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 

Magic Carpet Sellers

After a weekend's fruitless search for karaoke, five friends and I had our need of cash mistaken for an interest in purchasing a rug and were ushered into the carpet store behind our chosen ATM. Turkey is big on rugs.

Over the course of 4.5hours, a brother-sister, third generation, carpet-selling duo unfurled rugs, adjusting the size, type (cotton-on-wool, cotton-on-silk, wool-on-wool, never cotton-on-cotton), and color in response to the non-worded noises made by the six of us, sitting on a silk-on-wool-covered couch.

We were taught about the different rug types, how most Istanbul dealers would try to sell us nylon rugs, where the "secret messages" were in each rug and what they meant in the context of the nomadic woman who made it, how long it took to make each rug, how the price was justified, and how our grandchildren would be able to inherit the rug.

A collective 1600 TL ($1100) was spent. Having only 5TL and an expired drivers license with me, I didn't make a purchase. My lack of means was quite timely because after the fourth hour the price of my purple wool-on-cotton Bahtiyari flat woven, double knotted, and embroidered carpet dropped from 750TL to 600TL to 500TL, or 550TL if I also bought the smaller Kilim rug (underneath) that I also liked.

I'm hoping for more rumors of a military coup, causing the Turkish lira to fall further. If it does, I will email Hassan and Asude.

Internationally Domestic

Happy Palm Sunday!  The Turks and I celebrated by finally observing daylight savings time and I added exclamation by building a pie from the lowest common denominator of "scratch" because there are no pre-made pies in Turkey.  There are no pre-made pie crusts or pie fillings, either.  I'm also now noticing that there are no pies. 

There is no food processor, rolling pin, oven, or measuring cups/spoons in my kitchen,all helpful pie builders.  There is no vanilla extract, brown sugar, cream, cream cheese, chocolate chips, baking chocolate squares, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda,  or Kraft's Jet-Puffed Marshmallow Creme in Turkey, so potential pie was and is all I had and have going.

Two knives, an empty wine bottle and an EasyBake-sized toaster oven, moonlighted as food processor, rolling pin and oven. Measurements--standard, metric, or otherwise--were thrown out the window with the first four crust attempts.

  

  

 

Palm Sunday is one of the twelve Great Feasts of the Orthodox Church, and as the only Lutheran for miles, I'm taking temporary refuge in the celebratory feasting observances of my distantly related religious brethren.  Lest I stray from my roots, I won't be observing the fastings or confessions of the Orthodox Great Lent with the same intensity.

Post Script Double Take

The bus ride to (and from) Cappadocia was 12hours long and included a "bus attendant." This is his picture.

This is a drawing by Picasso.

I know, crazy, right?

Bust a Capp in your docia

Having not had quite enough group travel after my visa trip to Bulgaria, I signed up for an exchange student trip to Cappadocia, famous for its Fairy Chimney stone formations and carved dwelling places, located in central Turkey.

I figured that group travel would be more palatable as an obvious tourist, paying upfront in exchange for a drop-off at the best attractions for exactly as long as I need to appreciate it, high-end gift shops selling magnet and the t-shirts that the locals wear, and all-you-can-eat buffets.

However, the Exchange Commission seemed to have given the hired bus driver an itinerary, a busload of 60 students, a paycheck, but no (English-speaking) guide. We were dropped off at a roadside strand of souvenir shops selling evil eye keychains and pashmina scarves across from a random but amazing rock formation or cave series, and we'd climb until the bus started honking at which point we'd climb down and allow ourselves to be shuttled to the next stop.

Unsatisfied with the time limits on my rock scampering, I decided to forgo the Outdoor Museum (series of churches carved into the rock and their frescoes) and instead climbed the trails and rocks surrounding the museum's land with another American. We ended up looking down on the museum's paths from about 200m up and could see across the canyons to Uçhisar Castle, local big deal.

Seeing a woman meditating 50m below us, we each found a ledge where we also sat cross-legged to meditate. Unable to concentrate on my inner peace, I started people-watching and realized that three instances of [ most anything ] constitutes a literary pattern and that three instances of meditators on rock cliffs overlooking a historically significant site full of camera-happy busloads constitutes a photo op.

I expect to be much scrapbooked in the coming weeks.

Bazaar Love

Early this fall I received a voice mail from my mom warning that a friend "just got back from a cruise that stopped in Istanbul and she said the men were very aggressive, so watch out!"

Thanks, Mom, you were right-- the men here love me! Especially after two years in the Midwest with polite but passive boys it is a novel experience to encounter a culture where men are vocal, passionate, and unafraid of expressing their unrequited interest-at-first-sight.

That said, some are blatant about their intentions, yelling as I walk by, "Welcome! How may I get your money?"

Some try to ease my obvious stress at being a tourist with assurances of safety and protection, offering "Turkish Delight! It is not poisoned, see? Here, try!"

Others go for the flattery route and tell me how nice and beautiful I am. The owner of a honey shop lured me in with free sample spoonfuls telling me "It is sweet, just like you! Sweets for my sweet! Come, have some more!"

Clever ones feign interest in my background and reasons for travel so that I'm holding hot tea in the back of the shop and can't run away when they start making recommendations, like meat spice at a "special discount" because I am a new friend.

The most brilliant of them all said, "You look Turkish, where are you from?" He played right to my heart, somehow sensing my desire to be local, unhassled, and capable of bargaining. I was so flattered that I bought candied ginger at the displayed price and didn't even catch the flawed logic of his statement and question until after I had paid.

By the end of the day I had 20grams of candied ginger, 100grams of garam masala, 1kilo of dry chickpeas, and not 1 but 2 kilos of dried apricots. I have absolutely no recollection of buying the first kilo of apriocts, I just found it when putting the second into my bag, so I must have been blinded by the love.

Bloc Parties, Crashed

Reminiscent of family vacations where my parents would inquire as to my wishes, make suggestions, and list all possible options only to receive no fully articulated response, I took a trip to Sofia, Bulgaria, this weekend. The difference between this trip and those of my childhood is that in this 2010 version I play the part of my parents while my previous role is filled by my nine traveling companions, Americans plus a token German, few of whom have a communicable opinion but instead a travel-induced attitude to rival that of 12yo me.

Despite the realization of this semi-planned visa trip as three days of the blind leading the blind and slow-walking (not quite lame) around a city about which I knew nothing, it turned out to be fortuitously timed.

We were in town for the annual commemoration of the death of Bulgarian hero and revolutionary Vasil Levski. After lurking in the orthodox church narthex and snapping paparazzi shots of a priest gang and unidentified Suits, whose importance warranted a posse of Bulgarian Secret Service equivalents, we left for dinner. Following a Bulgarian pub meal we were intercepted by further remembrance festivities and a kneeling recitation of the national anthem that almost made us late for our performance at the puppet theater (over 200 puppets!).

Our second timely highlight resulted from an attempted visit to the Bulgarian ethnographic/art museum (couldn't tell which it was) that was made better when we failed to gain admittance past the foyer. The museum was closed for a (Bulgarian, I assume) magazine event, and I was left eating croissants, curious almond-flavored cookies, and helping myself to hearty glasses of OJ amongst schmoozing/smoking gallery/magazine patrons in the lobby while my travel companions toured the gift shop in search of souvenir shot glasses.

The Eastern Bloc state solidified it's reputation as a happening place in our international student minds after Wolf, our German, naturlich, persuaded us to taxi to the student part of town for Bulgarian clubbing, his contribution to group planning. Admittedly, we were not a huge hit and our frequent and adamant requests for Beyonce were repeatedly denied, but we loved the experience of Bulgaria as much as Bulgarian college boys love using hair product.

Shorty Fire Burning on the Stove-Top

Today I ventured into Istanbul's old city, Sultanahmet, where I got free postcards, accidentally got a kid arrested maybe, faked being a German tourist, was exposed as a faux-Touristin, made my first out-of-control tourist purchase, then returned to my flat and successfully cooked! The cooking was the best and most exciting part, so I'll focus on that.

Background: My flatmate peer-pressured/tricked me into exchanging meals with him while I was still jetlagging and not on par with my excuses and pardons. I sent multiple frantic emails to every spatula owner I knew and came away with two gems of advice:

• "...learn how to cook how the locals cook. It doesn't have to be authentic Turkish food, but if you can make meals with the ingredients they use over there you'll save a ton of money." -submitted by Margit "my diet makes people cry" Christenson via email

• "Make pancakes. Everyone likes pancakes." -submitted by Anne Kathleen Scholten Dutton via Skype
  

Advice in mind, I made Turkish Zucchini Pancakes and they turned out awesomely and I'm consequently feeling real good about myself right now. Then the Germans who live in the flat beneath ours invited us over for ice cream and smuggled Milka caramel chocolate. It is understandable that I faked deutsch-hood, ja?

(Point of clarification: this was not the incident where I was pretending to be German.)

Down-Low

Last night I met some other Bogazici students at an non-Bogazici-specific international student outing (that had only Bogazici students) to the Basilica Cistern. In the email sent out they promised traditional Turkish art and music with treats. I love treats.

After a poke around the largest of several ancient cisterns beneath Istanbul, we were given the first of our treats, which was individually wrapped fruit cakes and juice boxes. While we munched on the Turkish equivalent of Little Debbie's a quartet played music for a solitaire whirling dervish doing his thing. While most of my fellow students were snapping shots of the Semazen (yeah, that's the proper term), I became much more impressed by the wrappers collecting at the center of the table.

Apparently, I'm not the only one without home refrigerator and meal plan for the first time. The second treat of the night was socks. Everyone was even more excited about the free socks than they had been about the fruit cake and a lot of cotton was accidentally ingested.

No Friends, No Problem.

Having missed the orientation due to weather/flight delay/missed connection and not living in the Superdorms, I have no friends and all I want to do is talk to people loudly/energetically/with gusto. The dearth of friendship was expected, but it was not expected that I would have two full weeks void of orientation/ice breakers/trust building exercises, and thereby void of friends for a similar amount of time.

Faced by such a prospect, I walked to the Superdorm (where international students who are not me live) with the intention of knocking on all occupied rooms and introducing myself; it seems that instead of culture shock, my body/mind/subconscious has opted for extroversion. Unfortunately for me/the people who live in the Superdorm/the people I'm going to tell you about in the next paragraph, Superdorm does not abide by the St. Olaf door decorations/ propped doors/ signal of inhabitance code of Midwest friendliness, so I didn't get to meet any Superdormers in the Superdorm.

To cope, I started attacking anyone I thought to be a Superdormer on the streets of Istanbul's Bebek district:

Blond? We're about to be friends. 

Wearing a college hoodie? Let's do brunch at 11.

Buying an ice cream in English and ending with a Turkish 'thank you'? I love that international-looking scarf you're wearing-- let's go buy you another!

Taking a picture of a stray cat sitting on a concrete block? I'm planning a friendly message to leave on your Facebook wall right now. 

Digging for a campus map in your fanny pack? Don't talk to me.

An American in Istanbul

Gule Gule (but with umlauts over the 'U' in each 'gule,' something I haven't figured out yet but will eventually I'm sure), America! Gule gule means 'goodbye.'  

I learned this on my flight from DC to Amsterdam on KLM Royal Dutch Airlines (product placement) where, instead of watching movies for 7.5hrs, I took advantage of a learning opportunity and played with KLM's version of Rosetta Stone. I also learned numbers 0-20, multiples of ten up until 100, and also 1000 (bin) and a few essential phrases including Seni Seviyorum which means 'I love you.'  I hadn't planned on using that particular sentence in speech for the next 5 months, but my flat is supercute, so Seni Seviyorum, Ikea decorated flat. 

And as for addressing people with this, who am I to snub the cupid of international love as foretold by KLM Rosetta Stone? Valentine's Day is approaching.