Merry Christmas Turkey!

A few weeks ago, when I had resigned myself to celebrating alone, in a random conversation one of my students told me that he was flying to Ankara to be with his family for Christmas. I began to prod, very carefully, asking why he celebrated Christmas, how often he did it and did anyone else know? Later I found out that all of Turkey celebrates Christmas, but they do it on New Year's Day, and apparently Santa Claus is from Eastern Anatolia.

In 2001: A Space Odyssey (the book at least - I fell asleep when I watched the movie in my Exploration of Space colloquium), astronaut Dave arrives at this alien purgatory area where he awaits his final transformation into a floating space baby (I read the book - I didn't understand it). There he finds a room where everything seems like it would be on Earth, but slightly blurred, like someone took a picture of the Earth items and tried to remake the item from the photograph. That's basically what Christmas is over here. Someone saw Elf and tried to decorate Van like the movie would have been if the budget was ten lira.

Regardless, my girlfriend Holly came over to celebrate with me. Because of a series of very bad things that happened at once, she ended up arriving the day after Christmas, but, like I said, no one here knows when to actually celebrate. We opened presents on the 27th. While she's been here, we've watched season three of Grey's Anatomy a compelling medical drama and visited several of my Turkish friends, who all end up giving Holly something from their home. Towels, cookie tins, even a luffa. I got nothing. Thanks a lot, guys. I will NOT be giving you the small jars of American peanut butter I had parceled out for your presents.


From Van, Holly and I are going to hop through Europe, staying with friends and acquaintances of acquaintances, so the posts might be sporadic from Tron McKnight. But I'll leave you with this. The end of the calendar year marks the mid-point of my grant period. Okay, not really - not mathematically at all, actually - but symbolically. Anyway, one of the other ETA's here in Turkey prepared a survey for the other fifty, to gauge our various conditions (some people are not having nearly as much fun as I am). The survey asked questions about housing, teaching, social lives, and community outreach (my answer to that open response: "old men I don't know challenge me to backgammon at my tea house. I always win"). The survey is much needed, because some grantees are having a tough go, and their situations need to be known. It does a great job of that. To give you an idea of what we have to deal with, the problems micro as opposed to macro, out of the hundred or so questions four were about wild dogs with rabies, three were about where to find good beer, and one was about ghosts. It's not all egg nog and mistle toe here. Don't forget it.

The Ultimate English Lesson: How to Party

On Wednesday my speaking class held a party. It was exactly like the parties at the end of third grade. We had cake and took pictures and then I got beat up afterwards by Lewis Chase. How did he find me?

Fissun (far right, red turtleneck) was the only one who knew my iPhone was also a camera.

I thought it would be a short affair, with some sweets (I love me some Turkish sweets) and probably a present. I thought there would be a present because the day before one of the students asked me point blank what kind of present I wanted. Well, that's not the full truth. He started out asking me if I needed a tweed suit jacket. I countered with, "How about a solid scarf?"

The party was supposed to be attended by the three instructors - Mark, Hassan and myself. Mark had another class, so it was just Hassan and I standing at the front of the room while twenty students sat in their usual desks. Before I realized what was happening, Hassan started calling on students and asking them what they liked about the course. Because I was the young gun, most all of them were nice enough to say that I was a great teacher. But eventually people got tired of saying that, and started trying to top each other. One woman, Selma, said, "My life is more colorful now." I gave her a thumbs up. If there was an award for best comment, though, she would've gotten second place, finishing right behind Gulsen, who spoke last.

"I used to have no hope. Now I have hope."

I kid you not. Gulsen said that. About me. Perhaps.

As we distributed cake, students started to ask me about my girlfriend, Holly. Holly was supposed to come to Van at the beginning the week, but because of the super criminal with the weather control device creating all the snowstorms in Europe, she's still in Montana. Furthermore, because of her new flight schedule she has to spend the night in Istanbul before continuing on to Van.

We actually talked about this in class. While I was done teaching, the class continued for a few more lessons. I had to fill in for Hassan one day when he left town. As typical, I found out about this an hour before class.

Since I didn't have a lesson plan, I told the class what had happened to Holly and asked for suggestions. We brainstormed, and the incredible bad-idea-ness of their thoughts was only equaled by their enormous desire to help. Here are a few things they suggested:

1) Holly takes a taxi to Taksim Square (night life central) and walks north three hundred meters, takes a left and continues two hundred meters to Mustafa's brother's apartment.
2) Ahmed's daughter drives four hours to the airport to pick up Holly. They return to the daughter's apartment, only to go back to the airport the next day, totaling sixteen hours of driving time for Ahmed's daughter.
3) Nere's sister (sister or aunt, I wasn't sure), who works at the airport, will let Holly stay in her office until midnight, when the sister's shift is finished, at which point the sister will take Holly home. Then Holly will be an honored guest in the sister's home for the sister's two day break.

Needless to say, I solved the problem elsewhere. But as I explained this to the class at our party, Hassan interrupted suddenly: "Yes, the problem is solved. There is a student who lives on the Asian side of Istanbul. Holly will take two buses and the metro to meet the student at a Chinese restaurant. Everything will be alright. Tamam."

Lots of Dialogue and a Few Parentheticals

Since classes ended last Thursday (with a discussion of family feuds in Turkey - not like the game show, but like Hatfield-and-McCoy shooting at each other for traffic accidents. There was a blood-feud-inspired shooting at a neighboring hospital, and assailant was currently in our hospital. Relatives of the victims were supposedly outside waiting in black vans. Longest parenthetical statement yet? Possibly), I have been to a few we'll miss you meals held by students. Usually these end with the students grilling me about my travel plans. They may or may not be interested, but once they figure out when I won't be traveling (I'll be in Van for about two more weeks) they ask, "Why is class ending? Don't you want to come back next week?" I respond: "I do - I really do - but my department head is against this. Ours is a forbidden lesson."

Mark and I went to a man dinner of hamsi, lots and lots of hamsi, which I thought were anchovies but after so many plates I'm not sure anymore. The dinner was hosted by three of the male students, and was jolly enough until one, Ahmed, got a call on his cell. He became serious and walked away from the table. Thurgood leaned in and said, "His wife. Is terrified."

"She is terrified."
"No. Excuse me. We are terrified."

Last night I had dinner with three female students. Sevda, Selma, and Gulsen have taken me out before, if only to practice English, because during class they are too busy giggling. They have been extremely gracious to me, both cooking and buying me meals, and even purchasing gifts for my family (which I'll probably claim are from me). However, when we're out, they always want to gossip about the class.

"Who is the best speaker?"
"Who is the worst speaker?"
"Who do you hate?"

Of course I've never answered these, even though I want to. I'm serious - I really love making fun of people behind their backs. And I can't do it here because I'm the teacher. Also, sometimes it gets me in trouble. But yesterday they caught me.

"What do you think of Hayatin (Hayatin is the sixty-something professor of theology who starts every statement with "According to me" and ends every statement with "that is what it means to be a human being," or the broken English equivalent)?"
"I like Hayatin. He is a good person."
"But in the last class. You laughed at him."

It's true. On my very last class of my ten week term, I broke. Hayatin, as well as a few others in my class, had been giving me off the wall answers for my whole time there, and I had always handled it with grace. But on my last day I broke.

The question was, "What are some interesting or strange phobias?" We listed a few (brown plants? grow up, Murat. Of course with him he could very well have been saying brown pants) when Hayatin raised his hand. I deliberately ignored him for a few more answers until I finally called on him, due to his persistence.

"I would like to tell a story."
"Hayatin - will the story give an example of an interesting or strange phobia?"
"I would like to tell a story."
"But does the story include a phobia?"
"Once upon a time there was a snake charmer..."

And he proceeded to tell a religious fable where the charmer is eaten by a snake he thought was dead. It did not include any phobias.

When he finished, without responding I turned my back to the class, faced the wall, and tried to hold in a laugh. It was like holding in a fart. It was only louder when it came out. When I turned back around, Hayatin had a wide smile on, like he was extremely proud of himself.

So at dinner with the three girls I finally admitted: "Yes, sometimes Hayatin speaks without thinking."

Last Day of Classes

Last Friday I was in my office slaving away on Age of Empires II (the Mongols just don't know when to stop) when Hassan Hoja, my department head, popped in my room and said, "By the way - your classes are finished next week." Then he threw down a pinch of powder which exploded, and he vanished in the smoke.

I was rather speechless, not because of the smoke (it's the primary mode of travel, after the floo network), but because I had no idea my classes were coming to an end. Neither did my students, when I told them on Monday. I guess that's Turkey. No one really cares for calendars, except to look at the pictures (fluffy cat calendar, I so do not regret buying you in the Russian bazaar downtown).

Another example of the spirit of Turkey, perfectly captured in mundane carbonite - my faculty classes, while two hours on paper, are actually only an hour and a half. The sheet on my door says class is from three to five, but we take a tea break at 3:45 and pick back up at four, finally to leave at 4:45. This is the way I was told to run things, and honestly, I'm really starting to pick up a tea addiction. I start scratching my arms if we push through the break.

But today, we said, why go back to class at all? The tea room is where it's at. LET'S MOVE THIS PARTY.

I'm the blonde one. Murat is the one trying to hide behind the ColaTurk refrigerator.

After Maruf, the head chai-master, took the photo, we passed it around as a group. Mustafa, the man on the front right, looked at it and said, "I am handsome." Then Murat looked at Mustafa's picture and said, "SHINY."

This is all the more impressive when you consider that Murat is the Picasso of languages. An actual transcript from today, when he answered the question - when you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?

MURAT: Book open, learn much, knowledge and specially beauty. Shepherd.
ME: So, you could say it: "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a shepherd."
MURAT: [pause] Book open, learn much, knowledge...

And even though I still don't know everyone's name, I was comforted in some form by the medical faculty, who, as it turns out, doesn't know each other's names. At first I thought it was just a Turkish practice to refer to everyone as, "my friend." This comes from Bulent, the pudgy pediatrician who dominates our conversations.

BULENT: I agree with the gynecologist.
ASHYE: My name is Ashye.

I'll Give You Two Peppermint Sticks for a Peep

Since I got here, I've been seeing these advertisements around Van for a private English course. Center of these posters is a picture of a nice and distinctly American man in a three button suit with a thought bubble that says, "I am at whatever course." Except it doesn't say whatever. I can't write exactly what it says, because children read this blog. Or at least look at the pictures.

Anyway, I thought this was just what Google image brought up when the course owner typed in "average American." However, it turns out that this guy actually lives in Van. And I met him.

I thought there were just two Americans in Van: Mark, my colleague, and myself. When I was receiving my residence permit (six weeks late), I was told that there were a few other families, Jackson's (private English tutor, esquire) being one of them.

Three of these families are very close, and last night I was invited to their preliminary Christmas celebration. All three families are young, and together they had six or seven kids under four years old. The activity of the night was ginger bread houses. There was a house set aside for me, but I opted to team up. It's much more efficient.

Claire was the brains and I was the blonde.

As is obvious from the photo, Claire had a fabulous time. We started out building a house, which became then a school and later a candy shop, before Peep (TM) Show (just look at the picture, kids). Apparently different relatives had sent all three families packages of Peeps, which no one wanted to eat, and every ginger bread house was asked to take in a few strays before the rest were thrown away.

We had chili and cornbread (the first American meal I've had in three months), and once the kids were put to bed, I decided it was time to go home. The wives were picking out a Christmas movie as I was gathering my things. As I grabbed my bag, I heard from the kitchen one of the husbands whisper, "Did you bring Settlers of Catan?"

So instead of getting home at 8:30 and Skyping my mom, I spent a three hours trading two sheep for a brick and building the longest road that island had ever seen (I also won). I got home after midnight, with just enough time to log on to Skype, see the new dog my mom bought to replace my brother (he got an apartment last week), and have the desk manager at my guest house turn the lights out on me.

Fortune Telling and Get to Know You Games

On Sunday, Mark (the only other American at my university and thus the guy I'm confused for all the time - we all look the same) and I were invited to dinner by a trio of giggly girls. This is one of two groups in my conversation class who behave like thirteen year old teeny boppers. Besides being in their thirties, I guess this isn't out of the ordinary.

Sevda invited us to her house for dinner with her and her husband, and sisters Selma and Gushen helped prepare the meal. I know these names for a specific reason.

The week before, Sevda had invited me to lunch with her and the two sisters. While in the car, I discovered that all three girls loved LOST, and we compared favorite characters (Jack - don't make me BARF) before Sevda said, "The ending, it was not - suitable." When I tried to share how I felt about it, she cut me off with. "It was bad."

Anyway, while I was chewing my kebab at lunch, Sevda leaned across the table and said, "What is my name?" I heard her but acted like I didn't understand. I was stalling, because I had no idea. She knew my game immediately, and tried a different question. "What's her name?" she said, pointing at Gushen. I had to shrug. At that point I knew she was going to ask about Selma, too, whose name at the time I had no idea about, and there was nothing I could do to stop her. It was excruciating, until one of them accidentally called me Mark.

After dinner on Sunday (where Sevda dumped, no lie, half a pan of fried anchovies on my plate and told me not to worry about the bones), we sat in the most ordinary Turkish living room I've seen yet and had Turkish coffee. This stuff is thick, like one of those disgusting health smoothies, and leaves dredges that you're supposed to be able to read fortunes from. Like tea leaves, if tea leaves looked like the throw up of a dog that ate a black rubber bone.

Sevda took my cup and sat across from me. Eventually she started telling my fortune, with the sisters helping at certain points. It started out tame (you miss your family, you will have visitors soon, you will know fear - that last one was in a demon voice), but as it went on - and it went on for a good fifteen minutes - she started to get bolder and bolder. It became a Turkish version of MASH, that childhood game that told you where you would live and who you would marry. It turns out I'll get married in Greece in five years, before studying French in Paris. I don't want to bore you with the details, but I will say that I am psyched about retirement - ON THE MOON! I tipped her two lira to predict that last one.

Yes - My Curtains Have Dolphins on Them

When I left America, I made a vow to not shave until I stepped foot back on those purple fields of grain. I don't know what color they're supposed to be - I'm always asleep when I drive through the mid-west.

I shaved last night. As I've explained in simple English to most of my Turkish friends by now, I couldn't feel my face anymore. If the beard was wet, I felt dry. If it was wet because of soup, then I felt socially uncomfortable.

Using two different BIC razors and a small pair of travel scissors, it took me an hour and a half to shave. Afterwards, my face was still numb. Sometimes you can't win.

I know what you're thinking. Yes, I trimmed my ear hair (thanks, Dad), but that's not the point. I also shaved. If the staff at the medical faculty can figure it out after we're sitting in a circle for three minutes, then so can you.

Turks can't say the word "beard". When I sat down with the medical faculty, I tried to start a conversation about Wikileaks (the largest majority of cables were actually about Turkey - over 7000. My department head told me to be careful in the city because I might be perceived as a spy. So I immediately went to the city and started following people). But after the first few exchanges, one of the students exclaimed - "What happened to your bird?" After that it went downhill. Everyone wanted to know why I shaved my bread, or if my face got cold without my burn.

I humored them for a quarter of an hour before turning the conversation back to Wikileaks. Just then, by far the loudest student in the classroom came in late and yelled "YOU DO NOT HAVE ANY BEER!"

I'll Be There In Two Months

To celebrate Thanksgiving, a good majority of the fifty Fulbrighters in Turkey are gathering in a couple of cities and having dinner. They even have actual turkey birds, which took quite an effort to track down. I was excited about attending one of these dinners until I learned that Van is at the end of the universe and in order to get from the end of the universe to the Black Sea or western Anatolia you must pay hundreds of lira. That's why there are so many people in Van. They can't afford to leave.

However, one of my students, Ahmed, invited me over for dinner. He had no idea it was Thanksgiving, and I had no idea what his name was (I actually don't know many of my students names, but people here always call me Mark, after the other American in Van. Some people call me Cats).

Ahmed is in his late sixties, and so is his wife. The first thirty minutes of my visit were set aside for photo albums. Ahmed showed me his three daughters, as well as his three grandchildren (triplets of his eldest daughter and her Spanish husband). It was odd to see him in that context. In class, I only knew him as the older opinionated guy who would not shut up, who when I tried to cut him off would speak louder to finish a point. But I found out that he was not only a grandfather, but a cuddly old man. From pictures. I found that out through pictures.

Ahmed is Kurdish, like 90% of the people in Van, and his wife served us a traditional Kurdish meal until the third time I said I was full. She didn't eat - she hovered, until one of the two plates were empty, and then laid down more meat.

You can't just have dinner here. They won't let you leave before you have tea, and tea usually takes an hour or two. Two, with Ahmed. He did most of the talking, and it was actually quite fascinating - he talked about his family, which has 1000 people in it. No lie, unless that's a translation error on his part, and I don't think it is. I wrote out the number '1000' and he said, "Yes, one thousand." He talked about Turkey's problems. At one point his neighbor Hamdi, an Iranian, came over, and we talked together. Hamdi had the cutest little girl with him, who everyone kept referring to as a boy. Turkish people have a lot of trouble with third person singular pronouns - in English we have he/she/it, but in Turkish there is only one article for all three - so I didn't think anything of it. I told Hamdi how cute his little girl was. It turned out it actually was a boy.

After two hours of tea, I was ready to go. Actually, after one hour; it's a pleasant strain to communicate with someone with the level of English Ahmed has. However, as I got my coat on, he went into his room and came back with a traditional Kurdish scarf, which he gave to me, and he said, "If you ever need anything, call me, and I'll be there in two months."

It was quite sweet, if confusing.

Then, as I was finally leaving, Ahmed opened the door and there was Hamdi, with a plate of anchovies for me. Ahmed clapped his hands and helped me take off my jacket. He told me I couldn't possibly leave now.

Learning Through Rap Lyrics

I have a conversation group in the university's medical campus. It's a separate campus, about twenty minutes away and in the city center, and the students overall are more proficient. They're doctors, and not only that, but many of them are widely respected and internationally known. So exchanges like this throw me.

Erjan, the handsome, white haired head of psychology, asked me today, "What does 'what'cha say' mean?"

ME: Where did you hear that?
ERJAN: On a music video.
HUSSIEN: Jonas Brothers?
ERJAN: No, Jason Derulo.

I then explained that it was a contraction of "What did you say," and that under no circumstances were they supposed to use it.

Each day a different group of doctors come to the class, or at least are supposed to. Everyone has their assigned days, but the students who speak English well will come everyday. This has led to some problems. Like today. Today, Tuesday, was supposed to be the day that Ejemi came. Ejemi is the foremost pediatric neurosurgeon in eastern Turkey. However, he's not coming anymore because of his last class.

Two Tuesdays ago, Ejemi was frustrated because the proficient English speakers, those who came multiple days, were dominating the conversation. He was so frustrated that he announced he was boycotting the class - he wasn't going to leave, but he sure as heck wasn't going to talk. Only he announced this in Turkish, and no one bothered to translate it.

I noticed that Ejemi wasn't speaking, so I decided to help. I directed a very simple question at him, smiled and waited for an answer. He smiled back, but it wasn't pleasant - he was like a mischievous first grade bully who you know just played a prank on you but you'll have to wait to find out. It was a good ten seconds before someone leaned over and said, "Ejemi isn't speaking today." But he was still staring at me.

However, my all time favorite cultural mis-translation happened outside the classroom with my friend Murat, when we were visiting Akdamar Island. We were having tea and talking about Akon when he asked, "What does it mean, 'Smack that'?" He then started repeating the lyrics to give me some context. I stopped him after, "Till you get sore."

I Have No Pictures Because I Didn't Do Anything

This past week was Kurban Bayram, which celebrates the non-sacrifice of Ishmael by his father Abraham, and the provision by God of a substitute ram. In all my conversation classes leading up to this, I've had multiple students tell me this story, and then ask me to tell the Christian version. Usually the only change I make is to turn Ishmael into Isaac, and the ram into a majestic unicorn with a sixteen foot wingspan. Then my students will poke their neighbors and whisper in Turkish, "See, I told you it was the same."

But more importantly, Kurban Bayrm means a week off. I went to Istanbul for the week to meet up with most of the other fifty Fulbrighters in Turkey. I was estatic to finally see other Americans again. I soon found out that everyone else had been traveling every weekend to see each other. This is the first time I've left Van, I'd tell them, and they'd always ask why, because, I agree, it didn't make much sense to remain in such a quiet place for seven straight weeks. So I'd say, Thousands of years ago God built a wall around Van to make sure that nothing would ever get out. That wall is nothingness, and it stretches out from Van in a circle with an eight hour radius.

That's a bit harsh. Since this was the first time in seven weeks that the Fulbrighters were reuniting, How is BLANK was a question each man or woman had to answer fifty times. So I'd say: It's great. It's quiet and beautiful and no one will ever let me read in peace because they think I'm lonely.

I'd love to post pictures of myself in the Sultan's old bedchambers or looting the Hagai Sophia for gold mosaics like my ancestors, but the truth is we didn't do a lot of Istanbul-ish stuff. In traveling to Istanbul, I had one goal - to not have to try. I didn't want to try to understand people, I didn't want to help people with their English, I didn't want to translate anymore. I wanted to sit with people and not have to try in order to be friends. And it worked beautifully.

We did a lot of America-ish stuff. We saw Harry Potter. We ate at an Italian chain restaurant. We bought a lot of English language books. We talked about video games. A lot, actually. If there was one benefit from Kurban Bayram, it's that I learned that at least three other Fulbrighters own a copy of Age of Empires II and are eager to play online together. We spent a good deal of time on strategy, in between arguments about Pokemon (which I did NOT participate in - talk about a bunch of dweebs).

The whole experience is probably best summed up in the Princes Islands. These are islands maybe an hour from Istanbul by ferry. These islands are pretty hilly, and there are no cars - it's all foot traffic. At the highest point on the largest island there's a monastary that was there before the islands got there, or something like that. Really old. We rented tandem bikes and tried to pedal the whole way. My bike was obviously broken (why wouldn't it be - oh yeah, because that's a crappy thing to rent to someone), and I ended up pushing while my partner Lucien steered. It was a lot like the relationship between the guy pushing the Corolla and the guy on the steering wheel shouting commands out of the open door.

When we finished pushing the bike up the hill (which was one of those hills where you ask for its birth certificate because there is no way it should be pitching in thirteen and under little league), instead of checking out the monastery we decided to rest for a while on these cliff rocks that were probably out of bounds. Someone brought a couple of bottles of wine, and we drank these and talked about mechanics of Dungeons and Dragons for a few hours (we're planning to meet before Christmas for a game). As the sun was setting, we picked up our bikes and our trash and started walking down the hill.

We didn't even pose for this. It was that resplendent.

At this point, you'd think we'd realize that we hadn't even been inside this older-than-Pangea building, but no - instead, we realized that we were almost late for the bike rental return. So with Lucien steering and me literally running full speed behind him, we made it all the way back without hitting more than one person and damaging forever more than one of Lucien's fingers.

This aptly describes the whole week. There were monuments, but we forgot about them, and the vacation was that much better because of it.

Prepare for the Pankration

In a week and a half I'll be celebrating the fourth annual Pankration (Pan-krat-e-on, not pan-kray-shun; it's not a medical operation). The Pankration is a video game holiday that I made up four years ago. Since then it's grown to be honored by dozen(s) of people, mostly my ex-pledges in the fraternity. However, that doesn't mean it's not real.

For those of you who do not know, SPOILERS AHEAD. Like I said, the Pankration is a video game holiday, a gaming marathon from sunset the Monday before Thanksgiving until sunrise the following Tuesday. It started in 2007 when I decided not to go to class the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Now I'm extending an offer for you to be as lazy as me.

Ever want to be this man? On Nov. 22, you can.

(The name is Greek; pan, meaning all, and kratos, meaning awesome, roughly translated. Literally, strength, as in all-strength, but the Greeks hadn't yet invented the word awesome because they had yet to play video games. In ye olden days, the Pankration was an actual Olympic event between Greek city states, a wrestling match with three rules - no eye gouging, the fight ends when the sun goes down, and no Spartans. Spartans would never give up, so a number of them ended up dying before they were banned.)

This will mark the first time the Pankration has ever had an international following. I'll remain in Van, Turkey for the festivities. I asked off but since my department head couldn't pronounce the name, he said he thought it would be best if I taught my classes on Monday, which, since Daylight Savings Time, now end right after sunset.

Unlike the original event, participation is open to everyone, so please join in. The only piece of electronics I have with me in Turkey is my 2006 MacBook Pro - if I can't get my pirated copy of Final Fantasy VII to work, I'll be playing Knights of the Old Republic (both of these games would be in third grade or higher if they were humans. The technology in Turkey is sort of limited).

Too Bad I Don't Have Actual Photographs to Go With This

I was supposed to get a residence permit within four weeks of arriving in Turkey. It's now been eight weeks, and I still haven't even applied. And no one seems to care. I mentioned this to Zeke, the only guy in the English Department I ever see work, and all he says is, "Tamam (okay), tomorrow." Zeke's about fifty, and is a thick man with a black mustache that looks like a fruit wedge. Tamam is Zeke's favorite word. Every time I have a problem, his number one response is, "Tamam." It's okay, he says, no one really cares if you have the permit or not. It's Turkey.

But last week he decided it was time to move forward, so he sent me to get passport photos made. Six of them. I was confused at the number - most of the time organizations only ask for two, and even then I think it's overkill. You only need one to put on a passport. But Sanaye, the thirty-year-old non-trad student who helps me with errands, said that when he filled out his paper work for the university, he was asked to provide twenty-four passport photos. 24. I asked him why, and he shrugged. I said maybe they were planning on losing twenty three, just to be safe, and he said, "It's Turkey."

There are a surprising number of photography shops in Van's central area, Besh Yol (five streets - it's where the five major roads meet. It's also where there's an awesome statue of five fish swimming above the cars. They're probably asphyxiating). The oddest feature of these shops, as well as any other shops in my town, is how they fit everything in a hole the size of an RV, cut in half and stacked on top of itself. I told an elderly man I needed the photos and he took them. It was my first all Turkish transaction, and this wasn't lost on me. When they produced the photos maybe fifteen minutes later, it looked like they had airbrushed the acne out of my face. I high fived the owner.

When I lived in Rome, the weekend before I was to go home, my passport was stolen while I was riding a train to Florence. I had to postpone my flight a day and go to the American Embassy for an emergency passport. It's quite fun, actually - they treat you like a B-list movie star. They're all very sorry about what happened and they liked that one movie I was in. It was quite gratifying. But the best part was knowing I'd only use the passport once. So when it came time to take the photos, right before the camera snapped, I pulled my hair to a standing position (it was shoulder length at the time) and opened my eyes and mouth like I had just seen an alien. And that's the photo that got me home.

In Van, as I waited for the photos to be processed, another older Turk who was in the parlor reading a paper asked me the usual questions. Where are you from, what do you do here, what is love. When he found out I worked at the university, he asked me if I knew Hassan so-and-so. I was half listening, and thought he meant my department head, so I said yes. He pulled out his phone and started dialing, and I realized he meant the Rektor of the university (basically the Emperor - everyone thinks the Rektorluk, where he works, is the Death Star). I quickly paid for my photos and left before he realized I was lying. As I walked out the door, I could hear him saying in Turkish, "Cass. No, CASS. Tall blonde American. C-A-S-S."

The Life of the Party

Last night I was invited to a dinner by the head of the English department, Hassan. The dinner was for the third year English students here at the university, and included all of their instructors, one of which I am not. At all. I recognized a few faces from around campus (everywhere I walk, someone is always whispering, "How are you," because they're unsure of their English. I have to search them out. It turns out many of them are third year English students). I sat by the only other American, Mark, who is also tall and blonde and (not also) about thirty.

When a group's conversation is primarily in Turkish (very common here in Turkey), I tend to tune out. I think about my own things - stories or ideas or articles I need to look up on Wikipedia when I get home. Sometimes I find I get miffed when the conversation comes back to English, but it turns out not to be interesting. So last night I was talking to myself, and sometimes Mark, but not really paying attention to the crowd.

One of the professors, Meltem, is also an accomplished singer. After the meal was over, he was asked to sing, and he went on for forty five minutes. He was very good, but again, it was all in Turkish, as these things tend to be, so I clocked out.

At one of the points where I was in my own thoughts, I opened my eyes to check on the room and found everyone staring at me. I was startled, and no one was speaking. Hassan could tell I didn't know what was going on, so he repeated: "I said, Cass, why don't you sing for us?"

I panicked and looked at Mark. He shrugged. Hassan said, "Why don't both Cass and Mark sing for us?" At the dinner there were fifty students sitting in a weird triangle shape (I have no idea what kind of cut-rate waiter school the guy who arranged the tables went to), and they all started clapping. Very loudly. For a solid minute.

I panicked. I had nothing, and neither did Mark. Eventually we sang the first verse of "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Twice. Then I crawled under the table and vomited on a third year's shoes.

After the dinner was over, about half the students (the ones on my side of the triangle) approached me with their camera phones and asked for a picture. I posted up with Mark in front of a window and there was literally a line of people stepping in between us and handing their camera phones to some unlucky shmuck who probably just wanted some chai and a nap. That's what I wanted. That and a time machine.

Hassan offered to drive me home, and while we were in his car I apologized for the "Little Lamb" incident. I told him I froze up. He said not to worry. At the next big dinner the English department had, he said, I would be ready to sing.

"I'll See You Tomorrow"

This week marked my third week to teach professors at Yuzuncu Yil University, but it was also my first week to teach the medical faculty. I now have two separate classes on two separate campuses - the regular professors (education, theology, veterinarians) and the doctors.

The doctors are much cooler.

Campus is about 20 minutes outside of the city of Van; the medical faculty is located in the heart of the city. Everyday after lunch, the medical faculty sends a car to pick me up and bring me to the city. Everyday the car is driven by the same Turk, Nazim Matin.

Nazim is probably sixty, and looks like all other sixty year old Turkish men: a little pudgy, five year old mustache, wears a suit everyday. Each time I get in the car, Nazim is sweating. Like beads, running down the side of his face.

He also speaks no English, but he talks the entire ride. I try to look at him while he talks, and nod, saying, "Tamam" during the pauses (basically, "Okay"). I have to listen hard for the change in pitch, if he's asking a question - when he asks a question, he usually looks at me. I used to say, "I don't understand," but that never stopped him, so I don't anymore. Now I say things like, "You know, Tom Cruise said the exact same thing to me yesterday at the club." Then Nazim will say, "Tamam."

The difference between the medical faculty and my regular students, besides the doctors being a little bit more advanced, is imagination. They talk all the time, and they just run with questions that I ask them. For instance, when I ask my regular class to pretend that they are meeting one another for the first time, they ask me to restate the question a few times, then say "Hello," to one another. In Turkish.

I gave this task to the doctors. The first pair, a surly old man named Bulent and the only woman, Sahran, began innocently enough until Bulent asked Sahran how her operation went. She got confused, and Bulent clarified. "I heard they took out your kidney." Sahran turned to me and said this wasn't true, but Bulent interrupted. "I am pretending."

The absolute scariest part of my day is when Nazim drives me home. My first day, the outbound traffic, towards the university, was clogged. We were stuck. Nazim muttered a few Turkish curses then jumped the median between our lane and incoming traffic. Then we drove for three minutes in the incoming traffic lane. And it was just as full as our lane.

As I got out of the car later and tried to hide the pee stains on my pants, I was shutting the door, with my hand in the small crack between the frame and the window (I rolled it down to throw up in fear), Nazim rolled the window up on my fingers, trapping them. Then he pulled out of the parking lot. I ripped my fingers out of the door and waved limply. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Van Tourism: Mission Accomplished

There are basically four things in Van - Akdamar Island, Van Castle, the Muradiye waterfall, and the Van cat. Look at any Coca-Cola billboard, and you'll see all four, stacked one on top of the other - the waterfall as a base, with the castle on top of it, mounted by the church at Akdamar, and finally ruled over by a humongous white cat head. Walk into any fast food restaurant in town to see this startling vision of how things could be.

Two weeks ago, Murat and I went to Akdamar; last week I went to Van Castle and was robbed by ten year  olds; occasionally I see these white cats watching me from the bushes. Who knows what they're planning? So this weekend it was time to go see the waterfall.

We took Nevzat's father's car about an hour north of the city. Nevzat has a driver's license, but that can mean different things in Turkey. It can mean that once, a long time ago, he passed a short driving test. That's just a personal guess. The car was a stick shift, and for the hour Nevzat drove, Cihat and Bulent were yelling, "Bir. Iki. Uch - no, uch! Durt. DURT!" calling out the gear names as Nevzat shifted. While this was going on, I was yelling, "CRANK THE EVANESCENCE!" The band's debut album, smash hit of 2002, was in the CD player.

You may be able to tell from the picture that I got the wrong signal about hands on shoulders. Nevzat, on the left, is obviously not going for it.

People in Turkey love the picnic. Everyone is just picnicking uncontrollably. And it shows - the area on which we threw down our Turkish blanket was littered with plastic trash. It was a little sad, and my friends agreed. It is like this in the southeast, they said. People do not think about preserving the pretty places. However, we picked up our picnic, though it was no type of picnic I've ever experienced. Cihat threw down a portable grill, filled with coals it took the better part of a half hour to stoke. That was Bulent's job. Nevzat cut up the salad, which is basically just tiny chunks of cucumber and tomato and a few other vegetables. My job was to put out the vibe. I was pretty decent at it until I got light headed because I was standing in the smoke. Bulent had to physically move me.

Not Pictured: Troll who lives under the bridge. Out to lunch.

We were there for a few hours, grilling chicken and losing in cards (may have just been me). On the way home we switched to Green Day ("CLASSIC" I yelled over the sputtering motor. For some reason we had to keep it under 90 kph. Cihat said to not pay any attention to the engine light). They dropped me off after dark; as I went to bed, I realized I had forgotten to eat dinner. I thought about the cookies I have hoarded, but then I realized I wasn't hungry anymore. Picnic indeed.

"You Are Boring"

I'm teaching forty year old professors. It should be easy, right? Civilized, enlightening, reflective? Perhaps even esoteric (I think that's where fresh water and salt water meet; I read it in a book on screenwriting). The answer to these adjectives and most other positives ones you can find in a thesaurus is no. If you compare them to animals, they will most be like man cubs - raised by monkeys, but still four years old.

(Just in case any of these professors has found my blog and Google translated it, that was a little harsh, I admit. You are most like the campers I had at Camp War Eagle. Like twelve year old boys. How about that?)

After a week and a half of teaching, I've spotted the types. There's a fifty-something professor of theology who is the kid who knows all the answers. And all the answer return to the spiritual character of a man. Even the answers about the weather in the Black Sea region. "WE - BELIEVE - IT IS - THE SOUL OF A MAN -"

"Yes, Hiyat, that is very true. What other kind of weather does the Black Sea have? Anyone?"

There are two best friends, women who speak very little Turkish, who giggle at every mispronounciation  I make. Today when we were talking about marriage, I repeated what a student said - that the bride and the groom are ceremonially bathed before the wedding - and these two women began laughing like schoolgirls, laughing so hard they couldn't speak enough words to explain that what I had said was funny to fourteen year olds.

Then there's the kid who won't answer anything. "Faruk," I say, "what is your favorite movie?" And Faruk just shakes his head, 'no'. He's a big man, and he sits in the back with his arms crossed. He has nice ties, though.

Today I had to create two rules: 1) No Turkish, and 2) Only one person speaks at a time. In the beginning I thought we could get by on mutual respect. We are all adults (well, everyone except me). But something happened last night that made me reevaluate.

After class yesterday, I was in my office when there was a knock. A woman from my class came in, and with the help of a friend she told me that it was too loud in class for her to understand. I knew this was my fault and told her I would fix it. Then, she said, "And...you are boring." What? "You...are boring?" We stood confused for a few seconds before she left, and then it was confirmed - my class was boring.

Later on that night I attended an intramural soccer game of my peers (English Dept vs. Education Dept; we play every week, and we roll them. We have this old man who I swear never moves more than twenty feet in either direction, but can pass a soccer ball like a lead bb), I caught a ride into town with a player who had to pick up his wife. It turned out his wife was the very same woman who thought I was boring. With the help of the others in the, I eventually understood that she meant to ask me if I was bored in class. Whoa. Big relief. But then the car went on to talk about my class for the next fifteen minutes in Turkish, and no one would translate.

Swindled and, in the End, Happy

Yesterday, for the first time in Turkey, I was ripped off by three elementary school age kids. I'm not even mad. It was pretty clever, in hindsight.

I took a bus to Kale, the Van Castle. Van Castle overlooks the city; it sits on a brief outcropping of rock, and you can easily see the walls that have been reconstructed, which are white, compared to the old, original castle. Still impossible to scale, though, as I found out.

My bus dropped me on the wrong side of the castle walls - the side where attackers would die gruesomely because they couldn't find a way up. I was walking along an access road, trying to find the main gate (my guide book said there was a small cluster of gift shop/tea house/museum type buildings somewhere) when I was approached by three cute little kids. They knew a little English, and offered to take me into the castle. Thinking it would be a short trip, I agreed.

Show me a chain link fence in Turkey, and I'll show you a hole in it. Probably directly in front of us. If I've only learned one thing here, it's that, but I've learned two things - children can be as sinister as adults, or robots, even. As these kids took me up a path only they knew, criss-crossing the steep slope up to the foot of the walls, I realized I would have to tip them a little. Maybe a lira, for getting me to the castle entrance. I was already regretting my decision to go with them, because the foot wide path we walked was often pushed to the edge of something that could be classified as "a long way down." I realized that my fear of heights had kicked in when I saw the ten year old girl in front of my offering to help me up a boulder.

It happened when we reached the pinnacle. I looked back at the path we had came up, and couldn't see it - I had no idea how to go back down. It was the same in front of me - I didn't know how to proceed. The kids knew this. And at this point, they asked for money.

It was the oldest one. He was maybe twelve. He asked for five lira, and I said one. We flipped flopped until we reached three, and I paid. This all happened in Turkish, and I would have been stoked about the language exchange if I hadn't been thinking about how I needed to change my underwear when I got down. The oldest boy took the money and then ran past me, climbed a straight up rock face, and disappeared. Oh no.

Right before he Ocean's Eleven'd me.

There were still two kids left, making gestures of want. I panicked. Do you ever sit in a quiet place, like a funeral or a Broadway show, and have an irrational fear that you're about to scream? You get worried that, like turrets, you're about to let loose some terrifying loud noise and ruin the moment for everyone? I do, all the time. And on the top of this rock, fifteen feet from any edge, I had this fear that at any moment, against my will, some insane portion of my brain was about to make a run and jump for it, to try to fly. I pointed at both kids; "Besh ve besh, if you can get me down from this death trap." They said yes.

Not Pictured: Courage. Or dignity.

As we walked along the ramparts of the castle, it became apparent that I wasn't supposed to be here. This area was obviously not open to the public, because it was still under construction. Concrete mixers, sandbags, and even wet walkway - I left a shoe imprint at one of the nooks where archers used to stand to shoot arrows at bad guys.

Eventually, after I taught the kids the phrase, "Don't look down," we made it to the bottom. I paid them both five lira and gave them a hug, saying, "I never want to see this place again." We parted, and I started walking in field at the foot of the castle, where a few ruins were spread out. After about an hour, I came to the actual Van Castle, where a two lira ticket would get you passage up a wide gravel road to the top. I figured, what the heck, and went up there to see if it was any different. It wasn't, and it was full of tourists. I laughed to myself, because they were not getting the real experience. The real experience included a real fear of death.

On my way back down I saw a Japanese family with the little girl who had shown me around. She called me by name, and I gave her a high five. The Japanese man said if I needed it, she could show me around - that she knew the castle well. "No worries, Nintendo," I said. "Shorty and I are cool."

You Can Call Me Mega-Fast Wind

When I first arrived in Van (positioned on Lake Van, right, as seen from space - note the resemblance to a phoenix), my home for the next nine months, I was told the university wasn't ready for me. The classes I was supposed to teach didn't yet exist, and it wasn't possible for them to mentally prepare enough for my style of dress. That's okay, I said. I don't have to teach right away. In fact, I don't have to teach at all. I have no idea how, anyway.

(I got the Fulbright to Turkey because I looked up all the countries which didn't require previous knowledge of the language - there were 13, out of the 200 countries the Fulbright is offered for - and applied to the country with the most spots. I had to write an essay about why I have always wanted to go to Turkey. Thank you, Wikipedia. I don't care what professors say about open code sources.)

Monday was the first day I had classes to teach. I've been assigned a conversation class, meeting five days a week for two hours at a time. When I first heard about it, I panicked; Hassan, the department head, told me not to sweat it. He said that when he taught the class, he would go in and write a topic on the board and just ask questions, so that the students would answer in English. Basically, he told me he just made it up on the fly and didn't give a Turkish rat's behind about preparation.

So on Monday I went to my office hours and wrote science fiction, played Age of Empires III, and then a half hour before class started I had a panic attack. It was small and unembarrassing, but it spoke to my tiny, surly fear - I have no idea what I'm doing.

I walked in the classroom; in it there were maybe 20 or 25 professors, 40 years old and up, waiting to learn English from me. Hassan came in with me, and spoke to the class at length. What he had to say could've been said in three minutes, but, God bless him, he took thirty. During his speech he would occasionally turn to me and tell me how to teach the class. These were things that were sort of intuitive -  like writing vocabulary on the board or correcting pronunciation. I felt a little helpless because this was happening in front of my students, who were saying to each other, "This is him? He looks like a Yeti someone has shaved and then put on a liquid diet. Pass the olives, Mehmet."

Finally, before he left, Hassan told the class I wouldn't be there on Thursday, because on Thursdays I would be at the city campus, teaching the medical faculty for eight hours. This was perfectly acceptable to the students, but because I had never heard of this before, I was slightly concerned. On his way out, Hassan said, "Do not worry - we'll talk tomorrow," as if to communicate that he knew I had no idea about the eight straight hours of English teaching he had added.

There were a few moments of silence. I took a few baby steps. I wrote my name on the board, and asked the students to tell me their names. And it went on from there. It wasn't completely smooth, but somehow we got on the topic of the meanings of names, and an hour and a half later they left. All this with absolutely no preparation. Thank you, Hassan.

Like this blog, while in class I told a few lies. I told them I had met Tom Cruise once, but was too shy to speak to him. I told them that there were seven generations of Cass's in my family. And when asked the meaning of my name (which happens all the time - everyone here knows what their names means), instead of admitting I didn't know, I said it can mean either "fast wind" or "mega-fast wind," depending on pronunciation.

Turkish Man Night

Last Friday I was in my office, attending to important business - I had to repel the Ottoman invasion of Colorado, on the video game Age of Empires III. Often my co-workers will stop in briefly and remark about how hard I work. "It is true," I say, hiding my computer screen. "But if not me, then who?"

I was creating villagers to harvest wood when Murat, a Turkish grad student in the English department, came in and sat down. I quickly shut my laptop. It turned out that Murat was bored, and after he asked to watch me play Age of Empires III (how did he know?), I said, "Maybe you would like to go to town?" He stood up immediately. "Yes - we go."

This was around lunchtime. Murat and I had already agreed to go to Akdamar Island together, where there is an old Armenian church, on Saturday (see picture on the right, of Murat, myself, and the famous trash can). As we walked out of the English department, I knew what going to town with Murat meant - this meant sleepover.

In my few weeks here in Van, I have discovered a trick I like to call the Trap Door Sleepover (TDS). Basically, as you and a friend recline in a tea house, or walk through town, maybe ride the bus together, or share a meal, at one point the friend will say, "I insist you stay with me tonight." I'm not sure about Turkish culture, but sleepovers for me went out of style after Billy the Blue Ranger left for the water planet in the original Power Rangers (think 1996). However, it is still very popular among twentysomethings here.

Murat's only roommate is Memed, who is a police officer in Van. Turkish police officers must serve two to four years in eastern Turkey, where, apparently, no one wants to serve because of either the violence or the boringness, I couldn't get a straight answer. Memed spoke no English, but one thing was clear - he was getting engaged on Saturday. I told Murat that in the U.S., before marriage a groom's friends would hold a bachelor party. Memed liked this idea.

We kicked off the night with warm bologna pizza, cold fries, and oversized chicken nuggets. It was what Memed wanted. Then we went back to their apartment to watch the Eurocup qualifying match between Turkey and Germany. And we did it like men; Memed prepared the hookah, and Murat boiled more tea than was healthy to drink. We watched that match from cushions on the floor, smoking Arabic tobacco and drinking more tea than it's possible to pee out in four days. I'm still feeling the effects.

At one point in the match (after a German of Turkish descent, Mesut Ozil, scored on Turkey - "Traitor," Memed and I agreed), Memed had to let his fiance into the apartment, and they went back to his room to talk about the engagement. An engagement in Turkey is more of an agreement between families, where the two families gather and promise certain things to one another. After the door closed, I asked Murat what the Turkish phrase for "man card" was, but we could not come up with anything that carried the same weight. When Memed came back, I let him off easy with a "are-you-serious" stare.

Taste of Breakfast Rivaled Only By Terror of Host

Many Turkish cities are known for something in particular. Gaziantep is known for baklava; Bursa is known for kebab. Van is known for it's lake monster - I'm serious, I have a picture. But I'm not publishing until I have more proof. I don't want to have another Phantom Menace on my hands. They should have never released that monster.

Also, Van is known for it's breakfast. Turkish breakfast is lavish, but Van is supposed to have the best breakfast in the country. Last Saturday, some friends from the English department invited me to breakfast at Bak Hele Bak, a very nice restaurant which, while we were waiting for the food, they admitted they had never been to. I'm glad we got to experience it together, because I'm sure I couldn've known from their faces what was coming.

I'm not talking about the food. Which, by the way, was glorious in a way that the sun is when you get really close, like a hundred thousand miles (at which point it will turn you into neutrons). Turkish breakfast comes all at once, on a hundred tiny plates, each displaying a certain type of olive, or a special cheese, or homemade honey. You just pick and choose; almost everything ends up spread onto bread, including the sausage and undercooked egg mixture (sounds gross, tastes like pure protein). I still can't identify the best part of the meal - it looked like a tortilla, had the consistency of a scrambled egg, and tasted like cream cheese. If you can tell me what it was, I will FedEx you a high five. Overnight. That will cost me more than the breakfast.

Afterwards, I didn't eat lunch, and I had some cookies for dinner and even had to push those away. "No more cookies," I said. "I am STUFFED. It must've been the cream cheese scrambled pancake."

But if my companions had been there before, I think what I would have seen on their faces would've been sheer terror when the owner walked in. The name of the restaurant is Bak Hele Bak, but the owner's name, Yusuf Konak, and his face appear everywhere the restaurant name does. Everywhere. Think napkins. He was on my mouth - oh no. I'm going to throw up. GET AWAY FROM ME KEYBOARD.

Yusuf is an older man who always wears a dark suit with a pink silk tie. I've seen the photos. He speaks no English, which I learned when he was yelling at me. Don't be alarmed - he wasn't angry. That's how he communicates. He came in the restaurant about halfway through our meal and began yelling like Samuel L. Jackson. Like an angry cop on the wrong side of the law. My friends told me he was actually asking trivia questions about Turkey - get it right and he would reach into his pocket and pull out ear rings or an actual ring, some tidbit. Then he would throw it at you. I was lucky. He threw a scarf at me. The others...some didn't make it.

He shook every single person's hand in that restaurant. And it hurt (you can see him here holding the shoe he later slapped everyone with). Later, when all had been quiet, I asked one of my Turkish friends where Yusuf went. Murat, my friends, pointed to a table where Yusuf was being interviewed by a camera crew. Local news, I asked. No, Murat said. It was a very famous program, actually, the equivalent of the Food Channel. Interviewing Yusuf. I said a little prayer for the show's host. If he was lucky, it would all be over quickly.

In Turkey it is Illegal to Smoke Inside

In Turkey, things are different. For instance, the English Department has it's own tea runner. His name is Maruf, and he sports a unibrow like it is the only thing keeping his forehead warm. Maruf does nothing except deliver chai tea to anyone who calls. The extension is 3262. I know it because to every office I visit, Maruf comes at least twice while I am there, to present the tea. Even when I tell the professor, "No more tea, please. My bladder just painfully ruptured," still Maruf comes.

Another thing: students don't show up to the first week of class. I'll walk around the department, taking breaks from reading comic books during my office hours, and I find all the professors in their rooms. Why, I ask. Because the students didn't show up. Is this common? Are you outraged? No, it's expected, they say, and then dial Maruf for more chai.

One of the reasons they drink so much chai, I think, is because smoking was recently, as of last year, banned indoors. Smoking is very big in Turkey, like Mad Men big or the planet Jupiter big. Everyone does it, but there's beginning to be a backlash. You can't smoke indoors now. In theory, at least. Many times, other professors will produce cigarettes and say something like, "It is good for the economy," or "There is too much oxygen in here." They look sheepish, but they still open a window and sigh into a cigarette.

This is what we do, because there are no students. I am told that next week, which will be the second week of classes, students will start to come, and the smoking will decrease. We will still drink chai, they tell me. They have to pay Maruf for something.

Hassan, the department head, is an old man with skin that is almost orange and a bright white mustache. He is nice like a grandfather on a sitcom, and he doesn't smoke cigarettes. He smokes a pipe - the greatest pipe I have ever seen. It is carved out of white marble, with a bowl that you can fit two fingers into. The outside of the bowl is marked like a little brick bowl, and it is held by a huge and magnificent dragon claw. That's right, a dragon claw, like the ones used for piercing steel armor and hoarding gold. Hassan lit it while facing the window, then turned to me and said, "In Turkey, it is illegal to smoke inside," by which he meant, "I run this mother."

We Have All the Projectors

I have finally made it to Van, where I will be staying for the next nine months. I came to teach English and take names. But I'll give them back when I'm through. I just need them for a small trick.

On Monday I met with the English department head for the first time. Before I left the states, I was told that I would need to wear, as a daily uniform, a dress shirt and slacks. The teachers who inspired me in high school wore flannel and jeans, and had great big bushy beards. But they also had to teach in the Bates Annex. That's where the ghosts were.

Anyway, I had to buy several shirts and pants. I even had to shine my shoes. And when I walked into the English department, the head was wearing a Hollister shirt.

His name is Hassan, and he is a nice old man. He, along with everyone else, wears jeans and, if they feel like it, a collar. He told me that at the university, the department was known as the English mafia, because they got the best rooms, and they "had all the projectors." I said I was glad I had joined the right team.

I found out that I'll be teaching conversational English to graduate students and professors; my students probably won't have much experience at all, and most likely know nothing about dragons, so I have my work cut out for me. I'll teach 12 hours a week, with one catch - I don't start until mid-October.

When Hassan told me this, I was a little shocked. All the other Fulbrighters were supposed to start that day, that first Monday when they walked into the office. But I have two weeks to myself. I briefly thought about leaving immediately - I thought about traveling for a few weeks around Eastern Turkey before my classes started. But something made me reconsider. As I thought about my next two weeks, I realized I had an opportunity to rise in the English mafia. And so I asked Hassan: "Tell me - how can I get in on the projectors?"

An Example of Turkish Generosity

Sometimes the people here in Turkey make me feel like a terrible human; they have a social level and a generosity that is beyond me. I will try to explain, using a story as well as pictures, because some of us are visual learners. I'm an olfactory learner, so I just had to be there to get it.

Last Sunday a few friends and I wanted to go to a hamam (Turkish bath). We were walking in that direction when we decided to stop for a short lunch. This was maybe around noon. Then, around four, I realized I was still smoking hookah and playing backgammon with the cafe owner. What happened, you might ask. I ask that same question every time I shake my eight ball. And all it says is, "Maybe."

The people here in Turkey are gracious beyond words. Basically, Ur, the owner, offered to teach me backgammon. Then he had his waiters continually bring tea and coals for the hookah. The pace here in Turkey is dialed down to 3 on a scale of 3 to 10. When I got anxious about making it to the hamam, Ur said, "Do not go today. Tomorrow, come back here, and I will take you to my hamam." Of course he said this in Turkish, and it took my group probably three minutes to translate.

(Not only did we get the hamam invite, but Ur also invited us to be his guests that night, watching the rivalry match between Turkey's two big football clubs. When we came back, all but a few of the tables had been taken out of the restaurant, and the chairs had been arranged in rows facing a projector. Ur still gave us a table and served us dinner. After the game, when his workers were mopping the empty floors, Ur served us tea and would make vague comments about how handsome I was. I don't say this to emphasize my good looks, but to stress that Ur and I had a relationship that almost made me uncomfortable. When we walked together, he put his arm through mine, which is a common practice in Turkey but in America it is something we call gay.)

On Monday we came back to Ur's restaurant, and after some tea (there is always tea), he ushered the girls in our group into his car, and had one of his waiters run two blocks to flag down a taxi for the guys. It seemed like a normal task to the waiter.

The hamam itself wasn't a 15th century marble building - it was in the second basement of a Mall of America type building. It wasn't much to look at, but when a 250 pound mafia don-esque masseuse is trying to rip the skin off your back, you're not really looking around. Since I still don't speak much Turkish, the masseuse gave up talking and started slapping me when he wanted me to move. Ur came in a couple times to check on me and talk to the masseuse. I finished maybe ten minutes after everyone else, which makes me think that Ur requested the special "Extra Pain" option.

But take a minute and consider - this man took two days off to cater to a group of punk American twentysomethings; he gave us free food and tea, and then took us to a Turkish bath. He adopted us, for no reason at all, other than hospitality is in his culture.

When we finished, we all went back to Ur's cafe to play more backgammon. After our games, Ur was quiet. Suddenly he said something, which our group's sole Turkish speaker interpreted as, "He said he will miss you the most," pointing to me. We laughed, and Ur spoke again; "He said you think it's a joke, but he's serious." At this point I was confused, because all I did to communicate with Ur over these two days was use funny faces and charades. I was a little embarrased, so I made another funny face. Ur smiled and said something else, to which our translator said, "I'm not exactly sure, but I heard 'Cass' and 'donkey.'"

Draw your own conclusions.

It Was a Good Death

Here in Ankara, we wear dress clothes everyday to attend seminars on Turkish Culture, English Teaching, and Covert Intelligence (I can't really tell you what I'm doing in Turkey). But last Friday, after we finished our discussion on capturing and interrogating a tail, we were told by our advisors to dress extra special for dinner. Job fair? No. Even better, they said. We're going to the Ambassador's house.

There is no current Ambassador here in the capital; the last one was moved to Iraq this year, and there's a hold on the nomination of the next. However, whoever was in charge that night was definitely an American. When we arrived at this fenced in forest mansion, we were hoping for some real Turkish food. Unlike the hotel dinner, something substantial and filling, like too many Oreos. Instead, as we filed onto the grass lawn, the lame-duck Ambassador announced, "I can see it in your faces - you miss your home land. Therefore, HOT DOGS FOR EVERYONE."

I'd been gone a week, and I still hadn't had a solid, undisputedly authentic Turkish meal. But this was hot dogs for everyone - you can't turn that down. It's instinctive, like some sort of hunter-gatherer culture where the hot dog traded for double it's weight in ivory and molars.

I don't do well with adults - I don't know what to say. As any individual who gets by solely on humor and zero other attractive attributes will tell you, it takes a while to build credibility. You can't just jump in. And I can't make any other type of conversation, because that's not the way my mind works. My one conversation with an Embassy diplomat ended with me asking if it was actually possible to catch a falling star, and if so, what kind of self-destructive person would put it in his or her pocket? It's burning at like six trillion degrees. Celsius, of course. 

But this was okay, because just that Friday afternoon I had finally established credibility with the Fulbright community. It took a week of sitting at the back of the room and mumbling jokes under my breath, but I finally came forth.

Friday we had to prepare a ten-minute micro lesson, teaching one life skill to a group of four others. In my group, we had lessons on how to tie a tie, how to make an origami hat, how to play dominoes - I taught on how to incapacitate a Yeti.

Curious? You should be, especially if you live in an area with elevation exceeding 5000 ft. There's an acronym for it: K.N.O.T. It stands for Knee Neck Organs Throw. You see, with the abnormal speed, hideous strength, and overly evolved sense of territory, your only hope of incapacitating a Yeti is to get it on the ground. With it's curved spine, a Yeti is incapable of rolling over on it's stomach, once it's on it's back. Like a turtle, it is stuck (don't get to cocky - it can still rip your legs off). Assuming an athletic stance, kick for the knee, grab with both hands around the neck, put a knee in it's stomach, then step in front of the Yeti and throw it across your body and onto the ground.

As I taught this to my group of four, I made them get up and practice the moves with me. A few of them laughed and had a good time; one, Maria, and fortysomething woman with many years ESL teaching experience, was not amused. However, she eventually came along, especially after I explained the dangers of Yetis. I told the group that we had all lost relatives to the Yeti; I asked them to go around and say who in their family had been killed. One said a father. Another said a brother. When it got to Maria, she looked at me without any humor and said, "My uncle. It was a good death."

First Impression Are Important, Unless You're a Tourist

The Fulbright ETA's are in Ankara for two weeks, attending seminars both on English teaching and the Turkish culture. We're in a hotel whose name translates to "Capital Teacher House" - it's meant especially for teachers, and in addition to housing and conference rooms it provides three eerily similar meals a day. This means that if I leave at all, I leave the hotel after sundown.

(Ankara as a city isn't that interesting, so it's no loss. After the country was restructured in the 1920's, the capital was moved to this small town and built almost from scratch. It's a pretty standard city.)

Tonight a few friends and I took the metro to Kiliray, the student friendly strip. There's a pedestrian road there, with trees and street vendors selling socks and mix CDs (as in, these men created a playlist and are now selling it on the street. These guys don't even have GEDs, but by golly they're doing what they love). My friends and I stopped at a cafe and hookah lounge, where we happened to be celebrities.

Our waiter's name transliterates to Chari (I can't find the Turkish alphabet online - it may be banned, just like YouTube). Chari looked like a Turkish Robert Downey, Jr., and had a particularly Eurasian haircut that was business in the front, party foul in the back. He spoke less English than I speak Turkish ("thank you," "hello," "goodbye," "give me the weapon"), but when he wasn't serving customers he kept returning to our table to massage my shoulders, and saying, "very handsome, very handsome." He brought others waiters by our table, one by one, and even had the bar's entertainment, a musician on a elaborate guitar, play me a song (I'm not sure what Chari said, but the guitarist stopped his current song, started a new one, and stared at me long enough that I had to leave to use the restroom. When I got back, the guitarist was still looking at my empty chair).

I need to clarify that I wasn't looking too handsome. Since I've left for Turkey, I haven't done much in the way of showering. I don't shave and I even had a Fulbrighter, during one of our business dress seminars, say, "You like to keep it casual, don't you?" You should see my sweatpants, I replied with my mind. He was too freaked out by my telepathy to respond.

Chari's antics attracted the attention of a table of twentysomethings, guys playing backgammon, which is the official old person game here in Turkey. They would occassionally stare at our table; I would try not to look, though we locked eyes once. I waved, though I wasn't brave enough to say anything. The last cafe I was at, when I left I yelled, "Merehaba!" What my then waiter heard was "HELLO!" which could also mean "WHAT A GIANT TOOL I AM!"

Eventually, the table exchanged words with Chari, and after a few mime motions I figured out that they wanted to watch me smoke hookah. Like any well-rounded, confident young man I immediately became self conscious and tried to give away the hookah mouthpiece, but one of the table-sitters got out of his chair and actually put it to my lips. As I drew in a breath, they all watched silently. I began to exhale, and felt an itch in my throat that had been there the whole night. As I began to think, "Exhale slowly and act like an angry action star," my organs replied "NEVER! And stay out of my head" and I began to cough uncontrollably.

A good portion of the patio began to laugh, and I have come to suspect that the word handsome probably means moron in Turkish.

Turks Rule the Air, Almost the World

Did you know that American Airlines doesn't offer peanuts anymore? Peanuts used to be so cheap that my uncle would yell, "I'm getting paid peanuts!" If you yell that on an American flight, people will say, "In this economy? You've been blessed."

Not in Turkey. I had an hour and a half flight from Istanbul to Ankara yesterday, rounding out a 24 hour period of travel, and they served lunch. It wasn't even lunchtime. We left Istanbul at 1:30. And it was an inconvenient meal. As soon as we reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants were throwing these trays out. They didn't even bother with the cart. It was like dock workers throwing fish - cous cous in the face! And I hadn't even started my chocolate mousse before an attendant was shoveling my uneaten salad into a trash bag. She said we were preparing to land. We were preparing to take off thirty minutes ago.

You can't get mad, though. On my ten hour flight from New York to Istanbul, it was like the attendants were trying to compost the trash on my fold out tray. They would be handing out breakfast sandwiches and say, "Oh, I'll take the rest of your cheese tortellini."

I was lucky this time - I didn't get an emergency exit, but I did sit behind a woman who got an emergency exit, and she also had a broken arm. The flight attendant made her move because she was unable to operate the door. I volunteered to switch spots with her. As we disembarked in Turkey, she said to the attendant, "See - I told you we wouldn't crash."

On the way over the Atlantic, I watched The Green Zone and Prince of Persia. After The Green Zone I wanted to watch something much more fun and lightweight, but it turns out those movies are very similar. Apparently Prince of Persia is a thinly veiled allegory for Iraq. I'm serious. The whole movie the  king is searching for a weapons forge in this city he invaded, but it turns out his evil advisor tricked him into an attack to secure the Sands of Time. It's a good thing Jason Bourne was there, or he might have gotten away with it.

On the flight to Ankara, the pilot made a paragraph long announcement in Turkish, and the whole plane began to clap. I thought he had just told an awesome story about how he almost met Tom Cruise or accidentally stole a car in Zurich. But during his English translation, it turned out that the Turkish national basketball team was on the flight with us. They had just lost in the FIBA finals to the U.S. I didn't know this, however, because the Turkish papers in the airport had headlines that translated into, "CHAMPIONS." I guess Turkey decided to pull a North Korea on that one.

I'm Leaving for Nine Months and I'm Going to Take -

I'm packing tonight for Turkey. I'll be in a remote region, in Van (pronounce Juan because of the strong Hispanic connections in the Middle East), and I'm trying to prioritize my things. What matters most to me? What will provide the most entertainment? What can hold the most heroin?

I have a 72 disc binder; it has three seasons of Buffy, the collected series Firefly, a few video games to get me through the Pankratium (November 22nd), and some throwing stars. They're just for goodluck - I haven't had to use them since January. I also packed ten or so books to get me by before my Kindle arrives. One day it'll show up at my door, and I'll think to myself, "I should've changed those stupid locks." We have a destructive relationship, but I can't get away.

Mostly I'm just scared. My parents built a nice new house on the lake, and I don't want to leave it. My dad and I sat on the porch this afternoon and read until I finished my book. I don't want to lose that. In the end I know I'll be thrilled to be in Turkey on Tuesday, but the goodbye tomorrow is the part I don't like.

I leave Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m., and I'll arrive in Ankara, the capital of Turkey, at 4:00 p.m. on Monday. It's called time travel, and it's one of the services I offer. I'll be in Ankara for two weeks for training.

I can't fit my multi-tool into the heel of my Chaco. I want to have it on the plane just in case I'm in an emergency exit row, but the security guards always confiscate. I thought I had them fooled, but I can't make it work. They'd never think to look in my shoes.