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."