Let Be

                The CELTA course is finally coming to an end and while it remains a huge time commitment, I’ve had to think about the next step. I had a moment of panic in which I was looking to book a flight and flee Istanbul for South America, but I think I’m passed that now. I have been offered two jobs, one at a language school which pays 500USD for 40hrs and hires me out on a week-by-week basis. The other is at a private university, which I’ve heard is where dumb rich kids go after they’ve failed to get into the more prestigious state schools. They pay about the same as the language school, but I only have to teach about 25 hrs/wk. I’ll probably end up taking it as all the good schools have long since filled their faculty positions, but I still have to sort out some “minor” details like who’s going to be paying for my work permit and how am I going to get there every day (it’s on the “asian side” – on a side note, this whole euro/asian city divide reminds me somewhat of west-side story for inexplicable reasons. I’ve never seen the play and don’t really know what it’s about. Snapping fingers? Shark week? Something like that). In the meantime, I’ve spent somewhere around 60 hours each week in this building:

                 And when I get home, I have to feed this:

                Speaking of the cats, I’ve been told that they are called Oscar and Wilde, but I still don’t know which is which. Both Brigid and I call this one Fatso. She says their names don’t matter because they don’t listen to us either way. One of the nice things about living with someone who has travelled the world is that they have a completely different relationship to material things. Since my arrival, Brigid has thrown out two large pieces of furniture because she didn’t feel as though they belonged. At the same time, the coffee drinking process is always accompanied by a heart-shaped tray, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a wooden mixing spoon. Yogurt is eaten out of clay bowls only. 

                The nights have gotten cooler and the days more bearable. I’m almost to the point where I can turn the fan off at night, and when I arrive at school I no longer do so with a steady stream running from by brow to the tip of my nose. I think I offended the students once because I was so sweaty. They looked horrified when I walked into the classroom. The balcony on this house is a great spot to sip whisky after a long day of CELTA. I took this picture at night with a long exposure:

  

                Soon I will have a certificate with Cambridge’s pompous name splattered next to mine and I will be a happy camper. You can expect more upbeat posts after this Friday’s post-CELTA binge and my subsequent beat-the-heat escape to the Princes' Isles. 

Clotted Cream and a Happy Place

Nothing makes me hungry like a month of fasting. Something about sunken cheeks and a 3am drummer-boy alarm to eat before sunrise makes me crave a nice, big plate of butter. Turks do not do butter, at least not well or regularly as best as I can tell, but thanks to my new favorite blog, Istanbul Eats, I found a place that is famous for clotted cream near my house called Besiktas Kaymakci. I had never had clotted cream before, and I'll confess that I thought it was something like cottage cheese. To save time, I'll just say that it's somewhere between butter and cream and it's good. It will also stop your heart. The place was unassuming, run down, and it appeared to be family run. The grandmother stirred a vat in the back of the restaurant, the grandson waited, and the grandfather looked at me skeptically every moment of my stay up until I payed.

The cream was covered in honey and served with hot-as-you-like-it milk. I spread the cream on a loaf of bread and munched whilst gazing at the three pictures of Ataturk above.

Then, I ordered a Turkish coffee and was very happy to find that it put my own attempts to shame.

It was a Saturday, so I decided to go sit by the Bosphorus and waft Istanbul's millennial stink. Pretty boats, ferries, two men fishing, nationalism. Splendid.

On a related note, I stupidly asked one of my students about the symbolism behind the Turkish flag. He replied coolly, "It is the reflection of the moon and stars in the blood of Turkish citizens." The man didn't know what the word "admire" meant, but he was able to come up with that without a moment's hesitation. Sometimes I think they consort this plot against me...

That's it. Be well, all of you.

Drinking Turkey

                You probably think I’ve gone bamboo and slipped off into an oriental haze as you desperately refresh my blog for a new update. Not quite, but I did underestimate the time commitment of a CELTA course  by a few dozen hours. It’s an 8am-10pm workday mon-fri with a few more spare hours on the weekend, but I haven’t got anything else to do so I can’t really complain. The group couldn’t be better and it’s not particularly difficult so much as it is tedious. Also, there’s the unexpected learning curve of forgetting everything you know about teaching and starting over (much harder for experienced teachers). The class is about half native and half non-native speakers, which is good for when I need to know the name of an English grammar point that native Turks have memorized by heart. We’ve already started teaching and I did well in the first session (there’s always a tutor monitoring us as we teach and giving feedback afterwards). Also, it’s a great refresher from Mr Morris’s high school grammar packet.

                Outside of class, I haven’t done a whole hell of a lot. I was invited to study at a pool the other and did so gladly, although I didn’t get as much work done as sun on  my shoulders. Either way, a good session.

Then I drank. And drank. And I ate one of those soggy hamburgers that I mentioned in an earlier post. Sweet, salty, disgusting.

 I tried the Turkish drink of choice, raki, which is an anise liquor not unlike a dry jagermeister. It turns milky white when mixed with water, the only thing people drink it with as far as I can tell.

 I also tried ayran, a salty yogurt drink that is supposedly the best thing to drink in the hot summer. My friend Owen Beacock (British pirate) warned me that it tastes like warm cum. Yes, yes it does. Thank you.

Right now I’m drinking what the Spanish would call tinto de verano, but what I’ll deem the only surefire way to drown the disgustingly bitter aftertaste of Turkish wine. Do better, Turkey. This wasn’t supposed to be a post on Turkish drinks, but my mind always goes to food as a last resort. I’m quite tired and have another lesson tomorrow morning to look forward to, so I’ll say that I hope you are all well and have a pleasant tomorrow. 

My New Haircut

                Classes start tomorrow so I figured I’d do one more update before I get caught up in that. It’s hot and humid here and I can’t leave the house without soaking a shirt in sweat. The worst news is that I have another month of this to look forward to, but I’ll be spending it in a classroom that I have been assured is equipped with a “fierce” air conditioning system.  The cats look like opium addicts the way they’re draped over the armchairs trying to cool off, and I’ve gone through about five gallons of drinking water in under two weeks. As I write this, I can feel beads of sweat racing each other at a snail’s pace down my back. Meanwhile, CNN keeps going on and on about Russia’s heat wave and I’m trying my best to care.

                I got a haircut, and was more than a little tense due to some expat reports on the internet (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, just youtube “Turkish haircut” – I personally can’t because Turkey has banned it, jerks). I had prepared myself to be slapped in the face by flaming balls (not a joke, go youtube it), but was happily disappointed. It was a pretty standard haircut with the exception of being served tea beforehand and getting a neck rub in the process. I showed them a picture of Jude Law to give them an idea of the style I wanted, and they told me that I looked like him (I’ve included that detail purely for the purpose of letting you know that somebody in Turkey thinks I look like Jude Law, so there!). My barber might as well have been the Sundance Kid the way he handled the blow-dryer, and after a few cups of gel, I came out ready to fist-pump my way to Barcelona.

                I spent Saturday walking around for about an hour in search of a nearby market. Turns out I made a wrong turn very early on – the market is a two-minute walk from my door. It was awesome, they had everything. Downstairs is food, upstairs clothes, and the whole thing is in a parking garage. I bought two kilos of figs only to discover that I don’t particularly like figs. I might be making preserves out of them soon. There’s some sort of crepe thing that some old women were selling that looked very good, but I’m too afraid to try buying anything without a way of knowing how much to pay them (you’d think it would be easier to pick up numbers, but I haven’t really been studying). Next week.

                I was saddened to find that Gabe’s blog is much more interesting than mine, but I wouldn’t want to invent stories about filming basketball players just to hold your attention. This is my blog, it’s for me, and I’ve got nobody to talk to. And if you have anything to say, please comment. It makes me feel good. Also skype me at jamescthorne, I’m on during your morning to midday. 

Steamed Buns and Baba Ganoush

                Hokay, so

Sirin called me up and asked me to meet her in Taksim square for some tea and meze. I had blisters from my sandals so I wore my boat shoes, sans socks due to the heat, and now hobble around the house nursing hotspots all over my feet. But it was worth it, because Taksim and the neighboring area of Tunel are the go-to spots for local youth looking for weekend shenanigans. We had tea on the upper floor of a café overlooking a side street. We sat down and the skies opened up, quitting just as we finished the plate (this meze was more or less hummus, baba ganoush and other pureed veggie dips served with bread, quite good – and I promise photos will come to this blog in short time). One of the nice things about that area is the historic tram which has been preserved and still runs:

                And what’s the one thing that you can always count on next to bars? No, not hookers – drunk food! While they serve kebabs, the favorite food, Sirin politely informs me, is wet hamburgers.  I could probably have invented a more appealing name, but it’s a hamburger that’s been sitting in a steamer for god knows how long. I will be trying it, and I will let you know. One surprising thing is the lack of meat served in its “natural form,” meaning not spiced and stuffed or stacked and roasted. I imagine that this tradition is probably hard to break, as spiced meat means to many that it has been preserved. Still, if I have to eat cold salami, why does it have to be the Oscar Meyer kind? – I want the aged, moldy Italian stuff. I’m probably just shopping in the wrong areas, but for now the search for good, affordable meat continues.

                I went to the Istanbul Modern, and while they seem to have missed the memo that all modern art museums need obstreperous structures of gargantuan scale, the collection was pretty good. Sure, most showed the tendency of Turkish painters to mimic the European masters, but there was still a certain something that was fresh. The real treat was actually a temporary fashion exhibition, and I saw a few good films that dealt with fashion in the age of terror, individuality and xenophobia, etc. All in all, very well done collection and a good café overlooking the Bosphorus.

                I’ve just checked the weather and it’s supposed to creep into the nineties this Sunday. I need September to come soon.

Where did he touch you? Show us on the obelisk.

I finally put my big girl pants on and worked my way into Sultanahmet (old city of Istanbul) yesterday in order to see what the place had to offer. I started at the Grand Bazaar, thinking quietly that I had seen central markets in London, Oaxaca, Granada and Rabat and so this would be something like an amplified version of those. Not really, not at all, not even close. Sure, the main covered bazaar is a paltry 58 streets with a mere 1200 shops, but the bazaar district is a few square miles. So I lose myself, purposefully, and this time I don’t take my wallet. I begin to walk, boring quickly of the painted plates (this is actually a big problem for me, and I’m beginning to wonder if anyone out there can be said to be a connoisseur of painted plates, as they all seem to be identical) and move outside into the cascading streets that hock fake designer bags and enough clothing to fill every Filene’s Basement in the States. Everything seems to say “suck it, Mall of America.” I walk for maybe half an hour in the same direction and have yet to find a way out of the narrow streets when I happen upon the Spice Market. I buy half a kilo of Turkish delights, a ten dollar jar of honey (shoutout to my boy peter paul eagler) and some Turkish coffee grounds.

I was getting ill from all the commerce and was tired of being called out by venders who knew straight away that I was American (dazed expression, nervously calculated walking stride, orange shirt), so I bought a bottle of water and hiked to the Blue Mosque/Hagia Sofia area.  The latter site was 20Lira to enter with a queue outside the gate, so I decided to save it for another, cooler day. I saw the obelisk, stolen from Egypt, which served as the centerpiece for a now, regrettably, eradicated hippodrome. The blue mosque is huge, domed, spired and pompous from the outside, but is noticeably understated in the prayer area. I do like this about mosques, they have a degree of humility that, say, the Sistine chapel lacks. But humility doesn’t make for good sightseeing, so I went to the Topkapi Palace (a stranger had come up to me and given me a free ticket because I’m awesome), which was for a long time a kind of playground for arrogant and spendthrift sultans. As it turns out, nothing says baller baller like a bejeweled scimitar (one of these sultans reportedly stuffed a harem of 250 women in sacks and drowned them in the Bosphorus because they bored him). There was an 86 carat diamond there, about the size of a baby’s fist, no big deal. But nothing is above religion, and the most stunning pieces were qu’ran stands and water flasks (next to the baby’s fist diamond).  Then the view: golden horn, bosphorus, spires of other not-quite-as-big-but-still-freaking-huge-mosques.

I had walked a long way (I’m going to go ahead and put it around 10 miles on the day) and was craving a kebab. Picked an English-friendly place and was sorely disappointed (when it comes to food, only surly, mustached Turks from now on). Oh, and what’s the number one street food above bagel-ish breads, ice cream and Kebabs? That’s right, boiled and grilled sweet corn, because everyone in the world secretly wishes they were at an American State Fair.

I made Turkish coffee in the apartment. It’s good. Turkish delights are good too (especially the ones dusted with pistachio). I also found a gym, about 70 dollars a month, and not that great. I am very disappointed in Turkey’s failure to live up to my stereotype of it as the land of bodybuilding sultans. It is, however, the only current building with air conditioning to which I have access.

That will do, pig. Hope you are all well, wherever you are doing whatever with whomever. Hosca kalin.

Day One in Istanbul

I believe that I'm writing this approximately 24 hours after my arrival at the apartment, although it's hard to believe clocks at this point. The harrowing cab ride was calculated at 15 minutes, a feat unsupported by distance and traffic. I woke at 5 this morning to the first daily prayer and failed to find my way back to sleep. Patiently biding the five remaining hours until the market opened, I bought a few foodstuffs and went on a quest to find a gym. The closest one didn't fit the bill, and while cheap, included some stray cats on the lifting benches and no visible employees. I did find British Side, where I'll be taking a CELTA course over the next month, and was delighted to find a security officer, air conditioning, and the English language. Having accomplished this, I sulked back down and up the absurd pitch of the valley that divides me from my school. Then I napped for 4 hours. Panicked, I prepared myself to go to Taksim Square in search of an A/C adpapter, but stopped at an electricity shop not two streets over and picked one up from them. Here's a narrative of that interaction:
"English"
"No."
"Huh."
Pointing to my chest, I reached for a random plug, made a gesture to mimic plugging a cord into a wall (or a key into a door, or a tail onto a donkey) and repeated:
"America. America. Ah-mur-ee-kah."
He got the point in stride and handed me exactly what I wanted. I've put off Taksim Square for a day, too relieved to be spurred to action (it occurred to me, had my computer died, I wouldn't have had google maps, and that my tourist book only includes a map of the city's central artery). So that's what I've done, and you're probably bored to death, perhaps a coma (mild wooziness?). Now, here are the anecdotes:


1. International flight terminal in Chicago, security check. A beautiful woman, I believe to be Arab turns to be and says,
"Nice bag, where did you get it?"
"Urban Outfitters," I say dejectedly.
"I like it, super-travel-light."
"Yeah, thanks."
She was talking of course about my white (cream) messenger bag (man-purse). Humiliation, clawing humiliation.

2. In the cab, gorgeous coastal road, tankers offshore in the bosphorus looking like ladies in waiting. Moving around cars and over lines, treating traffic laws the way a painter treats the rules of perspective. Suddenly, huge, a half-eroded stone wall, probably erected by some famous guy, emerges on either side of the six-lane highway. Tradition. Modernity. Lawrence's opening to "Odour of the Chrysanthemums" describes a train out-pacing a running colt. Same sensation,  probably a great photo there, and gone in a second as if it never was.


3. Out to dinner with Sirin (nice woman, waited to let me into the apartment) and company when a boisterous Turk bumps into our table.
"Oh, pardon"
The respond, jeering:
"Paaardon, oh please paaardon meeee. Hehehehe."
Turns out he was their friend, had heard them speaking English (so as to include me) and had responded properly. He sits, rambles, digs questions, reveals that he knows Joe, assures me:
"We are not sooo Middle-Eastern."
"I saw more women," Sirin tells me, "wearing that black sheet thingy in London than in Istanbul."
I wonder briefly what the proper name for black sheet thingy is, turns out it's called a chador (thanks wikipedia for your streamlined "islamic dress: female" category). The ebullient istanbulite leaves, and I am informed by Sirin:
"He is so awesome. For instance, he is gay, and he never attempts to hide it from anyone."
I make known my support for him, for gays, for Istanbul's European sensibilities. I feel weird about the whole exchange, and the chip on Turkey's shoulder reveals itself to be a tumor. Then, feeling tired, I kill the conversation.
"So how about that flotilla?"
Sighs, mixed emotions, embarrassment, a curiously American reaction.


4. I pay for my groceries, put my wallet in my back pocket, awkwardly work the food into my bag, turn, leave, feel back pocket. It's empty, of course it's empty. I panic, return to the cashier to find no wallet, and look baffled at the old man who is now paying for his food. A man walks by me, smiles, hands me back my wallet, and keeps walking. He's the same one who sold me a sim card the day before, and he works next door. I look at the old man, who is now laughing as if to say ah-so-you're-a-dumbshit. The money, the cards, everything is where it should be. He was fucking with me, and I feel castrated.