The Hole in the Floor

There’s a hole in the floor. I don’t know where it goes.

Let me explain. The first story of this apartment complex (charmingly labeled “-1”on the elevator keypad) is a parking garage. Along with all the requisite dust and strange smells, it has, about ten meters from the stairs, a hole in the floor.

It’s about as big around as the average fist, roughly round. And it’s just there. The temptation, of course, is to drop things into it and wait to hear when they hit bottom, but that might awaken whatever is sleeping down there, and we certainly don’t want that.

(The hole in the floor has apparently already pulled some long-forgotten childhood paranoia out of hibernation, along with a few fractured lines from a Shel Silverstein poem I didn’t know I’d remembered about sidewalks ending; who knows what else could be disturbed from slumber?)

I step very quietly when I walk by.

“What? No, we’re not on fire. Okay…bye!”

A bunch of exchange students and I went to a football match last night. The Turkish National team versus Bosnia-Herzegovina. One intrepid exchange student, whom I’ll call Michigan, sent out a Facebook message inviting any and all to the match, and volunteering to pick up tickets the next day in Beşiktaş. He took us at our word that we would pay him back, and I think it says something about the group that everyone did, and promptly.

Anyway, on Saturday, after language classes, the whole gaggle – twelve out of the sixteen of us, although it always seems like there’s more when we’re in groups – made our way from language classes to Taksim, where we hung around, accidentally wandered in front of trolleys (disturbingly easy to do), and proved that trying to get twelve exchange students to all go the same way at the same time is a bit like herding cats. Eventually we all split up into sub-groups and went off to explore, with the firm promise to meet back at a designated spot at 7:00. Miraculously, everyone did. For being a dozen people from four countries and a stunning array of backgrounds and experiences, we’re a surprisingly cohesive bunch.

I for one meandered around a bookstore, got comfortably lost in some sort of mini textile bazaar with Ohio and Alberta, and loitered briefly in a two-story Burger King. It was a productive afternoon.

We all found each other at the meeting point, broke again for dinner after Australia pointed out that food at the stadium would be prohibitively expensive, and reformed again fifteen minutes later before tripping gaily down the hill to the Beşiktaş stadium. En route, we stumbled – literally, sometimes – scores of vendors hawking everything from fairly reserved red and white scarves to over the top mohawked wigs. Illinois bought a wig, to nobody’s surprise, while I invested in a scarf. It gets cold here in winter, and will be useful then. No, really.

Also, it matches my slipper-socks, so I’ll be all coordinated and everything.

Moving on…

We got to the stadium maybe an hour before the game started, maybe more. We had our tickets scanned; submitted to extensive searchings and pattings-down; emptied our pockets of open containers, lighters, and anything pointier than a toothpick; and eventually made it into the stadium. A few students – California and Michigan, I think – were given free Turkiye T-shirts, and I was handed a dozen or so medium-sized Turkish flags. We mostly used them poke each other in the eyes and ribs during the match, and occasionally managed to wave them at the appropriate moments.




I don’t think that we ever actually found our seats – that is, the ones listed on the tickets – but we did find twelve seats together about halfway to nosebleed and in one of the corner-curves of the stadium. We bought sunflower seeds – Turks eat sunflower seeds during football matches the way Americans eat peanuts during baseball games – and soft drinks. Canada produced simit from somewhere in her bag, so that was good, too.


The Bosnian cheering section made up perhaps at tenth, maybe less, of the seats – almost a humorously small fraction. They were very well coordinated, and even struck first in the pyrotechnic department, producing a flare two-thirds of the way through the first half. It didn’t do much more than smoke a lot and burn astonishingly bright, but things got more exciting when a group of Turkish fans retaliated, which meant that there was lots of smoke and energetic flames coming from both ends of the stadium. It was enough to alarm one of the exchange coordinators, watching the game on TV, prompting her to call Australia’s cell. I heard Australia’s end of the conversation: “Hey! What? No, no, it’s not a bomb, it’s a flare…no, Bosnia started it…no, we’re not on fire…yeah, I promise…okay…bye!”





Australia stuck her phone back in her pocket. “They were worried,” she explained.

Canada nodded. “We noticed.”

In the midst of all this, Illinois surfaced with a brilliantly painted face and a new best friend, wielding a paint brush. “This is…actually, I don’t know what his name is,” Illinois said. “But he’ll paint our faces for us!”

The Fabulous Mexican, Canada, and Michigan all went for it.





Our Turkish seatmates found our patriotism somewhat surprising. They taught us a few cheers, and corrected us when we used the wrong ones at the wrong time. Australia also whipped out a few Australian chants, and the Brazilians were doing their own cheers, as well. Canada broke into the Canadian national anthem when the mood struck her. We were quite the multinational conglomerate, even as we waved our Turkish flags.



Turkiye scored first; Bosnia tied it up shortly thereafter, while Turkiye was still in the throes of celebration. The majority of the second half was subdued on Turkiye’s end, before Turkiye got spectacularly lucky on a penalty shot and snuck one past the Bosnia keeper. Neither team played especially well; Turkiye in particular had some spectacularly boneheaded plays that had me shouting at the field in frustration. But you don’t go to a football match to watch football. You could do that at home from the comfort of your couch if you wanted. You go to a football match for the energy, for the crowd, for looking down and discovering that Canada’s been absentmindedly dropping sunflower shells in your bag for the last twenty minutes. For total strangers teaching you cheers and accidentally whacking you with their flags during especially exciting plays. For spending the entire match on your feet, for watching an entire stadium of red-clad spectators (barring the twenty or so sullen people in Bosnia’s section) jumping up and down in rhythm, and then joining in, and then writing home and being able to use such sentences as “…and then the whole stadium was full of bouncing Turks!”




Maine and I left about fifteen minutes before the match ended, in order to find a taxi before the rush. The driver only had to stop and ask for directions once, and he had some difficulty finding the correct street. Also, we didn’t speak directional Turkish, and he had the same problem but with English, so we wound up directing him by improvised semaphore. But he was very nice about it, and we were still vibrant and happy from the match, so everything worked out.

The cab fare was reasonable, given that Maine and I were splitting it. I walked in the door, said hello to my host family, and went to bed, but not before carefully folding my new scarf and placing it on the dresser.

Relying on the Kindness of Strangers

Some people recently got together and did something incredibly nice for me. And it probably says something about me that I’m always so shocked when stuff like this happens. With luck, ya’ll will succeed in wearing down my Wall of Stunning Cynicism within the next few years, and who saw that coming?

(Those of you who know me terribly well will probably have figured out by now that it’s not so much cynicism or fatalism but a deep belief in the impending inevitability of the worse-case scenario and an earnest desire to thwart the effects thereof.

There’s a difference. No, really.

But I digress)

My Aunt Sandy had emailed me a week or two after I arrived in Turkey inquiring if there was anything that I’d like sent in a care package. I believe I suggested one or two small things and asked what had prompted the email. She explained that her sister-in-law – her brother’s wife, Kate – was going to be in my fair city in a month or so for a wedding and had volunteered to ferry a care package across the continents for me. And Kate would be more than happy to meet with me.

In the middle of all of this, my friend Sam’s mother emailed to tell me that her best friend in college’s nephew (“Alex”) was living in Istanbul, had been doing so for several years (a “short stay” had turned into “long-term residency” after he fell in love with and married a local beauty), taught English in a local high school, and was also looking forward to meeting with me.

To recap:

1) Kate would be in Istanbul and wanted to meet. Unfortunately, she was hampered by

a.time constraints (she would only be available for two days), and,

b.a tourist-level knowledge of the city

c.the fact that she was on the European side and I was on the Asian side*

2)I was in Istanbul and wanted to meet. Unfortunately, I was hampered by

a.a distinct dearth of knowledge of the intricacies of the public transportation system

b.the fact that I was in Asia and she was in Europe*

*there are two bridges connecting Europe and Asia in Istanbul. Neither are open to pedestrians; you must be in a vehicle to cross either bridge

And into this situation stepped Alex. Upon hearing that I was more or less confined to walking distance of the house, he volunteered to travel over from his home on the European side, pick me up at my then-host family’s house, and then go back to Europe with me, where we could pick up Kate and give me the Cliff’s Notes version of Public Transport 101. He also explained most of this over the phone to my then-host mom – not an easy task – and reassured her that he was not a Communist or axe-murderer.

Alex collected me around 6:00; I’d arranged to meet him at the development’s gate, and was just leaving the house when it occurred to me that I had no idea how to recognize him. He artfully solved the problem by wearing a Jayhawk shirt, which I thought was quite clever of him. We took a minibus to the ferry terminal, and he showed me how to find the right ferry and the technique of jumping onboard said ferry (gangplanks are for wussies), and during the passage, narrated the sights and which of them were worth seeing. Once we reached Europe, he bought me an akbil, which is one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. An akbil is essentially a computer chip implanted on the end of what looks like a child’s plastic spoon and it…gets you places; it’s like an all-access pass to the buses and ferries in Istanbul. I predictably tend to lose mine just when I need it. (I affectionately call it “the clicky thingy that lets you take buses” when I can’t remember akbil – that is to say, most of the time. Present host mom finds it quite amusing when I’m running around the house saying “Clicky thingy nerede?”)

We had a lovely walking tour of Istanbul while looking for Kate’s hotel, and I decided that while the Hilton or the Hampton may be lacking the romance of a boutique hotel, you can at least practically see the signage from space, and this has certain advantages. Especially when you’re supposed to be meeting someone and are running a bit late. But anyway, we found the hotel and found Kate, and the three of us set off to wander the neighborhood.

Kate’s hotel – boutique though it might have been, with a cunningly hidden sign – was conveniently located just near Sultanahmet, the tourist center of Istanbul. Think of The Mall in Washington DC, with the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Washington Monument all within spitting distance of each other. Sultanahmet is a bit like that, but thousands and thousands of years old. Topkapi Palace, Hagia Sophia, and the Blue Mosque are all squashed together on a single point of land containing a mind-bogglingly enormous amount of culture and history.

Kate, Alex, and I didn’t visit any of the sights, but we wandered around with the pre-iftar crowds and got pleasantly lost looking for a restaurant Kate had eaten at the night before. We never found the restaurant, but I did see this sign. I think it was worth getting pleasantly lost for. Lee, I’m looking at you…

We eventually found a nice little place (with truly terrible music – something like Dance Craze 1979! on repeat) on a side street and ate there instead. As loath as I am to admit it, the nice thing about restaurants in touristy areas is that they’re used to catering to crazy Americans and the fact that the Chinese tourists travel in packs, and every other stereotype you care to name. Nothing phases them. And they tend to have comfortably international menus, so I had pasta with salmon – not a traditional Turkish meal by any stretch, but comfort food.

During the meal, the waiter periodically poked at my arm and told me that I needed to gain weight. I found this slightly hilarious.

The food wasn’t great, but it was good. Midway through the meal, the street lost power – that happens here sometimes. The wait staff was remarkably quick to bring out candles, however, and we enjoyed the next fifteen or so minutes in delightful shadowy ambiance and without the music. My eardrums panted in relief.

We exited the restaurant and found that it was raining. We trekked back to Kate’s hotel with a certain degree of urgency – it was just after eight, and the ferries stopped running to the Asian side at nine – where she gave me the care package.

I distinctly remember telling Aunt Sandy that I only wanted a few small things, that she shouldn’t send food because it’d make me cry, and that I didn’t want Kate to be loaded down like a pack mule. I expected…oh, a shoebox.

So I was a little shocked with Kate handed me a suitcase. And then threw in an umbrella and a few books of her own volition.

Alex eyed the suitcase and called a cab to take us to the ferry terminal. We caught the last ferry across the Bosphorus, took a minibus back to the house. Alex walked me to the door, too, where he once again convinced my then-host mother that he wasn’t a Communist or an axe-murderer, and then departed.

I hauled the suitcase upstairs to my room, shut the door, and opened the suitcase.

Oh. Wow.

Six boxes of Kraft Mac ‘N Cheese, twelve packages of beef-flavored Ramen noodles (shut up. I like them), a box of Lemon Heads, a pack of cinnamon gum, two HUGE packages of Nestle chocolate chips, and two boxes of tampons. Plus three books from Kate: The Zahir, The Witch of Portobello, and The Evidence Against Her. And, of course, the umbrella.

(Cue the Rihanna song here)

Allow me to recap:

a) my Aunt Sandy made the package and sent it with

b) Kate, who greatly flushed it out (I understand the most of the food was her doing), brought it to Istanbul and got it to me with the help of

c) Alex, who kindly ferried me all over the place, bought me an akbil, and encouraged me to get out and explore on my own

d) And the concierge at Hotel Aslan (Narnia fans: I KNOW) gave Alex and I directions to Kate’s hotel, so we might as well include him in this list, too; we’d have never found Kate without him.

e) And my dear sweet sainted father helped coordinate the whole thing, bless him.

Five people – more, if you count an awful lot of airline employees – all coordinated and put in an awful lot of time and effort, and reassured me many, many times that I was not inconveniencing them (even though I was) in order to connect myself and a suitcase full of Kraft Mac ‘N Cheese.

And if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

All of you: thank you.

Cinderelly!

New Host Family (yes, there's a new family; no, that's all I'm going to say about it) has a live-in nanny to help out with their three year-old boy. "Nanny" doesn't quite explain everything this woman does; she herds the child, she cooks, she cleans, and always knows where everyone's keys are. She holds the fabric of the household together. There should be statues erected in her honor.

Having never lived in a house with a dedicated staff before (even of just one person), I find this whole arrangement mildly disconcerting. I may have treated my mom like a maid before (Hi, Mom!), but that's entirely different. And so with nearly two decades of "Go help your mother" echoing in my ears, I try to pitch in and help. With mixed results: it's possible that the nanny in question has heard tell of my previous forays into trying to help around the house. Thus most of our interactions revolve around me trying to help her vacuum/tidy/cook/whatever, and her trying to dissaude me from doing so. Neither of us really succeeds, but at least we have fun with it. And I think I might be wearing her down: she let me help set the table at breakfast this morning, although she did strike a sneaky blow by making tea before I was awake. That's cheating, in my opinion.

In which a cake was successfully made!

I've been feeling rather cookish lately, which is like being peckish but with a desire to create attached. I found a recipe for "Dutch Apple Cake" on another blog, and apples are certainly available at the moment...and thus, I made a cake! (Yes, I'm surprised, too!)


It might be more correct to say that I improvised a cake. Host Family is rather (that is to say, totally) lacking in measuring implements, and my estimation skills are notoriously nonexistant, so I wound up finding two spoons of different sizes and designating one a "teaspoon" and the other a "tablespoon," and using a drinking glass as a measuring cup. Furthermore, proper oranges aren't available at the moment, so I used a mandarin instead, and the recipe didn't specify what sort of oil should be used. I wound up using what might have been sunflower oil; it was that or what I was pretty sure was olive oil, and I couldn't see that one working out at all. Oh, and I didn't have a "tube pan," and used a pie plate instead.

If you look closely at the recipe (you scrutinizing Internet detectives, you!), you'll notice that the cake cooks for quite a long time at a very high heat. This rather unnerved Host Mom, who checked it every ten minutes or so to make sure that I wasn't setting fire to her kitchen (I wasn't). The cake raw batter had a consistency rather like fresh cement, and I was sure that the final product was going to be better suited for projectile warfare than human consumption, but it ultimately turned out delightfully well:


Unfortunately, as it happens, I'm the only one in the house who likes Cake with Stuff in It - other members of the household found the apple chunks rather off-putting. But no matter; more for me, and I have a recipe for for double-chocolate brownies lying around here somewhere...