment 5 and went in.  

The Pope is a bit of a charlatan, I think.  The gelato was overpriced (commandment 3 violation) and massively undersized. But we aren't Catholic so maybe that's what went wrong and if it was, it's the most convincing argument for conversion I've heard.  Still Lutheran, still a good tour.

Soon to be enshrined in St. Peter's Basilica: The Great Italian Gelato Tour Photo Album