Easter, Etc.

Firstly, you all should amble on over to Maeghan's Easter post, which features lovely tulip pictures (which - ahem - I took with her camera because mine is still out of commission). Also, the word "tons" spelled "tonnes," which always makes me laugh.

The weekend was uneventful. On Saturday, Maeghan and I trekked to Bakırköy and window-shopped. Sunday, I spent the day with Third Host Family, which was fabulous. I got there at noon, just in time for breakfast - when I lived there, no one stirred before 11:30 on a Sunday; it's nice to see things stay the same - and visited friends of theirs. Then to a bazaar for vegetables (carrots and lettuce and eggplant and cucumber and strawberries and pears, oh my!) and a brief stop at the best baklava/ciğ köfte place in the world ever. No exaggeration. Then back to the house to make mondo salads and soup and about eight different desserts (sweet tooths? Us? Nah) and Flight of the Conchords on CNBC-e.

No eggs were involved, but it was a very good Easter.

Kindness of Strangers (part - wow - III)

So I posted last night about the saintly neighbor woman who brought over salad and fish for dinner last night, yes?

Well, today, she brought over this:



The Turkish name is - and forgive my spelling - aşure, or wheat pudding. It's the dish that Noah and his family, according to legend first ate after emerging from the Ark (remember how I talked about the Koran and Old Testament being fundamentally the same? I wasn't kidding). It's a wheat base, with beans and fruit cooked in. Hardcore applesauce meets fruit cocktail. As I understand it, cooking is rather labor-intensive, as every ingredient must be cooked separately before they are combined the end. The one the neighbor brought over was liberally topped with cinnamon, walnuts, and pine nuts.

Legend says that because Noah ate the dish in celebration of the convenant with God, it's a dish of thanksgiving. And yes, I am giving thanks.

I just put a lemon cake in the oven. It's officially hers.

Kindness of Strangers (part II)

My host family is out of town this weekend, so I am, of course, partying it up - which in my case, seems to consist of sitting around in my pajamas, drinking too much Turkish coffee and watching Dr. Horrible on YouTube (through a proxy, natch). It's not terribly exciting.

So I was a bit surprised when the doorbell rang this evening and disrupted my short-term hermitude.

It was the neighbor from across the hall, whom I have spoken to perhaps once, and she came bearing this:



It was quite delicious.

Those little fish look a bit dubious - I believe they're fried anchovies - but they are very good. Just be careful - the little bones are pokey.



Next time I make cookies, she gets first dibs.

On Thanksgiving

The exciting parts of yesterday started not to long after I'd dragged myself out of bed, pulled on my school uniform (no, I'm not posting pictures. Not yet, anyway), and was midway through making breakfast, coughing gently all the while. It was possibly this coughing that prompted my host mother to sleepily poke her head into the kitchen to inform me that I'd better go back to bed, as I'd been coughing badly in my sleep and she was taking me to the doctor this afternoon. I protested that it was just a head cold - admittedly a head cold that'd hung on for a week or so, and didn't seem to be getting any better. Host mother wasn't having any of that, put the milk back in the fridge and sent me back to bed.

Later that afternoon, she and Host Dad bundle me into the car (wearing two T-shirts, two sweaters, and a parka) and drive to (the inaptly named, as it turned out) Universal Hastanesi, or Universal Hospital. Where I present my insurance card to the triage secretary, who promptly hands it back, shaking her head. I point to the phone number on the card, indicating that she should to call that number. The insurance that Rotary exchange students are required to buy is taken everywhere. Nope, they won't call. Why? Because it's an international number. Yes, of course it's an international number, I'm an American exchange student and my insurance is from the US. This is "Universal Hospital," what do you mean you aren't authorized to make overseas calls? Look, it'll take two minutes, just call the number. Please? No.

I call my Rotary adviser. She talks to my host mom. My host mom barks in Turkish before digging out her cell phone to call a friend who works in Radiology. Radiology Friend and her supervisor come find us. They talk to the triage staff. They go and find the manager of the triage staff. Nope. No can do. Rotary advisor curses over the phone. "Your insurance is valid in Bangledesh, for heaven's sake," she says. "This is ridiculous. What if you were bleeding or something?"

"Yeah. I know."

Rotary advisor sighs. "Amy was in the hospital with dystentary earliler this year. Let me see what hospital she went to. They might be easier to deal with."

In September, Amy came down with a particuarly nasty local version of Montezuma's Revenge. I'm glad my sickness is nowhere near that serious. Host family and I spend the intervening minutes exchanging glares with the staff of Universal Hastenesi.

Rotary advisor calls back. "Amy was at Florence Nightengale Hastenesi. Mention her name when you give them the card so they can check their records. Good luck."

It's a short drive to Florence Nightengale, and once there, the process is remarkably fast. The insurence is no problem. Amy? Yes, they remember her. Copay? Deductible? No, of course not. Need to see an ENT? Certainly, he's right upstairs. Want to see what the inside of your nose looks like? We have a handy endoscope right here!

My host mom and I joke that, now that she's seen the inside of my nose, ears, and throat in close detail, we have no secrets anymore.

In the end, they diagnosed a common cold, advised rest and fluids, and wrote a prescription for some (delightfully fizzy!) cold medicine. Well, that was comparatively easy. Also, the guy working the Emergency Services desk was cute in a David Tennant kind of way, but without the skull. Fortunately.

From the Royal Shakespeare Company's current production of Hamlet.

Image courtesy of cerysromana.livejournal.com

From the hospital, we made our merry way to a local mall (this city has malls the way some cities have, oh, park benches. I've never heard of so many Swatch stores per square kilometer), where Host Mom and I stopped at a pharmacy to fill the prescription and from there swung by a Starbucks. Yeah, I know. Drop it. "Where's host dad?" I asked.

Host mom stirred her coffee. "Grocery shopping. Do you want a brownie?"

Yes, in retrospect, that was the best possible way to distract me. The brownie was good, too.

Once we got home, host parents hustled the groceries into the kitchen before shutting and locking the kitchen door.

Well. That was unexpected.

I tapped on the door. "Can I come in?"

My host mom opened the door a crack, grinning fit to be tied. "No. We are being sneaky!"

I started to clue in when the guests started arriving an hour or so later. There was probably a smell to give it away, too, except that I was so congested it was a miracle I was still breathing at all.

The roast turkey on the table, though, was a dead giveaway.





Same for the mound of mashed potatoes, the roasted vegetables piled around the turkey, the tureen of pumpkin soup - sweet honey mustard, they made pumpkin soup. My dad's specialty, which I'd mentioned in passing maybe a week and a half ago, and they remembered enough and cared enough to make it. And tracking down a turkey couldn't have been any easy feat, either. And there was pilav, and dolma, and carrot salad, and probably more that I'm forgetting. Sweet roast pumpkin with walnuts for desert with Earl Grey tea.



I'm not going to say that I cried, but I will admit to tearing up a little. The only thing missing was the Macy's parade on TV, and let's face it, there are only so many times you can watch a giant Snoopy balloon drift past buildings before it loses its thrall.


As at every Thanksgiving, I gave thanks. But I don't think I've ever meant it more.

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.