Expat Diaries

Universal Adventures in Motherhood

2011-11-23T21:05:00.004+02:00

Well, you don't need to be an expat to have a "frustrating adventure of motherhood" like I did this evening, right smack in the middle of what my dear friend Lisa refers to as the witching hour.

First, a full bottle of syrupy Ariel stain remover fell from its shelf and emptied all over my bathroom floor; about half of it seeped under the washing machine, where it will stay. The other half took a roll of paper towels to absorb. In a hurry, though, I began the clean up process without rubber gloves; after all, my primary concern was to take care of things before my toddler got into the mess. As the skin on my finger tips began to corrode though (it felt like tiny shards of glass pricking me!), I thought better.

And then, not twenty minutes later, my toddler pooped in the tub. Diarrhea. And not a lot, either. But as any hygiene-conscious germ-phobic mother knows, there are no degrees of poop; even the littlest bit requires the total disinfection of the tub, the toys, the mat, and anything else it may have come into contact with.

And while I'm cleaning that, said toddler pees on the floor.

Meanwhile Baby starts crying, because he's hungry and tired and I've missed the sweet spot where he's sleepy and easily falls asleep. Now he's just cranky.

Now they're both asleep and I'm sitting here worrying whether my toddler has salmonella or amoeba. I'm glad I bought a bottle of wine at the supermarket on the weekend; this seems like an appropriate occasion to open it.

Mother's Guilt

2011-11-22T08:00:00.002+02:00

After almost missing Halloween entirely, I bought my son's costume. Yes, I bought my son's first ever Halloween costume. I couldn't even find the time or energy to make this Martha Stewart no-sew easiest ever (and super cute) chicken costume. It would have been so perfect for the baby, but who am I kidding? Desperate times call for brutal triage-like decisions, and the toddler took precedence on this one.

Even though it was a very last-minute thing, I know that had I known weeks earlier I'd have the opportunity to take my boys trick-or-treating here in Istanbul, my best intentions would have somehow still landed me where I was the day of the big event: without a costume or candy.

But it gets worse. I didn't even do the shopping! A friend, who I bumped into by chance (coincidence #1), mentioned casually (coincidence #2) that he was on his way to buy his son a Halloween costume. I asked him to pick up something for my son, which he did.

And it gets worse still. When my friend asked me what kind of costume I'd like, I didn't indicate a preference for animal, super hero, vampire or witch; I didn't even say, "Oh, whatever you can find." My exact words, and I remember this with embarrassing clarity, were, "I don't care." Of course I didn't mean that I didn't care; that's just how desperate I was to get my son a costume and get Halloween 'taken care of.'

In the end, my friend and perhaps a little bit of kismet (those coincidences!) saved the day, and my son went as the cutest little Superman ever. The costume was perfect, the weather was perfect ... everything was perfect.

But what is it about motherhood that, even after the fact, you're still wracked with guilt?

Halloween

2011-11-21T08:00:00.010+02:00

This blog has never been a journal, a record of all the daily "adventures and frustrations of life and motherhood for an expat in Turkey." But when I returned to the internet after my three-week 'cleanse' and saw that several of the bloggers I follow had posted about Halloween, I was overcome with a sense of 'Oops.'

How could I not have written anything about my children's first official Halloween, since the challenge of maintaining Canadian traditions for my kids here in Turkey is something I grapple with every few months? I felt it six months ago at Easter, then last month at Thanksgiving; both times I was 'saved' when friends invited us to celebrate with them, thus eliminating the stress of sourcing turkey and ham, chocolate bunnies and Easter egg dye.

I almost missed Halloween this year, swamped by the craziness that comes with two children under the age of two, a husband who works in another city and is therefore away Monday through Friday, and still being nanniless. But in the last minute a friend picked up a Superman costume for my two-year-old at a nearby party store and more than enough chocolates for the twenty-five trick-or-treaters we were expecting, and we took our kids around to the dozen or so homes here on campus that were participating.

It was better than I could have hoped: the crisp fall weather, the darkness (daylight savings time had just ended), people's decorations and costumes ... Somehow the atmosphere of the evening was exactly as it had been on my own Halloweens as a kid.

Internet Cleanse

2011-11-20T20:01:00.003+02:00

I finally have another valid excuse for not having posted anything here for so long.

We just returned from three weeks in my husband's hometown, during which time I was internet-free. (Well, almost. The whole exercise almost turned around to bite me when I got a call from work since I hadn't responded to an important email about an appointment to renew my residence permit; I used a friend's internet the next day for five minutes to see if there were any other important messages I'd missed. I hadn't.)

What I noticed:

I accomplished way more housework (mostly laundry, laundry and more laundry and all that goes with it -- hanging to dry, taking it down again, sorting, folding, the occasional ironing) during my 4-month-old's 40-minute morning nap than I do when the laptop is open and I check emails or look up something on the internet
My to-do list became far shorter, as most of my 'to do' items are created from ideas sparked by blogs I read or emails I receive
I read a lot more
I wrote a lot more
Although I felt somewhat 'out of touch' from my family and friends, a long phone call was far more gratifying and meaningful than three weeks' worth of short emails

And the wildest thing? When I returned to Istanbul and the internet, I found it just as I had left it. Except for the fact that Kim Kardashian was getting divorced. That happened while I was gone.

Moth Infestation!

2011-09-20T10:32:00.000+03:00

Why is it that whenever we go away for a few weeks, we return to find our home filled with moths and my rice and bulgur teeming with white larvae?

I'm definitely guilty of keeping my grains and beans too long; on more than one occasion I've bought red lentils, only to find I've already got a whole bunch in the cupboard.

But that doesn't explain why things that lie dormant for months come to life while we're away! Is it the lack of air circulation, as doors and windows stay closed? Does the house get hot, providing the right incubation conditions? Does anyone have any ideas?

Me or My Kids?

2011-09-19T10:57:00.000+03:00

Most mornings, I manage only to dress either my kids or myself, not both.

Which would you choose?

Beer and Baklava

2011-09-18T10:19:00.003+03:00

Is baklava to Turks what beer is to Canadians?

There's been a lot of fuss in the papers lately about a particular Turkish television star (Kivanç Tatlıtuğ in case you're interested) and his "baklava." Turns out, everyone's talking about his abs, aka his "six pack."

Too bad both six packs and baklava are detrimental to my abdominal area.

The Fortieth Day

2011-09-13T09:30:00.000+03:00

A baby's fortieth day is traditionally celebrated in Turkey for reasons mostly forgotten now. As I've watched my newborn develop over the past few weeks, and have myself felt better and better postpartum, I've come to believe there is ancient truth and wisdom to the forty day "rules."

Sitting on the beach chatting to some ladies, my sister-in-law suddenly realized it was Baby's fortieth day. To celebrate, that evening we made irmik helvasi, a dessert out of semolina. We melted about a pound of butter and stirred a pound of semolina and a pound of sugar into it; then took turns stirring for a half hour, until the semolina was gold

en brown. Everyone -- my husband, my brother-in-law, my husband's nieces and nephews, a neighbour -- took turns stirring, and each time, that person said a prayer, well wishes for Baby's life.

We didn't wait for the helva to cool, pouring it out like liquid pudding onto plates. We topped each puddle of sugary delight with some pecans and cinnamon and dug in.

Deliciousness aside, I found the whole process moving and quite lovely.

p.s. sorry, no pictures ... The few I took made the helva look decidedly unappetizing. Here's one I swiped from the internet.

What I Still Don't Know

2011-09-11T08:15:00.004+03:00

Turkey is not 'user friendly,' as I discovered as soon as I tried to become independent in any way upon my arrival here five years ago. I couldn't find a map of the bus routes in Adana, let alone a posting of the fares, and at any given bus stop, it's anyone's guess which buses actually pass by; places can't be found using just an address and a map; I never saw a phone book. My "aha" moment then was realizing that Turkish people, at least in Adana, operate mostly orally, passing on to each other the kind of information I, as a foreigner, wanted to find on my own. If you didn't know anyone and if you didn't know the language, you were lost.

Fast forward to the present: I've spent the last few weeks at the beach, in the same site I've been coming to with my husband for five years on summer weekends. This is the first time, though, I've stayed for any prolonged period of time; and with children at that! And so I needed to become independent, fast.

Living in Turkey for five years has taught me that water and groceries are always only a phone call away; you just need to learn the phone number of the local market that will deliver. There is often a pool of women who work for residents of a building or site as housekeepers or babysitters; again, you just need to ask around for a recommendation. And the best places to eat, swim and buy fish, while unknown to foreign tourists, are common knowledge to everyone else -- you just have to ask!

And so I arrived here almost three weeks ago, knowing what I didn't know, and immediately set out finding out the answers.

Still at it ...

2011-09-11T07:57:00.003+03:00

Last night's endeavour:

30 kg of tomatoes

33 750mL jars

5.5 pairs of hands

4 knives

1 peeler

3 hours of labour

Preserving Tomatoes

2011-09-06T14:22:00.004+03:00

There's nothing "cottagey" about our Turkish summer house, as much as I like to reference Torontonians' "going to the cottage" on summer weekends whenever I explain to non-Turks what a yazlık is. Our doors and windows don't creak; our neighbour is 10 metres away; our mosquitoes are drugged every evening by gardeners so that we aren't bothered by them; our beach has been replaced by a perfect lawn so that no one has to deal with sand getting everywhere; our water is turquoise and warm; our gardens are manicured.

Still, I've been engaging in "cottagey" behaviour. Like my mother, who spent our summers at the cottage picking wild fruit and making jam, my husband and I have been spending considerable time preserving tomatoes.

It has felt so good getting my hands and clothes dirty, sweating in the name of "old fashioned hard work" and producing something! When else would I have the time/energy/motivation to peel even one tomato, except on holiday surrounded by like-minded people who insist on helping?

Resolution: to do a little more of this kind of thing in my "real" life.

Some stats from the most recent batch:

20 kg of tomatoes for 15 Lira (about $10cdn)

19 1-kg jars

5 pairs of helping hands

5 hours of labour

Step by step in photos:

From City Boy to Country Urchin

2011-09-06T13:49:00.002+03:00

You know your kid's dirty when:

his tears leave clean streaks down his cheeks
people don't want to pick him up
you don't want to pick him up
bath time fun is replaced by serious scrubbing
his clothes no longer come out clean in the wash
you stop worrying about whether he'll catch something from his filthy favourite stuffed animal, who he takes everywhere

Learning to Let Go

2011-09-02T12:24:00.005+03:00

This would never have happened, had he been in my care!

Sitting on the table, honey dripping down his chin and onto his bare knees, his arms almost shaking from the sugar coursing through his veins -- his first "sugar coma," as they say in Turkish -- a horrifying sight!

But when he dipped an olive into the honey and proudly offered it to me, I realized he doesn't get enough opportunities to be crazy and I bit my tongue; no comments about sugar before nap time or sugar in general, for that matter; no comments about instilling table manners.

I braced myself and swallowed that sticky oily olive and smiled.

What followed, on the other hand, was all my doing:

Meeting People Part 2

2011-08-31T15:00:00.001+03:00

My recent post about an expat's difficulty meeting people led me to think of another difference between expat and native social norms, namely the 'hows' of meeting people. On more than one occasion, I've noticed that the way I meet people here in Turkey reminds me a little of dating.

Random Public Place Meeting:

At a mall, gym, park, etc., one or the other overcomes initial shyness, no doubt the result of a subconscious fear of rejection, and "makes the first move," starting a conversation.

I have noticed that Torontonians and New Englanders are particularly loathe to use this method of establishing contact, perhaps afraid that we might be bothering the other person. On more than one occasion I've explained to my Turkish husband, much to his bafflement, why I didn't say something to that tourist we just saw. He's led me to question my assumptions about others -- that they have an itinerary and are too busy to make conversation; that they want to meet Turkish people, not fellow Canadians; that they would be insulted at my presumption they need help, having in fact well-researched their trip.

Organizations:

Book clubs and rugby teams, professional women's organizations, mom and tot groups are all great ways to bring together people with similar interests. A fun distraction, while you surreptitiously see if there is one person in the group with whom you might form a closer friendship. Kind of like taking a cooking class in an effort to find a boy/girlfriend?

An introduction by a mutual friend, aka The Setup;

followed by The Getting-to-Know-You-Better Coffee Date.

In the end, you're left exhausted and defeated; perhaps you should just settle for the people you already know. Sound familiar?

Cultural Assumptions

2011-08-30T09:00:00.001+03:00

Whether it's endemic to a whole country, city or just a single family, 'culture' leads to assumptions. And if you're a foreigner in that culture, get ready for misunderstandings.

Thankfully I was not involved in this illustrative example, a classic case of my understanding of "plans" vs. a Turkish understanding:

We're at the summer house with my husband's extended family. (NOT all staying in one house, I should add.) Every morning for weeks now, my 70-something mother-in-law goes for a morning swim with her daughter, who has a house two doors down, at 8. But this morning I saw D in the garden chatting with a neighbour returning from a swim at 7.30! Apparently her husband had woken her up early for a 6 o'clock swim. She made no mention of the fact that her mother might be expecting her shortly for their usual workout.

Meanwhile, my mother-in-law was still sleeping at 8; she came downstairs at 8.30 in her bathing suit and went down to the beach, not at all concerned about the fact that she missed her usual 8am date!

To strengthen my case: my other sister-in-law arrived last night and told my mother-in-law she'd be by at 8 to go for a swim. I saw her in the water at 9.30am; apparently she'd slept in.

So now we have two more jilted people: daughter number 2 stood up her mother; mother potentially stood up both daughters! Never mind the fact that she'd double-booked both women!

No one was considerate enough to call anyone else in this triad to inform them of a change of plans; and no one was in the least put out by having been stood up or concerned about flaking out of plans (note my cultural bias, as revealed by my word choice).

So which came first; did repeated disappointment lead people to stop having expectations of others? (In my opinion actually a healthy frame of mind.) Or does everyone just know that no one has expectations, and that a missed date won't be a big deal, and so feels no need to communicate changes? Either way, I envy my in-laws' and other Turkish people's easy-going nature in this regard.

At least as long as I'm not the one being stood up. I have yet to get used to or to appreciate the mental/emotional health benefits of that.

On Vacation

2011-08-24T10:53:00.004+03:00

I've been slow to realize that my being on maternity leave means I am free to go anywhere, i.e. I don't need to spend it at home. My husband suggested we go to the yazlık, the Turkish equivalent to a beach house or cottage; not only will my toddler get to spend time with his Nene and cousins, uncles, aunts, etc., but I'll be surrounded by helping hands and might actually get some sleep. (Remember my plan to nap at least a few times a week? It's not happening.)

My knee-jerk reaction was a panicked, "No!" I can't leave my house! What will happen to my toddler's routine, which is already precarious these days? There are no cribs there! There's no high chair! If we fly, what about the kids' car seats?

But I've talked myself through each excuse and am pushing myself to get out of the house and my comfort zone. I'm sure I won't regret it.

Anyway, all this is to say that I'll be gone for a few weeks and you may or may not hear from me. Happy Labour Day and Happy Bayram, everyone!

More Lost in Translation

2011-08-22T00:42:00.005+03:00

Appropriately named ... but a wise marketing strategy? Would you want to live here and be an "ant?"

Sleep

2011-08-20T09:03:00.006+03:00

A few thoughts on sleep:

When I'm tired, the littlest thing like spilled milk or a leaky diaper - five minutes after changing the last one! - can make me cry.
But a short nap can turn my day around.
Although logic would have it that a child who wakes up too early should simply be put to bed later, the experts say this is wrong -- put a child to sleep later and he'll still wake up at whatever early hour his inner clock has decided to wake up at every day. In our case, we struggled for months to get our firstborn to sleep until 6am; if he went to bed a little later than his usual bedtime, he'd be up at 5 or 5:30am! However, Marc Weissbluth, author of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, a book I swear by, does concede that occasionally, a too early wake up time can be corrected with a later bedtime. (Several other factors have to exist, such as your child being well-rested and having a regular routine.) We tried it, and it worked!!! So for the past week, Firstborn has been sleeping until 6:30am!!
This morning, for who knows what reason, he didn't wake up until almost 7am!! I cannot adequately express how much good those extra twenty minutes did me! (Of course Newborn decided to wake up at the exact same time, which is another story. At this age, I think I prefer staggered wake up times!)
A carefully-timed cup of coffee (immediately after a feed so as not to affect Newborn at his next feed; far enough ahead of my own opportunity for a nap so I don't miss out on that) can immediately bring me out of a sleepy stupor and fool me into believing I've had the most restful night of sleep ever.
Last night Newborn only woke up once (at 2:30am). Shocking, but I'm not questioning it.

Meeting People

2011-08-19T07:46:00.000+03:00

Meeting people as an expat hasn't been difficult; but meeting people who can make up for the fact that my best friends are thousands of miles away, has been. We've been in Istanbul exactly a year now, and believe it or not, I'm only now starting to feel settled. Of course that's mostly because I threw myself into my new job immediately upon arriving (and I feel very 'settled' there!); during my non-working hours I was busy being a mother. And so I devoted little time to my social life.

Yes, I socialized at work with colleagues; yes, I arranged play dates for my toddler and enjoyed coffee with the other mothers; yes, I joined an expat womens' association; and yes, I joined a book club. But in my thirties, I've noticed one doesn't usually become instant best friends the way one did as a teenager or even in one's twenties; in fact, I've found that as an expat, such friendships never end well. Drawn to each other out of loneliness and relief of recognizing a familiar accent, it usually takes a few weeks or months to realize you would never have been friends with this person back home -- and for good reason.

One needs time to let friendships develop. But who has that time? When you're working, mothering, navigating a city whose infrastructure is such that small errands take hours ... Come evening, you only just have the energy to take a hot shower, have a glass of wine and go to sleep, rather than head out to meet people for dinner.

But perhaps none of this is unique to expat life; I'm sure my friends in Toronto report similar exhaustion. The difference, presumably, is that they've got old friends nearby with whom they can pick up where they left off when they see them once every few months.

Giving Birth in Istanbul -- What It Can Be

2011-08-18T09:00:00.002+03:00

I'm happy to say that for the second time I gave birth in a Turkish hospital and left a day later on foot. In other words, without having had a Cesarean section, as anyone who's lived in Turkey likely knows is the prevalent method of delivery in hospitals.

For women in Turkey and especially in Istanbul interested in a "normal" birth, as they refer to non-Cesareans here, I thought I'd give a little bit of information on the subject.

My hospital was Acibadem Maslak, and I found both the obstetric and pediatric nurses to be excellent -- knowledgeable and possessing excellent bedside manner.
The hospital, but more importantly my doctor (send me your email address if you want his details), supported my birth plan, even though much of it went against what is 'standard' here; my doctor was open to trying things he'd never done before, most notably delivering my baby in any position I chose, i.e. not lying down on a delivery table.
What is 'standard' here in Turkey? An epidural and Pitocin; an enema; episiotomy; hooking you up to a fetal heart rate monitor and IV, thereby pretty much forcing you to spend your labour lying down; no food or water for the labouring woman; and in the end, a Cesarean, the reasons for which are usually one of a handful, including the baby being too big. (Note: I have done no scientific research; these are my observations based on talking to women, foreign and Turkish, here in Turkey and hearing their stories.)

Me, 5 minutes after having given birth in my room -- Acibadem pediatric nurse in the background, obstetric nurse in the foreground, Baby in my arms.

I could devote a whole separate post to DO-UM, but don't have time these days; instead, I'll simply recommend you look it up and use it if you're so inclined. In brief, though, it's a natural childbirth preparation center, and I only had good experiences there.

I had to become extremely knowledgeable and be proactive, advocating for myself constantly; but it is possible to have the birth you want here in Turkey -- just make sure you surround yourself with the right people to support you!

Inspired - Barefoot Books

2011-08-17T08:28:00.000+03:00

This post is the first of a series I'm dedicating to people I find inspiring. Perhaps not coincidentally, the people tend to be women who have started their own businesses, often related to children. I'll let you read whatever you like into that.

I just discovered Barefoot Books, a children's book publishing company, whose beautifully illustrated books both inspire the imagination and allow kids to explore the world. I love Nancy Traversy's story how she created the company as a new mother; I also love the diversity of Barefoot -- the website includes podcasts and activities for kids, a blog, and ways for you to get involved. I learned about Barefoot here, on Momfilter, where you can read an interview with Traversy.

Spoiled ... and Cured

2011-08-16T09:00:00.000+03:00

Another confession: I'm afraid I've become spoiled here in Turkey. The nannies we've had cooked and cleaned in addition to looking after my son while I was at work; it was lovely to come home and not have to worry about any domestic chores -- I could just play with Baby until bedtime, and then enjoy my evenings.

But then the summer holidays started, and I was home full-time ... with a nanny! And that's when I started to feel lazy. If she did the dishes while I played with Baby, I'd feel guilty. But if I did the dishes while she played with Baby, I'd feel resentful ... After all, I wasn't paying someone to replace me!

The thought of doing it all on my own, though, without anyone to help, was inconceivable. How would I cook and clean and take care of the kids? As much as I reminded myself that my mother and most of my friends back in Toronto did it, it remained much of an abstract concept. The day our last nanny called to say she was sick and wouldn't be returning, I was struck with fear and anxiety -- how would I survive?

But now I've been on maternity leave without a nanny for a few weeks, and although I'm busier than I've ever been, I'm amazed at what a powerful grip the I can't do it mindset had on me. Of course I can take care of my kids and house by myself! Life is of course messier now, but everyone's clean and fed and happy and safe.

I will go back to work in a few months, though, and the kids will have a new nanny. So soon enough, I will have to meet the challenge of finding the middle ground between being a spoiled Mommy who pays people to have everything done for her and the pushover whose employee walks all over her. Any advice?

Preparing to Exorcise

2011-08-15T09:01:00.000+03:00

No, that's not a typo; I didn't mean to write about preparing to exercise, although I'm doing that too. One of these days I hope to once again have enough of a routine going so that I can carve out a tiny slice of time for myself between feedings to work out. But first I need to find child care, and that's a whole other adventure ... But back to exorcism.

I can be very lazy and a master procrastinator; but I also have a slightly manic, obsessive-compulsive, ADD side that, when "on," has me tackling every item on my to-do list before I can rest. I will not tire until every last item is done, no matter how small or pointless in the long run (hence the 'compulsive' descriptor) ... I don't know where it comes from, but I become filled with energy and can't stop (hence the 'manic').

But I've decided it's time to exorcise that part of my personality, if not for my own health and sanity (How long can a person go without sufficient sleep? So far so good, but I figure I should quit while I'm ahead!), for the psychological well-being of my children. I'm not sure the crazy me is a good role model; I hope my boys grow up to be calm, balanced men!

And so I've set a few basic rules for myself:

1. Set only one major task for myself each day; and if I don't get that task done, that's ok. ('Major' is something that takes more than 15 minutes, or is something I've been meaning to do for a while.)

2. Limit household 'maintenance' (a quick tidy, dishes, sorting laundry) tasks to two 10-minute sessions each day. This means I will have to prioritize; if the bed doesn't get made that day, there were more important things needing to be done.

2. Take a nap at least 4-5 times a week. At least until Baby is sleeping through the night.

3. Set aside 15 minutes each day for totally selfish, indulgent 'me' time -- I will do something that isn't on any of my to-do lists (yes, I have more than one list!) and would probably be considered a waste of time by the part of me that I'm trying to exorcise. Activities may include reading a tabloid newspaper or Googling stylish orthopedic sandal options. (Don't ask.)

Wish me luck!

In Season, or Writing for the Sake of Writing

2011-08-14T12:19:00.004+03:00

I'm not even going to look at the date of my last post, but I know it`s been far too long since I`ve written. I know, though, that I should `just write,`and so am doing just that -- am going to write about nothing.

In addition to being willing to write about nothing and post it, I also needed to be willing to let some other much-needed tasks slide. And so I`ll confess a little secret: right now, while both babies are sleeping, I am choosing to write this instead of tackling the to-do list below:

take a nap myself
do the dishes
clean the bathroom
put away scattered toys
get dressed and brush my hair
brush my teeth (yikes!)
exercise

So here is my post about nothing:

At the moment, I am enjoying the wide variety of delicious, fresh fruit in season here in Turkey. At this very moment, I have in my home bananas, watermelon, some other kind of melon (the oval yellow one with little flecks on its outside), raspberries, strawberries, purple plums, peaches, the cutest mini pears, and some kiwi.

And because I believe in either doing something fully or not at all, I`m even going to take a photo for this post.

p.s. I`d like to write about the Sisli Organic Farmer`s Market we went to yesterday ... Am putting this out there in the hopes that I`ll be more likely to actually write that post in an effort to avoid the embarrassment of not following through.

Hiatus and Rethinking this Blog

2011-06-22T19:49:00.000+03:00

The ban on Blogger in Turkey ended ages ago, and I haven't written anything since ... So it's confession time: the ban conveniently started at a time when I was feeling decidedly uninspired to write. But then the ban was lifted and I didn't do anything about my little crisis.

But now, in a spurt of energy as I try to cross off every last item on my to-do list before Baby #2 arrives, I'll put the crux of my dilemma out there: I am uncertain about the direction of my blog. I'd like to continue it, but am dissatisfied with where it could go. Too many others are doing travel blogs or personal/mommy blogs; I am no longer enough of a 'foreigner' here that every little thing seems unique and exotic; yet I am hardly expert enough on life in Istanbul as an expat as to pretend to be The Voice of expats in Istanbul.

So until I decide what I want to write about, I'm taking a hiatus.

Blogger's Back!

2011-04-24T20:57:00.001+03:00

I don't know yet what happened, and hope this isn't a premature post ... But it seems the Blogger ban in Turkey has been lifted!

Official Flexibility

2011-03-25T19:32:00.003+02:00

I've often joked about how rules in Turkey are flexible and I've shared with you how I once got out of a parking ticket; but this takes the cake:

"Due to the university exam that will be held on Sunday, March 27, daylight saving time throughout

Turkey

will begin one day later than the other European countries, i.e. the clocks will be set ahead at 3.00 a.m. the night of Sunday, March 27 to Monday, March 28."

I share this with you somewhat reluctantly, as it is becoming more and more embarrassing these days to tell people I live in Turkey -- between the Blogspot/Blogger ban and this ... I shall say no more.

Istanbul

2011-03-17T20:37:00.001+02:00

After three months of grey skies and cold rain, the sun has been shining for five straight days in Istanbul and I once again love the city. I’d forgotten that it could be green and blue and beautiful, instead seeing only the traffic, the grime and the crowds. But now I’m reminded of why I was excited to move here in the first place.

I can't promise I won't ever hate the city again; but I hope I never become blasé about living in Istanbul, the fifth largest city in the world!

Blogger Ban

2011-03-15T06:30:00.002+02:00

I have been too annoyed about Turkey's all-encompassing Blogsot ban to write about it over the past two weeks. But someone else has said everything I'd want to, just so much better. Click here to read his post on the matter.

"I Can Survive Without Tomatoes"

2011-03-14T17:33:00.005+02:00

Don't get me wrong -- I love tomatoes. But nothing compares to the way Turkish people love tomatoes. I think it's fair to say many have them at every meal in one form or another. Case in point:

Husband: Should I use up all these tomatoes in the salad? They're going bad.

Me: Sure!

Husband: But then there won't be any left for tomorrow.

Me: That's ok. Besides, I'm going to the supermarket after work tomorrow. I'll get more.

Husband: But what about until then?

Long silence, while I think about how to answer this. I won't need them at breakfast or lunch; I will have bought more before dinner.

Me: I can survive without tomatoes.

Long silence, while he thinks about how to answer this. After all, there won't be any tomatoes for breakfast or lunch.

Husband: Oh, that's right. You're not Turkish.

Schools in Turkey

2011-03-05T13:15:00.005+02:00

I don't think I'm the type of mother who needs her child to attend the best school or to be the top of his class. However, recently I've had a taste of how nerve-wracking it is to be that kind of parent.

In Canada, I think it's pretty safe to say that whatever school you send your child to, public or private, he will get a good education. He will have the chance to go to university. Unfortunately things aren't so simple here. Yes, Istanbul is an improvement in many ways over other parts of the country. But still, some public schools have class sizes of sixty kids! Teachers' methods are usually archaic. Facilities are lacking. Private schools, on the other hand, while boasting impressive facilities, do not always deliver the quality of education promised. Classroom discipline is often nonexistent. Which leaves us with one final option, an international school. While the chances of my child's classmates' parents being like-minded are much greater, an appealing factor on its own, I worry about the transience of the student body.

And so, overwhelmed with choices, I find myself poring over school websites, making lists, taking notes, planning school visits ... And stressing over the fact that in the case of some Turkish private schools, I'm already too late getting my fourteen-month old son on the waiting list for kindergarten! In short, I find myself overcome by the fear of sending him to the wrong school that I'm entertaining outrageous notions -- quitting my job and homeschooling?! Opening Turkey's first Waldorf? Moving back to Canada?

The Bleak Istanbul Maternity Wear Market

2011-02-19T21:58:00.003+02:00

Considering how many stores sell lovely baby clothes and hip accessories here in Istanbul, I was sure finding maternity wear would be easier here than it had been in Adana.

Alas, pregnant with baby number two in winter, as opposed to number one in summer, I need clothes but have found just one store even worth mentioning, and it still leaves much to be desired. Bellamom in Istanbul's Istinye Park shopping center is worth a visit if you need maternity jeans or slacks, but the selection is small and the fabrics in most cases synthetic. And if you're petite like me, chances are you won't find anything in your size.

During my inquiries I learned of many stores that used to carry maternity clothes or have closed down completely, again surprising me; Istanbul women love fashion, and surely that doesn't stop when they become pregnant?!

Are all the fashionable Istanbullus shopping abroad for their maternity wear? Or are they going the non-maternity maternity clothing route? Any suggestions are welcome!

The Glamorous Side of Stay-at-home Mommyhood

2011-02-11T01:36:00.009+02:00

We're back from our Swedish vacation and a much-welcome breath of non-Turkish air; as much as I love Turkey, I need to get away every so often. And I'm back with renewed energy to tackle my many roles: wife, mother, teacher, friend ...

The women of Stockholm made stay-at-home motherhood look glamorous, never mind easy. Slender mothers dressed in Swedish-casual were everywhere, and rarely alone -- meeting in cafes, whose generous entrances and wide aisles easily accommodated their prams; at outdoor skating rinks; or at child-friendly places such as Junibacken, the amazing indoor play area dedicated to everything Astrid Lindgren. (I wish I'd taken a photo of the fifty-or-so buggies locked up outside in the 'parking lot.') Small groups of moms would stop and chat on street corners, there still being ample room for other pedestrians to walk past them on the wide Stockholm sidewalks, which seemed to have been made for prams!

And on the subject of prams -- interestingly, the ever-sleeker, sportier, lighter buggies so in fashion elsewhere were nowhere to be seen; Swedish women seemed to prefer wide, low buggies squatly suspended above four wheels, reminiscent of my mother's own Silver Cross. The most popular brand seemed to be native Brio.

Indeed, Sweden in many ways seemed dedicated to promoting family life. I visited the most beautiful children's bookstores, and a peek at the Swedish-language books for 0-24 month-olds revealed the most imaginative, creative and interactive books the likes of which I have yet to come across in Toronto. The clothing and toy stores I saw were full of beautiful classic Swedish children's items that made me want to be a kid again -- that, or have ten more babies. And public buses are free if you board with a baby carriage!

A little research quickly taught me that most Stockholm mothers I saw have careers, but that they are enjoying their one-and-a-half years of maternity leave. And once they do return to work, their husbands often take their own three months' leave before sending their kids to daycare. And even then, nobody seemed to work more than 35-hour weeks!

Vacation!

2011-02-01T15:00:00.000+02:00

Image via WikipediaWe're off to Stockholm for a week, enjoying one of the perks of expat life in Istanbul -- the proximity to Europe's major cities!

Alas my list of places to go is long, and life is busy ... I do not have the energy (with Baby in tow!) to pop over to Rome for a weekend or Cairo for spring break. But Sweden promises to be baby-friendly. I hope to buy some nice children's toys and just generally feast my eyes on Order and bask in Efficiency.

Nostalgia

2011-01-31T15:00:00.000+02:00

Günlük süt, or 'daily' milk as the non-UHT milk so widely available here in Turkey is called, is something I couldn't get at the store in Tarsus or Adana. If I wanted fresh milk, I had to find someone with a cow. Seriously. Once, only once, I managed to be in the right place at the right time and was able to flag down a man on a moped with a 10-gallon container of fresh milk between his feet, had him wait outside while I ran back upstairs to fetch a saucepan, and had him fill it up. I then brought it to an almost boil and simmered it for ten minutes, an art I learned from my mother-in-law. Let it boil and it not only spills over, making an incredible mess, but it scalds.

But since moving to Istanbul, I've only been buying fresh milk, since my local Migros supermarket carries it, as does the neighbourhood bakal, or corner store. And assuming I can be nostalgic for something older than me, I love the fact that the milk I buy (SEK brand) comes in glass bottles!

Going Native

2011-01-30T16:37:00.000+02:00

Image by PowerupMobile.com via FlickrIt's one thing to bring in a child car seat from Canada that isn't available here in Turkey (I didn't do this, but a friend did), or to stock up on pantry items (liquid vanilla, peanut butter, grains!) and Lululemon when you're home visiting. Some specialty items really are cheaper and better in North America; and who can argue that a little taste of home now and again in the midst of your expat life isn't good for the soul?

But I regret having bought a phone that isn't widely available in Turkey. Now, I have to interrupt my story here to say, I was not trying to be different, as my husband teasingly keeps insisting. But I absolutely wanted a phone with Windows Mobile, and my options here weren't great. I could either choose to spend a lot more than I knew I would for the same product back in Canada (Blackberry or a high-end Nokia), or buy an HTC, a brand I didn't know much about. Besides, I had loved my Palm Pilot years earlier, and felt a loyalty towards the brand. And then I found an inexpensive unlocked one in Canada.

Now that my Palm phone isn't working, however, there is only one place (in the whole country!) that I can bring it. Luckily it's relatively near to where we live. Still, two lessons learned: no matter how I justify it to myself or anyone else, it is high-maintenance of me to insist on buying certain things abroad. Two: going without a phone for a while will be a useful exercise in being unplugged.

Maybe you can take the city out of the girl ...

2011-01-29T12:19:00.004+02:00

I've been struggling for months now with the sheer size of Istanbul. Perhaps it's not the size, though, but the insufficient, inefficient infrastructure, particularly when it comes to transportation.

I know that in order to exist comfortably in a big city, one needs to live close to work and in a neighbourhood that meets one's needs. And we do. But in a city with as much to offer as Istanbul, there are things beyond my neighbourhood that beckon me. And that's when I start to question whether four years in Tarsus/Adana have rubbed off on me.

Last week, I went to a book club meeting with some fellow North American women for the first time. We were meeting in Taksim, a fairly central location, and I suspect closer to where I live than many of the other women there. Still, I had to consider whether to take a bus, taxi plus Metro, or just taxi. Obviously price is a consideration, but so are time and comfort.

Let's look at option one, the most practical and economical: one bus, from my doorstep to the doorstep of the cafe in Taksim. Easy, right? And cheap. But it would take about an hour, and the bus would be crowded; chances are, I'd have to stand the whole way. Also, the direct bus to Taksim doesn't come by all that frequently, and I might have to wait for it.

And so there's option 1b: take any of the buses passing by my doorstep, and then transfer to the funiculaire.

Now let's look at option two, which is considerably more pricey, but a lot more comfortable. For about ten Lira, a taxi will take you to the nearest Metro, from where you ride underground and emerge in Taksim 5-10 minutes later. Door-to-door, you're there in half-an-hour. If only we lived closer to the Metro!

Option three: taxi all the way. A little pricey at close to 20 Lira, and not always advisable, even in the greatest hurry, since if there's a match or it's rush hour, even the best cabbie can't avoid the traffic and you'll be en route for an hour.

I wasn't even going to mention option four, since I never consider it: drive myself. Between the traffic and the scarcity of parking spots, never mind the fact that I haven't yet even learned the best route to take, I'm far too intimidated to drive to Taksim. My husband recently drove to Taksim at 7:30 in the morning on a weekday, though, and got there in under fifteen minutes.

I wish Istanbul were a city with a bicycle culture.

Anyway, all this takes me back to my original question: did the relative quiet of Adana, a city of 1.5 million, suit me better? While I lived there, I cursed its provincial aspect and lamented the absence of museums, galleries and gourmet restaurants almost daily. But now that I'm here in Istanbul, with the latter at my doorstep, how often do I venture out into the big city and actually take advantage of them? Far too seldom, I'm afraid. I find myself too tired, or too lazy, and prefer to take walks in the neighbourhood and take Baby to the local park.

Which begs the question: if that's the kind of life I'm living in the big city, wouldn't I perhaps be better off back in Adana?

Unless I resolve to start really living in Istanbul.

Reading Again

2011-01-20T17:13:00.005+02:00

I haven't been writing much; blame it on the nanny adventure, being sick, being busy ... But I have managed to finish reading a book, which is quite amazing -- it's been months since I actually read one to the end!

I read Ann Patchett's memoir Truth & Beauty: A Friendship as an example of my new favourite genre, creative non-fiction. Back in October I wrote that I had bought several books that had been recommended as part of a writing course I'd taken; this is one of those books. And while I wouldn't exactly recommend it, it was an interesting read, if not least as a writing lesson.

I've abandoned Elif Shafak's The Forty Rules of Love, but may pick it up again as a book club I've just joined has it listed as their book for February.

I've abandoned The Elegance of the Hedgehog although it still sits on my night table. I don't know why I stopped reading that one; it's brilliant. I will go back to it.

The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work by Alain de Botton likewise lies unfinished on my nightstand; I'll go back to it as well ... I'm a huge fan, even if his work needs a break.

New and Old Comfort Foods

2011-01-11T19:12:00.005+02:00

Food. A recurring subject of mine. Let me sum up in one sentence everything I've ever written about food: good food makes me very, very happy; while the absence of it, especially over a prolonged period of time, almost always sinks me into depression.

Yesterday I received a package from Mom, and more than the enclosed gift for Baby, more than the chocolate marzipan she made herself from scratch, more than anything else, I was delighted to receive the box of PC Macaroni and White Cheddar Cheese.

I cooked it immediately, and savoured every delicious, creamy, melting-in-my-mouth bite. I paired it with another perfect taste, çig köfte, one of the few Turkish foods I truly love, each spoonful of the mac and cheese extinguishing the flames of the spicy köfte I'd popped into my mouth a moment earlier.

I was very, very happy.

The Nanny Agency

2011-01-10T20:18:00.000+02:00

What comes to mind when you hear the words 'nanny' and 'agency?' Let me tell you what I understand by the phrase: a company that, for a price, will introduce prospective clients to several nanny candidates whose references and credentials have been checked; and who have presumably been successfully placed by the agency in the past.

Well, it turns out that most Istanbul nanny agencies simply scour the want-ads for nannies' names and telephone numbers, file them, and then call them when needed. And based on my own experience, it seems the nannies advertising in the papers are the ones who couldn't get work by word-of-mouth.

Apparently until recently, agents would take a month's salary from the nanny and the equivalent from the client; in return, they would help both parties if the nanny-family match broke up within six months. It has been made illegal to take money from the nannies, so now agents want a fee equivalent of two months' nanny salary from the family, and have reduced their 'guarantee' to three months. Which would seem reasonable, if they were actually doing more than facilitating introductions!

I'd been entertaining the idea of starting my own agency, purely out of frustration, when I stumbled across one that seemed to operate the way I thought agencies should. And I was not disappointed -- until I learned that they were way out of my league. This agency finds professional, educated nannies (i.e. educated in early childhood education, child development, speech, etc.) whose salaries exceed my own!

Perhaps I'm in the wrong field?

Return of the Nanny Diaries

2011-01-09T19:22:00.008+02:00

I had been hoping after the last nanny debacle never again to have to write about childcare. But alas, two weeks ago, we had to fire our nanny.

The worst part is that I held on to her for months longer than I wanted to; within a few weeks of her starting with us four months ago, I knew things weren't perfect. Almost everything she did drove me crazy.

But she was taking good care of Baby; in fact within a few days of her starting with us, he'd made advances in language and general comprehension that I'd never thought possible. So I wrote off my complaints as petty and brushed them aside; I figured I was just projecting my own guilt about choosing to work and not stay home with my son.

Eventually it became clear that it wasn't just me, though; even my husband, who hardly ever saw the nanny, agreed she was crossing the line of professionalism and taking too much ownership of Baby and our household.

But nannies -- or rather good nannies -- are hard to find in Istanbul. Uneducated Turkish mothers whose families suddenly find themselves in need of additional income will often look for work as a nanny because their only other option is house keeping; illegal workers from Russia, Uzbekistan and Moldovia often work as nannies; as do Filipina women. As a mother, I've had to consider safety (do I accept someone who's in the country illegally?), language (what effect will broken English or broken Turkish have on my son?), and of course personality (what psychological effect will someone with obvious emotional baggage have on Baby?). And then there's principle: what percentage of my salary am I willing to pay for peace of mind? All of it? 75% of it? 50%? Considering the high unemployment rate and low wages for even educated people in this country, nannies ask a lot. They also want you to pay their transportation to and from work each day in addition to whatever monthly salary you agree on.

The general consensus is that the Filipinas are the best; but they are also the most expensive. The general consensus is that the Turkish women are the worst (even though not the cheapest); but wasn't our beloved nanny S back in Tarsus Turkish? And don't I feel at least a little patriotic to these adopted country-women of mine, to want to support them? The general consensus is that finding a good nanny is like playing the lottery; you have to try and try and try until you luck out. I have colleagues who have fired almost thirty nannies!

All this to justify why I, the perfectionist, put up with less than perfection for months -- I didn't want to deal with finding someone else!

But the day I came home and found my son's bangs chopped up to his hairline and looking like a monk, I knew Istanbul Nanny #2 had to go. She'd asked me that morning whether she could straighten the trim I'd given him, but I'd clearly said no; my own bad job would tie him over until the weekend when he and Daddy would go to the barber for the first time together. I'd just wanted to get his hair out of his eyes. And besides, his crooked fringe had a cute punky pixie look which I was kind of enjoying.

"But didn't I tell you not to touch his hair?" I asked in horror that evening?

"But it needed to be done!" was her only reply, as if it were up to her to decide.

Fired.

"Because I straightened out his hair?"

Fired.

"If I'd known you were going to make such a big deal of this, I wouldn't have cut his hair."

Fired.

Lost in Translation 2

2010-12-27T16:12:00.004+02:00

Except for the absence of snow, there have been thankfully few reminders that I’ll be “missing” Christmas in Canada with my parents, brothers, nieces and nephews. Especially in Istanbul Christmas trees, Santas, reindeer and carols are everywhere; I even saw panettone for sale at the supermarket.

Except it’s all for New Year’s. It seems the Turkish have appropriated several Christmas traditions for celebrating New Year’s Eve, where children receive gifts and sit around a decorated “New Year’s tree.”

And in that context, I’d like you to consider three dissatisfyingly strange conversations I had with a dinner guest last night.

Puzzling Conversation #1:

Dinner Guest: Seeing as you have a New Year’s tree all set up and decorated, I assume you’re staying in town for New Year’s Eve?

Me: Actually, that’s our Christams tree. We celebrated Christmas yesterday. We’re going to Adana for New Year’s.

Dinner Guest: Huh?!

Puzzling Conversation #2:

Dinner Guest: Aren’t Christmas and New Year’s on the same day?

Me: No, Christmas is on December 25th.

Dinner Guest: Isn’t Christmas when Jesus was born?

Me: Yes.

Dinner Guest: ??!!

Puzzling Conversation #3:

Dinner Guest: Why are Christmas and New Year’s so close together, like a week apart?

Me: Huh??!!

Hypocrisy

2010-12-14T18:39:00.004+02:00

Not to worry, this isn't a rant; the hypocrisy I'm going to talk about is all mine.

After four years of "surviving" in Tarsus, imagine my surprise and delight at discovering Istanbul's Macro Center, an upscale affiliate of the Migros supermarket chain. As I strolled its aisles, I couldn't help asking myself whether I was still in the same country. Sweet potatoes and limes in the produce section, bacon in the deli, and nachos and salsa in the snacks aisle. Not to mention the things I hadn't even really missed -- Ben and Jerry's ice cream, Pepperidge Farm cookies, and Weetabix!

Image via WikipediaBut at prices more than three times what I'd pay in Canada, I left without buying anything, and didn't go back. The valet-parked Porsches and luxury SUVs out front were a further turnoff, as the whole place began to represent the opposite of what I'd come to love about life in Tarsus.

Well, that self-righteousness of mine lasted about two months. And while I still buy 99% of my groceries from more "Turkish" markets and have adapted my family's cuisine to work with what's available at the pazar (farmer's market) and in the aisles of my local supermarket, I have started to indulge in what Macro Center has to offer every once in a while. This weekend I spent the equivalent of almost $15 on a bag of nachos and a jar of salsa, but it was worth every kuruş.

However, I should add that while I'll buy nachos again, I'm determined to start making my own salsa. I'm going to try an adaptation of the Pioneer Woman's recipe, substituting the canned tomatoes and peppers for fresh.

Take Out

2010-12-13T18:36:00.001+02:00

Other big cities likely have a similar service, but Istanbul is where I first came across this brilliant business idea. Yemeksepeti.com (which translates as my food basket) is a website allowing you to order in from hundreds of fast food chains and restaurants. No phone numbers to store, no take-out menus to save, no having to explain how to get to your difficult-to-find home. In fact, you don't have to speak to anyone -- no waiting on hold, no miscommunication.

You can narrow down your options by cuisine and location. Restaurants are rated on speed, service and taste, and you can even choose to be environmentally friendly and tick a box so that plastic cutlery, napkins and other such items aren't brought. The website remembers you, so ordering is quick and easy. And all deliveries are made on mopeds, so traffic is never a concern!

Since I love to cook and am considerably health conscious, we rarely eat out; hence my being so slow to discover this great service. But I'll still go ahead and recommend it to others, making sure to tell expats there's an English version!

The Turkish Dozen

2010-12-12T18:25:00.004+02:00

I've decided the Turkish equivalent to a dozen is one kilogram. Not only does one usually buy a kilogram of baklava, börek (Turkish blintz) or poğaça at the bakery, where a North American would probably buy a dozen, eggs come in cartons of ten.

No Turk I've ever asked, including my husband, has been able to give me a Turkish word for dozen, although my dictionary tells me there is one. It's just clearly never used!

GPS Navigation System

2010-12-05T13:45:00.006+02:00

I'd always written off GPS navigation systems as cool toys for people who love to play with technology, and had certainly never thought of buying one. But a friend lent me one recently, and I don't want to give it back! I would not be overstating things if I told you this tiny little black device has changed my life.

You see, moving to Istanbul has in many ways been like moving to a new country; except for the language, there is almost nothing else to connect it to Adana/Tarsus, where I'd been living for the past four years. And whereas four years ago I was afraid to venture out into the city because I didn't speak the language, I now find myself apprehensive about leaving the safety of our campus because I will get lost.

And I must clarify -- there is getting lost, and then there is getting lost in Istanbul, where one wrong turn can take you half an hour to correct. I have gotten lost half a dozen times since moving here, and each occasion has had me almost in tears. Indeed, navigating my way around this new city of ours is an emotional rollercoaster; I've enjoyed absolute euphoria, as I did when I drove across the Bosphorus Bridge for the first time and when I made it to the Ataturk Airport in under half an hour; and utter despair, as I did when it took me over two hours to get back, baby crying in the backseat. And that two hours was not because I was stuck in traffic; it was because I backtracked and criss-crossed my way across the city three or four times trying to find my way home.

I've been known to be indecisive when it comes to purchases, but I knew in an instant I had to buy a GPS navigator; although my friend and I had both thought I'd use his for a week or so and get to learn my way around so I wouldn't need it anymore, I now can't imagine life without one. It's even shown me better routes than the ones I already thought I knew!

I love you, TomTom!

Old School

2010-11-30T20:12:00.004+02:00

Because returning anything is never easy in this country and traffic is a nightmare in Istanbul, this morning I did something I think my Turkish mother-in-law would be proud of.

I had just opened a fresh package of brown rice to make my son's breakfast cereal, but as I rinsed it, little black specks of ... BEETLE floated to the surface! Dozens of them!

Horrified, my mind immediately raced through all the possible courses of action:

return the rice to the store and demand they check all the other bags of the same brand's rice for bugs;
write to the manufacturer;
throw out the rice.

But the calmer, more realistic, more Turkish me soon took over. None of the above would make Baby's breakfast happen; and I didn't have the time or energy to take on a problem that is simply a reality of the pre-packaged food industry.

So I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed that rice, even picking a few of the beetles out by hand, and then I cooked it.

As for the rest of the bag, I poured the remaining rice onto a large cookie sheet and put it out on the terrace; within minutes, beetles were crawling out of the rice, off the tray, and across the table! Bye bye beetles!

The rice is now safely stored away in an airtight container in the dark, cool fridge.

A Reading Update

2010-11-23T09:00:00.002+02:00

I never did finish the Orhan Pamuk essays (click here for that hopeful post); am I crazy to still plan on reading his latest novel, The Museum of Innocence? Anyway, that's still a long way off.

Am reading at a snail's pace these days. I've been toting around The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak, another author I've been lukewarm about in the past, for over a month now. But unlike the Pamuk book, I'm really enjoying this one! The only problem is I can't manage to read more than two or three pages a night. Thankfully, the chapters are about that long!

I should mention that since the semester started, I've read about fifteen young adult novels ... Trying to keep up with my students! The most notable: I am the Messenger by Markus Zusak and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie.

Garbage

2010-11-22T09:00:00.006+02:00

Even though the C. Sweeper comes by every so often to remove the garbage floating along the European bank of the Bosphorus, sights like this are common:

There is no doubt that a better approach would be an educational campaign against littering. Garbage and recycling bins are everywhere, and admittedly often full to overflowing; but perhaps that's more indicative of how often they're emptied rather than how many people are using them?

I don't have the answers, but sure would like to see a change.

Car Colours

2010-11-21T12:47:00.004+02:00

Why are so many cars in Turkey grey or silver? I'm not sure whether supply is following demand or vice versa, but most dealerships only offer white, black or grey as options.

Case in point: all six of the cars parked below are silver or grey!

Fun While On Duty

2010-11-07T19:36:00.011+02:00

Am deep into Nanowrimo, so haven't been blogging much. But we did get out yesterday to stroll along the Bosphorus, where I noticed that even those who normally have to work on Sundays were enjoying the afternoon.

This parking attendant clearly wasn't too worried about letting a car or two leave without paying:

And although I wasn't quick enough to catch this street cleaner as he emptied his dustbin into a nearby garbage bin ...

... he had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and was dancing to the music of this guy:

Turkish Directions

2010-10-21T18:41:00.005+03:00

This is nothing new, but I thought you might get a kick out of this. Let me start with some background and a valuable lesson learned early on.

Four years ago, when I was still new in Turkey, a fellow expat and I made plans to go out to dinner with our respective boyfriends. She and I made all the plans; the men just had to show up. C picked me up from work, and we started to drive. "So, where are we going?" he asked me.

"I've got the address right here." I proudly produced my Palm Pilot, pulled up the address and read it out to him.

"What's that? Where's that?" he asked.

"What do you mean, where's that? This is your city!"

Well, who knew, but in Turkey things don't work that way. Addresses, streets, directions don't work that way.

Anyway, to make a long story short, C got on the phone with my friend's boyfriend and we figured out how to get to their place. But not without the two of them having a good laugh over us girls and our western assumptions!

So this is how it works when you want to give directions: first, you state the neighbourhood. If it's Istanbul, district first, then neighbourhood. Then you state the closest main street, and a landmark, such as a restaurant or a school. Then you might get more specific with the colour of the building, or which business is on the ground floor of the apartment. But don't bother with an actual street address, since apparently only the postal service uses or understands that system.

I was reminded of all this when I received directions to an event on raising bilingual kids I'm attending on Saturday. Can you make sense of this?

"Dumlupınar 17, Caferaga mah Kadiköy Istanbul. Near MUHURDAR Cad. and Burger King on corner of Muhurdar Cad. and Dumlupınar Sok. close to SIFA Hastanesi and next to Gümüş Cafe and opposite Sahaf Cafe. See you at Greenhouse!"

???

E-Books -- An Expat's Necessity?

2010-10-19T16:00:00.000+03:00

Image via WikipediaFor a few months now, I've seen colleagues, friends and even traveling relatives carry around either a Kindle or an iPad, and I can no longer ignore what seems to be a growing trend. I need to decide: do I buy into it? (And is it a trend, or will e-books indeed become what MP3 players now are to music?)

If I still lived in Toronto, if I weren't an expat, there's no way I would even be considering this. But an expat I am, so here goes:

Cons:

an immediate expense (especially if I choose the iPad, which is way more than an e-book)
new technology = being replaced by improved new technology ... so would my Kindle quickly become 'old' the way the first iPods quickly did?
being unable to borrow from and lend books to friends, which is just plain fun
guilt: my school's library has a lot of books and magazines, and I should take advantage!

Pros:

Never again having to pack, move and unpack books, as I already have so many times in my life, as I did this summer, and as I undoubtedly will again.
Being able to 'buy' a book and start reading it instantly (or so I'm told). This is especially key as English books are not easy to come by in Turkey. Or at least they weren't in Tarsus or Adana. Although they are in Istanbul, as I discovered much to my delight yesterday when I walked into Remzi Kitabevi and the first thing I saw, opposite the entrance, was a huge shelf of recently published English books, including several by Malcolm Gladwell and Elif Shafak's latest novel. Not your standard 'bestseller' fare. So anyway, perhaps this particular point is moot now that we live in Istanbul.
English books in Turkey are expensive; e-books cost the same everywhere (I would think! Please let me be right!)
Ordering books from amazon.com to Turkey has just gotten more complicated and it has nothing to do with the bookseller.
E-book readers really aren't expensive at all, averaging around $150. If I buy 5 English books from a Turkish bookstore, I've spent around that much. 10 if I buy them on a trip home to Canada. But then of course I've got to lug them back with me ...

With all the 'pro' arguments, why haven't I just gone ahead and bought a Kindle? None of the items on my 'con' list are enough to dissuade me. What it comes down to, then, is this: I'm afraid I'd miss the feel of a book in my hand; would miss the smell of books; would miss holding one page between my thumb and forefinger as I read the previous page, anticipating the next; that I wouldn't be able to underline or otherwise mark up passages I find particularly inspiring. And most of all, that I'd miss seeing my collection grow on my shelves, grow until the next big heart-breaking purge.

An Argument Against Owning Pets

2010-10-18T16:00:00.001+03:00

Let me preface by saying I grew up with cats and have also been a dog owner. Let me also add that I absolutely love animals. I stop on the street to pet anything that'll accept a little cuddle, and have no qualms about Baby getting up close to the stray cats that come around to our terrace and beg for food. I really, really love animals.

But I've been firm with myself over the past few years, and while I cannot imagine having a pet-free household forever, I do not want any now. We travel too much, for one thing; and it's just too much responsibility.

That said, lately my resolve has been waning. Baby loves pets too, but until recently, I was

happy to let him play with our friends' dogs and cats. Then a young grey tabby started coming round. I estimate he was about six months old, so past the worst of the kitten stage, but young enough to train. (Assuming one can train a cat. We'll talk about that another day.) He was incredibly sweet, and would put up with Baby's tugs and pokes; he would head-butt Baby lovingly, and purr; he wasn't scared by Baby's squeals of delight. Once, he snuck into the

house and I found him sleeping curled up in a corner of Baby's room.

My resolve was in serious jeopardy.

Then I got the following email from my brother, who has two cats.

I have a cat flap, and my beasts regularly drag half-dead (which means half-alive) RATS into the house!

Once, the first time, the damned thing got away from them ... The next day, while watching TV, I saw the very much alive rat hiding on top of the curtains! Since that fiasco, the cats drag in vermin that can't get away. Often I just find headless rodents, or worse, just the entrails.

That's yuck. Had to clean up that the other day.

My resolve has returned.

Accessibility

2010-10-17T07:52:00.004+03:00

Yesterday while walking along Istiklal Caddesi, I saw this sign outside a Starbucks:

"Ring bell for assistance," it reads in Turkish.

The small step was no challenge for me and my stroller, but someone in a wheelchair would have definitely needed help. Seeing this sign made me happy -- I have faced more difficult entrances than this with my stroller, where not a ramp or elevator was in sight.

I love when it is obvious that someone has thought of such details. It tells me that someone not only recognized a problem, but did something about it. And that in turn inspires confidence that the employee or business is a good one.

Except I'm not sure how the fact that said Starbucks is three-storeys high but has only one washroom fits with that theory.

Reading - an Update

2010-10-15T21:42:00.002+03:00

Am having mixed feelings about the book of Pamuk's essays ... don't know how much further I'll push on.

Other Colors: Essays and a Story

2010-10-14T16:00:00.004+03:00

I've just ordered books by several of who may very well turn out to be among my new favourite writers. Earlier this year I took a creative non-fiction writing course with Liz Boltz Ranfeld, who introduced me to several marvelous authors. Hungry for more of their work, I've been carrying their names with me on a list for months now, and finally got around to buying their books last week.

I think I'll keep their names a secret for now, posting about them one by one as I read them. In the meantime, I'll tell you how excited I am to have gotten my hands on a collection of essays by Orhan Pamuk. Controversial in Turkey and perhaps therefore so well-known in other countries, I'll admit I've left more of his novels unfinished than finished. But the ones I loved, I really loved; and I'm always a sucker for the essays of novelists.

I found out about "Other Colors: Essays and a Story" by accident about a month ago, and was delighted to learn that the school where I work has it in its library. I was even more thrilled to discover how FAT it is when I picked it up today. Turning from the table of contents to get to the first page, I was surprised to find two and a half more pages of table of contents!

I just hope that this book won't end up as so many Pamuk books before it -- abandoned.

It's that time of year again ...

2010-10-13T16:00:00.001+03:00

NaNoWriMo is back! And even though I don't have nearly the time I did living in Tarsus, where my hobbies were vital to my mental well-being, I am determined to do it again -- I will write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days.

And while I may have more distractions here in Istanbul, I also have loads of cafes in which to write, writing buddies galore, and inspiration everywhere I look!

Let's just hope the nine-day holiday in the middle of the month helps rather than hurts me!

Semantics

2010-10-12T18:46:00.003+03:00

To pick up on my recent post about cross-cultural linguistic misinterpretations, I'd like to share with you one of the many puzzles I cannot solve. Perhaps I'll start a semantics series ...

But in the meantime, I'd love to get to the bottom of why Turkish fathers call their babies "daddy" and Turkish mothers call their daughters "mummy?" Used as a term of endearment similar to sweetheart or honey, I once asked my husband why on earth babacığım and anneciğim are so commonly used? He admitted to being as baffled as I, and we agreed on the spot never to use either term with our own children.

Of course, he now often addresses Baby as baba, and when I remind him of his promise and point out the ridiculousness of it, he just shrugs.

Musings ...

2010-10-08T18:53:00.004+03:00

Image via WikipediaThis is probably the closest I'll ever come to writing about politics, so bear with me.

The other day, after taking my nanny, who happens to wear a headscarf, to an informal afternoon school function, she asked me whether I thought she'd made anyone uncomfortable with her headscarf. Her question was beside the point, as I realized that she herself had been uncomfortable as the only covered woman.

The irony wasn't lost on me -- walking around Istanbul in my t-shirt and jeans and my long hair blowing in the wind, I often feel slightly uneasy, as if I'm being judged by the covered women I see around me. Am I just imagining scowls of disapproval? In my mind, they're holding their breath for the day when all women in Turkey will by law be required to hide their hair under headscarves and cover their arms and legs.

The reasonable part of my brain tells me that's not at all how they feel; indeed, the covered women I've met have only ever been warm and friendly towards me. Yet I suspect this divide, based primarily on misunderstanding and lack of communication, exists not just in my mind, but in the minds of others as well.

I wonder if the two 'sides' spoke openly, whether we'd be able to trump any higher powers that might be pitting us against each other?

Why Less Can Be More

2010-10-05T18:44:00.005+03:00

Back in Tarsus, spending a cozy evening at home in your pajamas with a glass of wine and a book was guilt-free. (Unless you were trying to cut back on your alcohol consumption, of course.) Here in Istanbul, nights in mean you're missing stuff out there.

But if you resolve, like I have, to make the most of the city and visit its museums, go to its concerts, explore its back streets and unique shops, eat its food ... Where do you start? The choices are unending, and one might easily become so overwhelmed that one does nothing.

Back in my former Toronto life, with so much at my finger tips, I admit I took the city for granted; I can count on one hand the times I visited a museum or art gallery, and tended to go to the same restaurants and cafes whenever I went out with friends. But nothing shakes you out of that better than four years in a provincial outpost!

The reality of my new Istanbul existence includes a full-time job and a family of three, and so I'm happy if I get out into the city once a week. As long as I do something fun and interesting in this incredible city each week, I don't feel guilty. Last weekend included brunch at a cafe on the Bosphorus with a group of ten interesting people; we walked forty minutes to and from the restaurant, thus getting a good dose of warm autumn sunshine (and a little rain!).

Lost in Translation

2010-10-03T14:31:00.002+03:00

I'm sure we Canadians are guilty of it too -- what we call pizza is apparently nothing like the real Italian pie; and I have to assume that we are misusing some of the many foreign words in our English language.

But I've never been more aware of the way things get lost in translation as I am here in Turkey. I'll leave the linguistic examples for another day, but want to tell you about a new "valet" service now available in Istanbul. The advertisement caught my eye right away because of what it was 'selling' -- an alternative to drinking and driving. I get excited whenever I see social education programs here for things I grew up with as givens -- recycling and car seats for children being two examples dear to my heart. Although I have heard of many people lose their licenses for a year for drinking and driving, this was the first time I saw an attempt to tackle the problem closer to the root -- instead of punishing offenders, here was an attempt to prevent drunk driving. And I was thrilled.

The only puzzling thing is the way the ad opens: At last, the 'designated driver' system so popular in Europe and America is here. It then goes on to explain its service: Just call this number and one of our experienced chauffeurs will immediately hop on his collapsible scooter and come meet you; he will then drive you home in your own car.

Obviously, the 'designated driver' concept has been modified to suit Turkish party-goers, who are far more spontaneous than us North Americans; whereas we designate our drivers before starting to drink, here, there is an 'out' for anyone who suddenly finds themselves too drunk to drive home. I guess one needs to know one's clientele.

Ortaköy

2010-09-20T18:22:00.011+03:00

On the weekends we explore the city. On Saturday we spent a beautiful afternoon in Ortaköy, strolling leisurely among the locals and tourists, browsing the endless stands of handicrafts and secondhand books. We ate kumpir at one of the dozens of kumpir stands, and I was reminded of the way vendors in Turkey are not afraid of competition the way they are in Canada -- whereas one would be ill-advised to open a pizzeria in a neighbourhood that already has one in Toronto, I'm not sure one can get this baked potato stuffed with every topping imaginable anywhere else in Istanbul!

We strolled and stopped for tea, strolled some more and stopped to let Baby watch the pigeons, strolled some more and stopped to watch the Cunard's Queen Victoria pass by, not believing what a coincidence it was for us to be there at that moment. We watched a boat called "C. Sweeper" suck up garbage floating in the water. We eavesdropped on a tour guide explain something to a group of German tourists. We people watched. It was one of those afternoons where we just let ourselves be guided by whatever came up. Which is why, I believe, we were able to take notice of the following scene:

two little tartici, young boys who sit with a beat-up and no doubt unreliable bathroom scale and allow you to weigh yourself for a fee, were stripping down to their underwear and leaving their clothes on their scales in preparation for an icy swim in the Bosphorus. Onlookers whispered to each other in horror when they saw the filth the boys were about to dive into. The two boys teased and cajoled each other, as if they were aware of the suspense they were creating, until the smaller one finally jumped in. As he splashed and flapped his way back to the wall, we realized he couldn't swim! He hoisted himself back up onto land, sputtering and looking quite pitiful; but when an onlooker remarked that he'd surely swallowed quite a bit of water, the boy replied he'd been thirsty anyway.

He rearranged a thick rope that was tied to a post so that it reached out from shore; the boys would jump onto the rope, which they would then use to pull themselves back to land. In addition to the potential for drowning, there were jellyfish in the water, and the boys would hastily pull them off themselves once back on land and throw them to the ground. As a new mother and as a Canadian, I admit I am perhaps a little too safety-conscious, to the extent that I sometimes tell myself to just relax and let something go once in a while; I couldn't help but notice that these boys were having fun nobody should spoil.

Nothing is more heartbreaking than seeing Turkey's urchins plying their trade with the confidence of adults. I usually look away and keep walking, trying to put them out of my mind. But seeing these two boys shed their professional faces and follow their boyish instincts was beautiful. This was by far the highlight of my day. My husband and I each had our own reasons for lingering at the scene for as long as we did; he was worried one of the boys might need rescuing, and I was basking in their happiness. At that moment, they didn't have a care in the world.

The Bosphorus Bridge

2010-09-12T15:56:00.007+03:00

I admit I was more than just a little apprehensive at the thought of moving to Istanbul with its staggering population of 19 million. But I was determined to tackle the city head-on and become as comfortable navigating its roads as I had been in Adana and Tarsus.

I just didn't think I'd start so soon!

Within a week or two of arriving, I had to drop my husband off at the airport. He drove while I carefully made mental notes, occasionally checking the map to see the corresponding 'bigger picture.' Still, I was extremely nervous about the return trip.

I gave myself a stern pep talk: what's the worst thing that could happen? What exactly was I afraid of?

Getting lost.

And what will happen if I get lost?

I'll eventually find my way again. Or ask for directions. Or call my brother-in-law, who knows the city inside and out.

I was a little surprised when I actually did get lost, but I corrected my mistake and was one step closer to knowing Istanbul.

A successful trip to to the supermarket and another airport run a few days later further boosted my confidence.

Then came the real challenge: unable to resist a cheap flight to Adana in and out of Sabiha Gökçen, Istanbul's other airport, I now had to figure out how to get myself and Baby there after work one Friday, but before rush hour. Which allowed no room for error. The slightest mistake could set me back just enough to get me caught in traffic and turn a 45-minute drive into a two-hour one. Or so I was warned.

I enlisted the help of experienced Istanbul expat friends, who were torn between recommending the simplest, most straightforward routes and the quickest, most efficient. The problem, it seemed, was getting to the bridge. I was to cross the Bosphorus Bridge, after which my journey would apparently be extremely easy. But there were dozens of ways to get to the bridge.

Image via WikipediaI became increasingly nervous, until one kind friend said he'd lead me in his car to the bridge. Within ten minutes he was pulling over to the shoulder and waving me past, and I was merging with the cuing traffic at the bottleneck that is the entrance to the bridge. I couldn't believe how easy it had been! The route he'd taken had been roundabout to say the least, and it might be years before I would be able to navigate the roads of Ortaköy and Beşiktaş as expertly as he did, but at that moment, I didn't care. All I could think about was that I was driving myself and Baby across the Bosphorus Bridge. It was a beautiful day, and I dared to take my eyes off the road a few times to admire the view. Stunning. I am not ashamed to say that I was overcome with emotion and my tears welled up with tears. It was a beautiful moment.

Reality set back in once we parked at the airport and I had to face the difficulties of travelling alone with an eight-month-old. But I'll save that story for another day; suffice to say that the exploding water bottle incident, which you can read about here if you missed it, was only a small part of it.

Big City Girl

2010-09-12T15:28:00.006+03:00

Image by Oberazzi via FlickrIf I have to choose between being a city girl or a country girl, I'm afraid I have to choose the former. Yes, I miss Tarsus and its friendly neighbourhood vendors, inexpensive fresh produce and spices, and its simplicity. But in the month since we've moved to Istanbul, I've already been enjoying several aspects of cosmopolitan life that I just don't want to give up again -- at least not until I retire!

Sweet potatoes. Yes, they cost 12TL per kilogram; but I can now buy them if I want to!
Mommy groups -- they exist! Haven't found one of my own yet, but in the meantime am enjoying ...
... the company of the dozen or so other foreign mothers married to Turkish men I've already met.
Other English speaking children for Baby to socialize with and connect him to his non-Turkish side.
Organizations such as Professional American Women of Istanbul (PAWI); I won't even go into why this is wonderful! (I know I'm not American, but they welcome Canadians too.)
Resources for expats, such as Professor Anna Lia Proietti’s seminar on raising bilingual children I'll be attending next month.
Real pedicures.

Big City Girl Turned Small Town Girl?

2010-09-10T20:40:00.004+03:00

Although I'm loving Istanbul, must admit to several 'rural migrant' behaviours and attitudes, most of which revolve around food:

I've had my husband bring back huge amounts of pul biber, homemade salça and tomato conserve from his visits to Adana;
I jealously hoard the homemade jams and wild honeys my in-laws send;
I've taken to complaining that the coffee isn't as fresh here and speaking fondly of the way I used to be able to do x, get y, and go to z back in Tarsus;
I timed a trip back to Adana to coincide with a monthly trip to the kuaför and put off finding a new one here for a few more weeks;
I am repeatedly surprised by the gruffness of the local Istanbullu.

Could four years away from Toronto in the middle of Turkey have turned me into a small town girl?

Secret (Flawed) Weapon or Flying with Baby

2010-09-06T08:30:00.005+03:00

A few months ago I wrote about the security guards at my school melting as they cooed and even kissed my son; policemen have changed their minds about giving me a ticket, anxious about me getting Baby home. This weekend I unexpectedly but gratefully accepted the assistance of airport employees, from security guards to grounds crew, as I traveled alone with Baby for the first time.

Image via WikipediaOne passes through a security check just to enter a Turkish airport, meaning I had to take Baby out of his stroller and fold it up to put it through the x-ray machine several times. On each occasion, security personnel enthusiastically offered to hold Baby while I dealt with his paraphernalia. Ditto for the people who take the stroller at the entrance to the plane and deliver it again when you land. No one was interested in helping with the pram; they just wanted to hold Baby!

Until it came to the flight crew. In my darkest moment of need, when I actually had to ask for help, I was warned that they weren't allowed to take care of the baby. A steward reluctantly sat with my son while I ducked into the plane's tiny washroom to change my sopping wet clothes after baby's razor-sharp tooth burst through the water bottle he'd been gumming and somehow managed to empty within one second all over me; I was as suddenly and thoroughly soaked as I would have been in a dunk tank.

I think I know what Baby's Secret Weapon is!

A Nanny Update

2010-09-02T21:18:00.003+03:00

Today was day two with our new nanny, and I will here (apprehensively) say everything's going really well so far. (Am a little shell-shocked and have lost faith in my ability to judge character; am resolved to from now on reserve all judgement until a good chunk of time has elapsed.)

The last nanny went out with a bang and that's all I'm going to say about that.

Autumn in Istanbul

2010-09-01T08:37:00.003+03:00

It's September 1st, the day I start looking for autumn each year. And this year, I've found it!

I woke up this morning, thinking Baby was up way too early, and was surprised to see it was almost 7! The blue summer sky we've been enjoying is covered with grey clouds and there's rain in the air. Baby and I went out for a walk, but I backtracked and got him a sweater, so nippy was it out!

Perfect.

I'm sure it's scorching hot and sunny in Adana.

Adventures in Nanny Searching

2010-08-26T12:59:00.001+03:00

I assume any nanny can change and feed a baby; the challenge is finding someone whose personality doesn't offend me. For long before a nanny's character flaws will influence my son, she will start to drive me crazy.

Here are just a few of the unbelievable things our new nanny did in her first three days:

She emptied out the fridge -- but only of my favourite things; this included an unopened box of Stroopwafels we'd picked up in Amsterdam.
She started taking the multivitamins I'd brought back from Canada, since good quality ones are hard to find here and expensive. (And in case there's any doubt in your mind right now, she told me, in her off-handed way, that she'd started taking them.)
While it is standard for employers in Turkey to provide lunch, Nanny is also preparing herself breakfasts.
Nanny throws her laundry in my laundry hamper at the end of each workday so I can wash it for her. And while presumably her previous employer offered her this convenience, I never have, nor has she ever mentioned it.
She suggested I tell our agent I'd decreased her hours and therefore her pay, so that I could save a few hundred dollars in commission fees; she reassurs me she'll corroborate my story. (Oops, sorry -- that was on day four, the penultimate day, of her employment).
After proving herself a real shark during salary negotiations and at one point even saying she wasn't interested in the job after all because it was a little far from her home, she's since revealed that a) she actually lives quite nearby; b) that she enjoys luxury haircare products; and c) that her husband's upper level management position pays 2500TL a month. A fortune in this country.

Needless to say, I've resumed my nanny search and am hoping to replace her as soon as possible.

A Visitor at Home

2010-08-22T06:21:00.001+03:00

It's nothing new for an expat to feel she no longer fits in at home, that her adopted country has changed her; I've felt the change slowly happening over the past four years.

My first visit home, four months after moving here, I over-identified with everything Canadian; ditto the following year. But at one point, I started to see things I'd never noticed before -- how cold Torontonians are compared to Turkish people, or how stingy they appear compared to Turks.

And then I started forgetting to re-adapt on trips back to Canada, standing too close to the person ahead of me at the bank machine, or rushing to get onto a bus instead of patiently hanging back until everyone else had gotten on.

But this summer I was truly amazed at the 'Turkishness' of my cultural observations:

I couldn't get over how dog crazy everyone was, and found myself slightly appalled at the sight of dogs on furniture (note: I used to have 2 Labs who slept with me on more than one occasion -- no judgement, dear Canadian friends!);
I couldn't keep up with everyone's punctuality, nor did I understand their impatience when dinner wasn't ready before 8pm;
I was surprised by the casualness of men's and the skimpiness of women's summer attire!

As lovely as it was to be 'home' again, I seem to have lost the ability to just step off the plane and right back into the culture I grew up in; it seems if I ever move back to Toronto, I'd have to go through a process of acclimatization not unlike what I went through when I moved to Turkey.

MIA

2010-07-28T03:40:00.000+03:00

A few faithful readers have gently reminded me that I haven't written for a while; since July 7th, to be exact (thank you, Lorraine!). So here's a quick and haphazard list of what I've been up to with some thoughts interspersed.

We moved house. It literally took weeks to pack. Movers came and took away 34 boxes; 6hurç, or fabric bag-boxes, 3 suitcases, and my cauldron, full of stuff. It's all in storage now and will be delivered to our new place in Istanbul mid-August. Tons more is at my mother-in-law's in Adana.
We flew to Toronto, where we are now. It was a long journey; Adana-Istanbul-Paris-Toronto. Knowing there's a direct Istanbul-Toronto flight made it all the more painful. Eventful only because it was Baby's first flight.
In Toronto, I haven't called anyone; I haven't made dates to see anyone; I've just been enjoying being here. We wake up in the morning and decide what to do that day. We've been taking lots of walks out here in the Beaches.
Am enjoying all the fresh Ontario produce that's in season. Makes me think about how lucky we are in Tarsus with all the farmer's markets and local produce year round.
My lovely friend Lisa, who's now officially the family photographer, did another photo shoot of us. She's way ahead of me and has already posted about the shoot; you can see some of the photos here.
We spent the day at Ward's Island yesterday. If we ever move back to Toronto, where will I want to live? The Beaches? The Island? Every part of Toronto has its own charm!

Luggage Limits

2010-07-07T10:07:00.001+03:00

Image by j.cliss via Flickr

I'm going to make a comparison I never thought I'd make: the millions of Turkish people who travel between Germany and Turkey each year and myself, preparing to travel to Toronto this summer. And the particular focus of my comparison centers on luggage.

For the trip to Toronto, I not only need to bring clothes for all types of weather, but I'm packing all the paraphernalia that comes with babies -- diapers, changes of clothes, toys to occupy during the flight, food mill for making fruit and vegetable purees, bottles ... In my defense, there is a lot I'm not bringing; I've made arrangements to borrow a stroller, car seat, crib, high chair, and toys in Toronto. But still, I was dismayed to learn that Air France's baggage allowance is pretty meagre: 1 bag per person; and that my son's allowed baggage weight is half of mine.

You see, there are also all the Turkish delights I want to bring to Toronto. Several litres of pomegranate syrup, for one thing; and of course freshly ground Turkish coffee and baklava; plus a few trinkets to give as gifts -- some copper ware, a small woven rug.

And returning to Turkey, I'm going to want to bring back all kinds of things, mostly foodstuffs. Cilantro, yellow tomato and sweet potato seeds (I'm determined to grow some veggies this year), celery salt and all-spice, quinoa, spelt, kamut and teff, and maple syrup. Oh, and hard honey. And so much more; I just know that as soon as I start roaming the isles at Loblaws, that I'll buy a suitcase's worth!

I suppose the bane of expat life is that you're forever straddling two worlds, always painfully aware of the one or two things that you can't have in one place or the other, unable to take the best of each culture and create your own utopia.

Turks travelling to Germany bring a season's worth of homemade salça and cheese, or else a favourite cookie; those travelling in the opposite direction bring uniquely German candies or herbal remedies, or else a brilliantly engineered piece of household equipment that one just can't find in Turkey.

Which brings me back to luggage. A few years ago, I was outraged at the audacity of three separate women in two different airports who asked me to check in some of their luggage under my name. I was travelling between Adana and Dusseldorf, Berlin and Adana, and I had painstakingly reduced my luggage to just one small carry-on bag. I was an instant target. Caught off guard, and unable to just say no, my stomach twisted into knots and my weak knees threatened to buckle under me as I waited in line at the check-in desk. Each woman had given me perfectly sound explanations for her need to travel with excess baggage; one was pregnant and had brought with her everything she'd need after the birth. But I hate breaking rules, and I knew airline luggage policies were strict for good reason. What if one of the bags contained a bomb?!! Or, more realistically, citrus or meat or some other banned food item?

In each case I told the woman at the check-in counter that the people behind me were welcome to piggyback on my unused luggage allowance; grabbed my boarding pass and ran through customs. I didn't see any of those people again.

Now I look back at those incidents with an ironic smile; how much I've changed, how much I've grown to be quite similar to those travelers who offended me so much a few years ago. Of course I will never, not in even the most desperate of circumstances, ask anyone to check in my luggage for them. But I wouldn't take offense to their request.

Too bad I'm no longer a target, though.

Nar Recipes

2010-07-03T12:00:00.000+03:00

For all the things I stock up on and bring back to Turkey with me each time I travel, nar ekşisi is the one thing I always pack to bring with me on trips back home. I've written before about this thick, syrupy pomegranate syrup that is sweet and sour at the same time and has the power to transform a dish from ordinary into extraordinary; but my friends keep asking me what they should do with it. Here are two simple ways to incorporate nar ekşisi into your diet.

Arugula Salad:

Wash and dry fresh arugula (roka) leaves; chop leaves into one-inch lengths and discard stems.
Chop heirloom (yerli) tomatoes and crush garlic (crush, do not chop!).
Toss the vegetables with olive oil, nar ekşisi, salt, black pepper and isot (a dark sun dried pepper) and serve.

Turkish Tabouleh:

Measure and pour fine bulgur into a pot or other sealable container; a good rule of thumb is one Turkish tea glass of dry bulgur per person. You want to use köftelik bulgur as opposed to one of the coarser grinds.
Pour boiling water over it just to cover, and immediately drain off excess water; cover and let stand.
Finely chop parsley, fresh mint, and any or all of the following: green onion, tomato, cucumber, green pepper, bulb onion, red cabbage, carrot. The key is that everything should be chopped extremely finely. If for the same volume of veggies as you have bulgur. Set aside the veggies.
Uncover your bulgur; it should be soft and plump. Add a tablespoon or two of salça, or red pepper paste (or, if you can't find it, tomato paste) and begin to work it into the bulgur with your fingertips. Add black pepper, salt and cumin to taste; add the juice of at least one lemon and some olive oil and drizzle nar ekşisi all over. Add the reserved vegetables and stir it all together.
Can be served with whole leaves of Romaine lettuce, which you fill with tabbouleh and bite into!

Image via Wikipedia

An Ocean Upart - Mid-Project Update

2010-07-01T06:19:00.006+03:00

Today is day 21 of our 30-day project, taking one photo each morning. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, you can read about the project here or on Lisa's blog.) We've had a few difficulties (my camera broke; Lisa's laptop power cord fizzled) and I'm surprised to find the project challenging in all kinds of ways. But we're both enjoying it tremendously, and would like to do it again in a few months.

We've changed the rules along the way; we are no longer limiting ourselves to mornings, and we've added the occasional list. But I don't see these deviations from our original mandate as 'breaking the rules,' but rather as examples of how the project is evolving. After all, we never planned on including captions with each picture, but I realized on the very first day of the project that my picture seemed incomplete without one. And now I can't imagine the project without daily blurbs! I'd like to do this again sometime with evening pictures, or no time restrictions at all; and I'd even love to try it with three people!

I was thrilled to hear that just as we were inspired by someone else's project, my friend Carole has been inspired by ours and is going to try a similar one this fall with her twin sister, Kathy -- from Tarsus to Tokyo!

And now a few of my favourite side-by-sides to date:

Day 9:

Lisa: Morning coffee. In the background, our paper-covered floor criss-crossed with green painter's tape.

Day 10:

Cecile: "Letting Daddy Sleep in on Father's Day."

Lisa: "Daddy opening his gift. He wasn't sure about the light blue shirt."

Day 13:

Cecile: "Our morning walk in the park; a forest on a mount underneath which is an ancient city."

Lisa: "Me (and Lily's head) in the rearview mirror of the Zoo Mobile, parked in front of the giraffes."

Temporary Expats

2010-06-28T17:53:00.004+03:00

The sad part of my expat life is that many of my foreign friends here in Turkey are not expats; rather, they are just passing through Turkey on their way from Taiwan to Mexico, or from Colombia to Sweden. They are true international teachers, making their way around the world, and they just happened to land in Tarsus for a few years.

Two years ago, it seemed as if all the people I'd just spent a year getting to know suddenly left. Thankfully, a wonderful group of new people arrived; and when they returned for a second year, it seemed a real expat community had been formed. But their two years are up and most of them have decided not to stay, so once again I've had to face the reality that my expat life is not shared with other expats.

However, I don't feel too entitled to complain, since this year we too are leaving, even if we're just relocating to another part of the country. I've heard that many of the foreigners in Istanbul really are expats, even if they never intended to stay, and so I am heartened by the prospect of friendships that won't lead to heartache.

And on another positive note: there's nothing like knowing you're about to say goodbye forever to push you to tie up loose ends -- I finished my painting!

Goodbye Tarsus

2010-06-20T17:34:00.012+03:00

We're leaving Tarsus and moving to Istanbul. Four years ago, when I was new in Turkey and frustrated by how provincial Adana was, I would have given anything to have my husband announce we were relocating west; I dreamed of life in Istanbul, Izmir or Ankara, and traveled there whenever I could for a dose of cosmopolitanism.

But something happened over the past four years, and not only do I now appreciate Adana for its lack of traffic, its lovely climate (at least for the nine non-summer months of the year), its reasonable cost of living, and its safety, but I've fallen in love with Tarsus.

And so instead of tackling the logistics of packing and transporting our belongings, deciding what essentials we'll need for the month we spend "homeless" this summer, and finding a new nanny, I've been indulging in pre-departure nostalgia. Our Sunday morning walks have become pilgrimages, as we revisit our favourite parts of Tarsus. We inevitably discover new places, and are briefly consumed by the irony of not having known a place sooner.

I've also started bringing my camera with us on these walks, trying to capture what I know we can't take with us. Surprisingly few of my photos, however, are of typical Tarsus scenes, such as the mini lahmacun famous here.

Instead, I've found myself capturing Tarsus's quirks, such as this rooster tied to a sign post in the middle of the sidewalk;

or the way the city's once-beautiful architecture has been ruined by misguided attempts at renovation, such as this 'modern' second storey addition to a historical building:

I found this remnant of a balcony with its two well-tended flower pots absolutely lovely:

I've also become obsessed with buying unusual Tarsus 'souvenirs.' The first thing I bought was an old oxen's yoke I had seen hanging on the wall of a local carpenter's shop. I'd seen it months earlier and thought it would be an interesting feature in a home, but months passed and I didn't go back and buy it. But as soon as I found out we'd be moving to Istanbul, I decided I couldn't leave Tarsus without buying the yoke.

And then there is the cauldron. Like the yoke, the cauldron spent some time on my 'to-buy-one-day' list. I first came across the little corner shop with the polite older Armenian gentleman selling all things metal a few years ago, and immediately saw the artistry in the cauldrons he had lined up outside. But once again, it wasn't until I realized I might lose the chance to buy one, that I was overcome with anxiety and just knew I had to have one. Closed on Sundays and only open until 7pm on Saturdays, though, weeks passed between my decision to buy one and actually making it to the store with my husband, whom I always take along to do the bargaining.

We finally made it one Saturday afternoon. My husband chatted with the proprietor while I considered which kazan to buy, settling on a handmade copper-coloured one with excellent craftsmanship and a thick grade of copper. Unfortunately, it was also large, much larger than either of us had originally envisioned. But I stubbornly refused to settle for any other, more reasonably-sized cauldron, since they weren't as beautiful.

And now it's time to start packing.

The Things We Know for Sure - Part 2

2010-06-16T18:15:00.008+03:00

I'm reading Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto, and am once again reminded that I shouldn't assume "different" equals "wrong." For years I've been griping about the amount of animal fat and whole fat dairy products present in this region's cuisine, waxing poetic about the availability of low-fat everything in Toronto's supermarkets.

But Pollan's overview of the history of "Nutritionism" pointed out how many times experts have proclaimed a certain food or nutrient as healthful, only to later discover it caused cancer or heart disease. His examples of margarine and the first baby formulas shocked me, but what really hit home was when he described the way olive oil drizzled over tomatoes may very well help in the body's absorption of one nutrient or another, and that incidents of cardiac arrest increased in America after people stopped rendering their own animal fat and switched to hydrogenated vegetable oils.

So I am now going to feel less anxious whenever my mother-in-law adds kuyruk yağı, the infamous fat from a sheep's tail, to her sarma and am resolved to enjoy the whole fat milk delivered fresh to her door -- I will simply enjoy less of it!

An Ocean Apart - An Update

2010-06-14T16:05:00.004+03:00

It's day four of my project with Lisa, which we've (tentatively?) entitled "An Ocean Apart." Here are our pictures from day 2:

Me: "It sometimes seems I do nothing more all day than create messes and then clean them up, over and over again. But I enjoy doing the dishes, and get satisfaction from seeing order restored."

Lisa: "Audrey walking along the benches in the park. Her balance has improved over the year, and she no longer hesitates along the way."

And day 3:

Me: "An impromptu breakfast eaten standing up at the kitchen counter, prepared by my husband."

Lisa: "Driving back from the airport along the Gardiner Expressway on a gloomy grey morning."

Art Project - An Ocean Apart

2010-06-12T06:57:00.010+03:00

My dear friend Lisa and I have started a photography project, inspired by A Year of Mornings. Every morning for a month we are each going to take a photo of an aspect of our lives - hers in Toronto, mine in Turkey. At the end of one month we're going to make a book out of all the photos, each day's moments displayed side by side.

Here are our first photos, taken yesterday, 11 June.

Interestingly, we both took pictures of 'bits' of our families: Lisa photographed one of her daughters; in my photo I've captured my son's hand, my feet and the back of my husband's head. I can't wait to see whether our respective pictures will highlight the differences or the similarities between our lives!

Paid Parking

2010-06-09T19:14:00.001+03:00

It seems the end has come to the free-for-all that was parking around town. You'll recall my brush with the parking police a few weeks ago (if not, you can read all about it here); and you'll recall too my surprise that anyone even cared where I parked. After all, for the past four years I've watched my husband park in all sorts of places I suspected he shouldn't and he's never received a single parking ticket.

Image by compscigrad via Flickr

But don't let my recent forays into lawlessness fool you; polite parking is "in my bones." I've on more than one occasion spent over half an hour circling a few blocks looking for a legal spot in Toronto; I've gotten out of my car, only to get back in and move it after seeing an 'exception' on a Toronto sign and realizing I'd parked illegally; and goodness knows I've rushed to get back to my car before the meter expire, knowing that in Toronto, two minutes can cost you. Even now, an ocean away, the sight of an advertisement printed on yellow paper stuck to my windshield momentarily makes my heart sink into my stomach.

But lately, I'd been timidly testing the waters on the wild side, leaving my car in dubious places. Imagine my surprise, then, when a few weeks ago, I found myself with my pick of parking spots on busy Ziyapaşa Bulvarı in Adana. As a young woman smartly clad in short slacks and a turquoise short-sleeved shirt smilingly approached and typed my license plate into a small wireless credit card machine, I realized the municipal government had finally realized they needed to regulate parking and eliminate chaos in one of the city's most congested areas. The 1 Lira per hour fee was nothing compared to the convenience of having my choice of parking spots.

Two days ago on a walk through town, I noticed that here in Tarsus officers had likewise appeared every hundred meters and were collecting parking fees from people as they returned to their parked cars. I was left with an odd undecided feeling: am I glad that Tarsus is "growing up," or am I sad that it's losing its village charm?

Blue Plates or Volvo Dreams

2010-05-28T19:03:00.008+03:00

Image via Wikipedia

Many foreigners in Turkey drive cars with licence plates with MA or MB on them. These "foreigner" plates are also known as blue plates, but are not actually intended to identify drivers as foreign.

Rather, these plates indicate that the car was either brought into the country by a foreigner or bought in Turkey by a foreigner, and that said foreigner invoked their right to pay no Turkish taxes on the car -- a substantial savings for the car's owner!

Without going into the technicalities of who can own and drive a blue plate car and how to get one, let me tell you why I decided not to to take advantage of my right to the blue plate special and passed up on a ten-year-old Volvo station wagon for only 2000 Euros.

Being foreign doesn't automatically entitle you to a blue plate; I qualify because of my work visa. Should I ever decide to stop working, I'd either have to sell my car quickly, or "park" it in a duty-free zone.
I could only sell to another foreigner.
No one else can drive the car (a slight overstatement, as my Turkish husband could get
Image by CARLOS62 via Flickr
special permission to drive it)
A hefty deposit or security of some sort (calculated according to the car's value) needs to sit in your bank account.
Just like a work visa and a resident permit, the plates need to constantly be renewed -- except whereas my employer takes care of the former, I'd have to deal with Turkish bureaucracy on this one. And like anything involving foreigners in Turkey, the process is longer and more complicated than for Turkish citizens -- this would be no routine plate renewal.
Every time I leave the country, I'd be supposed to "park" the car in the above-mentioned duty-free zone.

Image via Wikipedia

I'm still thinking about that Volvo wagon for just 2000 Euros. Even though I've made my decision, I think it'll take me a while to get over the thought of what could have been ...

Disclaimer: as is often the case in Turkey, conflicting information exists and it is sometimes difficult to be sure that information is correct. The above is a summary of the strictest version of the rules I've heard governing blue plates; I've heard for example that people just leave their cars at home when they travel abroad and that it isn't a problem.

Turkish Gnocchi

2010-05-24T16:39:00.003+03:00

Every time I come across a Turkish dish I truly love, one that really makes my taste buds hum, I rejoice in being one step closer to home in this adopted country of mine. One such dish is sarmısaklı köfte, or "garlic balls," which I will from now on always think of as Turkish gnocchi.

I first tasted sarmısaklı köfte a few years ago, and loved them. One of my husband's sisters-in-law had made them, and I unabashedly ate far more than my fair share. After that, anyone else's were a disappointment -- until my son's nanny made them for us a few months ago. They were as good as the first time I'd had them if not better. She struck the perfect balance between dense bulgur and flour, a köfte you could really sink your teeth into, and a light but intense spicy garlic and lemon sauce.

But I've been busy and old habits die hard. It'd been ages since I'd enjoyed a delicious creamy bowl of real Italian pasta; the kind you get in Toronto's Little Italy -- loads of butter, cream, Parmesan, wine. In my old life, I'd satisfy that craving with a meal at one of my favourite restaurants.

But I've yet to find a good Italian pasta here in this part of Turkey, so in a burst of energy earlier this week I decided to take matters in my own hands and make gnocchi. I was motivated by a combination of my own Happiness Project and just wanting to eat pasta.

I researched recipes and settled on one of Mario Batali's from the Food Network, which you can see here. I admit I took liberties with the measurements; and having never made gnocchi before, I didn't know what consistency to look for in my dough. Nevertheless, I had fun mixing and kneading and rolling my dough into long snakes, then cutting them into little thumb-sized pieces and dropping them into boiling water. I dutifully fished them out as they rose to the surface and transfered them to an ice bath. It felt good, both to get my hands (and counter!) dirty, and to focus so intently on one task for an hour.

I ate a few immediately and even without the sauce thought they were quite good -- although admittedly not as melt-in-your-mouth-divine as I'd hoped they'd magically turn out to be.

As per Batali's instructions, I generously coated them in canola oil and put them in the fridge. I'd reheat them later that evening in a sauce and serve them for dinner.

But somewhere between making a great sauce and reheating the gnocchi, things went awry. The little dumplings fell apart with each gentle turn of the sauce and I soon had a mushy mess. It's amazing how important texture apparently is!

I didn't wallow in my disappointment, although I think if I hadn't had such a good time making the gnocchi, I would have been in tears. As it was, my positive mood allowed me to remember sarmısaklı köfte. The very next day I had our nanny teach me how to make them, and although they're labour intensive, I've promised myself to add them to my repertoire.

I'll leave the instructions to the experts and direct you to this recipe from Almost Turkish Recipes if you're interested in making "Turkish gnocchi."

Snow Days

2010-05-22T14:43:00.015+03:00

I'm trying to hire a nanny for September, when we move to Istanbul. Today one asked whether she'd get snow days off. Snow days? Snow days!

Here on the Mediterranean our weather is pretty much the same all year round. It took me a while to get used to not checking the weather forecast first thing each morning -- will I need an umbrella? A sweater? An early start on my way to work? But I'm not complaining; who would, if they woke up each day to a cloudless turquoise sky and knew that every day was t-shirt weather?

With time I've learned to see the subtle differences between this region's four seasons, and I appreciate them. Spring and fall are long, not rushed like they are in Toronto; and although most bahar days are as hot as a summer day back home, they still have that distinctive smell that neither summer or fall have. Sure, July and August here are unbearably hot, but there are ways around that -- air conditioning and the beach!

But I miss snow. There is no snow brush in my trunk; no skates in my closet. And I miss the feeling a snowfall excites. The other day, we took a walk after a rainfall and I started to warn my husband of a slick black spot up ahead on the pavement. (The sleep-deprived brain is a tricky fellow!) But I stopped myself mid-sentence -- it was twenty degrees out; the nearest black ice was six months and 2000 kilometres away. But the incident made me realize the extent to which winter is in my bones.

Which is why one of the reasons I'm excited about our upcoming move to Istanbul is its climate. There will be snow in winter! (And snow days!)

Relaxed about Hygiene and Appreciating Turkish Cheese

2010-05-20T10:42:00.000+03:00

Perhaps it's motherhood; perhaps Turkey has just relaxed me in general. But as I calmly pulled a piece of hair from the cheese on my plate this morning and went right on eating, I smiled at myself.

I should add that it wasn't human hair, but rather a piece of goat's hair -- the cheese was a lovely strong dry white goat's cheese, cured in a (hairy) goat skin sack. Deri peyniri has made up for the lack of cheddars and some of my other favourites (Appenzeller; Monk's Head) here, and the best ones come from one of the many little bakal or grocer's in the neighbourhood, not sterile or packaged in a factory.

Many of my favourite edible things here are indeed homemade and I happily consume them at my own risk -- something I would have thought twice about when I first arrived in Turkey four years ago. Most notably, I now buy all my eggs, olive oil and nar ekşisi (the gorgeous pomegranate syrup I've mentioned before -- I think one day soon I'll devote an entire post to the magical genius of this ingredient) from small local shops selling their own or a friend's product. I'd buy fresh milk from the cow's owner, too, if I could get organized enough; our supermarkets and grocer's only sell UHT milk, which I begrudgingly continue to buy.

Image by vincen-t via Flickr

And now I'll leave you with a small story, just to show you how far I've come. It was October 2005 and I was on a whirlwind trip to Turkey for the first time. Determined to have me see and taste and experience everything in two short weeks, my Turkish hosts took me into a sort of delicatessen to taste nar ekşisi for the first time. The obliging proprietor took a bottle off the shelf, twisted off the lid despite the safety seal, and poured a little syrup into the cap. He extended it to me, but I declined, feeling sorry for whomever would later buy the bottle after I'd stuck my finger into its contents. My surprise turned to shock, however, when my guide took the proffered red cap and with one swift movement lifted it to his lips and let the syrup run into his mouth.

Unimpressed with that particular brand, he shook his head and repeated the taste test with another bottle, while the proprietor nonchalantly screwed the cap back on the first bottle and returned it to the shelf. Needless to say, I was left speechless.

More "Expat Entertainment," or Successful Isolated Expat Living

2010-05-19T21:03:00.001+03:00

My father grew up in Tanzania and later Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia), and his stories of his expat life fueled my childhood imagination. There are few photographs and one precious film reel from that distant time of his life, but in my mind's eye, I've always been able to picture everything in great detail. As a child, I would retell my father's stories to my friends, and without realizing it, made his memories my own.

And these memories periodically return to me as aspects of my own expat life echo that of my father. Food was often scarce, and if someone brought several dozen eggs to the farm, they would eat eggs. For days. In every imaginable reincarnation. Those of you who read this blog regularly know that while my husband and I are thankfully well-fed, we too are often the recipients of someone's bounty. And like my grandmother, I too endeavour to find as many different ways to use the seven heads of Romaine lettuce or the five kilograms of yogurt.

Recently, memories of my father's African evenings have been coming to mind. I picture him and his six siblings sitting in the family's living room, knitting or reading or listening to the shortwave radio, trying desperately not to disturb their father as he reads or writes. My grandmother is writing letters and perhaps someone is rereading a precious letter from Europe aloud to the others. Or they are singing. Or telling stories, erupting into fits of laughter. My father and his siblings, all of whom are still alive today, still enjoy simple, quiet pastimes -- corresponding with each other and far away friends (although a few of my aunts, into their seventies and eighties now, have mastered email!); listening to the radio; and knitting. But I credit their expat upbringing in rural east Africa, which, despite the fond memories, was far from easy.

And so whenever I feel sorry for myself, isolated from fancy restaurants or museums, I remind myself of all the resources I do have. I'm happy to say that I really am quite resourceful in this regard; I've written about our murder mystery dinner and our dependence on good books, and now I want to tell you about another secret to successful isolated expat living: finding and tapping into others' expertise.

My friend Oriana Sutorius-Lavoie is an artist and a teacher; my friend Carole and I share the need to 'do art' but feel we lack the talent. So we asked Oriana whether she'd consider teaching us to paint. As so often happens when one simply asks, we discovered that Oriana had already been thinking about how to start an art class! We started a week later, and for a few months now, Carole, Oriana, my husband and I meet every Tuesday evening for a lesson.

We use one of our school's art classrooms and its easels; supplies are unfortunately harder to come by -- either ridiculously expensive or impossible to find. But ever resourceful, we found some at Kitapsan, others at local hardware stores; we order some items online from the States or stock up on trips to Europe.

We started with drawing and have only recently begun painting, but we've been fueling our creativity and satisfying our need for 'something more' for months. If I were back in Toronto, I'd either be too busy to take an art class at all (as so often happens when you have everything you could possibly want at your doorstep, you take it for granted and put off taking advantage of it), or I'd be travelling through rush hour traffic one evening a week and paying hundreds of dollars to be one of two dozen students.

*I'm working on a series of 3 paintings based on windows and doors of our current home, Sadık Paşa Konağı, and inspired by Henri Matisse.

*The top photo is of my grandparents' coffee plantation in Tanzania in the 1930s.

My Happiness Project

2010-05-15T19:13:00.006+03:00

Our nanny arrived one morning last week with five gorgeous artichokes.

Fresh. Artichokes.

Now, I'd seen them before, had even watched Martha or Rachel or someone prepare them on TV, but I'd never prepared one myself.

They were beautiful. The sight of them lying in the wicker basket on the kitchen floor, an exotic still life in my very own home, brought me pure joy. As if I lived in the south of France or Italy or ... Wait, I live on the Turkish Mediterranean! Note to self: appreciate what I've got.

But within minutes, visions of the week bananas invaded my kitchen (you can read all about that here if you missed that post) and the more recent grapefruit invasion had crept into my consciousness. Fear and anxiety, aka stress, started in my toes and quickly worked its way up my entire body. Memories of lovely black-flecked yellow bananas slowly shrivelling and blackening before my eyes; memories of a rotten grapefruit collapsing in my hand as my grasp unwittingly punctured its rotted interior, threatened to ruin my happiness.

You see, I know myself well enough to predict what was going to happen. While mulling over what to do with the artichokes for a few days, not wanting to do anything less than perfect with them, they would go bad. And I would feel awful.

But one of my recent reads, Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project (as displayed on my Shelfari shelf to the right), has me determined to put an end to what she helped me label "sabotaging my happiness." It seems I have a "fear of tackling unknown and therefore scary things."

I'm proud to say that our nanny brought the artichokes to us on a Friday and I tackled them on Saturday. I called my friend and neighbour and fellow Top Chef fan Carole and asked her if she wanted to join me in "preparing artichokes three ways." (Sorry ... a little Top Chef humour there.) And no, I don't consider it cheating to enlist help when tackling my fears; I consider it resourceful and just plain realistic.

Anyway, I'll spare you the details, since we didn't produce anything ground-breaking. But not only did I spare myself extreme unhappiness as the result of wasted food, I got tremendous satisfaction out of the sight of those cooked green beauties! And I had fun doing it! And I'm no longer scared of artichokes!

And now I want to try and make gnocchi. I have no idea where that came from, but that's next on my list.

It Really Is the Wild West

2010-05-11T18:31:00.005+03:00

I bought a phone with a camera so that I could snap a picture whenever I saw something interesting; goodness knows I see enough odd things in the course of a regular old day here in Turkey. But I never imagined the first thing I'd capture was this (and please brace yourselves, it isn't pretty):

Just an ordinary dumpster, right? Perhaps a little messier than what you're used to seeing, but still pretty normal, right? Look closer:

I considered not posting this, but then I thought that would be somehow breaking an code of journalistic honesty. Perhaps I take myself too seriously. But I did feel like I'd be lying to you if I didn't report this latest incident.

I think I may have jinxed myself with yesterday's post about lawlessness. It seems people can dispose of their livestock carcasses (I think it's a sheep? a long-nosed calf?) anywhere they want.

More Lawlessness

2010-05-10T17:12:00.001+03:00

I'm a hypocrite. But does it make it any less bad if I know it and admit it? You see, for all my complaining about the lack of standards and regulations here, the truth is that I like the lawlessness here. As long as it suits me.

Here's what happened last Monday:

Baby was really out of sorts and wouldn't stop crying all morning (could happen anywhere);
I called his pediatrician on her cell phone (not likely to happen in the organized world), who agreed to see us right away (would never happen in the organized world);
The receptionist tells another patient (who was there without an appointment! gasp!) the doctor is at lunch (in the organized world, the receptionist would be at lunch too), but then calls the doctor to tell her we've arrived;
The doctor appears one minute later (would never happen in the organized world);
There are two policemen standing beside my car when we get outside (in the organized world, policemen travel alone. And parking officials write parking tickets);
One of them had my husband on the phone (gasp!) (why on earth would this ever happen in the organized world? Oh. It's registered in his name. Not so alarming after all);
It seems I'd parked illegally (could happen anywhere, although not likely to happen to me in the organized world, where there are clearly marked 'no parking' signs);
I gave an excuse, hoping to get out of the ticket (who'd even bother in the organized world? Parking police are definitely proponents of the tough love philosophy. Come to think of it, who'd even have the chance in the organized world; the ticket would have been swiftly written and left on the windshield, the officer long gone);
To my surprise, one of the officers asked for my license (was I really going to get a ticket?);
I retrieved crying Baby from the car and made sure the officers understood why I'd parked where I had (I don't think mothers in the organized world would stoop so low as to use their children that way; I think there was a time when I wouldn't have either);
The officers gave me my license back and told me to take that poor sick child home before they became the cause of any more distress!

No ticket.

I drove to the pharmacy to pick up Baby's prescription, and left the car right out front with the hazards flashing. I was only going to be a minute ...

Baby's just fine, by the way.

Why Turkey isn't Europe - Part II

2010-05-05T21:03:00.007+03:00

It turns out that in addition to "changing" our son's birth date (click here if you missed that post), we could have also fudged his birth place.

My husband is from Adana, although we live in Tarsus, 35km away and part of another county. Naturally, we registered Baby's birth place as Tarsus. But friends and family continue to express surprise that we didn't have Adana put on his kimlik, the Turkish identity card.

But that's where his father is from, they say.

And, It's not like he's going to grow up in Tarsus!

True, but it's where he was born. And that will always be a part of him. As will his father's Adana roots and his mother's Canadian ones. Living everywhere but his birth place just may turn out to be a defining part of his identity, as it is mine.

(pictures: typical Tarsus homes; Adana kebab)

Turkey's Real Architecture

2010-04-30T18:00:00.005+03:00

Let me preface this by saying I will follow with a post on beauty. But since it has taken me a few years to get over my culture shock (read: the "everything's better in Canada mentality") and see the beauty here, I'll introduce you to this subject as I experienced it, namely ugliness before beauty.

Turkey is famous for its beautiful mosques and Ottoman architecture; its colourful tiles and intricate copper work. But the reality is that there is unfortunately a lot of ugliness too; ugliness made all the more so by the hot, dustiness in Adana. A former industrial city, the wealthy business owners have mostly left, and migrants from the surrounding rural areas have moved in, giving Adana the nickname of city-sized village.

An overview of the visual landscape:

a prevalence of concrete
the use of brightly coloured paint to soften said concrete
flat roofs littered with solar panels and hot water tanks
satellite dishes and air conditioning units visible on all vertical surfaces
uneven sidewalks and storefronts
litter
little greenery; lots of exposed dirt and dust

I understand that economics is a factor, but I am not criticizing poverty. Often, it is the places where the most money is spent that are the most offending. For Adana is in many ways booming, and construction is taking place everywhere -- most of it to house the growing middle-class population. Luxury apartments and villas have also appeared in the three years I've been here.

But even if the building is more than just a painted concrete block and promises to provide a bit of beauty, just as it is receiving its finishing touches, up go the water tanks and the air conditioning units. Inside, wall tiles are often laid crookedly and stained by dripped paint; wood trim and parquet flooring also have paint on them; and electrical outlets 'float' in the middle of walls, having been placed several feet off the ground beside light switches; and for mysterious reasons, crown mouldings hang from the ceiling six inches in front of windows, allowing curtains to be mounted on a track on the ceiling behind.

For me, it is the collision of modernity with a simpler way of life, where modern trimmings and appliances are used by those who have far more important concerns than aesthetics. I'd far rather see an old wooden window frame with hand-sewn curtains, than sloppily executed attempts at elegance and luxury.

Where the (Turkish) Sidewalk Ends

2010-04-29T09:20:00.017+03:00

As a mom with a baby and therefore a pram, I have recently taken an interest in sidewalks. Who knew that there were so many ways they could go so very wrong.

As a child, the title of Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends captured my imagination, and I wondered what that would look like. It was an improbable notion, and I filed it away in my mind along with mythical images of Narnia and Enid Blyton's Faraway Tree characters. But a few years ago, quite literally dazed and confused having newly arrived in Turkey, Silverstein's phrase came back to me as I stood a good three feet above the road beside me. The sidewalk had ended.

I was living in my future mother-in-law's house in the old mahalle, or neighbourhood. No apartment buildings, just one and two-storey concrete homes, some new, some old; some with modern kitchens and others with dirt floors and outhouses; some with new Pimapen PVC windows, some with nothing more than large square holes in the concrete walls. Occasionally the clopping of horse hooves would mix with the traffic sounds, and at night I'd awaken to the sound of a flock of sheep being quietly led down the street past our house to its next pasture.

The mahalle of Turkey follow their own laws of order and appear chaotic to outsiders. (Or perhaps I should say they appear chaotic to anyone except insiders?) The winding streets don't have names, only numbers; yet the numbers themselves seem random, bearing no relation to each other. There don't seem to be any zoning laws either, and our neighbours were an ironsmith and a marble cutter. Needless to say, the mahalle was a visual and aural cacophony. Going out into the city alone was something I had to push myself to do; it was tempting to stay safely shut in behind the high stone walls surrounding the family home.

It was on one of these early ventures into the wild that I found myself in midair, unable to continue forwards nor able to step off the sidewalk and onto the road beside me. I should interject here that no one except me seemed to use the sidewalks; however, walking in the road seemed too frightening. So there I'd been, walking along the sidewalk, not realizing it was on a slight incline. From the relative ''safety'' of the sidewalk, I'd been looking at the hubbub around me and so I also hadn't been looking at what lay ahead of me. And then, suddenly, the sidewalk just ended. I wish I had a picture to show you; it was really quite shocking.

After recovering from my surprise, I had no choice but to backtrack ten feet to where the road and sidewalk were still more or less level, and then walk on the road.

Fast forward three years. I've learned to look ahead and anticipate sidewalk anomalies. Still, it is surprising at the impediments I encounter. There's 'the sudden drop off' (located bottom center of the picture below; notice I'm walking in the middle of the road. Notice too the way the sidewalk runs into a wall a few metres beyond the drop off):

Then there's the 'too narrow' sidewalk. Notice the pedestrians again walking in the middle of the road:

Sometimes the sidewalks are ridiculously wide, but I won't complain about that. That's not a bad thing, just an odd thing.

The street where we currently live has a sidewalk that slowly narrows until it disappears into a wall; the usable parts are rendered unusable because cars park on it.

I wonder, did Shel Silverstein get inspired by a trip to Turkey?

The Architecture of Happiness

2010-04-27T19:00:00.001+03:00

I've been reading Alain de Botton's The Architecture of Happiness, and in addition to the pure joy I feel over the brilliance of his prose (I'll treat you to an example in a moment), I'm basking in the pleasure self-recognition brings. Through his explanations of why architecture affects our mood and what our preferred style reveals about us, I've at last come to understand why the lack of beautiful architecture and design here in Turkey bothers me so much. He's also helped me view my surrounds less harshly.

I'll write a separate post about the local architecture here in Adana/Tarsus soon; for now, let me give you a glimpse:

And to make up for that, let me treat you to the following, in which de Botton describes the geometrically perfect rue de Castiglione in Paris:

"The street speaks of the sacrifice demanded by all works of architecture. The stones might have preferred to continue sleeping where they had lain down to rest at their geological bedtime 200 million years before, just as the iron ore of the balustrades might have opted to remain lodged in the Massif Central under forests of pine trees, before they were coaxed from their somnolence along with a symphony of other raw materials" (The Architecture of Happiness 176-7).

Do-It-Yourself Government Services

2010-04-24T11:30:00.001+03:00

Image by Cuppojoe via Flickr

Living in Turkey has made me appreciate Canada's well-established and functioning infrastructure, courtesy of our taxes: public schools with libraries; excellent postal service; pothole-free roads with great signage; garbage and recycling pick up ... I could go on and on; I could write a separate post for each item on my list. But I'll stick to the point: where I might have formerly complained about constant roadworks, my doctor's inability to see me for two weeks, and large class sizes, I've gained perspective. I will never complain again.

My maternity leave recently ended after sixteen weeks. I received full pay the entire time, without ever giving any thought to where the money was coming from. Typically Canadian, I take my social services for granted. All I knew was that my contract stated I had sixteen weeks of leave at full pay; since I was indeed getting what my employer had promised, I gave it no further thought.

As it turns out, my leave was courtesy of the Turkish social security system, the Sosyal Güvenlik Kurumu (SGK). For dramatic effect, though, I'll tell my story first and explain later.

Here's a simplified (note: simplified!!!) recap of what I had to do to go on maternity leave:

About two months before my due date, my doctor casually mentioned I'd need to defer my maternity leave, unless I wanted to stop working immediately; Turkish maternity leave is eight weeks before and eight weeks after the birth. Since I had no intention of 'wasting' eight weeks of precious baby time before the baby even arrived, I was understandably alarmed -- if I didn't defer the mat leave before the date it was scheduled to begin, I'd lose it.
I collected documents from my employer's accountant, my doctor and the hospital's business office, and shuttled said documents back and forth between the three several times.
Three weeks before my due date, in accordance with Turkish law, I stopped working and began my leave; Baby arrived; I spent a glorious thirteen weeks at home with him (he arrived on his due date, so I did indeed use three weeks of my mat leave pre-baby. I continued to receive my monthly salary.
Before I returned to work I repeated the document run-around, adding the Sosyal Güvenlik Kurumu (SGK), Turkey's Social Security Service, to my list of stops; my mat leave needed to be officially ''closed.'

By this time, I had learned that my employer was not being left out-of-pocket on my account, and that the SGK was financing my leave. Where I was wrong, was in assuming that while I was receiving monthly deposits in my bank account, my employer would be too -- from the SGK.

Imagine my surprise when my employer told me that upon my return to work, the SGK would deposit, in my name, the previous four months' pay at the PTT, the Turkish postal service which also acts as a bank. I would have to claim that money and bring it to my employer.

Let me say that again: I would have to claim that money and bring it to my employer.

Let me rephrase that: I would have to pick up four months' worth of salary, in cash, and give it to my employer!!!

Four months worth of salary is not a small amount of money. Especially all at once. Especially in cash.

You see, my employer had chosen to continue paying me while I was on leave, one of the many perks of being a foreigner in this country. Normally, employers don't get involved with maternity leave pay. And as I'd already learned, the government doesn't pay out until the maternity leave ends, and then they pay to the patient, not the employer.

Which means that your average Turk receives no pay while on maternity leave. And that the SGK is only logistically sophisticated enough to deposit money in your name at the PTT. (Not to your bank account; not in the form of a cheque to your home address.) And that should an employer choose to pay an employee while on maternity leave, the company is at the mercy of their employee, who may choose to run off with the money instead of facilitating the company's reimbursement.

I love Canada!

National Holidays and the Art of Manipulation

2010-04-23T13:00:00.005+03:00

April 23rd is Children's Day in Turkey, and a holiday for schools and all civil servants. And since this year's holiday falls on a Friday, it's a long weekend! My foreign colleagues and I are spending the weekend at the beach, or taking an overnight trip to another city; some are staying put and enjoying three wonderful days at home.

Either way, it's wonderful to have this unexpected holiday every year -- unexpected because I always forget about it until the last minute. Unlike Canada's holidays -- Labour Day and Thanksgiving in the fall, Easter and Victoria Day in the spring, and of course Canada Day and the arbitrary Civic holiday in August -- which have been ingrained in me to the point that my subconscious expects them, Turkey's holidays still seem random to me.

Take next month's May 19th holiday, Youth and Sports Day and the Commemoration of Atatürk, which falls on a Wednesday, giving us a mid-week break. Although I'm certainly not going to complain about a day off, wouldn't it be nicer hitched on to a weekend?

Everyone knows that the May 24th weekend falls around May 24th, because Victoria Day always falls on a Monday. Labour Day and the August Civic holiday are likewise always celebrated on Mondays. If you ask me, this is masterful.

Unfortunately, Turkey stays true to its holidays' real dates. In fact, whenever a holiday falls on a Saturday or Sunday, you 'lose' the holiday, since you're off for the weekend anyway! We Canadians, by contrast, have somehow convinced our government to give us the first working day after the holiday off! Genius.

Published!!!

2010-04-20T10:07:00.007+03:00

I was recently invited to submit an article for Pink Pangea, a women's travel blog. Needless to say, I was thrilled! I agonized (ok, I exaggerate slightly ... but I did think about it for a few weeks) about how to fit what they wanted -- travel advice for women -- with my own writing, which focuses more on daily life in a foreign location. I finally settled on a topic and am pleased with the resulting piece. You can read my submission here.

Sayings, Part II

2010-04-19T10:08:00.000+03:00

Now that I'm a new mother, I hear gözün aydın a lot (click on the link to read my previous post, in which I explain what this expression means). But I've also become acquainted with a new saying, anneli babalı büyüsün, 'may he grow up with his mother and father.' Lovely, right?

But also a little depressing. Are there that many orphans in this country, that one's first wish is for a child to grow up with its parents? I've tried to think about what we say in Canada when congratulating new parents on the birth of a baby, and I think other than wishes of a long life of good health and happiness, there's nothing else usually said! Am I wrong? I sometimes forget what's 'normal,' having been away from Canada for so long.

Sayings

2010-04-17T10:00:00.001+03:00

There's nothing like learning a language to make you realize the extent to which you take your own, native language for granted. The absolute ease with which I use English, the way I don't even have to think in many cases about how to say something or what to say, is a testament to how fundamentally a part of us that language is. And of course this is all in stark juxtaposition to how hyper-aware one is of every aspect of the language one is learning.

And so I've been struck by how full of sayings Turkish is. English surely is as well, but my learner's vantage point of Turkish has given me objectivity, a certain distance from the language, and has allowed me to make certain observations.

Turkish people use their language's various expressions a lot. If I wanted to be cynical, I could hypothesize what that says about the people's lack of individuality, the importance of conformity. But their expressions really are lovely, and remind me a little of what I hear said about the Japanese language and its many politenesses, so I'll focus on the positive here.

For example, one absolutely must say ''hoş geldin,'' when someone arrives in your home. Or your store. Or at your table in a restaurant. Or even just joins a group of people standing at a cocktail party. In English, I don't think I've ever said ''welcome'' out loud. It's only ever written on large signs as you enter towns, isn't it?

As a new learner of Turkish, I very quickly learned the above-mentioned hoş geldin and its response, hoş bulduk. I also learned kolay gelsin, said to one who is working and which literally translates as 'may it come easily.' Soon after, I learned geçmiş olsun, 'may it pass,' said to someone who is ill and is the equivalent of the English 'get well soon.' One of the more interesting phrases I learned is gözün aydın, said instead of 'congratulations' when the cause for celebration is the return or arrival of someone or something. This last expression literally means, 'may your eyes shine,' and I suppose refers to the tears of joy one might shed on such occasions. Ellerine sağlık, wishing health to the hands of the person who has prepared a meal or done some other task for you, is a particularly lovely saying.

But not using the above phrases when called for, or saying something different, inevitably raises eyebrows, taking me back to my initial observation -- whereas in English you might welcome dinner guests into your home with any number of ways, in Turkish, you will say hoş geldin. End of story.

Which brings me to my next point, namely how much the Turkish language reveals about Turkish culture. Nothing new, I know. But surprisingly the reverse is likewise true -- the lackof certain expressions in English reveals something as well.

Now, whenever I'm in an English-speaking situation and see someone working or greet a visitor, I open my mouth to wish them -- something. But what can I say? There really is no English equivalent, no standard saying for me to resort to. And I'm left feeling like there's something missing. It's moments like these that I especially appreciate the beauty of Turkish and Turkish culture, and realize how much learning another language enriches your life.

Shelfari

2010-04-13T11:20:00.003+03:00

It's funny the way certain things 'find' you at certain times. I've been mulling over how to keep track of what I read for years; for some reason I feel compelled to document what I read. I've tried keeping a list, both of books I want to read and books I've read, but that somehow struck me as too OCD; my lists were lacking something anyway, since I also wanted to write a line or two about my reaction to what I'd read.

Yesterday, I wrote about my decision to start a reading list feature on this blog. Today, a friend introduced me to Shelfari, a "social network for people who love books." (Ironically, this has come along just as I'm considering opting out of Facebook and other online social networks. But that's another story.) The feature I like best, though, is the widget it allows me to install on my blog. (See the bookshelf to the right?)

Bear with me as I keep both the reading list and my bookshelf up for a few days; I'm trying both on for size and will then decide which one stays. Am interested in your opinions, too, so leave me a comment!

Reading List

2010-04-12T19:55:00.000+03:00

Image via CrunchBase

I've decided to add a list of books I'm currently reading to this blog, since I love sharing great books almost as much as I love reading them. My expat friends and I appreciate how hard it is to get our hands on English language books here, and spend big bucks on shipping costs, usually ordering from Amazon.com.

A lot of thought goes into a purchase. We follow award nominations and short lists; Publisher's Weekly; and the recommended book sections of our favourite magazines -- when we can get our hands on one of those! There are inevitable disappointments, books that looked promising but were either painfully, stubbornly, read to the end or else abandoned. But when we hit upon a winner, we pass it around to all our like-minded friends. And then we talk about it.

I don't know how much -- if at all -- I'll actually write about what I'm reading, but at the very least you can look up a title and see if it interests you.