Permanently Moved

Despite the fact that Blogger is now freely available in Turkey (we will not be silent!), I'm permanently moving to my own personal web address in the sky. Like satellites, not heaven.

You can find these stories and more at tronmcknight.com.

Thank you for your patronage.

Something New

You've reached the blog of Cass Trumbo, polymath and dragon master and other things. Turkey has currently blocked Blogger, so until they lift the ban I'm continuing my blog at tronmcknight.wordpress.com. Please leave a comment after the beep.

Government Bureaucracy? Solved with Dancing!

This past weekend was the mid-year meeting for all Fulbright ETA's in Turkey. The Fulbright Commission paid for the Ankara Hilton this time - BOO YEAH. They had a pillow menu. The hot tub wasn't that hot, but I was definitely there for a long time because where else am I going to find a hot tub in Turkey? In comparison, the last meeting we had in Ankara was in an orgetmenevi, or teacher's house. Three plus out of the fifty Fulbrighters got food poisoning, and the railing on my balcony was broken. I could've died.


On Friday, we went up one by one to a stand and microphone and gave a summary of our individual situations. By the second presentation, I realized I am ridiculously lucky to be in Van. Most everyone had some outrageous complaint: my boss doesn't talk to me, my peers think I'm not a real teacher, I'm not getting paid, Cass stares at me when he thinks I'm not looking (I overheard the last one at breakfast). Almost every single girl, even the ones who stated that they loved their situation, said men think they are prostitutes, and will on occasion shout that out in the street.

I get paid regularly. I love my department head and my peers. I have yet to be called a gigolo. Plus, no one else lives in a city with its own animal. Van cat outside my window - high five! Or run away because of my sudden movement.

It's obvious that Fulbright regrets these difficulties - I mean, they gave us each 300 lira in incidentals (of which I spent 50...on keychains). It remains to be seen how well the problems will be fixed by the time we leave.

However, Saturday was a free day and I'll just come out and say it - the best day I've had in Turkey, hands down. After switching hotels (no one could afford the Hilton if the government wasn't paying for it), a few friends and I played Dungeons and Dragons for seven hours. I can't say much now, because it deserves its own post, but it is definitely the greatest thing I've ever done, right behind regularly serving the homeless at the soup kitchen where I made BANK. Per hour of work, I don't think I've ever made more.

Saturday night, everyone wanted to go out. In our respective villages, no one drinks much because of the stigma, so when Fulbrighters get together, people drink a lot (not me, Mom). On Friday, at the pinnacle of drinking time, I had a guy offer me a job in the fall at a camp in California; at breakfast on Saturday he not only couldn't remember it, but admitted that he had no authority to hire anyone. Anyway, on Saturday, I did not want to go out, but I am a follower so there was really no choice. As it turned out, the bar we went to had a dance floor. CHA-CHING.

I realized after a few hours of dancing that people in Fulbright don't really know the actual versions of each other. Though no one tries to hide themselves, inevitably what we get is the Turkish version of each other. No one knew I liked to dance.

I've often dreamed about being able to play the piano well but never doing so. That way, after weeks or months of knowing someone, I could sit down at a piano and make people cry. Then all the girls would be like, "Cass, I totally see you for the stud muffin you are, underneath your big eyebrows." However, when I started dancing, all the girls would say is, "You're crazy," or "Your shirt is on inside out."

During special events at Camp War Eagle, I'll often be given a corner where I dance for two hours without stopping. The kids will come over in twos and threes and watch, amazed, as someone with the level of coordination I have tries to scissor kick. Beyond that, I haven't danced for fun as I did Saturday since college. And when my friends said, "I didn't know you liked to dance," all I wanted was to confess  my love for it. About how I was runner-up two years in a row for my fraternity's "Best Dancer Who Is Not Named Simoni Kigweba Award."

We named the award after him...sort of.

Or how my voice cracked while dancing in front of an audience of thousands of my peers. Listen how they laugh at 7:54. However, they seem impressed with my high kicks around the 3:15 mark.

Regardless, I got to relive my glory days and I only hit one Turk it the head with an elbow. Or he's the only one who complained. All in all, great weekend.

Dangers of Living in a Guest House

This past Sunday I decided that I had worked way hard during the past week when I taught my two classes, and that I deserved to do whatever I wanted. Which is what I do every day. But this time, I earned it.

I went to breakfast in the city; there are a few places which I patronize (this means I walk to a breakfast salon and tear a 50 lira bill in half, screaming, "BRING ME HONEY"; my patronage is highly sought after). Most of them still don't know I don't speak Turkish. So after explaining to Bulent again that I can't understand him - if we're on a first name basis I feel like he should know it already - I ate my honey and cream and stayed to drink chai until I got to a stopping place in my book (Takeshi defeated the younger version of himself in hand to hand combat - it's a time travel thing, and it'd take too long to explain here).

When I got back, I had a Spa Day (shower; use shampoo) and got back in to bed, preparing to watch the entire second season of Warehouse 13 again because a) it's that good, and b) I had to buy it through iTunes, so I need my money's worth.

Fighting paranormal crime so you don't have to...be productive.

At least that was my plan. And I know what they say - if you want to make God laugh, tell him a fart joke. He loves those.

By my third episode, I'm under the comforter, picking cookie crumbs out of my chest hair (and eating them - I had just showered and used shampoo), when I see in my sitting room one of the Turks who work at my guest house. After five months, I still live at a pseudo-hotel, in a two-room suite, but it's okay with me because they make my bed as long as I'm out by eleven. However, at this point it's not okay, because I have minimal clothes on and with my headphones I couldn't hear anyone enter.

But the Turk, seeing me shirtless with cookie crumbs on my shoulders (I'm a messy eater), gets so embarrassed that he walks backwards out of the room. That's right. He was so disgusted in awe of my then current situation that he was unable to walk normally.

I was slightly embarrassed but realized it was a mistake. Besides, I assumed that he would tell all of his friends to stay out my room because I was working out my eye muscles watching science fiction.

Not five minutes later I saw a different Turk walk into my sitting room. I knew him, and I assumed Ercan, while not being so paralyzed as to never walk forwards again, would graciously bow out of the room. Instead, Ercan looked at me and smiled. I took my headphones off and asked him what he wanted.

"What are you watching?" he asked. I'm watching one of the cleaning people invade my privacy. But instead of saying that in a way he would understand, I told him I was watching a television show. Expecting him to leave, I was again disappointed as he stood in my sitting room and looked around, checking surfaces for dust.

Eventually he did leave. I was amazed he stuck around that long, and expected him to be embarrassed about it later, but that night as I emerged for food, Ercan stopped me in the foyer and asked if I enjoyed the television show. The nerve of some people.

Women, We're on to You

Most funny things in life are small moments that don't fit into a big picture. Big picture funny things are the topics of books and movies. Most funny things are like the picture my dad sent me of the cat sleeping on my mom's neck. Classic.

So when Turks say funny things, or when I do something stupid, it usually takes a bit of wrangling to fit it into an overall framework, to make a post-length story. The following story I couldn't fit into any story from the past couple of weeks, but it makes me laugh, so I'll just post what actually happened. And besides, there were a lot of bad jokes in my last post. I tried to hard.

On Friday in my conversation class I set the topic as Valentine's Day, because it had just passed and I wanted to know what my students thought of it. Most of them didn't celebrate. Actually - none of them did. Once I taught them the word "commercialized," they agreed that Valentine's Day was all about money. So instead the conversation devolved into romance and then further into (yet again) the difference between men and women, where it was stated that while women only love one man, men can love many women. The word polygamy was used repeatedly, but I can assure you that no one knew what it really meant.

Anyway, after our daily tea break (gotta have it), we resumed class and I started to direct the conversation towards other holidays, like New Years or Mother's Day. We were deep in discussion about why moms are more sensitive than dads (men vs. women again; yet, no one ever seems to get offended), when Bunyamin, one of the silent students (there are a few who come to class not to speak but to improve their listening), spoke up and said, "Woman use eye-drop for gun." You could tell he put a lot of thought into how to phrase it.

All I Want to Do is Party, Buy Everybody in the Club Hakkari

Mark, the other American who teaches with me in Van, asked me to go to Hakkari with me this week. Since it's the last week before classes officially begin (my classes, already begun, are off the book, so I can evade taxes), it's Mark's last chance to travel. And when I told my friends we were going to Hakkari, they all said the same thing: "Why would you go there?"

Funny. That's exactly what people in Istanbul and Ankara said when I told them I was teaching in Van.

Hakkari is a border city with Iraq, and more isolated than Van, which I didn't think was possible. I owe Mark five lira now. The drive by dolmush, which as the dragon flies is 100 kilometers, takes four hours through the mountains, military check points, and periods of time where we're waiting for someone's friend. When we finally got to Hakkari, we were told that all the shops might close after lunch, due to a demonstration. But do not worry - there's nothing to see, anyway.

Though the town is small (we walked the full circumference twice in two hours), it is beautiful. It's surrounded by mountains, so that there is no horizon. Every sunset ends in jagged rocks, which is really romantic, if you're a supervillan. The odd thing about the town is that in America, it would've been colonized and commercialized long ago as a ski resort. The snow was gorgeous there. But everyone walked past them like they were Luke and the mountains were Yoda (he shouldn't have judged him by his size). The idea of skiing on a mountain where no other person has skiied before is exciting, but as Mark pointed out, I would have to walk back up on my own.

Fatih, a primary school teacher, was our host. He showed us around the city and planned a complicated dinner that took two hours to cook. Mark cut the onions while I washed my hands after using the restroom.

Fatih had three roommates, who we were introduced to and who took turns helping in the kitchen. However, when it came time for dinner, there were six roommates.

I have no idea who the two mustaches are, but inspiration doesn't need a name.

We ate on the floor, just like my parents used to make me when more important people came over. And I had to put my cup on a towel. Deja vu, teenage years. Notice the absence of plates - the meal, which was chicken, rice, and vegetables, had to be shoveled like snow. I thought it was very exciting but Mark said it reminded him of Mauritania (previous attempts to spell it included Moritania and Mortanya), where if you didn't eat quickly, you didn't get to eat.

On the ride home to Van, we were stopped at another military checkpoint where all the passengers had to hand in their IDs. Mark and I passed up our residence permits, which are like little passports made of wet paper, and waited to be cleared. However, the jandarma (military police) boarded the bus holding our permits and a hundred and fifty lira in cash. As it turns out, the money had accidentally become stuck in Mark's permit. Long story short - Mark almost bribed not only an officer of the law, but a military official. Luckily we got the money back - AND they didn't find the balloons in my stomach filled with helium. It makes me talk funny.

Your Move, SmartBoard

Last Thursday there was a frenzy in the department. Like piranha fish, instructors were swimming about in packs, bloodthirsty with excitement because of the University's very first American SmartBoard. Even though it's winter break, instructors are contractually obligated to be in their offices (it's Turkey...is the only explanation I've gotten). So instead of drinking tea for three hours on Hassan Hoja's new leather couches (which came with the SmartBoard upgrades), everyone crowded into the department's primary classroom to watch a demonstration.

This is the first SmartBoard at Yuzuncu Yil, as well as in Van, and probably in all of southeastern Turkey. I sat through the demonstration, though I didn't understand it, but I did see the board do quite a bit of intelligent things, including solving a hand written quadratic equation and playing a keyboard cat video. Unfortunately, the board has yet to receive its "this isn't really funny" lines of code yet.

I teach my conversation classes in the primary classroom where the new SmartBoard is. The white board that was previously there has disappeared. On Monday, the day of my first class, I told Hassan Hoja that I didn't know how to go about teaching without a white board; I didn't know how to use the SmartBoard. He told me that it was perfectly safe to write on the SmartBoard, that the demonstrator himself had done it, and then he lead me into the primary classroom and began to write on the board with a regular marker. He kept writing my name and erasing it, saying, "It is perfectly fine!"

My class was the very first class of the university (students' classes don't begin until next week). Because of this, I was to be the very first instructor to teach using the SmartBoard. I spent the first part of class writing out words and then quickly erasing them before the ink had time to dry. I was still nervous, despite Hassan Hoja's reassurances. During our class break, a couple of students came up to the board to examine it. "I do not think you should write on it," they said, and I assured them Hassan Hoja said it was alright. The older men of the class spent the next five minutes of the break attempting to show me how to use the board by repeated pressing the button marked "Pencil" and trying to write on the board. After a while I stopped explaining that the SmartBoard needed a projector to work.

This is me, except the board isn't on, the girl is a guy, and I'm wearing flannel.

The second half of class I relaxed and didn't erase as I taught, so after class I stayed later and tried to scrub the board with the paper towels I had brought. However, it seemed that no matter how clean the towel was, each time I wiped the board there was still a blue tint on the surface.

I was starting to panic when Zeki Hoja, the department's jack of all trades, appeared in the doorway. "Zeki Hoja," I said, "thank goodness. I may need help."

Zeki Hoja looked from me, to the board, and back to me before saying (and I quote - realize sometimes I tend to exaggerate but this entire story is the truth) - "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Consider the Average Reader

One of my favorite books is Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake, which is part time travel story, part memoir. In fifty years when everyone's forgot about it, I'm going to write my own. With dragons. That breath time.

Anyway, in Timequake Vonnegut says that every author writes for one specific person. He claimed he wrote for his sister Alice, who died decades before this particular book came out. KV, as I call him when I visit his grave, said that every author crafts the story so that this one specific person will enjoy it.

I like to write (SURPRISE! I also like to steal, but I have medication for that), and I like to think I write with my mother in mind. She's very easy to please. The two leads must be happy at the end. Evil must be vanquished, and if someone falls down and it's funny, so much the better.

Recently back in Arkansas where my parents live, there have been nasty snowstorms. Wood is scarce, and no one leaves their houses for fear of frost giants. Though they don't have cable, my parents do have Netflix, and in the course of the blizzard have watched many movies, including The Last Airbender. Afterward, my mother emailed me to ask some questions (she incorrectly references the movie as The Last Hairbender).

On returning home, we watched the Last Hairbender.....and loved it!!!!!!  But i have some unanswered questions......

• when will the little boy avatar learn to use his earth and fire bending skills?
• Who will teach him?
• Will the Prince of the Fire nation turn from the darkness to the light and become friends with the Avatar?
• What happens to the white-haired water princess who gave her life for the glowing fish....will she be resurrected?
• Does the majority of the people who see this movie understand the false theology sublimely embedded in the mystic spirituality of the film?
• When is the next sequel coming out?

Since I haven't seen it, I couldn't answer her (maybe you can). But I look at these and see some basic elements that, when I write, I need to cover in order to make my mom happy, including closure and possibly a redemption plot. But she's definitely hooked.

Happy Birthday, Self!

Last week I turned 23, but no one here knew it. I didn't really have the heart to tell everyone - "Guess who has two thumbs, a vestigial tail and a BIRTHDAY TODAY?" - so instead I explained to a couple of colleagues what Groundhog's Day was like, and how cool the Bill Murray movie was. Because it's funny and science fiction.

(It's like this with all holidays. Thanksgiving and even Christmas passed without much ceremony, because no one here knows about them. I was surprised how much I'm dependent on Christmas music, decorations, and A Muppet Christmas Carol to really recognize the holiday. My family would ask if I was lonely, and I would tell them I forgot what month it was.)

I got a call from the Fulbright program that day. They wanted to check to see if the information on my Turkish citizen number was correct. "And, by the way, Happy Birthday. You don't look 28." I agreed, and said I look either 23 or 45, depending on the beard. But I soon learned that the Turkish government has my birthday recorded as February 2nd, 1983. Since the mix up hasn't caused any trouble yet, I've decided to let them think that as I inform my insurance company to cut my monthly bill in half.

So instead of a party I bought a bus ticket to Erzurum, where a few other Fulbrighters had gathered to watch the 2011 Winter Universiade, which is the Winter Olympics for college students who are not participating in the concurrent X-Games or who have chosen to continue with their college hockey season instead of joining the American team. America did not have a strong showing. I know, because I went to the women's hockey semi-final between America and Canada. We lost 7 to 1. And all the Turks were chanting for an eighth goal.

(We, and for that matter everyone else, were not as bad as the Turkish women's hockey team, who lost all games by double digits, including a 32-0 game against Finland. I learned this from the British women's hockey team while watching the half-pipe finals. Obviously, they were extremely beautiful, and had great teeth.)

Along with gold medals, a stuffed version of the double headed eagle mascot was given to winners.  I swear, I saw the Russian hockey team cradling them.

Since Erzurum is in the extreme eastern area of Nowhere, there were not many spectators. Mostly Turks and participants. Thus, everywhere we went, people thought we were athletes, and were hopelessly disappointed when it turned out we were English teachers. However, when we never said anything, we got free bus rides, Pass Go cards through security, and even free tickets to the men's hockey gold medal game, which was almost as exciting as the women's.

At one point, bolstered by previous successes and the overall laxity of Turkish security (I think we were the only ones who bothered to buy tickets for the mountain events), I tried to push my way past security to a VIP area. When stopped, I took off my hat and pointed to my blonde hair. "AMERICAN," I said. "DON'T CARE," the guard said. So I put my hat back on and told him my friend Brobama was going to hear about this.

Finishing Strong

I spent the last week of my month long journey in Izmir, a city on the Aegean coast and the fourth most populous in Turkey. It also has awesome movie theaters. And I did the tourist thing - I went to the agora at Smyrna and the ruins at Ephesus. All it taught me was that my Classics degree has, only eight months after graduation, become nothing more than trivia facts. As my host family and I walked down the uncovered marble streets of Ephesus, I would say, "That's a library. Or a temple. Cat house?" or "That carving tells the story of Zeus and Apollo playing...charades? But I can't remember how it ends." It's a little discouraging to find that half the knowledge I spent four years acquiring is now apocryphal.

But forget about that (I apparently have). On Sunday I was invited to go to a Protestant church in Izmir, attended mainly by Turks. It was entirely in Turkish, which is humbling - it's easy to say, but it's hard to subconsciously believe God doesn't just speak English until you have to sing a hymn in Turkish. What was most disconcerting, though, was that although I knew some people there spoke English (I met them earlier, including the pastor, who studied in America and had great English), no one ever translated for me. They didn't even whisper, "We're about to pray," or "We're reading this passage," or "Those muffins require a monetary donation." Even when we broke up into smaller prayer groups, my group prayed in Turkish, though everyone spoke English and one guy (besides me) was American. I understand why - it's a Turkish church. But it climaxed during prayer requests, when one woman pointed to me and said something in Turkish. The whole congregation laughed, then the pastor moved to the next request, without translating how she had made fun of me.

My self-confidence skyrocketed.

Afterward I figured it out. I had helped the woman move earlier in the week (John, my host, asked during one day's errands if I could stop by for a little while. Of course, I said - I can spare four hours. Okay, I didn't say the last part, but I guess it was implied). This event included moving two couches down seven flights of stairs, up six flights of stairs, then moving another pair of couches down the same six flights. Elevators in Turkey hold two people (think about a matchbox. Now think about an elevator. They're like the second one), so it took longer. John moved his couch with another American, so they were able to say things like, "Slow down" or "Lift up." I moved with a Turk who didn't speak English. He would shout commands and I would say "AFFIRMATIVE!" without understanding.

On the second set of stairs, I was at the top of the couch when, weak from being generally a weak person, I collapsed with the couch on top of me. I was hurt, just greatly embarrassed, but all I could do was yell "TAMAM," or "Okay," because my partner either thought I was hurt or an idiot. Later John told me that if I wasn't there, the guy probably could've moved the couch by himself. He wasn't a big guy, but I guess that's just a Turkish thing.

So the comment in the church probably went like this: "I'm so thankful that everyone helped us move, including the foreigner [LAUGHTER]." Or she might have been describing how I collapsed.

For the sake of the site, I will say that while in Izmir I saw TRON the movie. Izmir has better theaters than my hometown in America. The movie was awesome, expect for the actual plot and whomever the movie was about (I read an article recently about how Hollywood is now tending to cast generically good looking leads without personality - think Avatar - so that the audience can imagine themselves in the lead role. I sure imagined what I would do inside a computer. I would kick butt. On a dragon made of light). But I think it's safe to say that the best parts of the movie were all the ones that involved the actual character of Tron.

It's a Staycation

I came home for a week so my mom could see me. At first my dad said it wasn't possible, then, after my mom didn't talk to him for three days, he bought me a ticket.

A lot has changed since I've been gone. My parents bought a dog to replace my brother, who moved out a month ago. It's name is Clive Owen, and it's half lab, half lab experiment. It can jump freakishly high, and it has the ability to become incredibly annoying. Clive Owen spent most of his time outside, sitting by the door just out of my sight.

He's a great guard dog, though. A couple of nights I came home after midnight and Clive Owen was so thrilled that he woke my parents up and then peed himself. Both true. My mom loves that dog.

I couldn't come home late very often because my body refused to believe it was on vacation. Instead, it wanted to pretend that it was working a nine to five job, with a two hour commute. I would wake up at 5:30 and want to go to bed around 8. I get that that's jet lag, but it's obscenely inconvenient when all you want to do is eat Cheez-It's and drink Coca-Cola at three in the morning while playing XBOX. I never made it that far and, sadly, I was only able to spend four hours repelling the alien invasion of Earth.

The strangest thing about my time at home was how similar it was to last year. I saw friends, had lunch and tea with friends, but mostly all of my time was spent watching Bones with my mom and dad. We watched almost all of Season 5 (Booth kissed Brennan, but she said she didn't want a relationship - are you kidding? not like I care). My parents, who don't have cable, have Netflix, and have slowly been working their way through the series. My mom has even developed a "Bones Dance" that looks a little like the hand jive. During the credits of each episode she would do it with enthusiasm, and my dad and I would follow to appease her. By my last episode the dance had spilled over into the ending credits and morphed into this butterfly catching motion.

Traveling Update - Or Is It?

I don't know where to start. I'm on my fourth currency in two weeks. I don't have a credit card (that's how they track you). Instad, when I started traveling, I had a Ziplock bag with 4500 lira in it, and I would change at each new country. It was a little harder with languages. By the time I got to Paris, I would start ordering in Turkish, then switch to Italian when I realized it. By the time I made it to French, the transaction was usually over.

The trip, my journey, could be summed up with a picture of me standing in line.


Rain turned out to be the norm for line standing conditions.

There really isn't an "off-season" for tourism. The guide books say there is, but they also said that La Spaghettari was an excellent restaurant, and we all know better, don't we? Or at least  now I know. That they charge for the bread in your table basket by the slice, whether or not you eat it.
No matter when you visit, the line to the Colloseum is always a thirty minute wait, and the Lourve is always crowded (except around the classical marbles, and those are my jam), and the Chinese people in London are always yelling at you to try their fried rice when really they know once you try it you're going to order a serving or two. It's smart business, I guess.

I think Rome is consistently my favorite city. The gelato is pretty cheap, the baroque churches are free, and the food is not only good but also understandable.

(While I knew foie gras was the liver of a goose that had been specially force fed, I didn't know how to eat it. After the first couple of bites a waitress had to come to my table, take my fork away, and then show me how to spread the pate of liver onto bread. I thanked her in Turkish, and she said, "You're welcome" in English.)

Rome was also one of the only places I saw the sun. I could take off my jacket. It was also the only place where it was fun to be outside at night. Every other city we would run from the train station to whatever apartment we were staying at. I felt like I was back at 408 E. Lafayette, the house where I grew up. The monsters owned the night there.

Probably the best part of the trip was British Parliment. It happened as the sun was going down. As we walked back to the station (quickly, and always checking manhole covers to see if they were properly fastened), a guard asked us if we wanted to sit in on a session of the House of Commons. For free. We gave him high fives. In the process of security I was issued a photo I.D. and absolutely zero instructions about where to go. After fifteen minutes of wandering we made it to the gallery above the House floor, where we listened to an argument about privatizing the postal service. But much more than the American Senate, it was fascinating because, once I understood what they were talking about, it became apparent that with each speech the representatives were insulting each other. The most common slander was that the opposite party wasn't capable of understanding the main argument, but one member went so far as to suggest that his debate opponent wasn't capable of being a postal worker. The experience made returning to the American way of doing things feel cheap.

This Will Probably Be a Dry Blog Month

I'm traveling at the moment. Wait for it. Okay, I'm stationary. Let's do this.

I just left Istanbul, where I was for about a week. There, Holly and I stayed with an American family, the Connells. Doug and Jessica let us sleep in their apartment (I got top bunk in the Lego Room; Holly slept next to the crib of the family baby, Moses) in exchange for baby sitting four of the five children on Wednesday. We watched The Sound of Music. It was amazing. I guess it's been a long time since I saw it last. I still have "Edelweiss" playing in my mind (on vinyl, of course - mine is a hip mind). When the Doug and Jessica returned from their date, Doug told me that not only was "Edelweiss" not Austria's national anthem (it was written expressily for the musical), but that in the eighties the Reagan administration played it for the visiting Austrian ambassador, thinking it was the true Austrian anthem. I bet the ambassador wished that was his anthem.

Doug and Jessica live twenty minutes walk from the tram that runs through the heart of Istanbul, so Holly and I would eat breakfast with the family, maybe watch a twenty minute episode of Liberty's Kids (the educational cartoon about child reporters in the Revolution who work for Benjamin Franklin - voiced by WALTER CRONKITE) with the family kids, then trek into town. I won't tell you what we saw. The government made me swear. But I can tell you that it rained, and apart from being cold and ruining everything I was okay with that. The best thing that happened - well, the oddest thing, at least - happened because, after 45 minutes standing in line outside the Hagia Sofia (in the rain), we broke off and went down a backstreet to have lunch at a Turkish self service cafeteria. While we were eating, a Turk sat next to us and, through conversation it was revealed he worked at a hamam (in turn, I revealed that I was a teacher and that there was a coin behind his earn). He offered us a discount, and, without planning, we ended up at a Turkish bath. In separate buildings. Full of steam. Glorious hours, really.

Not Pictured: Me. I'm hiding from the old Turkish men in towels.

I'm in Rome until Tuesday, then to London and Paris and then, for one week, back in Fayetteville. My mom really wants to see me. This does not surprise me, since I am probably the best, if not favorite, child. I'll be back in Turkey near the end of the month. Not like you care, though.

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!"