tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9225929065404037312024-03-05T10:47:24.095-05:00BlushingBlinkersBecause my rose-colored glasses are always firmly in place--even if they are a little cracked. Currently my blushful (it's a word! I looked it up!) gaze is focused on living life in Istanbul...Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-42412939444613331662009-02-11T02:10:00.001-05:002009-02-11T02:13:39.609-05:00Big Blue BuildingI finally paid the water bill for my newish flat for the first time today. I had received three so far and was maybe even missing one or two but procrastinated because 1) I know everyone does and it isn’t a huge problem and 2) I was never in the right mood to face the possible confusion and chaos of the water bill place which I’ve never been in but which has been pointed out to me.<br /><br />The thought of having to figure out how to have my water turned back on because I waited too long and they turned it off finally spurred me to work up the courage to try to pay the bill. In reality, I was still procrastinating because I have been told I can pay the bill at a bank, but the bank I went to a few weeks ago told me no. So today I decided to try a different bank, one that is listed on the back of my bill (as was the other one). I assumed I would have no luck again but could then go home feeling good about at least trying, while still having avoided the big blue water company building. <br /><br />I went into a branch of Vakif Bank which, again, is listed on the back of the bill as a bank where I can make payment. I walked up to a teller, thankful there were no other customers around, said hello in Turkish and pushed my bills at him. He looked at them, said some Turkish, then handed them back saying something I didn’t understand. Just then a man came in with HIS water bill and handed it to the teller who looked at them, released more Turkish and pointed up the road upon which the man nodded and left.<br /><br />I sheepishly approached the window again, still holding my bills. Then I shrugged my shoulders and made a little circle with my hand, fingers pointing at the ground, my international gesture for “where is”. The teller answered and pointed, I repeated the sounds that appeared to be a place name and he nodded. I walked out and up the street in the direction he pointed, hoping to see something that corresponded with the sounds I had just made. A few meters up the road I did, another bank, one I’m unfamiliar with and have now forgotten the name of. <br /><br />I walked in and immediately a security guard asked me what I needed. I waved the bills at him as I walked toward the teller but the guard kept talking and then gestured at a machine for generating numbered slips of paper. I took number 822 and started looking for the board which shows which number they are on. I found it because it immediately bonged as my number came up which made me laugh. There was no one else in the bank. The guard had enough of a sense of humor to laugh too as I walked the three steps from the machine back to the teller and presented him with my bills. I waited nervously as he looked them over, wondering how much it would cost since I was so late and was possibly missing bills. Wondering if I could even really pay here. After a minute, he asked for 17 liras. I thought I must not be remembering my Turkish numbers properly the number was so low, equivalent to about ten dollars, but I gave him a 20 and he gave me three liras in change.<br /><br />So, one more thing is taken care of, one less thing to worry about. I feel silly for procrastinating so long. I do still wonder about that big blue water company building though. I’m told it has a big fountain inside but, ironically, the water in the fountain has been turned off. So people sit on benches around it, waiting, eating their lunches and staring at the place where the water’s supposed to be.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-69595336837778172772008-11-18T03:13:00.003-05:002008-11-18T07:33:11.993-05:00I'm home!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLFmcorEcng8ym6eNTSCpTvW_jbV-ZnfKuucLP-ua3FgxRjEJTON74-3CoHHKqZEvsa9ZGZAU3OpWnTZageH6sTXl1LJCHzXzkr7NVmsMUktB0tRTbMmTTguv85MbEtCrgk79NC0_50Me/s1600-h/18800010.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLFmcorEcng8ym6eNTSCpTvW_jbV-ZnfKuucLP-ua3FgxRjEJTON74-3CoHHKqZEvsa9ZGZAU3OpWnTZageH6sTXl1LJCHzXzkr7NVmsMUktB0tRTbMmTTguv85MbEtCrgk79NC0_50Me/s400/18800010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269973223031257794" /></a><br /><br /><br />More than six weeks ago I moved into my cute little house. Here's a peek at my courtyard garden. If you look at the seating area waaay in the back you will see Chloe, my Maltese, observing the garden. Which should not be confused with Chloe guarding the garden. She just looks with amazement, boredom or disinterest, depending on her mood, at the feral cats which periodically invade us. More on that later...Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-70753089134531123632008-09-14T05:06:00.003-05:002008-09-14T15:31:56.136-05:00Moving: Part 2It's been an interesting two weeks, but hopefully I will be sleeping in my new home tomorrow night. <br /><br />I spent my first week of homelessness with a friend in Tarabya, a pretty little village on the Bosphorus which is part of Istanbul but feels like a a sleepy little town of its own. Unfortunately I was quite ill so I spent most of the week sleeping and sitting and not walking and exploring the area as I'd hoped.<br /><br />This week, I moved to stay with another friend in Etiler. I was feeling better but my dog promptly got sick. I won't go into the gory details but can assure you it <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span> gory. Not something you want to subject a friend to and it was a challenge to keep her from making a mess all over his apartment. Mostly I contained her (and the unavoidable mess) to my room. Now we are both feeling better but I'm going to uproot my poor little dog again. She's pretty adaptable but I think I am really pushing her limits. <br /><br />Once I move in to the new place I intend to pretty much hole up there for awhile; I'm feeling very domestic and looking forward to having a place to unleash my domestic urges on. I'm also looking forward to checking out my new view. It was endlessly fascinating to stare out at my old panorama, and even though the new place doesn't have such a big view of the sea I'm sure my new surroundings will have quite enough to hold my interest.<br /><br />The next post will have photos of my peaceful, pretty little new house!Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-69632581503451359162008-09-02T10:30:00.004-05:002008-09-02T11:07:33.889-05:00Moving: Part 1Well. I am moving. My landlord is turning my building with the fabulous Marmara Sea view into a hotel, so out I go.<br /><br />The good news is, I found an adorable tiny house down the hill from my old flat. The bad news is there are two weeks between when I have to be out of my old flat and can move into the new house. On Sunday I moved my things into my old landlord's basement and took one much too heavy suitcase, one very confused small dog and my laptop to stay at a friend's place in Tarabya.<br /><br />It's been stressful because moving always is, and being rootless for two weeks is bad for me. I need space of my own to retreat to and for two weeks I won't have it. But I am fortunate to have generous friends who live in nice places so I'm hoping to play the tourist a bit and walk a lot to see new parts of Istanbul and use up my restless energy.<br /><br />My new house is so so tiny but has a courtyard and a rooftop terrace. Essentially it is three itty bitty rooms stacked on top of each other with a terrace on the roof. I'm looking forward to taking full advantage of the terrace and courtyard for growing plants, eating meals and generally plan to live my life outside for as long as the weather allows. Even though I will have an entire house the space is MUCH smaller than my old flat but I am gaining a washing machine and, strangely, have two bathrooms! I also discovered that I own ten carpets. Why someone who had a three room flat (plus kitchen and bathroom) needed 10 carpets is a good question. Of course the answer is that someone with a three room flat doesn't NEED ten carpets...<br /><br />Below is a list of things I discovered I own/don't own. Interesting what you acquire, or don't, when you move to a new place with only your clothes. Of course you must remember that my flat was partially furnished. So for instance I had spoons and forks but no knives when I moved in.<br /><br />1. 10 rugs (can't quite get over that one. And I haven't mentioned the stack of other textiles I have).<br />2. Lots of bowls, no plates.<br />3. An ottoman. My only piece of furniture.<br />4. Knives, no spoons or forks.<br />5. All coffee related accoutrements.<br />6. Fewer clothes than when I came as I have lost a lot of weight, got rid of the old clothes and haven't bought many new ones.<br />7. Still more shoes than most people own, yet still not enough for me.<br />8. Books, speakers for my Mac music, no television.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-45211310100736083672008-08-18T03:25:00.005-05:002008-08-18T04:11:46.160-05:00The Omnivore's HundredThis week I am posting something a little different. I ran across this in a blog I read and thought it would be fun. It's kind of related to life in Istanbul I suppose, some of these things can be found here. And some of them really can't. And some of them I had to look up because I didn't know what they were, but the verygoodtaste blog wisely has links to Wikipedia so it was easy to look them up. I don't know how to do crossouts on my blog, but that didn't really matter as there is nothing I won't try once! Wait-- fugu. I won't try fugu or any other food that involves the possibility of death.<br /><br />Here are the instructions from the blog http://www.verygoodtaste.co.uk/uncategorised/the-omnivores-hundred/:<br /><br />1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.<br />2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.<br />3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.<br />4) Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.<br /><br />The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:<br /><br />1. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Venison</span><br />2. Nettle tea<br />3. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Huevos rancheros</span><br />4. Steak tartare<br />5. Crocodile<br />6. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Black pudding</span><br />7. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Cheese fondue</span><br />8. Carp<br />9. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Borscht</span><br />10. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Baba ghanoush</span><br />11. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Calamari</span><br />12. Pho<br />13. <span style="font-weight:bold;">PB&J sandwich</span><br />14. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Aloo gobi</span><br />15. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Hot dog from a street cart</span><br />16. Epoisses<br />17. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Black truffle</span><br />18. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Fruit wine made from something other than grapes</span><br />19. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Steamed pork buns</span><br />20. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Pistachio ice cream</span><br />21. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Heirloom tomatoes</span><br />22. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Fresh wild berries</span><br />23. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Foie gras</span><br />24. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Rice and beans</span><br />25. Brawn, or head cheese<br />26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper<br />27. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Dulce de leche</span><br />28. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Oysters</span><br />29. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Baklava</span><br />30. Bagna cauda<br />31. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Wasabi peas</span><br />32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl<br />33. Salted lassi<br />34. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Sauerkraut</span><br />35. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Root beer float</span><br />36. Cognac with a fat cigar<br />37. Clotted cream tea<br />38. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Vodka jelly/Jell-O</span><br />39. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Gumbo</span><br />40. Oxtail<br />41. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Curried goat</span><br />42. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Whole insects</span><br />43. Phaal<br />44. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Goat’s milk</span><br />45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more<br />46. Fugu<br />47. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Chicken tikka masala</span><br />48. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Eel</span><br />49. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut</span><br />50. Sea urchin<br />51. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Prickly pear</span><br />52. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Umeboshi</span><br />53. Abalone<br />54. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Paneer</span><br />55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal<br />56. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Spaetzle</span><br />57. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Dirty gin martini</span><br />58. Beer above 8% ABV<br />59. Poutine<br />60. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Carob chips</span><br />61. <span style="font-weight:bold;">S’mores</span><br />62. Sweetbreads<br />63. Kaolin<br />64. Currywurst<br />65. Durian<br />66. Frogs’ legs<br />67. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake</span><br />68. Haggis<br />69. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Fried plantain</span><br />70. Chitterlings, or andouillette<br />71. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Gazpacho</span><br />72. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Caviar and blini</span><br />73. Louche absinthe<br />74. Gjetost, or brunost<br />75. Roadkill<br />76. Baijiu<br />77. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Hostess Fruit Pie</span><br />78. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Snail</span><br />79. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Lapsang souchong</span><br />80. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Bellini</span><br />81. Tom yum<br />82. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Eggs Benedict</span><br />83. Pocky<br />84. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.</span><br />85. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Kobe beef</span><br />86. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Hare</span><br />87. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Goulash</span><br />88. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Flowers</span><br />89. Horse<br />90. Criollo chocolate<br />91. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Spam</span><br />92. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Soft shell crab</span><br />93. Rose harissa<br />94. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Catfish</span><br />95. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Mole poblano</span><br />96. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Bagel and lox</span><br />97. Lobster Thermidor<br />98. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Polenta</span><br />99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee<br />100. SnakeKelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-58865958213931309602008-08-09T12:53:00.002-05:002008-08-10T08:53:09.896-05:00AnniversaryI have now been here for one year. My anniversary prompted me to think about the random things I know now which I didn't know a year ago. Here they are, not necessarily, but maybe, in order of importance:<br /><br />1. Ben and Jerry's ice-cream can be had at the Kanyon movie theater. Including my favorite flavor, New York Super Fudge Chunk.<br />2. Being without running water for a day or two is really not a big inconvenience.<br />3. Baby wipes are genius. See number 2.<br />4. I love old things made in Uzbekistan.<br />5. Social ties here are very strong. The good side of this is that people will help you-- whether you ask for it want it or not. The bad side of this is that people will help you-- whether you ask for it want it or not!Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-6599785340876688322008-07-28T05:44:00.004-05:002008-07-28T05:58:17.840-05:00Comb-overlessI've been here almost a year now, but I find there are still new things to notice and learn. Here are today's new things:<br /><br />1. Despite the fact that Turkey has a very high incidence of male pattern baldness (if I had more time I would research incidence rates), I have yet to see a comb-over. The men here seem to embrace their receding hairlines and wear them proudly, often going so far as just shaving off whatever is left (if I had more time I'd take photos, just shoot out any window to prove my point).<br /><br />2. The Turkish word for cheesecake is... "cheesecake". Convenient for me. One less word to memorize.<br /><br />3. Today, as the clouds rolled in, the taxi driver taught me the word for rain. I can say it but not share it as I have no idea how to spell it and it would seem to involve those Turkish letters that I have no idea how to insert.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-23902669959261819812008-07-10T03:16:00.005-05:002008-07-10T05:13:51.850-05:00Vacation?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZ9VlPPzTOjNFH8GYmEJ-Z8Ii2BWx7hk0NsFXCqgMd3-TTmY0n0J_ldBN5Ew7Pg7HaGzDHlVK3NzygzMd3Pj_CsSLR55N4UKHuCS1xB-8dwEPW8ehi_sTIptQ1wUkp8wd37vG7p-BjCMU/s1600-h/Photo05_8.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZ9VlPPzTOjNFH8GYmEJ-Z8Ii2BWx7hk0NsFXCqgMd3-TTmY0n0J_ldBN5Ew7Pg7HaGzDHlVK3NzygzMd3Pj_CsSLR55N4UKHuCS1xB-8dwEPW8ehi_sTIptQ1wUkp8wd37vG7p-BjCMU/s400/Photo05_8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221325892481755490" /></a><br /><br />I went on holiday to Crete last week. Here are some quick observations:<br /><br />1. Chania, Crete is beautiful.<br />2. I heart Turkish Air.<br />3. I don't heart Olympic Air so much (3 canceled flights!)<br />4. Tirana, Albania looks beautiful from its airport but really shouldn't be a stop-over on the way from Istanbul to Crete.<br />5. It should not take as long to get from Istanbul to Crete as it takes to get from New York to Crete (thanks again Olympic Air). Thankfully...<br />6. Albanian airport employees are helpful and kind.<br />7. A shot of Greek raki (provided by a kind shopkeeper) may not help a stomach virus but it definitely doesn't make things worse.<br />8. While the food in Crete is good Turkish baklava really is the best.<br />9. It was very strange to hear a foreign language again and not even be able to communicate in my broken Turkish baby-talk.<br />10. After only 10 days away I forgot some of the little Turkish I do know and upon my return was reduced, once again, to holding up my fingers to my Turkish cabdriver when I couldn't remember the word for "ten".Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-38751797763436869882008-05-11T07:22:00.006-05:002008-05-11T08:41:45.904-05:00Bursa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeMLzttKEuSJWUwBXxJm7gpnAqBDCxEAaDE6wbLeKwAqOakXz43gAZOqQp5Oo-_RKCg4vFaf6O5IBKB50jv8IMH1SnzpnvbgX0IpkhQSoLigrrDrhS1TwkP3kwKMJBKamtcNnlig5W1OBx/s1600-h/37290027.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeMLzttKEuSJWUwBXxJm7gpnAqBDCxEAaDE6wbLeKwAqOakXz43gAZOqQp5Oo-_RKCg4vFaf6O5IBKB50jv8IMH1SnzpnvbgX0IpkhQSoLigrrDrhS1TwkP3kwKMJBKamtcNnlig5W1OBx/s400/37290027.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199101711665399922" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HrF7Ep5Qkg_sKsFkKEjaBaOPVsGU44P4msZfOh9lX_I8-k30fvM2c9cu5HLvbVopQJYI1qViC0KAlW1rIOnKl_g6U8tpj-GaFnyGiPpYFEuW3EMM8qRT0hiBO6MI0yRGBWIDt84l71Vv/s1600-h/37290026.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HrF7Ep5Qkg_sKsFkKEjaBaOPVsGU44P4msZfOh9lX_I8-k30fvM2c9cu5HLvbVopQJYI1qViC0KAlW1rIOnKl_g6U8tpj-GaFnyGiPpYFEuW3EMM8qRT0hiBO6MI0yRGBWIDt84l71Vv/s400/37290026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199112839925663874" /></a><br /><br /><br />A few weeks ago I decided I needed to get out of town; I haven't been out of Istanbul since I arrived last August. So, armed with a detailed itinerary supplied by a knowledgeable Turkish friend ("First, you have breakfast in your hotel. Then, go out of your hotel and walk to the Muradiye Complex and look at..."), I took the ferry and the bus to Bursa which is famous for it's healing hot springs. <br /><br />It wasn't the quiet getaway I envisioned, but I did have a good trip and found that the hospitality I've come to rely on extends beyond the confines of Istanbul. <br /><br />Example:<br />One day I decided to take the bus into the center of town. Unfortunately, once on board I found you can't pay with cash and was confused because I didn’t know how or where to buy a token and anyway the bus was already moving. The driver waved me in and he and a passenger tried to explain something to me but I didn’t understand. There are many tourists in Bursa, it’s very crowded in fact, but they are all Turkish, and I was one of very few foreigners. Not many people speak English and those who do don’t know much so I was something of an anomaly there.<br /><br />Eventually the passenger handed me his wallet and after he gestured several times I understood that I was supposed to take it to the front of the bus. So I did, and stood, still a bit confused, as the driver (still driving) took the wallet, passed it in front of a reader, something beeped, and apparently my bus fare was paid by the nice passenger. He refused reimbursement and I took a seat behind him, happy to step out of the center front of the bus, and happy, once again, for the seemingly limitless Turkish patience, generosity and hospitality.<br /><br />Above are some photos from a parade that took place while I was in Bursa. I never found anyone who spoke enough English to explain to me what it was for, but since I was one of the few foreigners standing at the roadside with a camera I was able to get some shots of parade participants staring at me.<br /><br />In the first photo I'm pretty sure the man in the red tie waving at the camera is the mayor of Bursa (I guess a politicial is a politician, no matter where he is from). The second shows a participant who would seem to be less concerned with her public persona.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-5052107262353660952008-03-10T17:49:00.003-05:002008-03-10T17:58:15.260-05:00Three bouquets, six kisses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_oDwYFMuDi6mmrGRh7Ps-E3-yhIjQoVL5pxnnlm7ibJt6QBBJLTRirI8Dxct6zone4DiDsJhnTaOvzyfCuLLps5I1XnD953SiDuEYKBYllKSQGrJrwkDXfAjSsfshkbu2HTRen6wikwc-/s1600-h/IMG_0390.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_oDwYFMuDi6mmrGRh7Ps-E3-yhIjQoVL5pxnnlm7ibJt6QBBJLTRirI8Dxct6zone4DiDsJhnTaOvzyfCuLLps5I1XnD953SiDuEYKBYllKSQGrJrwkDXfAjSsfshkbu2HTRen6wikwc-/s400/IMG_0390.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176249359116919458" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Today I got three bouquets and six kisses. <br /><br />I was busy today and have a busy week ahead. Four hours of Turkish class three days a week (too much time in those little chairs with attached desks), plus homework, plus studying so I remember the difference between a “carrot” and a “rabbit”, a “shoe” and a “car” (these are just some of the words I get confused). On top of that I have to put together the two-day seminar I am debuting this weekend on “Strategic Supply Management and Purchasing” (riveting stuff), and proposals for April seminars. <br /><br />Lots of new stuff which can be either exciting and exhilarating or stressful and tiring, depending on my mood, the time of day, and the weather.<br /><br />I also spend lots of time running up and down the streets between my flat and my cafe. The change of scene and the air help me focus and keep my energy up so today the people in between my flat and my cafe saw me passing back and forth, forth and back several times. Lots of life happens in the street in Sultanahmet. The shoeshine man and flower lady sell their goods and services on the street and every cafe and carpet shop has at least one guy out front encouraging you to come in. On most days shopkeepers stand in their doorways chatting and smoking and watching the people pass by.<br /><br />Mid-day I stopped in a favorite restaurant for a quick light lunch. The staff is always very welcoming, friendly, and attentive. They were receiving their flowers for the week as I ate and when I finished the waiter brought me a long stalk of white flowers and then some foil for the end to keep it fresh on the way home. As I waited for my change I smelled the big bouquet on the table beside me and when he brought the change he brought me more flowers, pink carnations and some other lovely curvy pink flowers. As I walked home past the usual cafes everyone teased me asking, “are those for me?” and I told them “no, no, you can’t have them they’re mine, they’re a present!”<br /><br />At home I snip the ends and put the flowers in the carafe I keep on hand for that purpose, take care of some housework, trade my Turkish books for my laptop and notes, and head back out to the cafe to work on my seminar. On the way I pass the shoeshine man. I usually pass him in the morning and we exchange good morning greetings in Turkish. Today he is distracted when I rush by but I say good evening and he does the same and smiles broadly and gives a little wave as I pass. I work, work, work until my computer battery is exhausted and then head home. When I pass the shoeshine man is still in his spot and he stops me and tries to tell me something, and I think I understand that he’s saying something about seeing me run back and forth today. I laugh and nod and he pulls a small bunch of white flowers from the flower lady who sits beside him (his wife?) and tells me they are a present. He makes me smell them and then says over and over “cok guzel, cok guzel it means very very good in English. You.” He keeps saying “cok guzel” and touching his hand to my chest and then he starts kissing my cheeks, one side, then the other, then “cok guzel” punctuated by more kisses. He is very, very sweet and I am touched and happy that my work day is ending so nicely. <br /><br />When we are finished I rush off again because I have to make a phone call but decide I better pick up dinner because I don’t want to take the time to cook and clean up tonight. I pass the restaurant where I had lunch. The waiter is in the doorway and says hello and asks, “where did you get THOSE flowers?” I tell him the shoeshine man gave them to me and he says, “because he knows you are a good person.” Really, these people barely know me and I am continually amazed by their generosity. I keep walking but then can’t think where else to pick up dinner quickly and double back to the restaurant. Most of the staff is sitting at a table outside eating and they turn to look and smile at me when I come back and my waiter takes me inside and helps me decide what to get for take-away. As I wait for them to wrap it up they sit me down and give me tea and then an even bigger bouquet of flowers with shasta daisies and carnations and good-smelling white spears and curvy pink flowers all wrapped up in paper. I think they are trying to out-do the shoeshine man, but they don’t know about the kisses.<br /><br />I thank them profusely and head home with a big grin, past the same people who saw me earlier, who want to know where all THESE flowers came from. I try to share the wealth a little bit by giving my chocolate spoon from the cafe to a friend’s little girl. She is not interested but one of the guys I know is very pleased with it. It doesn’t really seem a fair trade, three bouquets for a small chocolate spoon and I think maybe I should start carrying little presents around to hand out so I can reciprocate some of the random generosity I enjoy so much here.<br /><br />So, I arrive home, work done for the day, dinner in hand, with more flowers than I know what to do with. I have to empty some food containers in my kitchen in order to find containers for them. There are worse problems to have.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-76438406894706482222008-03-03T14:35:00.002-05:002008-03-03T14:45:38.792-05:00Things I can't findBecause I am too busy to make sentences for my blog, I have decided to make lists. Here’s the first:<br /><br />Surprising things I can’t find in Istanbul<br /><br />1. Horseradish<br />2. File folders<br />3. Vanilla extract<br />4. Rubber cement<br />5. Watercolors in tubes<br /><br />Comments about the surprising things<br /><br />1. Wasabi is a good substitute.<br />2. When I used the one file folder I brought from the US as a visual aid, it was opened, looked at from all directions, heads were shaken thoughtfully, and then I was asked in a vague tone of incredulity and amazement, "what's it for?" Then, when I explained, came the question, "how does it work?" And I am just as confused about how exactly the Turks organize their paperwork.<br />3. I now realize why Turkish desserts taste different.<br />4. May be available somewhere, but I don't have the verbal skills to explain. You try pantomiming "rubber". Then, "cement".<br />5. This one I was able to explain and was told, "oh, they aren't allowed in Turkey." And I'm pretty sure I understood that right but couldn't wheedle the "why" out of the salesman.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-42681512293483815242008-02-19T12:46:00.008-05:002008-02-19T13:04:29.105-05:00Blue mosque, gold treeWe've had three snowy days in a row this week. I have been busy, and when I haven't been busy I've been playing in the snow. So, in lieu of a thousand words, here are some pictures.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLY-bb2duE9UIqXz9Mx7t2Te3pCoMHuS5aDgLTnxFuCHkfXxyTEoKRKQr_j2FQ5bUHZNK-xKdnFxTpIVc9mJ2kOZikdajItxZlE46qmibb5rPJmTh-Ap0ndGY5wiqVzSbftv4OkyY4oPZ/s1600-h/IMG_0377.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLY-bb2duE9UIqXz9Mx7t2Te3pCoMHuS5aDgLTnxFuCHkfXxyTEoKRKQr_j2FQ5bUHZNK-xKdnFxTpIVc9mJ2kOZikdajItxZlE46qmibb5rPJmTh-Ap0ndGY5wiqVzSbftv4OkyY4oPZ/s400/IMG_0377.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168751072153131218" /></a><br />Blue Mosque in the snow, early morning.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODSQ3QZUhFLWZd29O41VfBkVtcu-PBUFfh8PEWFgiw3vbtOXoRBABnP_fIFINWDp8AIRO2meaccGXDlWHlpFv5b7Vi_OVgh_UCPgGPTm3qufHzSvHKtq9MHjPZrxcl1Y0BUspk2uLlNkT/s1600-h/IMG_0366.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODSQ3QZUhFLWZd29O41VfBkVtcu-PBUFfh8PEWFgiw3vbtOXoRBABnP_fIFINWDp8AIRO2meaccGXDlWHlpFv5b7Vi_OVgh_UCPgGPTm3qufHzSvHKtq9MHjPZrxcl1Y0BUspk2uLlNkT/s400/IMG_0366.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168751673448552674" /></a><br />Catprints on rooftops<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpc3M-MXUHgkEmOECakTcWKc1YQvfBrnHTQhb7enyM5QGI-s8JbGI0BQp9Gosg7yzNqn7br7BSU_MlUjp-R1D4pkBjOdfTOgP9jFuRqNnl3pxMSdQzSG5zm6oJteXu9ar7FkCtHRw6AJR8/s1600-h/IMG_0378.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpc3M-MXUHgkEmOECakTcWKc1YQvfBrnHTQhb7enyM5QGI-s8JbGI0BQp9Gosg7yzNqn7br7BSU_MlUjp-R1D4pkBjOdfTOgP9jFuRqNnl3pxMSdQzSG5zm6oJteXu9ar7FkCtHRw6AJR8/s400/IMG_0378.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168752253269137650" /></a><br />My street, early morning.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-26327043290207346162008-02-07T16:17:00.000-05:002008-02-07T16:21:28.915-05:00TerritoryI’ve only been here six months but I already range over a larger territory than I did in New York. <br /><br />At heart I am a creature of habit. I have routines and routes, it’s how I find comfort and security. I walk the same streets to the same destinations, day after day. I pass the same shops and people, see the slow steady progress of the buildings under repair. See the cobblestone streets being deconstructed, mysterious underground work completed, then reconstructed, usually in the space of three days at most. Miraculous speed in some things. <br /><br />I marvel at the cobblestones which are taken up, piled on the side of the road, and then fitted back together. One of those low tech solutions that seems so smart. No pavements cracking and shifting in the cold or wet weather. No potholes or tree roots breaking up the roads. A little rough on the shoes maybe. I have to replace my heels regularly. I often wonder how old those gray-blue stones are. In the summer it takes longer for the dust and dirt to settle back into the cracks between the stones. A bit messy perhaps, but all the more reason to remove your shoes indoors, a habit I developed in New York and am happy to continue here. My apartment stays so much cleaner and I prefer padding around barefoot, toes sinking into my fluffy white carpets, to clomping around in shoes.<br /><br />That is my home territory, what I see on my regular walking route between home and friends and my cafe and the shops I frequent.<br /><br />But at times I range farther afield. I take the tram and the metro, sometimes to the end of the line (it’s not long). I catch buses which are labeled helpfully with their various destinations. They take me on crowded curving, looping highways. I look out the windows and I always feel that what I see is familiar— I know where I am!— and then realize that like any city this one has repetitive buildings and many areas that look alike. There are the pink buildings and the grey buildings and the yellow buildings. Pale sage green buildings. The colors don’t vary much. <br /><br />I get off the bus at the correctly labeled spot. It all looks the same until I come this way often enough that it’s incorporated into my territory. Until I start to recognize that cafe, that shop-owner, that business where the yellow dog sleeps under a tree in a spot he’s worn into the bare earth.<br /><br />It’s a strange feeling, knowing how to get here but not where I am.<br /><br />Friends who know me well are used to the question, “Where am I?”<br /><br />Having no sense of direction, the twisting highways confuse me and I know how to get to my destination, which bus to take, where to get off the metro, but I could never point to it on a map.<br /><br />I couldn’t point home either. I have to retrace my steps to get there. I can’t move easily between the spots in my territory. I have to ask for directions or go to “home base”, my neighborhood or the city center, and start again from there.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-30748252142428236792008-01-23T08:54:00.000-05:002008-01-23T09:01:28.960-05:00Who, me?<span style="font-style:italic;">Courage is being scared to death... and saddling up anyway. <br /> ~John Wayne <br /><br />Courage is doing what you're afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you're scared. <br />~Edward Vernon Rickenbacker <br /></span><br /><br />Since several people have told me I’m brave this week I’ve decided to respond and correct that flattering, but ultimately incorrect, perception. <br /><br />I guess living in Istanbul is like living in New York. It may sound interesting and exotic and exciting but really, it's just life. I get up, make my bed, have breakfast. I worry about work sometimes. I try to have a social life and still accomplish all the things I want to do as well as all the things I have to do. I avoid vacuuming and dusting and washing the dishes in favor of drinking coffee in the café.<br /><br />Well, I say that and then realize that today I felt very grateful and very spoiled. I don't know about brave, or that other adjective that has lately been attached to descriptions of my life, “interesting”. I always feel like my actual life would bore other people but it keeps me entertained.<br /><br />Here is what I did Friday. I got up, took a long shower, washed my hair, and shaved all the bits that needed shaving. Then I made breakfast. Actually, I heated up breakfast which was this magic new kind of borek they told me about last night when I was having coffee and desert in the patisserie. It translates into "water borek" and somehow water is involved in the making of it but I have no idea how that works. Anyway, somehow those few activities took two hours.<br /><br />Then I went to my cafe and tried to work, but I could only do so much as I am STILL waiting for my domain to become available. So I paid some bills, did a bit of work, some correspondence, and was as productive as I could be under the circumstances. Two coffees, a bottle of water and many, many chocolate covered coffee beans later, I asked for my bill and my favorite waiter told me there was no charge! So I wandered off into the sunshine thinking how lucky I am. I'm not sure I can ever leave Istanbul, I am completely and utterly spoiled here. Brave? More like spoiled and coddled. <br /><br />It was such a nice, sunny day, warm for this time of year. I thought I should do something outside, but couldn't think what, so I wandered over to my friend’s hotel thinking I would pick up the candelabra I bought from him. I picked it out a week ago, and paid for it two days ago, but somehow never managed to get it home (why I am buying candelabras at a hotel is a story for another day).<br /><br />So, I fetched my candelabra and we sat around the hotel lobby watching "Ratatouille" on my MacBook. I drank sage tea. I watched an episode of Meerkat Manor. Someone brought me a tea which I made the mistake of drinking (if you sit still in Turkey for more than five minutes someone will bring you tea. I think it’s a rule). Since I hadn't had anything to eat except coffee beans for six hours the tea made me nauseous and I decided I needed to go eat. I asked if I could have a bag or if I needed to carry the candlestick home held aloft like some sort of Turkish Statue of Liberty. The Turks suggested I would look more like Florence Nightingale. They had to explain to me that she was known as the lady of the light or something like that and is always pictured with a lamp. I had no idea. Anyway, they got me a plastic bag so it was covered up. It's this five-candle candelabra, very dramatic. Every time I thought of it over the past few days all I could think was "Professor Plum, in the library, with the candlestick..."<br /><br />Brave? More like spoiled, coddled, and a wee bit lazy.<br /><br />On my way home I called the friend who is visiting from the U.S. We went for a quick dinner, picked up some groceries, and were home by 6:30, in our jammies. On Friday. Yeah, I'm feeling really brave and interesting! I spent the rest of the night doing some sewing, putting together a little table, cleaning my candlestick and chatting online-- fascinating stuff!<br /><br />I do feel lucky, but not brave. Like I am in the right place for me at the moment, but a place that would drive lots of other people crazy. And of course, that’s the secret-- to find the place that’s right for you at the moment. I don’t know about bravery, but I do know it would take a strength I just don’t have to live somewhere less right for me.<br /><br />So, I will finish with one more quote:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear. Except a creature be part coward it is not a compliment to say it is brave. <br />~Mark Twain, Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar, 1894 <br /></span><br />I’m not brave, I’m just not afraid.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-54163897834192775432008-01-15T15:07:00.000-05:002008-01-17T04:32:47.682-05:00Aya Angel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFanmr61Ueuil8NmiaYjlqBVWtJY7KLy7OnVOHQegPXnVXARiw1sBozcZqOOWeA6cb__saMyLWEbMEy5kE8jnol_yLlDb0VsmsW7KWlxOa_lfUcs84y6w1B1qbv1tXxtjPHaLwZH7g7wt/s1600-h/98770028.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFanmr61Ueuil8NmiaYjlqBVWtJY7KLy7OnVOHQegPXnVXARiw1sBozcZqOOWeA6cb__saMyLWEbMEy5kE8jnol_yLlDb0VsmsW7KWlxOa_lfUcs84y6w1B1qbv1tXxtjPHaLwZH7g7wt/s400/98770028.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156376028325638786" /></a>Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-63012870393730932892008-01-03T04:47:00.000-05:002008-01-03T05:00:28.959-05:00An Istanbul Christmas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimg7lpUeutbZrMse2O3goL0Wam1RQYpiYrdPDgK-NkjxXClbFWKSFATUw2fdVNI3Y0g7rJyPfai5nO4w_dPVCDAClF9jO1WEU46l7DAyWoZJWyaO7YiHBU4CXPPTjqpr2eGkpENlr42bV1/s1600-h/98790001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimg7lpUeutbZrMse2O3goL0Wam1RQYpiYrdPDgK-NkjxXClbFWKSFATUw2fdVNI3Y0g7rJyPfai5nO4w_dPVCDAClF9jO1WEU46l7DAyWoZJWyaO7YiHBU4CXPPTjqpr2eGkpENlr42bV1/s320/98790001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151187149486322258" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The mysterious mirrored ball with hat which appeared shortly before Christmas. It appears to have thudded to earth from a great height, displacing cobblstones upon impact...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Because Turkey is approximately 98% Muslim, Christmas is not celebrated here, at least not in the way we Americans are used to. I was confused and curious though, to see what Christmas would be like since many of my Turkish friends would refer to Christmas and the Christmas season. <br /><br />About two weeks before Christmas I saw my first Christmas decoration go up. A small artificial tree with blue lights appeared in the window of the Pudding Shop, a well-known restaurant on the main street of Sultanahmet. Soon lights and snowflakes and decorations appeared in the malls and every once in awhile I would hear a Christmas song playing in a restaurant.<br /><br />Things that never appeared:<br />Christmas commercials on television<br />Christmas sales<br />After Christmas sales<br />Rudolph, or any other reindeer<br /><br />Also, no live trees. When I asked a friend if Turks ever have live trees he laughed and said there are more Turks than trees so if they had live trees for Christmas there would be no trees left in Turkey. My very favorite decoration was the ladder hung with lights and Christmas balls in the back of the pastry shop; it was festive, clever, and creative.<br /><br />My students were very surprised when I told them school would be closed for a week. This year the Muslim holiday Kurban Bayram came right before Christmas so my language school closed for a full week in recognition of the Turkish holiday but also because most of the teachers come from countries (England, America, Canada) where Christmas is a big deal. However, the Turkish universities were open, so my friends who teach there were working on Christmas day. <br /><br />I had planned to take Christmas day easy, but it turned out I had to take care of a little business so I headed out to my café with my laptop. It was festive because of the lights and decorations, but other than that, the streets bustled with business as usual. The café workers on my usual path had been wishing me merry Christmas intermittently for a week or so, but there was no special recognition that today was the day. In fact, every so often someone had asked when Christmas actually was, and if it was right to say merry Christmas now, or when they should.<br /><br />I worked away until my battery ran low, but when I moved to the table near the only electrical outlet in the place I found that there was something plugged into it. I considered leaving but wanted to get some more work done. When I asked if I could unplug the one little tree which seemed to be the only thing occupying the outlet, they said no, but then came back in five minutes and unplugged it for me, causing ALL the Christmas decorations in the place to go dark. Apparently everything was connected to the one little tree. So the only Christian in the place was responsible for taking the sparkle out of Christmas.<br /><br />It turns out that New Year’s Eve is the holiday that everyone really celebrates. In fact, some of the “Christmas” trees don’t go up until after Christmas, they are put up for the New Year celebrations, which are pretty much the same here as in America. Some people go out to big parties, some go to restaurants, and some stay home. I had a relatively quiet night with friends, but from the sound of it some of the celebrations are as rowdy and loud as in New York, with drunken revelers on the streets and people dancing the night away. One difference was that Santa appeared. There’s a pub on a busy corner where a man in a suit and hat stands outside, inviting and welcoming passersby. Because I see him almost every day, we’ve come to know each other a bit and have a regular dialogue where we exchange greetings and how-are-yous in Turkish. On New Year’s Eve he turned up in a Santa suit, complete with beard, and instead of our usual greetings I got a kiss from Santa. It was a week late, but a kiss from Santa is always welcome.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-82264114480058346732007-12-23T07:02:00.000-05:002007-12-24T15:30:17.812-05:00Out the window 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi311ySrpoaJqGB2fg7i24bTCsTt85YFVa9Otv84kx8gdMJcWjFELce7DBla99Z9MCYhsnf4P_jgP_xuemcoHaM68GTPztBTfghstSeD4d6xN9_KcS2tXMOnXuaaw3mIEpKeLMzzG5CLW5B/s1600-h/IMG_0344.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi311ySrpoaJqGB2fg7i24bTCsTt85YFVa9Otv84kx8gdMJcWjFELce7DBla99Z9MCYhsnf4P_jgP_xuemcoHaM68GTPztBTfghstSeD4d6xN9_KcS2tXMOnXuaaw3mIEpKeLMzzG5CLW5B/s320/IMG_0344.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147637565174608450" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I spent hours yesterday looking out the window and chasing the birds and the smoke with my camera. Seriously, how lucky am I?Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-64456742275558806392007-12-22T13:40:00.000-05:002007-12-22T13:45:54.360-05:00Out the windowA few days ago I was wandering down the hill from my house and noticed sheep in some empty lots, and behind the bars in the windows of an old gray wall bordering a roofless building, more sheep. They looked at me so peacefully, and even though I know where my food comes from and am not overly sentimental about it, it made me sad to see them looking at me so contentedly. So innocent and unsuspecting.<br /><br />Because these are the Kurban Bayram sheep, the sheep that will be sacrificed for this holiday which memorializes God’s request that Abraham sacrifice Isaac. <br /><br />I’m not really sure what to expect, I’m a bit nervous because even though I eat meat with no qualms I’m not used to seeing it slaughtered before my eyes. Many of the Turks I’ve asked about the holiday find the sacrificing offensive and archaic. When I ask how they will celebrate the holiday they wrinkle their noses and say, “I don’t know, maybe I’ll visit family or go shopping. I don’t really celebrate this holiday, it’s not good.” When I tell one of my students that I’ve started seeing sheep in my neighborhood he says, “I would prefer you stay home on Thursday. I would prefer you not go out.” This of course makes me more nervous but also morbidly curious. <br /><br />Wednesday I run all my errands and go shopping for food and art supplies so I can stay home and entertain myself all day Thursday if necessary. Thursday is the first day of the four-day holiday, and I am up early. I turn on my music (I’m most nervous about what I might hear) and in my first act of holiday celebration make myself French toast. I look out the window and down the hill toward the sea, into the maze of streets that seems like such a self-contained village to me. So separate from the life at the top of the hill, with its rivers of tourist constantly flowing through the monuments and brightly lit shops.<br /><br />I can see directly into the courtyards of Sokullu Camii, the largest mosque in the neighborhood. A tin roofed shelter juts into the courtyard from the other wall. I see men milling around under the shelter and in the passageway between it and where the sheep and cows are tied. <br /><br />I make my breakfast, work on a drawing, looking out the window every now and then. I see the numbers of sheep dwindling and think this isn’t so bad, I can’t really see or hear anything, and I know that the meat is traditionally given to the poor and doesn’t go to waste. <br /><br />After a few hours something new, there is blood covering the ground, and men with hoses washing it away. It’s not the blood that bothers me now, but the thought that the cows tied there can see and hear and smell what is happening, and the blood is at their feet. At one point I can hear them lowing, but whenever I look at them they look surprisingly calm.<br /><br />I’m surprised at how long it takes-- all day; from early morning until evening I can see cows tied at the wall, waiting. I spend most of the day at home, but go out to dinner with a friend. We walk through the streets, which are very, very quiet, to a pub, and have meatballs. The irony doesn’t strike me until now. As we walk we see no signs of what’s going on inside the mosque anywhere else, just quiet, gray, cold, empty streets. A good day to stay home and stay in, drink tea, try to keep warm, and look out the window.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-76290397915032790632007-12-13T05:53:00.000-05:002007-12-13T05:59:24.811-05:00Uncivilized<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGoNE4VsuYTJ1GVd7CTE6GSH2JXGZo8vM6WyYjdqHOJPbXJ1Kh8cwL4Fi-O_tbs0SmqWpwuMzLMljJysGC3f_uoSmOooInqD7ZA_gVP9WxzPg88n16WccmK5ZG5Xp0cKeFrv9UaAeUl0aa/s1600-h/Photo+360.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGoNE4VsuYTJ1GVd7CTE6GSH2JXGZo8vM6WyYjdqHOJPbXJ1Kh8cwL4Fi-O_tbs0SmqWpwuMzLMljJysGC3f_uoSmOooInqD7ZA_gVP9WxzPg88n16WccmK5ZG5Xp0cKeFrv9UaAeUl0aa/s320/Photo+360.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143409218515745394" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I have been busy, busy, busy! My teaching schedule exploded, and so did my temper as a result, but after a few weeks of pushing and arguing I have worked out a reasonable solution to my work schedule. So thanks for the concern, Judy! I am overworked and tired but otherwise well and hope to get back to writing more regularly.<br /><br />Today I will leave you with a photo and a few brief lines. The photo is of my table in my usual café and shows my usual order with a slight variation. I always order a hazelnut cappuccino and water, but today was in the mood for a treat so I also ordered orange poppy seed cake. You will note that the cake came with a knife and fork, which illustrates a Turkish habit that I find very funny. If you order any kind of food it is always accompanied by a knife and fork. Order a sandwich, you get a knife and fork. Order a cookie, you get a knife and fork. I’ve been told once or twice that it is considered a little uncivilized by some to eat with your fingers, but I am not the only one who picks up her cookie to eat it. <br /><br />I’ve tried a few times to use the utensils to eat something I normally would pick up to eat. But the last time I did that the pastry turned out to be a bit crustier than expected which resulted in a rather large bit of pastry cracking off and shooting across the table in a most uncivilized manner accompanied by the crack of my knife suddenly striking china. So uncivilized I may be, but I now use my fingers freely and manage to get most of my food into my mouth.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-83191868836915967572007-11-17T05:49:00.000-05:002007-11-17T05:51:17.693-05:00Winter?Winter blew in a few nights ago; I think I actually heard it arrive. We have been having damp and chilly days for a few weeks, but still the sun would come out and warm us and it would feel like summer. But a few nights ago the wind started howling in an entirely new way around my windows. My apartment is on the top floor of a building that sits on a hill overlooking the Marmara Sea and there is nothing between me and any winds blowing in. In the summer the wind was strong, but these winter winds are different, almost brutal.<br /><br />Even though I’ve visited in October and in February this is the coldest I’ve known it to be and everyone is saying we will have a cold and stormy winter. I don’t think the leaves change color here, so it’s rather gray when it rains, but some of the vines growing on the old stone city walls are turning bright red. <br /><br />I’ve gotten so used to the flora (aloe, geraniums, squat palms) and fauna (feral dogs and cats, pigeons, huge ravens with gray heads) here that it’s strange to see something that reminds me of home. For example bittersweet grows abundantly across the street from the courthouse I pass every day. It soars high up the stone wall above the cistern, breaking away from the wall about 20 feet up and drooping heavily over the cobblestone street and sidewalk. The only bittersweet I’ve known grew along the fields and forests of eastern Pennsylvania and we used to have to climb through thick bushes and brambles to collect the few meager branches.<br /><br />I was walking beside the Blue Mosque a few days ago, lost in thought as I looked for the station and the old train that runs along the Marmara. I wondered if I would be able to find the station and if I found it if I could figure out how to pay and get to the train I needed when I smelled summer. It was cold and I was bundled in my scarf with my cold hands in my pockets, but suddenly I smelled freshly cut grass and then heard a lawnmower. They were cutting the grass around the Blue Mosque and if I smelled that here before this it didn’t make an impression. On this particular day it seemed very strange because it was so cold and dreary and it’s a smell I associate with hot, humid weather and pounding sun. And it was strange because it’s not a smell I associate with any city but with American suburbs. Maybe that freshly mown grass was the last vestige of warm weather because the season seems to have turned for good.<br /><br />I love all the changes of season and can’t wait for the first snowfall. Right now I spend a lot of time looking out my window at the sea, which is often iron gray, a color I hadn’t seen before the last few weeks. I watch the storms rolling in. One minute the sun is streaming in my window, warming my fluffy carpets and tile floors, but I know that will change in a few minutes because I can see the streaks of rain out over the sea, just beyond the ships in the harbor. The view from my window changes almost every week. Now I see choppy white waves that weren’t there before. I few weeks ago some small islands appeared, way out, that I couldn’t see in the haze of summer and this weekend a land mass appeared far behind them for the first time.<br /><br />But just when I am mentally prepared to hibernate and find myself dreaming up new projects I can do in the warm comfort of my apartment while the winds howl outside, the winter retreats. Today I am sitting outside in the café without a coat. It’s sunny and supposed to go up to 68 degrees. So I have put aside my indoor activities for the moment and am enjoying the sunshine and warm weather while I can.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-10120850867300029092007-11-06T16:10:00.000-05:002007-11-06T16:12:50.911-05:00Out in the coldIt’s a quiet Sunday so the pedestrian walkway is quiet, the bazaar is closed so there is nowhere to “pedest” to. But I am at my usual table at Coffee World. It’s a huge café, seats for 40 outside and 40 inside on the first floor alone, but there are only six of us here now. I think we are outnumbered by the staff.<br /><br />Which is OK, because the staff is busily scrubbing the walkway. It’s an endeavor that seems to demand quite an effort. There’s a scrubber with a long-handled bristly scrub broom, three guys carrying large watering cans and buckets of water from inside, and a supervisor, pointing.<br /><br />It seems the idea is for the scrubber to scrub, and then the guys with watering cans chase the dirt down the cobblestoned hill, row by row, until the water flows into one of the planted areas that sprout in the center of the walkway. The supervisor seems to be pointing out areas that need more attention, although to be honest, they look like pretty clean cobblestones to me.<br /><br />So here I am, wasting time, or filling time, or hoping for some kind of bolt of lightning that will tell me what I’m supposed to do with my day, and, oh yeah, my life. Instead of casting around for the thing I CAN do, maybe I should be thinking about what I WANT to do. It’s a gray day and I’m feeling dissatisfied and directionless. But I‘m easily cheered up, because I sneeze, and one of my nice waiters teaches me the Turkish equivalent of “bless you”, which is, spelled phonetically, “chok esha”. He tells me it translates to “much life”, and I teach him how to say and spell “sneeze” and “bless you”. <br /><br />A few minutes later a new waiter comes out to ask me if I want to come inside, if it isn’t too cold for me out here. There’s such a fear of the cold here, the slightest draft is seen as an enormous risk to your health. One of my students was even concerned because I was drinking cold water when I was sick, she thought I was damaging my health by not drinking room temperature water. <br /><br />This widespread fear of cold is somehow connected in my mind to the Turkish habit of never being alone. Actually, I can’t decide if it’s a need or a habit, because it seems to be such a part of the fabric of life. I never feel judged because I do things alone, there’s just sometimes a blank look of incomprehension when it comes up. An assumption that I live with someone, am going to that place with someone, that I must not have understood the question, or they don’t understand the answer, when I mention doing things on my own. <br /><br />The problem is I’m starting to think they’re right, I don’t want to do everything by myself. I still need time alone to recharge and retreat and de-stress, but more and more I find myself envying the support system that seems to be built in to the culture here so that there is always someone to go shopping with or go to dinner with. Of course as my friends and I agree we already feel that if we died alone in our apartments our absence would be noticed more quickly here than at home in the US so maybe we are moving in the right direction.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-89678097823487290942007-10-31T05:46:00.001-05:002007-10-31T05:48:16.693-05:00ParadeI could write about going to get my residence permit last week, or the rooftop fish barbecue at my building or a dozen other things, but I’m feeling a little lazy today so I will just tell you what I see in front of me.<br /><br />I’m sitting in “my” café, on the wide pedestrian boulevard leading to the Grand Bazaar. Lots of people are walking down the gentle slope that leads to the bazaar. They come in mobs and in trickles. The men who work in the carpet shops stand outside, some carrying their small glasses and saucers of tea, many of them smoking. Some of them sit at the tables around me. They watch what I watch, the people walking by. <br /><br />I’ve noticed that the larger the group of people, the slower it moves. A family of three, all large, tall, pale, mother and father holding the hands of the daughter between them, moves much more quickly than the group of eight Japanese women who stop and start and seem to move back and forth as much as forward.<br /><br />Men in suits travel in pairs, walking quickly, talking seriously. A man with two trays of food passes, it must be lunchtime. Two Turkish women walk quickly uphill, arm in arm.<br /><br />A tour leader walks past, carrying her round paddle with its green and white insignia. She is followed by 30 people. Their heads swivel from side to side as they walk in pairs and threes behind their leader. Gray ladies in twos, a mother and daughter, retired couples. <br /><br />I’m surprised at the number of large video cameras I see. Do people ever watch these movies they hang from their necks?<br /><br />A father walks past, towed by his dark haired son. The mother follows behind, tugging their fair-haired daughter with her curly-frizzy braids. The little girl walks sideways in her mother’s wake arms stretched wide by the pull of her mother and the desire to linger and look. <br /><br />As lunchtime approaches the crowds thin, the carpet shop men condense in the center of the walkway. Some of them look at me surreptitiously, curious about what I’m writing and how I can do it while I look around. I know, because one by one over the weeks they have asked me what I’m doing, what I’m writing, why they see me here everyday watching and typing.<br /><br />An elderly man walks past pulling a big hand truck loaded with enormous boxes. He walks briskly, pushed down the hill by his load, smiling broadly, showing his missing front teeth and talking happily to the man walking beside him.<br /><br />After a brief lunchtime lull, the crowds thicken again, the voices multiply, and the parade continues.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-30837210602510665552007-10-22T04:49:00.000-05:002007-10-22T04:51:02.537-05:00Going NativeIt’s starting to feel like fall here and I’m starting to feel more and more like hunkering down and nesting. A couple of funny things happened this week that made me feel a little bit more like I live here and a little bit less like a visitor, although of course I’m sure that no matter how long I stay I will always be somewhat of a yabanci (foreigner).<br /> <br />I spent a few hours yesterday, on a gray Sunday afternoon, sitting outside in my new writing cafe drinking hazelnut cappuccinos. I come here often because I can sit outside when the weather is nice, and they have good cheap coffee and free wireless. I have a regular table in a quiet corner and I am strangely comforted by the fact that my regular waiter knows I want a hazelnut cappuccino and a water, and that I will need a second cappuccino later. When I went inside to buy some chocolates as a gift a few days ago the cashier said he sees me working here all the time, expressed his amazement that I type so fast without looking (it seems this is a rare skill in Turkey because I get comments about it all the time) and wanted to know if I am a writer. I told him I do some writing and have a blog and he said maybe one day I will mention them, so here is his plug: Kahve Dunyasi, or “Coffee World” in English, is a Turkish chain which competes with Starbucks. The stores are big and clean and the coffee is really good, on par with any I’ve had elsewhere. And I get my two cappuccinos and my water for less than I pay for a latte at Starbucks.<br /><br />I walk the same route to and from my apartment every day, often passing an older gentleman who runs a car park in a small lot on a side street. For weeks we just kind of looked at each other, but soon we starting saying hello, and after the day I walked past with Chloe he started giving me big smiles and trying to talk to me. Of course I don’t know enough Turkish for us to have a real conversation, but it’s nice to walk past and get a big smile, a hello, and a “good morning” or “good evening”. And he always manages to ask how my dog is. There are some things that don’t require a common language. <br /><br />After I pass the car park man I often come to the homeless man. He made me nervous my first few weeks here because I couldn’t tell if he was drunk or a little crazy. He would often be talking to himself, often quite loudly, and the fact that I couldn’t understand what he was saying made it even more disconcerting. But I never saw him approach anyone, and everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to take him in stride so I decided he was harmless, which a neighborhood friend later confirmed. I passed him Sunday afternoon on my way to the café, and for the first time he made a point of nodding at me politely and then held out his hands and made typing motions! I was amazed because I thought he was always in his own little world, and my café is nowhere near his usual haunts so I don’t know how or when he saw me working away. Later in the day when I walked past with Chloe he made a beeline for her and I picked her up so he could pet her. He was a little rough, but nice enough, and after a few pats retreated to his chair by the side of a building. This morning heading through the quiet streets I heard a loud “merhaba” (“hello”) from across the street and there he was, greeting me as he made his morning rounds.<br /><br />I have also managed to get to the point where most of the guys in the restaurants on my usual route don’t harass me to come in and eat or drink. Some of them are really very sweet once you get to know them so I stop and chat with them and it’s kind of nice when they ask “how is my hocam (teacher) today”, or especially to hear, “my hocam looks beautiful today!” Even if it is part of the usual flattery it’s still nice to hear now and then.<br /><br />So, these are my neighbors: the car park man, the crazy man, and the café guys. And I am probably the crazy American with the funny little dog.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-560037393968330812007-10-19T04:30:00.000-05:002007-10-19T04:33:52.841-05:00Making thingsFinally I succeeded in making something. This is an accomplishment because my “making implements” are mysterious.<br /><br />I made a roasted chicken in my odd oven thingie. It sits on my countertop looking vaguely toaster oven-like but according to the pictures on it it can be used to make:<br />1. A sheep<br />2. A chicken<br />3. A shoe<br /><br />Interestingly, the times underneath the pictures suggest it takes longer to cook the chicken. This reflects my experience because although I haven’t actually tried to cook a sheep or a shoe, it did take me at least four hours to cook my tiny chicken.<br /><br />According to the book of instructions I found in the kitchen drawer and which I roughly translated with the use of my Turkish dictionary, my oven has three settings: roast, bake, and roast/bake. I decided to roast my chicken but after 90 minutes it looked a little rubbery and not at all roasted. So, I set it on roast/bake for 90 more minutes and that did the trick. <br /><br />The chicken was nicely browned, the onions were carmelized and the quartered lemons I had added seemed to tenderize it. It was the best chicken I ever made, which was a good thing because after four hours of preparation it would have been very disappointing to toss the whole thing in the trash. Although the street cats would have been pretty happy with that outcome.<br /><br />Next up: lasagna. I just have to find a baking pan, noodles, tomato puree, mozzarella, ricotta…Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-922592906540403731.post-64549139132042503442007-10-15T09:14:00.000-05:002007-10-15T09:19:08.614-05:00Mademoiselle ChloeChloe made her debut in Sultanahmet a few weeks ago. <br /><br />I had been keeping her in my apartment because for one thing I was really busy moving and buying all those little things you need (towels, can openers, shampoo, knives that will cut a tomato and not just squash it) in a foreign language, as well as starting a new job doing something completely new to me. For another, even though I live about 2-3 blocks from the most touristy area in Turkey my immediate neighbors are rather traditional and I didn’t want to brand myself as that weirdo foreigner with the fluffy white dog. At least not right away. <br /><br />But after more than a week in my building (she did get to travel four flights down to Musa’s atelier a few times) I decided it was time to take her out into the world.<br /><br />First, she sniffed around in the street in front of my building for awhile. We started down the road, but true to form she balked after a few yards so I picked her up and carried her. I just don’t have the patience sometimes to cajole her into walking and there’s too much traffic on some of the streets to worry about her stopping in the middle of a road.<br /><br />But the little bit of trouble I had getting her going was worth it because we had some interesting encounters. <br /><br />I walked her through the Hippodrome which was crowded with Turkish families, mostly tourists from the towns outside of Istanbul. Dogs are becoming more popular pets here but are still not common, although it is common to see feral, but friendly, dogs in the streets. But tiny white dogs are almost unheard of so the reaction to a tiny white dog walking through the Hippodrome was what I might have expected if I had a giraffe on a leash. There was oohing and cooing, and children ran towards us. Toddlers either shrieked gleefully and ran toward her or, more cautiously, stood well back despite my encouragement and that of their parents, simply jumping up and down and flapping their arms but not daring to approach.<br /><br />One girl in her twenties ran up and asked in Turkish if she could pet her, or so I thought, but when I nodded she picked her up and cuddled her, posing in front of the Egyptian column so her boyfriend could take a picture. <br /><br />So I made my ways slowly across the park, through Chloe’s admirers, to my friend’s shop on the main street. All the guys came out to see her and one of them took her leash and tugged her toward the shop next door chattering excitedly and showing her to the guys over there. While the men at home make fun of my tiny, fluffy, white dog, the men here in Istanbul are enthralled. Anyone who has seen me walking her now asks me where she is and how she’s doing whenever I pass by.<br /><br />After making the rounds I headed back home, and just as I was passing the last shop before entering the quiet streets of my immediate neighborhood the shop guys gathered around and started asking me questions about Chloe. They asked her name and then as usual my limited knowledge of Turkish hampered things a bit, but finally one of them said “mademoiselle…?” So I told them yes, she is a girl, “Mademoiselle Chloe”. I think it fits her. <br /><br />But the last encounter was my favorite. As I walked her slowly down my very quiet street, four boys of about 12 years old or so were playing soccer in the street. After I walked past they huddled together for a minute and then walked toward me, sneaking looks. So I stopped and picked Chloe up to show her to them. They asked the usual questions (her name, age, sex) and stood talking to me for a few minutes. Some of them spoke English better than the others and would translate my answers into Turkish. They were very interested in Chloe and in me and wanted to know my name and what I was doing in Istanbul and where I was from. <br /><br />I waited for them to get bored and go back to their game, it seemed funny that four pre-adolescent boys would be interested in my little dog and in me, but they really seemed to want to talk, and paid very close attention to everything I was telling them. One of them stood beside me with his hand on my shoulder the whole time and they were all very sweet and very polite. I finally had to break up our conversation or I think they would have kept me there all day. <br /><br />So there it is, Mademoiselle Chloe, ambassadress to Istanbul.Kelly Hevelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09612536589143277822noreply@blogger.com2