Hug your foreign language teacher today. And if you don't have one, borrow someone else's and hug them. And if you were ever one of those students who was too shy to speak, or tried to argue about grammar, or just zoned out all class- find your teacher, apologize, and beg for forgiveness. Don't get me wrong, I understand- I was one of those students. Especially during my three semesters of Arabic. And karma, my friends, is a bitch.
The assigned lesson plans over the past three weeks have been generic and terrible, but by this point Alex and I have gotten the hang of things a bit and are much better at coming up with activities on our own. Theoretically, we're supposed to check our "revised" lesson plans with the curriculum department before running them... but considering many of them are made up the night (or the 20 minutes) before our first class, we don't exactly have time. And we are easily the most poorly supervised instructors here. True, there's always a teacher in the room during our lessons, but they rarely know what our lesson plan is supposed to be and have no interest in whether we follow it or not- they're just happy to have a break and watch someone else fumble around in the front of the room.
Three weeks ago, Alex and I organized a lesson on slang- an idea that made several instructors very nervous, because apparently one of the former native speakers considered it wise to teach the students curses including, but not limited to, "m***erf***er." Right. We came up with a list of slang nouns, verbs, adjectives, and acronyms, all appropriate and very funny. Some things you wouldn't immediately think of as slang- "to throw up," "to dump/break up with," "to freak out," to name a few. Explaining "wingman," "to rob the cradle," "cup of joe," "TMI," and "sketchy" were the highlights of my week- and I also learned that "poh-poh" (the police), is Turkish slang for butt. Giggling all around. To make the class a bit easier to run, I organized a game. Splitting the class into four teams, I made four lists on the board- each with three nouns, one adjective, two verbs, one acronym, and occasionally an idiom- think "to bury the hatchet" or "to test the waters." Each team was responsible for their own list, and they were allowed to use dictionaries, the internet, and me as a resource. None of the teachers had any idea what these words were, and all of them took notes in class- which was very funny. As for the internet, I gave them the link to urbandictionary.com - the only problem being that some pages are blocked by the Turkish government's cybernanny. But that's a whole different rant. Once we had defined every word on the board, if there was extra time, I wrote a catchphrase for each team, explained them, and gave them a few minutes to create and then perform a conversation in which one team member correctly use the catchphrase. The ones I usually used were "Say what?" "True story," "B.t.dubs.," and if I was feeling especially cruel, "awkward turtle."
Two weeks ago, Alex and I devised a vocabulary card game. We created vocab cards and divided them into four different levels of difficulty, with matching point values (hardest=4 points, etc). I split each class in half, and one team member was asked to come up, pick up a card of his choice, and stick it to his forehead- without looking at it. His teammates then shouted out words to help him figure out what the word on his forehead was, and he had one minute to figure out as many words as possible. In one class, a student held up the word "sneezing"- and his entire team immediately pretended to sneeze, causing the befuddled student to respond "God bless you...?" A girl in another class picked up a word and held it to her forehead, and the whole class started laughing, and a few students took pictures with their cell phones. The word she had picked up was "stupid." The game was fun and most classes really enjoyed it- loudly enthusiastic, most students ended up out of their seats and all over the room by the end of the class.
My second week here, Fatih, the teacher with whom I do recordings, gifted Alex and I with thirty or so large, laminated, very detailed black and white photographs- stills from old movies, although the only ones I can name are the ones with Robert Redford or Dustin Hoffman in the photo. So this week, we finally used the photos- because the curriculum was absolute crap- and made the students, in small groups, create and then tell the story of what was happening in the photo. I've gotten some hysterical stories, twisted stories, some very creative ones, and one pair of girls who decided to make a political statement about their hatred for my home (thus my last brief post). Some students chose to act out their stories, others just told the story. After each story, to make them practice more than just reading a prepared story off a paper, I asked questions- about the locations, motives, history, and minor details of the story they told me. I pointed out logical fallacies, much to the amusement of their classmates, and picked apart the photograph itself. Basically, I was mean and nit-picky, but their responses were priceless. I could write a book with all the funny material they gave me, but here's a few plot outlines...
- A wife and daughter believe there are aliens in their backyard, the husband believes their "psychologies are do-da-deteriorating," so he decides to hold a garage sale, sell all their things, and use the money to buy a gun and kill them. Instead, though, he uses the money to build a car. His name was Henry Ford.
- Mafiosos cleaning their guns, preparing to go out and threaten a man who hasn't paid his debts- this one was acted out- leading to the line, "If you don't give our money, I will shoot your head!"
- A story involving a father who died, to which I asked "What did he die of?" "He cancer." "What kind of cancer?" I smiled. "Uh..." she paused, and other students tried to mumble answers for her. "Uh... si- sk- sick cancer!" (the helpful classmate had been saying "skin cancer"). After the class laughed a bit, she changed her mind. "No, was face cancer!" she said triumphantly.
- Several students, who chose a photo of an older chef serving a woman in a crowded restaurant, with a menu above them that listed (dollar) prices for common American foods. The students explained to me that it was not as it looked, and in fact the chef was a "serial killer" (read: assassin), and each menu item was code for a different death. Death by Kalashnikov was the cheapest, at $1.85- which really meant $1,850, they explained. And the hitman was serving food in the photo because two customers in the background were FBI agents trying to prove that it wasn't really a restaurant.
- And finally, today's highlight: a story about two workers in a marble quarry in 1929 who, influenced by literature from the Soviet Union, killed their employer and then went after the government. After killing every member of Parliament and the president, they set up a new government of the more intelligent workers, and the country benefited. When asked where the story took place, they said Boston. "A marble quarry in Boston?" I asked. "Uh, well, you go outside of the city" the group corrected themselves, at which point one of their classmates chipped in- "You make a right." And then, of course, I had to ask about the Parliament. In the US.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Frustrated
Some days are easy, some days are not. Some days start out easy, and then a student ends a story with "And then the Turks invaded America and killed all the Americans. A happy ending!"
Today was one of those days.
Today was one of those days.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Dentistry: The Cheap Knock-off Version
Exactly one week ago, I rewarded my mother's incessant nagging and my father's gruff concern with a visit to the dentist. My broken tooth was far less painful to endure than the things I feared at the hands of local oral hygienist, but I already made the mistake of mentioning my broken molar in this blog, and would rather not give my mother ulcers by refusing to treat it. Although from 5,000 miles away, that might be an interesting feat.
Roughly two weeks ago, I contacted a dentist recommended, via email chain, by a friend of a friend of a relative, who responded abruptly and angrily in rapid Turkish to my inquiry "İngilizce konuşur musunuz?" (Do you speak English?)- and then hung up on me. Undeterred (okay, my mother was undeterred...), I went to Semih Bey ("Mr. Semih") - the director of the school, who fancies himself to be our pseudo-parent in Turkey, and is always offering his help. I explained the situation, and he immediately made several phone calls, resulting in an appointment with a friend of his who happened to be a dentist. Semih Bey also arranged a car for Alex and I so we didn't have to pay for a taxi, and for a teacher to babysi- ahem, accompany us.
So a week later (which was last Monday), we left with Mehtap- the same woman who took care of me when I first arrived, whom I am deeply indebted to, and who clearly only looks after me under duress- a bit before ten AM with the contracted vehicle, and headed to Ankara University.
University.
I was forced to hope that this was a teaching school, and not just some kids with rusty pliers. Unfortunately, Mehtap didn't have the patience and no one else had the language skills to explain where I was going, what they're going to do to me once I got there, how much it would cost me, or any number of other questions bouncing around in my head as we drove to this place. The three of us were dropped off just outside in the entrance- the perfect location to see several lab-coated, extremely young-looking Turks lighting up. Because smoking and dentistry go hand in hand. So I entered this place where I planned to let strangers stick foreign objects into my mouth while chanting "It's-the-culture-it's-the-culture-it's-the-culture" and trying to keep my breathing at a non-panicked pace. We passed the smokers and entered the building, only to be confronted by three off-shooting hallways stuffed with ill Turkish persons, a long, unhelpful Turkish department list on the wall, and an empty Turkish help desk. Mehtap paced, turned in a circle, and looked vaguely confused.
An auspicious start, I must say.
Mehtap asked a passing lab coated-person for directions, and we headed up the stairs. We passed at least a hundred coughing, sneezing, miserable-looking people who lined the corridor walls on our way up three flights of stairs and around a few corners. We (by which I mean Mehtap) found the correct office, which was locked, and waited outside with a mother and her precocious five year old daughter, dressed all in purple with bright pink tennis shoes and a pink plastic Disney princess heart necklace. Despite her soft-spoken, headscarved mother's best intentions, she immediately bopped over to us and introduced herself. Mehtap talked with her a bit, and the little girl turned to us. "Merhaba! Hoş geldiniz!" (Hello! Welcome!") she chirped, and glancing back to her mother for approval, she chattered a more elaborate welcome to me, and greeted me in the traditional Turkish manner for someone you greatly respect. Taking my hand in both of hers, she kissed my fingers and touched it briefly to her forehead. "Charmed" doesn't even begin to cover my emotions. I wanted to pick her up, stick her in my purse, and run. My morals getting the better of me, I wanted to at least take a photo of her- but there was a reason I didn't bring a camera to a dentist's appointment.
After maybe a half hour of attempting to communicate with and being greatly entertained by this adorable girl, the dentist arrived and ushered Alex, Mehtap and I into her closet-sized office. She asked, in slightly accented English, what the problem was and then took a quick look. We walked from her office, down the hall to another room, where a few more people clucked over my teeth, talked amongst themselves in Turkish, and agreed to send me to the "Radyasyon" department. Which, covered in yellow-black-yellow hazard signs and the words "radyasyon alanı!", was really reassuring. I got my teeth x-rayed in a radiation cubicle, puke green and less than six feet tall (several feet short of the ceiling). The resulting image caused much consternation among my dental team, most of whom spoke English but none of whom bothered to do so for my benefit. So I was stuck watching, ping-pong style, as the dentists and Mehtap discussed my mouth, without ever telling me what was going on. In case you've ever wondered what it feels like to be three years old, this was it. Eventually several people motioned for me to follow a girl through a set of double doors.
Imagine an inner-city nail salon. It's a bit grimy, and there's rows of chairs set up, informational anatomy posters on the walls, and poor fluorescent lighting. The people running the show have suspect hygienic habits, and speak broken English. Now add needles filled with God-only-knows-what, drills, reused gloves, and the idea of all of it going into one's mouth.
Abject terror best describes my first impression. It was also my second, third, and fourth, but who's counting. I was ushered, alone, to a seat on the far side of the room, in the corner (with mold creeping down the inseam of the walls), by a window- and my dentist cheerfully opened the window for me, revealing sleeting rain and five rows of icy barbed wire. I swear to God.
My dentist, who looked about 22, smiled and said hello. She apologized for her slow speech, explaining that she could read and write fluent English because of her studies but rarely spoke it. She pointed to a syringe on a small counter. "For... if pain, it numbs. You... what is the word? Inject?" She made a motion as though pushing the syringe into my gums. Like I needed a visual. "Give me a shot. You'd say you can give someone a shot." I closed my mouth tightly and tried to keep the horror off my face. The needle had come with the syringe- not from those cute, airtight hypoallergenic packets that I once took for granted. The dentist explained that if it hurt too much, she would give me a shot. Right.
I then proceeded to have my tooth drilled, and the previous filling entirely removed. She took a short break, letting me twitch a bit as the air caressed my newly exposed nerves. Then she stuffed my mouth with cotton balls (I have no idea), and filled the tooth with a suspicious, off-white material, held a funny machine that looked like a hair dryer against it, and repeated the process for about a half hour. After she finished, and fished the soggy cotton balls out of my mouth, she asked if I could do something for her. "Of course," I smiled, completely mystified. She explained that she had a friend who studied in Australia for a year, and when he returned he claimed that she spoke very poor English. I had complimented her English earlier, and it was understandable- a significant achievement. So she asked me, shyly, if I would mind repeating that sentiment. She then left the room and returned with an opened cell phone, and I defended her honor to a surprised (and fluent) Turk on the other end. She thanked me profusely and took the phone back, beaming because a "native speaker" had stood up for her.
And for possibly the first time, I returned to TOBB with a smile on my face.
Roughly two weeks ago, I contacted a dentist recommended, via email chain, by a friend of a friend of a relative, who responded abruptly and angrily in rapid Turkish to my inquiry "İngilizce konuşur musunuz?" (Do you speak English?)- and then hung up on me. Undeterred (okay, my mother was undeterred...), I went to Semih Bey ("Mr. Semih") - the director of the school, who fancies himself to be our pseudo-parent in Turkey, and is always offering his help. I explained the situation, and he immediately made several phone calls, resulting in an appointment with a friend of his who happened to be a dentist. Semih Bey also arranged a car for Alex and I so we didn't have to pay for a taxi, and for a teacher to babysi- ahem, accompany us.
So a week later (which was last Monday), we left with Mehtap- the same woman who took care of me when I first arrived, whom I am deeply indebted to, and who clearly only looks after me under duress- a bit before ten AM with the contracted vehicle, and headed to Ankara University.
University.
I was forced to hope that this was a teaching school, and not just some kids with rusty pliers. Unfortunately, Mehtap didn't have the patience and no one else had the language skills to explain where I was going, what they're going to do to me once I got there, how much it would cost me, or any number of other questions bouncing around in my head as we drove to this place. The three of us were dropped off just outside in the entrance- the perfect location to see several lab-coated, extremely young-looking Turks lighting up. Because smoking and dentistry go hand in hand. So I entered this place where I planned to let strangers stick foreign objects into my mouth while chanting "It's-the-culture-it's-the-culture-it's-the-culture" and trying to keep my breathing at a non-panicked pace. We passed the smokers and entered the building, only to be confronted by three off-shooting hallways stuffed with ill Turkish persons, a long, unhelpful Turkish department list on the wall, and an empty Turkish help desk. Mehtap paced, turned in a circle, and looked vaguely confused.
An auspicious start, I must say.
Mehtap asked a passing lab coated-person for directions, and we headed up the stairs. We passed at least a hundred coughing, sneezing, miserable-looking people who lined the corridor walls on our way up three flights of stairs and around a few corners. We (by which I mean Mehtap) found the correct office, which was locked, and waited outside with a mother and her precocious five year old daughter, dressed all in purple with bright pink tennis shoes and a pink plastic Disney princess heart necklace. Despite her soft-spoken, headscarved mother's best intentions, she immediately bopped over to us and introduced herself. Mehtap talked with her a bit, and the little girl turned to us. "Merhaba! Hoş geldiniz!" (Hello! Welcome!") she chirped, and glancing back to her mother for approval, she chattered a more elaborate welcome to me, and greeted me in the traditional Turkish manner for someone you greatly respect. Taking my hand in both of hers, she kissed my fingers and touched it briefly to her forehead. "Charmed" doesn't even begin to cover my emotions. I wanted to pick her up, stick her in my purse, and run. My morals getting the better of me, I wanted to at least take a photo of her- but there was a reason I didn't bring a camera to a dentist's appointment.
After maybe a half hour of attempting to communicate with and being greatly entertained by this adorable girl, the dentist arrived and ushered Alex, Mehtap and I into her closet-sized office. She asked, in slightly accented English, what the problem was and then took a quick look. We walked from her office, down the hall to another room, where a few more people clucked over my teeth, talked amongst themselves in Turkish, and agreed to send me to the "Radyasyon" department. Which, covered in yellow-black-yellow hazard signs and the words "radyasyon alanı!", was really reassuring. I got my teeth x-rayed in a radiation cubicle, puke green and less than six feet tall (several feet short of the ceiling). The resulting image caused much consternation among my dental team, most of whom spoke English but none of whom bothered to do so for my benefit. So I was stuck watching, ping-pong style, as the dentists and Mehtap discussed my mouth, without ever telling me what was going on. In case you've ever wondered what it feels like to be three years old, this was it. Eventually several people motioned for me to follow a girl through a set of double doors.
Imagine an inner-city nail salon. It's a bit grimy, and there's rows of chairs set up, informational anatomy posters on the walls, and poor fluorescent lighting. The people running the show have suspect hygienic habits, and speak broken English. Now add needles filled with God-only-knows-what, drills, reused gloves, and the idea of all of it going into one's mouth.
Abject terror best describes my first impression. It was also my second, third, and fourth, but who's counting. I was ushered, alone, to a seat on the far side of the room, in the corner (with mold creeping down the inseam of the walls), by a window- and my dentist cheerfully opened the window for me, revealing sleeting rain and five rows of icy barbed wire. I swear to God.
My dentist, who looked about 22, smiled and said hello. She apologized for her slow speech, explaining that she could read and write fluent English because of her studies but rarely spoke it. She pointed to a syringe on a small counter. "For... if pain, it numbs. You... what is the word? Inject?" She made a motion as though pushing the syringe into my gums. Like I needed a visual. "Give me a shot. You'd say you can give someone a shot." I closed my mouth tightly and tried to keep the horror off my face. The needle had come with the syringe- not from those cute, airtight hypoallergenic packets that I once took for granted. The dentist explained that if it hurt too much, she would give me a shot. Right.
I then proceeded to have my tooth drilled, and the previous filling entirely removed. She took a short break, letting me twitch a bit as the air caressed my newly exposed nerves. Then she stuffed my mouth with cotton balls (I have no idea), and filled the tooth with a suspicious, off-white material, held a funny machine that looked like a hair dryer against it, and repeated the process for about a half hour. After she finished, and fished the soggy cotton balls out of my mouth, she asked if I could do something for her. "Of course," I smiled, completely mystified. She explained that she had a friend who studied in Australia for a year, and when he returned he claimed that she spoke very poor English. I had complimented her English earlier, and it was understandable- a significant achievement. So she asked me, shyly, if I would mind repeating that sentiment. She then left the room and returned with an opened cell phone, and I defended her honor to a surprised (and fluent) Turk on the other end. She thanked me profusely and took the phone back, beaming because a "native speaker" had stood up for her.
And for possibly the first time, I returned to TOBB with a smile on my face.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Apartment Living, Cold War Style
Roommate Number Four finally arrived last Tuesday. Marina had been on a cleaning binge for a few days, and she generally knows what's up- speaking the same language as the director of the university can come in handy- so we assumed that, over a week past her expected arrival date, our mysterious fourth roommate was on her way into town. Vague rumors (read: what I could get out of broken English conversations) implied, at different times, that she was Moldovan, that she was coming in January, that she was a boy and living elsewhere, that she was forty years old, that she was twenty years old, that she was imaginary, and that she was irrelevant because she couldn't get "papers." From Moldova.
So, at the point where we were under the assumption that she was 40, I was told that I needed to move everything out of my room, because it would be unfair to make an adult woman share a room. With Alex.
So I bitched, moaned, grouched, sulked, stomped my feet, and moved.
the room I gave up- it was much cooler than it looks here.
A week later, Alex and I came home from work babbling in warp-speed English about something irrelevant, and Marina was sitting at the table with a girl we didn't know. (Marina has many more friends than we do- it's sort of the norm.) We both said hello to her- no response. I dropped my bag on the couch, and, yanking my boots off, casually asked the friend's name. The friend, I might mention, was growing more and more terrified-looking as Alex and I continued what was probably just one of the many pointless circular political debates we have. Hourly. So I asked her name, and she looked in confusion between Marina and I, at which point Marina quickly muttered a translation under her breath.
"Ah!" the friend smiled. "Efiadlf;ksdlkfs."
I glanced at Alex, who shrugged. "Um, I'm so sorry- could you repeat that?" I smiled warmly.
More glances, then friend repeated her name. I still didn't catch it, except that it may have started with a E. Ef. Ef-something. So I shrugged it off and returned to my debate with Alex, while we puttered around and got ready to make a grocery run. We were putting our coats on when Marina asked if we needed anything from the Armada- the place we were about to go. We explained that we were already heading there ourselves- with a long list, and we were more than willing to pick up whatever she needed. She smiled, and brokenly explained that she was showing the friend the path to the mall. Huh. I thought. It's really not all that cool...* why would you sightsee with a visiting friend, and show them a MALL? (pause.) Eh. Whatever. Russians.
So to avoid the awkwardness of dealing with this friend who obviously did not speak a single word of English ("hello" confused her, remember), Alex and I procrastinated just long enough to leave the apartment far enough apart the we wouldn't run into them on the way over to the Armada. On the way out, Alex mentioned something about "our new roommate." Uh, what? Of course, I was the only moron who didn't realize that this "friend" was actually the girl living with us for the next eight weeks.
And I didn't. Learn. Her name.
So we now refer to her as "M-dubs," because a) she is Moldovan, and b) she's always with Marina. So M(arina) and M(oldovan) = double M = Mdubs. Alex came up with it- I'm not sure if I want credit for that one.
Speaking of Marina, she's spoken maybe half a dozen words to us since the arrival of Mdubs. Mdubs speaks Russian and nothing else, as far as we can tell, and Marina is mothering her. And also has no reason to talk to us- she's got regular human contact with locals, and now a friend in the apartment. The result of this has been a rather rapid devolution from a harmonious, multicultural household to an apartment divided strictly along Cold War lines- Russians on one side, Americans on the other. We eat, sleep, work, talk, laugh, go out, come home- basically live- completely separately. In our one-bathroom, itty-bitty apartment. My one limited interaction with Mdubs directly involved her pointing at various hair dryers and then the wall, saying "Marina?"
No, Marina is not a hair dryer. I have no idea what you want. She was holding her own hair dryer, she didn't want to use someone else's, and I pointed out the outlet to use it. I even tried the Turkish standby- "Tamam, tamam." (alright, alright). No dice. About ten minutes later I gave up and just shrugged a lot.
And that's the extent of my attempts to negotiate with the Russians.
*Apparently the Armada is, in fact, the shit. Named the best mall in Europe in 2003, the entire thing is shaped like a giant ship**- with an anchor statue out front. Despite Ankara being landlocked, its name comes from the ancient Greek word for "anchor." Thus the theme.
**... Alex and I only realized it was shaped like a ship about 24 hours ago. After visiting it almost every day for a a month and a half. We're quick ones.
So, at the point where we were under the assumption that she was 40, I was told that I needed to move everything out of my room, because it would be unfair to make an adult woman share a room. With Alex.
So I bitched, moaned, grouched, sulked, stomped my feet, and moved.
the room I gave up- it was much cooler than it looks here.
A week later, Alex and I came home from work babbling in warp-speed English about something irrelevant, and Marina was sitting at the table with a girl we didn't know. (Marina has many more friends than we do- it's sort of the norm.) We both said hello to her- no response. I dropped my bag on the couch, and, yanking my boots off, casually asked the friend's name. The friend, I might mention, was growing more and more terrified-looking as Alex and I continued what was probably just one of the many pointless circular political debates we have. Hourly. So I asked her name, and she looked in confusion between Marina and I, at which point Marina quickly muttered a translation under her breath.
"Ah!" the friend smiled. "Efiadlf;ksdlkfs."
I glanced at Alex, who shrugged. "Um, I'm so sorry- could you repeat that?" I smiled warmly.
More glances, then friend repeated her name. I still didn't catch it, except that it may have started with a E. Ef. Ef-something. So I shrugged it off and returned to my debate with Alex, while we puttered around and got ready to make a grocery run. We were putting our coats on when Marina asked if we needed anything from the Armada- the place we were about to go. We explained that we were already heading there ourselves- with a long list, and we were more than willing to pick up whatever she needed. She smiled, and brokenly explained that she was showing the friend the path to the mall. Huh. I thought. It's really not all that cool...* why would you sightsee with a visiting friend, and show them a MALL? (pause.) Eh. Whatever. Russians.
So to avoid the awkwardness of dealing with this friend who obviously did not speak a single word of English ("hello" confused her, remember), Alex and I procrastinated just long enough to leave the apartment far enough apart the we wouldn't run into them on the way over to the Armada. On the way out, Alex mentioned something about "our new roommate." Uh, what? Of course, I was the only moron who didn't realize that this "friend" was actually the girl living with us for the next eight weeks.
And I didn't. Learn. Her name.
So we now refer to her as "M-dubs," because a) she is Moldovan, and b) she's always with Marina. So M(arina) and M(oldovan) = double M = Mdubs. Alex came up with it- I'm not sure if I want credit for that one.
Speaking of Marina, she's spoken maybe half a dozen words to us since the arrival of Mdubs. Mdubs speaks Russian and nothing else, as far as we can tell, and Marina is mothering her. And also has no reason to talk to us- she's got regular human contact with locals, and now a friend in the apartment. The result of this has been a rather rapid devolution from a harmonious, multicultural household to an apartment divided strictly along Cold War lines- Russians on one side, Americans on the other. We eat, sleep, work, talk, laugh, go out, come home- basically live- completely separately. In our one-bathroom, itty-bitty apartment. My one limited interaction with Mdubs directly involved her pointing at various hair dryers and then the wall, saying "Marina?"
No, Marina is not a hair dryer. I have no idea what you want. She was holding her own hair dryer, she didn't want to use someone else's, and I pointed out the outlet to use it. I even tried the Turkish standby- "Tamam, tamam." (alright, alright). No dice. About ten minutes later I gave up and just shrugged a lot.
And that's the extent of my attempts to negotiate with the Russians.
*Apparently the Armada is, in fact, the shit. Named the best mall in Europe in 2003, the entire thing is shaped like a giant ship**- with an anchor statue out front. Despite Ankara being landlocked, its name comes from the ancient Greek word for "anchor." Thus the theme.
**... Alex and I only realized it was shaped like a ship about 24 hours ago. After visiting it almost every day for a a month and a half. We're quick ones.
Monday, February 9, 2009
A Day in the Life- International Edition
It was a sunny weekend. I rolled out of bed around noon on Saturday morning, foraged about in the kitchen for something edible, and followed that up by scrubbing all the dishes I didn't do the night before. Straightened the apartment a bit, grabbed a shower- shower head attached solely by duct tape- and then threw on whatever was convenient. Alex roused herself at some point during this sequence, performed her own weekend-morning rituals, and then we bonded over Paul Wright (musician) while making apple crisp. Refresher: I don't cook. But I am capable of cleaning the dishes she uses, since we so few cooking utensils that it is often necessary to clean them multiple times while making the same dish.
our kitchen, and the stove that tries to kill me
So I cleaned, which is my assigned half of the domestic obligations in our apartment. And I peeled the apples, because Turkey hasn't yet discovered the peeler and Alex's version of "peeling" involves hacking away haphazardly with a rather blunt knife until the apple is about half its original size. But don't worry, she gets all the peel off! So we* successfully cooked a large pan of apple crisp, and brought it to Bible study at the Vatican Embassy, which started at 4:30- "Turkish time." We got there at about five and were the fifth and sixth people in the room, which by 6:30 had about a dozen students. The students were all close to our age and African- from Angola, Mozambique, and Burundi. Intermediate English speakers for the most part, and Swahili/Portuguese natives. They could communicate with us well enough. The priest running the Bible study, originally from Ohio, had assigned us to read Song of Songs.
So after an hour or so of this immense awkwardness- we took turns reading passages, and then discussed them at the end of each chapter (it's only six chapters long, thank God). I swear, nothing but the presence of an ordained minister could have kept me from bursting out into awkward giggles. On multiple occasions. Which sounds terribly immature, I understand, but here's a (verbatim) snippet of conversation:
our kitchen, and the stove that tries to kill me
So I cleaned, which is my assigned half of the domestic obligations in our apartment. And I peeled the apples, because Turkey hasn't yet discovered the peeler and Alex's version of "peeling" involves hacking away haphazardly with a rather blunt knife until the apple is about half its original size. But don't worry, she gets all the peel off! So we* successfully cooked a large pan of apple crisp, and brought it to Bible study at the Vatican Embassy, which started at 4:30- "Turkish time." We got there at about five and were the fifth and sixth people in the room, which by 6:30 had about a dozen students. The students were all close to our age and African- from Angola, Mozambique, and Burundi. Intermediate English speakers for the most part, and Swahili/Portuguese natives. They could communicate with us well enough. The priest running the Bible study, originally from Ohio, had assigned us to read Song of Songs.
No worries, I remember thinking on Sunday, when he informed us we would be studying it. We'll all read it, and then just discuss the meaning in the study group. Doesn't need to be awkward. Yeah. No, we'll be fine. Definitely. Reassured, I didn't think much about it. Until Saturday, that is, when we walked in a bit late, just in time to hear the feminine voice of the poem praising the masculine voice- "therefore, the virgins love you!"
This priest was making this group of (male and female) non-fluent English speakers read NKJV translated ancient, semi-explicit Hebrew poetry. Aloud.
So after an hour or so of this immense awkwardness- we took turns reading passages, and then discussed them at the end of each chapter (it's only six chapters long, thank God). I swear, nothing but the presence of an ordained minister could have kept me from bursting out into awkward giggles. On multiple occasions. Which sounds terribly immature, I understand, but here's a (verbatim) snippet of conversation:
"Alright, so who's reading the next passage- chapter four, the first fifteen verses. It's a boy- you, young man, you walked in a bit late- what's your name?" the priest asked.
"Landrine" the boy responded, with a heavy Burundian accent.
"Okay, Laundry, will you please read next?"
(Stifled giggles.)
By the time "Laundry" got to the part about "breasts like twin fawns," I am quite certain I have never felt more awkward in my life. And I am an awkward person to begin with.
It finished quickly enough, as we were all eager to get past the awkwardness and dig into the food. As I mentioned, Alex and I brought apple crisp, and there were cookies and juice and other church-activity staples. We left with the two boys from Burundi, Landrine (whose name we learned over apple crisp) and Liberi (sp?), who basically held my hand and walked me through the transit system- from the bus, to Kizilay, to the metro, through the process of purchasing the AnkaraMetro equivalent of a Charlie Card, and finally through the labriynth-like subway stop to my actual waiting area.
From there, Alex and I went to the Armada mall, hung around on the internet for an hour or so, then caught a cab to Stephanie's apartment, where we met Sophie, the newest intern at the French Embassy, and walked with them to a farewell party for a friend whom I've met several times. I met one of the major Frnech diplomats, whose name escapes me, and talked with him about world events and his experiences working in Uganda, Kenya, and Turkey. If I ever had any doubts about wanting to work in the international arena, my experiences here have completely made up my mind. I also met and chatted with a new intern from Denmark, very young and arrived only a week ago. Hopefully we'll keep in touch.
We were then introduced to Anthony, who was responsible for our invitation/entrance into the Canadian Embassy party, and thanked him profusely. He seemed very fun, and invited us out to a party following the one we were at- apparently one of the US Army officers was leaving, and throwing a farewell party. So of course we accepted, tagged along with him and his female friend(?), and landed at a house party filled with military personnel, expats, and other Americans. Which was absolutely thrilling. I met people from San Diego, Augusta (Georgia), NorCal, and New Jersey, and others whose home states I didn't catch. There was apparently a fight between a few of the revelers, and a superior officer took matters into his own hands and declared the party over around 2 AM. At which point, Alex and I left with a few new friends, and ended up back at the Marilyn Monroe Bar (location of our inauguration get together), where we had fun talking with a Californian in the Air Force, a Danish diplomat, and an Irish expat. Absolutely fantastic. Two hours later, we exchanged phone numbers and last names- they promised to find Alex and I on facebook, to our great amusement- said our goodbyes, and caught cabs to our various parts of the city.
All of this- from reading Hebrew poetry with Africans, to a French dinner party, to an American house party and a Turkish bar- in one day. Not too shabby.
*Alex and I have coined a new grammatical term: "The Turkish We." Because we refer to ourselves in the plural on a near-constant basis, (in case you hadn't noticed), even when telling stories that are clearly individual- i.e., we thought or we were going to wear or we didn't like. We spend 98% of our time within shouting distance, so it's understandable.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Side note:
To be added to the list of things in my life that are too absurd to happen to anyone else on the planet:
- Held a serious conversation about the history of the plastic prosthetic hand of an imaginary pink kangaroo that lives outside of Canberra.
- Held a serious conversation about the history of the plastic prosthetic hand of an imaginary pink kangaroo that lives outside of Canberra.
All of a sudden, I've got opinions!
So, in the course of any given 50 minute lesson, there are often times where a class finishes an assignment early and there's dead air. Some classes have no issue occupying themselves.... others sit quietly and stare at me, as if at any moment I should start jumping through flaming hula hoops that I produce from my Mary Poppins bag. Which is an extremely uncomfortable position to be in, since I have neither the bag nor the hoops nor the technical skill required. Since my job description is, in full, "Conversate!" I come to a decisive crossroads: Put my head down on the desk and play possum, or try to force people to talk to me. Possum hasn't been working so well (don't think I didn't try).
Trying to talk to strangers isn't an easy task to begin with. Add a layer of ill-fitting authority (I'm their age, but still in charge... but unable to enforce anything), plus some general young adult awkwardness, and just a pinch of cultural resentment- and throw all that over a language barrier that rivals the Great Wall. And now imagine encountering the same students weekly, without having the memory retention capabilities to recall their names or almost anything about them.
In response, I've come up with all sorts of opinions I never knew I had. Not only am I required to have an extensive, yet easily explainable, opinion of every political event in the Middle East in the past decade, as well as the basic history of Ataturk, and the previous Ottoman Empire, I ALSO needed to invent loyalty to NBA, NHL, and National Turkish Football teams. None of this would have been necessary had "possum" worked out as a viable alternative, but since it hasn't, I've discovered- through trial and error, naturally- that saying "Uh, I don't really watch much football (soccer)" is a bit of a conversation killer. And then they recommence staring in near-perfect silence. I've never felt more like I should have a glass barrier in front of me in my life- "Please don't feed the native speaker." Anyhow, so having already magically produced athletic loyalties (under duress), I suppose I should state them now. Mostly just to horrify my younger brothers.
NBA- Boston Celtics. They've won something big recently, right? And I go to school in Boston. It's logical.
NHL- Devils? This one was only asked two or three times, and I was able to turn the conversation back to football, which they thoroughly enjoy shouting at each other about. Not usually in English, but the staring stopped, so I don't care.
Turkish Football- This is the risky one. Loyalties between the top teams are divisive and brutal. Which meant that it was absolutely imperative that I choose a team- they needed to know where I stood on such an important issue. After asking several classes which team was the best, letting them shout for a bit, and then asking why, I've basically gotten this much: Galatasaray is the top dog, Fenerbahçe is the weathly younger brother with the most obsessive fans, Sivasspor is the little engine that could (and did- recently won a match against Galatasaray), Beşiktaş is the outsider, and Ankaraspor (local team) is the joke ("Why are they good? Why do you like them?" I asked one student. "Cheap tickets!" his friend laughed). There are tons of other teams, of course, and my info might be completely wrong- it's all mostly impressions, with bits of Turkglish thrown in around the edges. But, having had to choose, I've thrown my lot in with Fenerbahçe. My logic is rather lacking, but here's what I've got: most of my classes had at least a few Fenerbahçe diehards, even in classes filled with loud obnoxious Galatasaray supporters, and they didn't mind being the minority. "Fenerbahçe," one girl explained to me, "their matches- there is very much feeling, very much- passion! The fans, they are very..." she smiled. (they drift off a lot, especially once they think I've got the gist.) So even though they aren't quite the underdog, and they do have too much money to throw around, I'm a Fenerbahçe-ian. Fenerbahçe-ist. Whatever. Now I should probably go watch a game.
Trying to talk to strangers isn't an easy task to begin with. Add a layer of ill-fitting authority (I'm their age, but still in charge... but unable to enforce anything), plus some general young adult awkwardness, and just a pinch of cultural resentment- and throw all that over a language barrier that rivals the Great Wall. And now imagine encountering the same students weekly, without having the memory retention capabilities to recall their names or almost anything about them.
In response, I've come up with all sorts of opinions I never knew I had. Not only am I required to have an extensive, yet easily explainable, opinion of every political event in the Middle East in the past decade, as well as the basic history of Ataturk, and the previous Ottoman Empire, I ALSO needed to invent loyalty to NBA, NHL, and National Turkish Football teams. None of this would have been necessary had "possum" worked out as a viable alternative, but since it hasn't, I've discovered- through trial and error, naturally- that saying "Uh, I don't really watch much football (soccer)" is a bit of a conversation killer. And then they recommence staring in near-perfect silence. I've never felt more like I should have a glass barrier in front of me in my life- "Please don't feed the native speaker." Anyhow, so having already magically produced athletic loyalties (under duress), I suppose I should state them now. Mostly just to horrify my younger brothers.
NBA- Boston Celtics. They've won something big recently, right? And I go to school in Boston. It's logical.
NHL- Devils? This one was only asked two or three times, and I was able to turn the conversation back to football, which they thoroughly enjoy shouting at each other about. Not usually in English, but the staring stopped, so I don't care.
Turkish Football- This is the risky one. Loyalties between the top teams are divisive and brutal. Which meant that it was absolutely imperative that I choose a team- they needed to know where I stood on such an important issue. After asking several classes which team was the best, letting them shout for a bit, and then asking why, I've basically gotten this much: Galatasaray is the top dog, Fenerbahçe is the weathly younger brother with the most obsessive fans, Sivasspor is the little engine that could (and did- recently won a match against Galatasaray), Beşiktaş is the outsider, and Ankaraspor (local team) is the joke ("Why are they good? Why do you like them?" I asked one student. "Cheap tickets!" his friend laughed). There are tons of other teams, of course, and my info might be completely wrong- it's all mostly impressions, with bits of Turkglish thrown in around the edges. But, having had to choose, I've thrown my lot in with Fenerbahçe. My logic is rather lacking, but here's what I've got: most of my classes had at least a few Fenerbahçe diehards, even in classes filled with loud obnoxious Galatasaray supporters, and they didn't mind being the minority. "Fenerbahçe," one girl explained to me, "their matches- there is very much feeling, very much- passion! The fans, they are very..." she smiled. (they drift off a lot, especially once they think I've got the gist.) So even though they aren't quite the underdog, and they do have too much money to throw around, I'm a Fenerbahçe-ian. Fenerbahçe-ist. Whatever. Now I should probably go watch a game.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Happy Groundhog's Day
Have you ever tried to explain Groundhog Day to someone who has only rudimentary English skills? I have.
First, no one knows what a groundhog is. And it's not an easy thing to describe- basically, people either thought it was a mole or a small bear- I even looked up the Turkish word for groundhog, to facilitate the explanation of our bizarre traditions. It's dağsıçanı, by the way, which basically means marmot. And no one has any idea what a marmot is regardless- so that was useless. "Badger," "woodchuck," and even "beaver" also didn't translate. Second, they assume that the must be misunderstanding you. "Wait, its shadow? What does its shadow have to do with seasons?" - that sort of thing. And then once they realize that they understand you, they just think you're nuts. After all, what kind of a person listens to a small rodent's predictions of the future? Moreover, what kind of a country makes a holiday dedicated to paying attention to said rodent?
So this morning Alex and I discovered we were curriculum-less. Apparently someone forgot to post it online, so we had to make it up- and in honor of groundhog's day, we made it purely absurd. We made up a list of words, mostly based on classic, nonsensical Americana, and they had to use 10 or so of the list of 15 in a story. Words and phrases like "canyon," "coonskin cap," "tornado," "cherry tree," mixed in with adjectives like "itchy" and "flamboyant." Despite how much fun we had coming up with the list, the kids despised the idea. You'd think I suggested mass in-class root canals. Groans, complaints, trying to avoid the assignment... weasels, all of them. So in my first class, I pretty much forced them to do it. A group of a few (bright, hardworking) girls gave me serious puppydog eyes- "Is there another activity after this? Pleeeeease?" Of course, I hadn't planned on anything else. But I promised to see if I could think of something.
Some quotes from their stories (bolded words were from my list):
"A pink kangaroo in Australia with her baby in her pouch. It was itchy."
"Three animals were living together in the wild: a groundhog, a kangaroo, and a coonskin cap."
"A groundhog fell in love with a flamboyant raccoon with pink plastic accessories in her hair."
Flash to 20 minutes later. Remember, I started the class by explaining that Americans get their weather from moles (which was the closest animal they could come up with). Then stories involving wooden teeth and glaciers. Then I dragged them out of their desks and we played "Dilly Dally Duck." You know, the summer camp game for ages 4-10. "Theeeeee Dilly Dally Duck goes "Quack quack quack" round San Arina rinarinarina...." etc.
Pretty sure they're now convinced I'm a lunatic. But they played along, which was great, and they were all very competitive once they got the hang of it. I was continually the only one singing the song, over and over and over again, and I think everyone is familiar with my lack of singing abilities- but whatever. I had fun. Afterwards, one of the students came up to me.
"So, in America, adults play this game?"
"Umm... No." I paused. "Children."
"But, we are not children!" he protested.
"True. Adults like to write stories. So next time, like adults, we'll just write lots of stories. Okay?" I smiled innocently.
"Uh, okay okay. Forget it," he mumbled.
Success.
On a more somber note, Jude (the bunny) died on Saturday. He had had some strange sores on his mouth and stomach that we noticed the first night we got him, and Alex and I considered taking him to a vet. But over the next few days, the sores visibly improved, so I figured he would be fine. Then he went into convulsions and died slowly in my hands (he was very small) five days after we brought him home. It was rough. Alex and I cleaned everything up, threw everything out, and headed to the mall to drown our sorrows in big macs, followed by chocolate (strawberry fondue) and coffee from our favorite cafe, and the only English movie playing- Valkyrie. We then made a long list of things that are American that are awesome. The light bulb, motion pictures, microwave dinners. It effectively soothed our rage at this country for selling us a dying bunny and various smaller crimes.
Sunday we attended mass at the Vatican Embassy (Vatikan Elçilik), which was a really cool experience. A simple building, with people from all over the world- Angola, Mozambique, Burundi, various Asian countries. The regular priest, Father Oliver, is leaving for a month to teach theology in Lebanon. The interm priest is an expert on interfaith (Christian-Muslim) relations, which I plan to take full advantage of. There's also a youth group that meets bimonthly, twenty or so early 20somethings, mostly of African origin. Really friendly and welcoming. Alex and I also talked with a woman organizing a pilgrimage sometime in March to Antioch and several other places, which we hope to go on. In case that's not enough, she also works with Iraqi refugees once a month, and invited us to help out.
Only other news: Despite being told that a Moldovan girl was coming to live with us, and then not coming, and then told that a boy came and was living elsewhere, and we had the apartment to ourselves for the remainder of our time here.... we were recently informed that an adult (40something) Moldovan woman is coming to live with us sometime this week and staying for eight weeks. So I had to move all of my stuff out of my room and into Alex's, so this woman could have her own room. Really frustrating, especially since I already put a lot of effort into choosing that room, decorating it, and just generally making it feel homey.
Bah.
This post is brought to you by the word "Çekoslovakyalılaştıramadıklarımızdanmıymışsınız?"
Meaning, in Turkish, "Aren't you one of those people whom we tried unsuccessfully to make represented as the citizens of czech republic? "
First, no one knows what a groundhog is. And it's not an easy thing to describe- basically, people either thought it was a mole or a small bear- I even looked up the Turkish word for groundhog, to facilitate the explanation of our bizarre traditions. It's dağsıçanı, by the way, which basically means marmot. And no one has any idea what a marmot is regardless- so that was useless. "Badger," "woodchuck," and even "beaver" also didn't translate. Second, they assume that the must be misunderstanding you. "Wait, its shadow? What does its shadow have to do with seasons?" - that sort of thing. And then once they realize that they understand you, they just think you're nuts. After all, what kind of a person listens to a small rodent's predictions of the future? Moreover, what kind of a country makes a holiday dedicated to paying attention to said rodent?
So this morning Alex and I discovered we were curriculum-less. Apparently someone forgot to post it online, so we had to make it up- and in honor of groundhog's day, we made it purely absurd. We made up a list of words, mostly based on classic, nonsensical Americana, and they had to use 10 or so of the list of 15 in a story. Words and phrases like "canyon," "coonskin cap," "tornado," "cherry tree," mixed in with adjectives like "itchy" and "flamboyant." Despite how much fun we had coming up with the list, the kids despised the idea. You'd think I suggested mass in-class root canals. Groans, complaints, trying to avoid the assignment... weasels, all of them. So in my first class, I pretty much forced them to do it. A group of a few (bright, hardworking) girls gave me serious puppydog eyes- "Is there another activity after this? Pleeeeease?" Of course, I hadn't planned on anything else. But I promised to see if I could think of something.
Some quotes from their stories (bolded words were from my list):
"A pink kangaroo in Australia with her baby in her pouch. It was itchy."
"Three animals were living together in the wild: a groundhog, a kangaroo, and a coonskin cap."
"A groundhog fell in love with a flamboyant raccoon with pink plastic accessories in her hair."
Flash to 20 minutes later. Remember, I started the class by explaining that Americans get their weather from moles (which was the closest animal they could come up with). Then stories involving wooden teeth and glaciers. Then I dragged them out of their desks and we played "Dilly Dally Duck." You know, the summer camp game for ages 4-10. "Theeeeee Dilly Dally Duck goes "Quack quack quack" round San Arina rinarinarina...." etc.
Pretty sure they're now convinced I'm a lunatic. But they played along, which was great, and they were all very competitive once they got the hang of it. I was continually the only one singing the song, over and over and over again, and I think everyone is familiar with my lack of singing abilities- but whatever. I had fun. Afterwards, one of the students came up to me.
"So, in America, adults play this game?"
"Umm... No." I paused. "Children."
"But, we are not children!" he protested.
"True. Adults like to write stories. So next time, like adults, we'll just write lots of stories. Okay?" I smiled innocently.
"Uh, okay okay. Forget it," he mumbled.
Success.
On a more somber note, Jude (the bunny) died on Saturday. He had had some strange sores on his mouth and stomach that we noticed the first night we got him, and Alex and I considered taking him to a vet. But over the next few days, the sores visibly improved, so I figured he would be fine. Then he went into convulsions and died slowly in my hands (he was very small) five days after we brought him home. It was rough. Alex and I cleaned everything up, threw everything out, and headed to the mall to drown our sorrows in big macs, followed by chocolate (strawberry fondue) and coffee from our favorite cafe, and the only English movie playing- Valkyrie. We then made a long list of things that are American that are awesome. The light bulb, motion pictures, microwave dinners. It effectively soothed our rage at this country for selling us a dying bunny and various smaller crimes.
Sunday we attended mass at the Vatican Embassy (Vatikan Elçilik), which was a really cool experience. A simple building, with people from all over the world- Angola, Mozambique, Burundi, various Asian countries. The regular priest, Father Oliver, is leaving for a month to teach theology in Lebanon. The interm priest is an expert on interfaith (Christian-Muslim) relations, which I plan to take full advantage of. There's also a youth group that meets bimonthly, twenty or so early 20somethings, mostly of African origin. Really friendly and welcoming. Alex and I also talked with a woman organizing a pilgrimage sometime in March to Antioch and several other places, which we hope to go on. In case that's not enough, she also works with Iraqi refugees once a month, and invited us to help out.
Only other news: Despite being told that a Moldovan girl was coming to live with us, and then not coming, and then told that a boy came and was living elsewhere, and we had the apartment to ourselves for the remainder of our time here.... we were recently informed that an adult (40something) Moldovan woman is coming to live with us sometime this week and staying for eight weeks. So I had to move all of my stuff out of my room and into Alex's, so this woman could have her own room. Really frustrating, especially since I already put a lot of effort into choosing that room, decorating it, and just generally making it feel homey.
Bah.
This post is brought to you by the word "Çekoslovakyalılaştıramadıklarımızdanmıymışsınız?"
Meaning, in Turkish, "Aren't you one of those people whom we tried unsuccessfully to make represented as the citizens of czech republic? "
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