Hello...Good-bye

I have a rather unusual idea of what makes a normal vacation.  For me it is spending time in Kapadokya.  In a house.  With friends.  And their 6 children.  (The house happens to belong to said friends and their 6 children - who are as we speak noisily on their way to bed.)  I do occasionally take normal vacations to the beach or to the mountains.  Once a year or so this happens.  Sometimes once every other year.

The joy of spending this much quality time with a family of 8 cannot be fully expressed.  Really.  I'm not being sarcastic in the least.  I'm not sure how to change my tone of voice in five words or less, other than to say "please believe me."

My life in Ankara gets so easily full, busy, fast-passed...you fill in the blank.  I come out here for a dose of reality.  People eat dinner together as a family.  Friends come over.  Kids go to school.  It's a rhythm.

Tonight I experienced the rhythm of this life overseas.  My friends had a couple and their kids over for supper.  The couple (and their kids, rest assured) are headed back to Germany after living here for 6 1/2 years.  By their interaction and conversation, I could tell that they had not only served together they had laughed together, struggled together, raised kids together and grown together.  And tonight they said good-bye.  

There really is a rhythm to it all.  You pack your bags, you get on a plane, you find and apartment, you meet new friends, you learn a new language.  You say good-bye.  Sometimes as the one staying.  Sometimes as the one going.  More often as the one staying.  You start to see other people come.  They pack their bags, they get on a plane, they find an apartment, they meet new friends, they learn a language.  Sometimes they stay.  Sometimes they go.

It's an unusual life.  Maybe that's why I find vacations here in the midst of family chaos so restful.  It's a reminder of normal.  Whatever normal is.

I Used to JUST be a Secretary

I feel the need to share with you the conversations I've had over the past 30 minutes.  Yes, all of these things can transpire in only 30 minutes.  It really is possible.

A half an hour or so ago my neighbor's left my apartment.  They had come up to see if I could help with English.  It's complicated.  I'm considering it.  She is my oldest friend in Ankara.  Our first conversations were very deep and involved.  We used kids picture books about animals.  When I say kids, I mean her 1 1/2 year old daughter.  Now, thankfully, we can talk about a teeny bit more than just animals from the zoo.  (Just in case you were wondering, I have been to the Ankara zoo and it does indeed include sled dogs.  I never thought they would be considered exotic.)  She is working to complete her doctorate in architecture here in Ankara.  Her husband recently completed his doctorate in chemistry at a university out east.  In 7 years of marriage, they've lived together 8 months.  He's in town for the next two weeks and needs seriously help with his conversational English.  So they asked their nearest and dearest friendly English teacher if I would mind coming down for conversational English lessons a few times a week (of course, only when my friend is also home...along with her now 5 year old daughter).  Like I said, I'm considering it.

They left.  Then my old language helper called in response to a message I had just sent her.  The message wasn't that complex - a couple of things popped up and I can't hang out this weekend, can we do something next week instead.  Her end of the conversation included the fact that she thinks its freezing outside.  She's an interesting one, and I don't say that just because she thinks that 66 F is freezing.  She's an actress.  And there you have it.

Then I decided that it would be good to call my friend who had just come home from Brazil.  Short conversation due to her current rate of consumption.  I wonder if she'll remember that I called.

As soon as we hung up, my phone rang.  I have a friend from Ankara who is studying both in Konya and in Bozeman (you may now start up a chorus of "It's a Small World).  She arrived in Bozeman sometime last weekend, I think.  No, it wasn't she who called.  It was her dad.  Catherine's phone service.  In order to the States you need to put two zeros before the 1.  I thought we had it all worked out and then he called again.  Unfortunately his plan doesn't allow for international phone calls.  Mine does (and they're CHEAP!).  So of course, being the dutiful pseudo-daughter, I made the call.  Got her voice mail and left a message.  Then there was the return call to explain the voice mail, a phone feature that is not widely used in Turkey.  By not widely used I mean almost never.  I'm not sure if he's now sure what happened.  Oh, well.  What can you do.

I think I might turn my phone off before I go to bed.  You never know who might call at 10:30 at night.  Like the guy responding to an add for a language helper. (If you are wondering, I don't speak the best Turkish when I've been woken up out of a deep sleep, I don't understand everything that is said to me, and I can be inadvertently rude.  Fortunately for the couple who needed a language helper, the guy did call back and he just might work out.)  Fourteen years ago when I started working in the clerical field, I never thought it would lead to all of this.  My life is nothing if not interesting.

Thankful for Ramazan and Iftar

Last night I went out to friends' for supper.  I've known this family for quite some time.  I think I met them when I'd been here about nine months.  They've welcomed me into their home and into their lives.  And...well...even that gets a bit complicated.

This is a religious family.  Yes, making the distinction is important, even here.  Not everyone here is religious in the same way that America is not truly 76% Christian.  Oh, some make the yearly trek to church at Christmas and Easter.  Here there are those who take part in this or that aspect of their religion.  Some even consider them both Mm and atheist at the same time.  Their Mm-ness has more to do with their national identity than with true faith of any kind.

This family is not of that ilk.  They are in pursuit of righteousness as spelled out by their book.  It is a righteousness of good works, of scales that weigh out good and bad deeds.  It is a righteousness that hopes that one day the good that they've done will be taken into account rather than the bad that they've done.

Last night we sat at the table until the call to prayer was heard.  Then, and only then, could the meal be started.  First personal prayers were offered.  Then the water.  Then the food.  I attempted to make conversation over the meal like we have done in times past.  Oh, I forgot.  This is a meal to break a 17 hour complete fast.  No water, no food, if you take it to it's extreme then there is also no saliva (a junior high boy's dream - spit all you want!).  Food is the main point of the meal.

Just before the call to prayer was heard, my friend's husband asked me if we had a fast like this.  Like this?  No.  We have nothing like it.  We do fast, but not to earn favor with God.  We fast in combination with prayer, but it is free.  We are not commanded to fast for a certain time and in a certain way.

But how long must you fast?  There is not a prescribed time.  Oh that more had come to my mind at that moment.  More about who the God is that we are serving, that we are loving when we fast.  More about what it takes to please Him.  More about how our works do not please Him without the sacrificial blood of His Son split on our behalf.

The words come now.  They've been said in other ways, in other conversations.  I think about them today.  Is it because I am actually chasing after my own self righteousness that I didn't say them again to my friend?  Yes, I am covered by the blood.  My works are nothing.  But I so easily forget.

So in a way I am thankful for these thirty days of fasting.  I'm thankful for the daily reminder that it is finished, that there is no need to chase after my own righteousness any longer, that I am now counted righteous because of Someone Else's perfect righteousness.

Another reason to give thanks that I live and serve in this country.

More to Come

I realize it's been a while since I've written here.  Those must be the most common words blogged.  And now I have entered the world of the common.  Keeping up with another friend inspires me to post more often.  I don't aspire to be famous or to be read by thousands of people.  I have another place for such aspirations (www.acupofturkishcoffee.wordpress.com).  I'm only sort of kidding.  This was meant to be a place for you to come and see more of what my life here is about.  You want to pray.  I want you to pray.  So let this be the promise of more to come.

Are They Not Talking?

This morning I went about my normal activities.  Woke up, felt a bit like I'd been hit over the head with a piece of plywood (I have a cold), drank tea, headed out the door for a run.  Lovely day!  I'm enjoying this quiet season of running on my own in Avanos.  There is much mental freedom in not running at the track with 45,000 of your closest friends who all want to talk to you in your second language before you've had your first cup of coffee.  Don't get me wrong, I do love said friends.  I'm simply enjoying the silence of the road for the next 8 weeks.

Back to the morning.  Shower before the water gets cut off again, coffee and toast, my Bible and journal while sitting on the porch.  All of these tasks accomplished, I am ready to talk to the world.  If you would like to have a normal conversation with me in the morning, my recommendation is to wait until at least 9 a.m.  After all, this is not what we would call a short list.

In Ankara I sit on my balcony on the second floor of my building and no one bothers me.  I wonder if anyone knows that I'm sitting even sitting there?  Probably not.  I'm tucked away in my quiet little world until I decide it's time to walk out my front door.  Not so in Avanos.  My friend's apartment is on the ground floor and, well, it's a small town.  In the time it takes me to read my Bible and drink my coffee several cars have driven by, children have ridden their bikes up and down the street, and neighbor ladies have gone to and from the corner market.

This morning I sat on the kitchen balcony while my friend sat on the salon balcony.  Each of us had our coffee and our Bible.  To the neighborhood at large it looks like we are studying lessons.  Apparently, it also looks as though we are "küs" with one another.  The dictionary says this word means offended, peeved, angry, stuffy or cross.  It also carries the idea of taking an offense and not talking to the other person.  Wow.  All we had to do to communicate, wrongly communicate I might add, such a situation was to sit on two separate balconies.

This leads me to ponder the prevalence of broken relationships in this culture.  I've been told that one of the biggest d*s*pleship issues in the national ch**ch is forgiveness.  The behavior of those in my house this morning inadvertently communicated to the neighborhood that there was a relationship problem in our house.  I think of the person who can find a wrong/dirty thought behind everything they hear.  It's not that the one talking has a problem, the one listening has the dirty mind.  This could be the case here.  My roommate and I like to have quiet mornings and we like separate balconies.  As there is not the same need to be alone or for personal space in this culture, the first thought is that we are not speaking to one another.

I do want to be careful about what my actions communicate to the world.  On the other hand, I know that I can't always be looking over my shoulder wondering what the guy behind me might think of the way I walk down the street.  There is a fine line.  But know that the world is watching.  They want to know how we interact, how we fight, how we make up.

Welcome to the fishbowl.  And yes, we are still friends.  It's after 9 a.m.  My mouth has opened and I have begun to converse again.

Apartment Building or Dorm Living? Thankful in April

I confess, I've never lived in a normal college dorm.  Somehow I don't feel like I missed out on anything at all.  I guess you could feel sorry for me.  I still had the neighbors who have crazy parties on Friday night (a good chuck of the cans ended up on our side of the yard, go figure) and friends still dropped in at all hours.  But where do you hang a deer in a dorm?  And what happens when you go crazy and decide to make 16 apple pies in one night?  Or maybe it was only 12.  Go easy on me, college ended 8 years ago.  The incident was....10 years ago?  Maybe more.

Now I live in an apartment building with 14 apartments.  We call them houses here.  When I first arrived it seemed so much more normal to tell people I lived in an apartment.  Woah!  Talk about rich!  An entire apartment building all to yourself.  This is now my gut reaction when a newbie to to the country keeps wanting to say they live in an apartment.

For the sake of convenience, we'll call it a flat.  That and I get to sound European.  I keep hearing that Ankara is losing its neighborliness.  Flat dwellers don't visit one another anymore.  This does not seem to be the case in my building because, well, I visit my neighbors.  When I first arrived I decided it would be a great way to practice Turkish.  Now it's just the way it is.  I visit them, invite the over, go walking with them, take them food, they bring me food.  This is simply how I've chosen to roll in my little world.  And thankfully, they've enjoyed rolling with me.  (A gift from the Lord!  Yes, this just became my thankful thing for April.)

The other night I looked out my kitchen window.  Lo and behold, neighbors I hadn't seen were in town.  I should pop down and say hello.  To clarify, it was actually my neighbor's parents.  My neighbor is away for 6 months in Germany working on her doctorate.  I have the key and the duty of babysitting her flat.  No water leaks please!

I popped down.  They were victims of a wicked country-wide dust storm.  On there way from one city to another and the roads had been shut down.  So there was nothing to do but turn around and head back to Ankara.  They hoped to be gone the next day.  I sit for a half hour, eat fruit, laugh, watch the news with them, and leave with more fruit and pastries in hand.  My neighbor's mom tells me I should come down again later and we'll sit more.  I actually have spoken plans to visit another neighbor (!) and so say...something.

7:45 pm - off to other neighbor after eating dinner and starting a cribbage game with my roommate.

8:55 pm - come home, call a friend in AK on Skype.

9:45ish pm - the doorbell rings.  It's my neighbor's mom, cousin and cousin's new bride with a tray (did I say tray?  I meant flying saucer) of food in pots.  She had cooked supper while the cousin, new bride and other cousin went out to see downtown.  The kids ended up eating supper downtown, which meant a great amount of leftovers.  And then...the roads opened.  What to do with the food?  Bring it to Catherine, of course!  So they come, sit for a half hour or so, and take off.  My roommate and I now have a flying saucer full of food, almost none of which my doctor would be happy about me eating.  My roommate hasn't really cooked much since.

Apartment?  Dorm?  I don't know.  But I love it, I'm thankful, and yesterday I received another bowl of food to celebrate a major event in another neighbor's life.  I don't think my roommate will have to cook for a month.

Changing Your Mind

For the last few years I've been in a never-ending education track.  It started when I got off the plane and I could understand about .001% of everything people said to me.  "Merhaba."  Okay, that's hello.  I say "merhaba" in return.  "Nasılsınız?"  And that's how are you.  I say "iyiyim", I'm fine.  I even can ask, "siz nasılsınız?"  "Ben de iyiyim." they say, followed by something that at the time sounded like motors running top speed but not very smoothly.  Nope, not a word of understanding.  Fortunately I did have a glorious moment when the men at customs asked me if I was a student.  I understood enough of their question to say yes and keep walking.  I think it was asked in response to the large number of backpacks and duffel bags I had managed to bring into the country.

In the middle of language study I get a brilliant idea.  Why not keep this studying thing going?  I learned that in order to teach English here, my bachelor's degree needed to be from an accredited institute.  I start thinking about getting a master's degree.  Surely that will suffice.  But no, the B.A. must still be accredited.  The thinking moves from just a master's degree to a second bachelor's degree and a master's degree.  But we're not done yet.  While we're at it, why not pursue a doctorate?  Heavens.  At this point I'll be out of school when I'm 80.  Wait, there's more!  Why not teach at a university institution?  That seals it, I'm in school until they carry me out. 

All while this thought process is taking place I receive several recommendations to write a book.  About Turkey, about language, about whatever.  Thoughts begin to roll around in my mind.  In my iTunes alone I have two and a half days of recordings to listen to about Turkish culture.  My friend just gave me a CD full of recordings from her lesson, and she's only been here a year and a half!  There's much more where that came from.

The project is still never ending.  I may still be studying and/or writing until they carry me out.  But I think I may be in the process of changing my mind.

care of a father

Two days ago I flew into Doha.  I'm here visiting my dad and step-mom.  Although I live in a country that boarders Syria, Iraq and Iran and shares a history with the enter middle east, I have never been to this corner of the world.  This was my first time flying over the Arabian Desert and the Arabian Gulf.  This is my first time in a country where many national men wear a bisht, a white cloak or where there is no natural water source. 

I had many unspoken expectations, most of which I realized were present as I looked around the gate at the airport in Istanbul.  I felt the stress of the unknown bubbling up within me.  It had actually started when the check-in agent asked I had a visa for Qatar.  My dad had told me that I could get a visa at the Doha airport.  I told the agent what my dad had told me and that he worked in Doha.  Surely it would not be a problem.  But still, the question left a lingering doubt in my mind.  Then at the gate I sat in a room full of more men than women.  Yes, this not an uncommon situation to be in, even in Turkey.  But the doubts grew.  At the front of the gate there was a podium that read "passport and visa check."  The doubts continued to grow.

Flying over the Arabian desert, expiriencing the "you are not flying with an American carrier" service of Qatar Air, watching Ice Road Truckers while looking down upon Kuwait (can we say surreal?), all were overshadowed by a lingering doubt that once I stepped off the plane everything would be crazy or just sort of fall apart.

My dad had set up a service to help process me through passport control and customs in Doha.  A seasoned traveler, part of me didn't really understand what the need for this service might be.  A friend of many seasoned travelers, some of whom have horror stories about passport control and customs in countries for which the Lonely Planet is not found at your local Barnes and Noble, visions of...who knows what floated through my mind.  If I need a service to help me, things must be much more difficult/complicated/unsure than most of the countries I have visited.

To prepare for my arrival in Doha I read and re-read the information from my dad's email about the arrival service.  I pulled out my passport/color-coded boarding pass, special red notebook that contains information about everything important in my life and held it in my lap as soon as we were on approach into Doha.

We landed, I walked off the plane and saw at the bottom of the stairs my name.  Catherine Watson.  A lovely Thai lady was waiting for me.  She put me on the bus, told me which stop I'd be getting off at, and rode along next to the driver.  When we arrived at the arrival terminal she waited again while I disembarked and lead me away from the busy visa lines to a quiet office.  She gave my passport and my credit card to the gal behind the desk, and instructed me on where to stand for my retinal scan.  While I waited for my visa to be processed I had available to me as much coffee as I could drink and delight of delights, dates.  Fortunately for the financial powers at Qatar Air my visa was processed within 5 minutes.  Any longer and I'm afraid I would have drunk the airline out of house and home.  I think I may have to start saving all my pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and dollars to purchase a nespresso machine. 

Five minutes to process my visa, two minutes to walk through customs with my bags, and a cozy little spot to wait for my dad to pick me up.  This time around I resisted offers of coffee.  As much as I love coffee, I love to be able to sleep at night even more.

Ten minutes later my dad showed up.  We walked out to the car, Dad paid for parking and we headed out into traffic.

Pondering on this turn of events, it occurred to me that my recent experience was not unlike my walk with my Heavenly Father.  He takes me places that are unlike where I've ever been before.  I hear stories from those who have gone before me.  Some are encouraging.  Others frightening.  So often I choose to listen to the voices in my head or to my surroundings.  The worries that come from listening to the wrong voices mar the beauty of the new scenes and travels.  He has set things up so that I will be cared for.  There may not always be coffee, the wait may not always include five star treatment and a man to carry the bags.  There will be times when visas are denied, when traffic has back-ups, when the plane doesn't land in the destination of choice.  It is a different kind of care.  But there is no moment when I am not in His care.  There is no moment when I am justified in worrying.

So here I am, in the land of brown dirt and brown buildings.  Where the local women wear black and the local me wear white.  Where I do not stick out too much because 80% of the population is just like me.  Let the adventure continue.

Language Thoughts

Last night I had arrived at my gate in Frankfurt and...I realized that I understood the overhead announcement.  No, I had not magically learned Germany.  I spent the last week in Hungary where they speak Hungarian (no, that is not meant to be a revelation), a language that is related to nothing I speak or have ever studied.  This means that I spent 7 days understanding basically....nothing spoken to me in public.  In some ways this was a bit refreshing.  I could zone out because, well, there wasn't another choice.

This brings me to my language thoughts.  Last night I switched back to the wonderful world of understanding.  This world is sometimes wonderful and other times not.  But mostly it's wonderful.  I can read the Word in two languages, I can chill out with friends in two languages, I can order Starbucks in two languages.  Okay, the Starbucks one is not much of a feat, half of the words used come straight from English.  We'll change that one to the ability to order Starbucks in two accents.

This week in Hungary was not a, "lets wander around feeling like the English speaker who understands nothing" week.  I was attending a workshop on language coaching.  I'll save you a long explanation of language coaching...for the time being.  The people we were discussing are language learners, much like myself.  Some of our learners were brand new to the field, some had been around for a while, others were in the middle ground of discouragement.  Half of the learners on my radar screen are brand new, new, or fairly new.  They have varying degrees of understanding.  Our brand new gal still doesn't hear separate words, simply sounds.  She doesn't know what at least 90% of shop signs are advertising.  Much like my experience in Budapest.

So I have come to this conclusion: all language coaches should spend time in a country who's language they not only do not speak, but who's language is absolutely nothing like...almost any other language in the world.  I'm thinking that that next workshop should be in either Latvia or Estonia. 

Thankful Things - March

Today I'm doing a bit of running around town.  I'm in search of cat treats and a new shirt.  I need to buy gas for the house.  I'm meeting a friend at 6:30 downtown.  I have plans to drop by a friend's this afternoon.  All of this must be done today because I leave town tomorrow.

This morning my road prep included picking up several items I had dropped off earlier this week.  I started at the tailor.  Monday I bought a pair of black dress pants on sale.  Tuesday morning I dropped them off to be hemmed.  This morning I picked them up, paid 7 TL and was on my way.  Fast, good, cheap service. 

Next stop, the pottery studio.  I walk in the door of one my favorite places in the whole neighborhood.  Shelves full of people's different projects.  My two favorite, so very patient pottery instructors greet me.  Before I can even ask if my project is ready to be picked up, I'm offered a seat, tea and a bit of conversation.  Of course the answer is yes.  Who cares if I have a million things to do today?  This is truly one of life's simple pleasures.

I finish my tea and I'm on my way to the next stop, the shoe repairman.  Quick swing past the grocery store, one of my step-mom's requested items and a few groceries (lesson than 20 TL) in hand.  Five minutes later I'm at the shoe repairman.  I own one pair of high heels (no one tell my orthopedic surgeon or my physical therapist).  At a New Year's celebration dinner the sole of one heal broke off.  In a week I'll be at my dad's in Doha and will need said shoes to be in good repair.  The shoe repairman not only replaced both soles but also replaced the elastic so they wouldn't make noise when I walk.  All for the originally stated price of 7 TL.

Stop number three, the framer.  I'd dropped off a project to be framed a couple weeks ago.  Today my favorite framer was out of the shop and thus I did not actually get to pick the piece up.  This of course means that no payment has transferred hands.  The response when learning that I will be gone for three weeks?  It can wait.  No problem.

Home I go, thankful for great service, good friends, and a shoe repairman who makes sure that I will walk silently along the streets of Doha in a week.  All to the tune of around 34 TL.  With today's exchange rate it works out to around $18.  I think today would be a good day to pull money.

Reactions, Part 2

And on to my second favorite reaction, to date.  

This weekend  I headed out to a friend's house in another part of town.  (Why is it that interesting things in my life only seem to happen on the weekends....babies, fights, skiing, dieting adventures.  Something to ponder.)  This part of town is quite different from my part of town.  When friends from over here find out that I'm going over there, the response is quite incredulous, as though I could not POSSIBLY have business over THERE.  Mind you, while parts of it are unsafe and there is logical concern that a person not venture into these areas, the parts I find myself wandering around in are not unsafe.  They are, rather, different.  More traditional, more conservative, possibly more religious.

I ventured out to see friends who I had not seen in over five months.  This fact was one that I had not known until I arrived.  They had done the calculations.  Oopsies.  They moved five months ago and this was my first visit to their new house.  Should have gone out at least four months ago.  Blame it on...

Anyway, I ventured out first to their place of work, not knowing exactly how to get to their new house.  They own several businesses, including a tutoring center and a canteen at a school.  Starting at the tutoring center and wandering to the canteen with Big Brother, I found Mom and Dad busy at work.  Of course I sat and of course they offered me tea and of course they wanted to know where on earth I had been for five months and what on earth I had been doing.  So I started explaining.  As both Mom and Sister-in-Law are superb cooks, I included that my doctor recently gave me a diet.  This line of conversation continued as she discussed the fact that I had indeed gained weight in five months.  During this conversation, Dad wanted to know what I would like to eat.  Twice he asked and twice I refused.  And then one of the workers put a piece of cheese toast in my hand.  So I ate it.  What is a girl to do.

Yes, reaction number two: when your daughter's friend is on a strict diet given to her for health reasons by her doctor, you feed her.

(To be fair, normally over dinner she insists that I eat much more than I did on this occasion.  And she served no dessert.)

Reactions, Part 1

I've officially been on a "katı rejim" aka strict diet for a week.  It's been an interesting week.

Turkey is a land of extremes.  I can safely say that I have lived these extremes in the past seven days.  One friend tells me, "good, you've gotten fat."  Yes, that is the actually word she used.  Fat.  If I was to walk up to a friend in the States and tell them they'd gotten fat I'd either get punched, loose a friend or both.  Another friend tells me that it's not necessary.  Another friend tells me that I'm always dieting.  Another looks at me as though my favorite dog or my mother has died.  (I realize that a dog and a mother are significantly different.  It's just that I'm still trying to figure out to what level her mourning on my behalf has gone.)

So far I have two favorites.  Or, as the case may be, non-favorites.

A week or so ago I went up to a neighbors at about 9 pm.  It was one of the girls' birthdays, so of course there was food.  Lots of food.  Pastries galore!  All things that I've been informed that I am no longer permitted to eat.  At all.  Of course, to me this is not new news.  I was informed of this six months ago and proceeded to do whatever came to me as convenient at the moment.  These gals have know this for the past six months.  So when I inform them that, please overlook my fault, but my doctor has said I really and truly cannot eat dough foods/work (yes, this is actually a direct translation and includes many, many fabulous foods), my neighbor tells me that its very shameful, I must eat.  So I insist.  Really, my doctor does not permit it.  Please may I just drink tea.  No, very shameful.  Insisting again, I say that unfortunately, as much as I love all of her cooking, I simply must follow my doctor's orders.  She tells me to eat now and just not eat tomorrow.  So I insist again.  This time I tell them that my doctor is concerned I might later end up diabetic if I continue down my current path.  The response?  You're not diabetic yet so enjoy!  Thankfully the conversation turned away from me and to other things.  I think I actually did not end up even drinking tea.  They might be mad at me, I'm not sure.  I went in to the girl's shop a few days later.  They don't seem mad.  Only time will tell.

Favorite number two to follow....

Dieting and Healthcare Adventures

Six months ago I went to a new endocrinologist.  This was after running around to several doctor's who's response to a hormone deficiency was, "You have a low hormone.  Here's a pill."  No questions as to why, no further tests on the specific hormone.  I don't know that the pill popping phenomenon any different here than, say Canada, England or America.  I probably should have just left that list to America as I have never been to England (although this week I've been asked twice if I'm English) and I've merely driven through and visited Canada more times than I have ever cared to count

Friday Basketball

The colors change, the cheers change, the fans change but basketball is still the same.  From Alaska to Turkey I somehow have found myself back in the stands.

Oh, and we won...

Thankful Things - February

Illness? Since when are we thankful for illness? Well...when you're ill in Turkey there are many things to be thankful for. And really, should we not be thankful in all circumstances?

First, I grew up in Alaska. The independent state. The "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" state. The "girls can fix their own cars" state. (As a side note, I once replaced the exhaust system on my old Subaru wagon with my step-dad. He claims I did most of the work. All I remember is him wrestling with a rusted on bolt.) Yes, we are a proud people. We get sick and still go out to haul firewood.

In Turkey you get sick and immediately receive the sympathy of everyone in your circle of friends. Every circle of friends. Tuesday morning I call a friend to cancel an English lesson and receive the offer of staying at her house for two days so she can take care of me. The past three days two of my friends from my running group have kept tabs on me. Friends may get upset if you cancel a date for other reasons, but if your sick you'd better stay home - there's no anger to be found.

I admit, all of this is a tad on the annoying side when you only have the sniffles, but when you're nursing a wicked sinus infection and don't want to leave your house, it's super!

Second, I normally have a huge dislike for anything found in the drug family. "Run far, far, far away" is my motto. This time I attempted to run far, far away. When after a week I actually found myself with a fever instead of improved health I decided that it was time to take myself to the doctor. So I did. I left my house, hoped in a cab, and headed to the health clinic. No appointment. No waiting (that part was only because it was seriously cold outside and 10 am on a Wednesday morning). Good questions. No payment. Just a list of drugs on a prescription sheet and I'm out the door again to the pharmacy. Meds included, this infection has cost me under 50 TL. And that is without insurance paying a portion. Turks love their medications and they are cheap!















The pile is large, but helpful. I am especially loving my netty pot - not on the list from the doctor, but something my wonderful step-mom brought over from the States a few years back.















Oh, and notice the scribbled words on the Zinnat box? Yup, dosage instructions from the pharmacist. It's a different world here.

Third, I'm reminded again and again that I am not the key figure in my life. Not in my work, not in my play, not in my friendships. It is His work, His play, and these are His friendships. I am the steward. Apparently this steward needs to rest. And so she shall.

Another Sunrise

I'm sitting in the same spot...watching the same sunrise....in the same home....in the same region of the country. So what if I just stayed here? No, not in this spot, not in this house, but in this region. These are the questions one ponders at 6:22 am when all 6 children are still sound asleep, the coffee brewer of the house has not yet awoken, and one does not want to get on a 5 hour bus at 2 pm.

Back to home I will go, but with thoughts brewing.

Different Friends

I have this friend. She would be my social director if I let her. We run together, play together, laugh together. In March we're going to Antalya to run a race together (she the half-marathon, me the 10k). Yesterday we spent all day together. It went something like this...
Woke up at friend A's house around 6:30, had nescafe and a nice quiet time (said friend does not wake up until the last minute). Battled snow home, called friend B. Yes, plans are still on. Drank more nescafe - the sign of real laziness - jumped in the shower and headed off to friend B's house. Watched her dig out her car, received a gift, drank espresso, left for lunch with other running friends. After lunch hung out with friends B and C around the Ankara castle area. Bought items for my table in Bozeman (come on, come all!). Separated off from friend C, went to sit a bit more with friend B. While sitting and talking, met up with more of friend B's friends. Said my good-byes (at this point it's 7 pm), went home. Home for 10 minutes when the phone rings. It's friend B. They're at a restaurant near my house. Come, come, come!!! I come. 8:30 pm and a free meal later I'm home and tired.
Said friend B is lovely. She has all kinds of issues, but laughs a lot, loves to talk, and loves to be with friends. And she could easily be my social director if I let her. This is fairly par for the course in a culture where friend groups may be large, but there are not very many of them. Mine are large AND many.
So this morning I shall be alone. I shall not run at the track with friend B - Z from group A. I shall go to the gym. Later today I will hang out with friend A from group B and friend A from group Q. But this morning, I think it's time for this introvert to hang out with...friend Silence.

The Daily Trash Removal

My original plan was to find something to be thankful for each month, something specific to life here. These are interesting words that just came from my head through my fingers to you - find something to be thankful for. I need to chew on that for a while.

Now that I'm done with my sage moment, I have decided that I cannot wait until February to share this thankful thing. Trash pickup. Yes, daily trash pickup from my front door.

As a child I lived in a city that had the potential of being overrun by garbage bears.

In order to protect our town from just such an epidemic, we could not put our garbage out on the street until around 3 am (4am?) the day of garbage pick up. Said pickup happened once a week. So the garbage collected every week either in the garage or outside in a secure area. In my family's case, the garbage collected in the garage. Imagine with me, if you will, fridge clean out day. You open the fridge and realize there is something dwelling in it that could very soon grow legs and walk out on its own. You remove all old items in order to remove the offender. And you realize that the trash was picked up yesterday. So now all that smelliness must sit in your garage for the next 6 days. And it's not winter...it's summer. The hottest week on record.

Now put yourself in my current place. I realize there is an offender in my fridge (today - the special cheese I forgot to eat). I remove the offender to the garbage, tie up the bag, and put the bag out front of my apartment door in the hallway. In a few short hours the building janitor will come around to collect the trash, like he does everyday. He will put the trash outside on the street. Tonight at 9 the trash guys will come and remove the trash from the street. No collected smells, no dreaded trips to the garage (which, of course, I do not have).

Yes, I am thankful for daily trash pickup.

Famous

For the past few months I've been running with a group Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings. The Saturday morning run has switched to a Sunday pre-worship run, but the group has stayed the same. And...I'm apparently famous. Sunday, while I was stretching, a lady came up to me and asked if I was the Christine who was a fan of Galatasaray. Considering that this is the second time this has happened, and that Turks regularly confuse Catherine and Christine, I corrected the name confusion and said yes. Paparatzi here I come!

I would be the one tucked off in the corner in the brown and white hat. Have hat will travel. I prefer lane one when running in the pack. Otherwise on corners its a speed up to slow down thing. Who wants to do a modification on a speed workout for 5 miles? Not me!

Thankful Things - January

First on the list for the year...the word abla and all that goes with it.

For all my non-speaking Turkish friends (which would probably be all of you), abla is the word for older sister. Some of you are thinking, "Well, her brother doesn't live in Turkey, so why would a word for older sister have any impact on her life at all?" The thankful thing is in the "all that goes with it" part of the previous statement.

Titles are an important part of this culture. At the airport and bus station you hear "sayın yolcularımız" or "dear travelers". A person you don't know well, but who's name you know is so-and-so hanım if its a woman or bey if its a man. The police officer is memur bey, as is every other official worker. All teachers are either called hocam or öğretmenim by their students (the older or newer version of teacher). Everyone older than you gets a title as well. The much older lady on the street is called simply teyze, or aunt. If you are a child and the lady on the street has children you will also call her teyze.

And this brings me to the word abla. Abla is what you call your older sister. It's also what you call someone on the street who is older than you but does not have children or massive amounts of gray hair. Thus, just about every child on the street will call me abla. And the children in my building? They call me Catherine abla. To the children who know me, I will never be anything but Catherine abla. It goes on! When I go to the market or the pazar, the man behind the counter selling things will call me abla, whether or not he's old enough to be my grandfather. The guy on the bus? Abla. You could say it's a polite form of hey you. But then again, it's so much more.

Now things do get a bit confusing at times. I'm to call everyone who is a certain number of years older than me up to a certain age abla. Others I am to call teyze. The general rule of thumb is, if they are old enough to be your mother you call them teyze. Well...who likes to be called old? If you call the wrong woman teyze you are inadvertently saying that they are old. So the other general rule of thumb seems to be to err on the side of youth and call people abla until you are 100% positive you should call they teyze. Ah, but it gets even more confusing. I have a friend who is significantly younger than me, say around 9 years. Her mother is probably only 15 years older than me, and thus could not by any stretch of the imagination be assumed to be my mother (although this is possible, but I will save that for another day). But because I am her daughter's friend, I am to call her teyze.

What I would really like in my life is to have an abla-teyze ruler. If anyone sees one for sale, please let me know.
Those who will always call me Catherine abla mixed in with those who never will (and who, for the record, I only call by name).