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.