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?"

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."