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....