Here are some photos from my trip to Istanbul with Guido, as well as my trip to Antalya with my colleague Franny--enjoy seeing two very different sides of Turkey, the two most popular tourist destinations in the country.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Romeo and Juliet
I started a Shakespeare Club on campus, because I have forty students graduating from an English Literature department having only read Hamlet. We covered a few sonnets in class, but the main focus of our course is the British Romantic poets--this term, anyway--so I felt like my students needed more exposure to Shakespeare before they graduated. Many of them didn't even know how Romeo and Juliet ended. Can you imagine?
So in the Shakespeare Club we watch Shakespeare's plays on film (in English with English subtitles), then discuss them. The first one we watched was Romeo and Juliet. It was fantastic. We watched the Franco Zeffirelli version (1968), and I loved watching it and remembering the beautiful quotes, the impossible, passionate teenage love, and even the horrifying end. When I'd read it the first time, I don't think I'd had enough perspective to realize what a statement it was about young love, and the dangerous foolishness that can result from its lack of perspective. (Yeah, I know, I'm such a downer, belittling Romeo and Juliet's love...)
We chatted about it for a bit afterwards, and we talked about teenage love, and how dramatic it can be. It actually reminded me quite a bit of the Twilight series, a love story that both sucked me in (forgive the pun) and also totally disturbed me with its emphasis on the perfect love that creates the obsessive, co-dependent love affairs so common in our teens and twenties.
I've been told that boys in Turkey will commonly tell girls that they'll die for them, but I thought it was just talk, not something any of them would actually do. (Really, the methods of courting women here would horrify most American/Western guys.) Anyway, after we finished Romeo and Juliet, one of my students opened my eyes about the lengths men will actually go to here.
"Hojam," she said (which means "my teacher"), "I got really emotional when I watched the end of the movie. It really made me start to cry." She grabbed my arm and pulled me near her. "You know it's like that in Turkey sometimes. It even happened in the village near where I live. There was a girl who fell in love with a boy. Her father refused to let them get married, so she hung herself." She paused, emotional and enraptured at the same time. "And then the boy went to her grave, and he shot himself as he lay on her grave." She paused again. "So it's like Romeo and Juliet, hojam. Just the same."
Twilight's really huge here too, by the way. I don't wonder why.
So in the Shakespeare Club we watch Shakespeare's plays on film (in English with English subtitles), then discuss them. The first one we watched was Romeo and Juliet. It was fantastic. We watched the Franco Zeffirelli version (1968), and I loved watching it and remembering the beautiful quotes, the impossible, passionate teenage love, and even the horrifying end. When I'd read it the first time, I don't think I'd had enough perspective to realize what a statement it was about young love, and the dangerous foolishness that can result from its lack of perspective. (Yeah, I know, I'm such a downer, belittling Romeo and Juliet's love...)
We chatted about it for a bit afterwards, and we talked about teenage love, and how dramatic it can be. It actually reminded me quite a bit of the Twilight series, a love story that both sucked me in (forgive the pun) and also totally disturbed me with its emphasis on the perfect love that creates the obsessive, co-dependent love affairs so common in our teens and twenties.
I've been told that boys in Turkey will commonly tell girls that they'll die for them, but I thought it was just talk, not something any of them would actually do. (Really, the methods of courting women here would horrify most American/Western guys.) Anyway, after we finished Romeo and Juliet, one of my students opened my eyes about the lengths men will actually go to here.
"Hojam," she said (which means "my teacher"), "I got really emotional when I watched the end of the movie. It really made me start to cry." She grabbed my arm and pulled me near her. "You know it's like that in Turkey sometimes. It even happened in the village near where I live. There was a girl who fell in love with a boy. Her father refused to let them get married, so she hung herself." She paused, emotional and enraptured at the same time. "And then the boy went to her grave, and he shot himself as he lay on her grave." She paused again. "So it's like Romeo and Juliet, hojam. Just the same."
Twilight's really huge here too, by the way. I don't wonder why.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy
So, one of my colleagues, Vancin, came into my room today to ask me about yet another idiomatic expression I had never heard of (he discovers the most interesting phrases in his translation class). This time Vancin came in and wrote this: "_____ peasy lemon squeezy" on a piece of paper. He turned to me and said, "Please, tell me what is the missing word. The expression means 'easy.'" I just looked at him, perplexed. But somehow, from the back of my brain...I don't know how...but I knew. The word popped out from my subconscious like a soap bubble escaping from a bath.
"Easy," I said. "The word is 'easy,' as in 'Easy peasy lemon squeezy."
He looked at me, scratched his chin, and nodded. I love the way my colleagues take American expressions so seriously, as if contemplating worm holes or some other quantum physics theory.
"But where does it come from?" he finally said.
So we looked it up--heck, I didn't know. We found the answer in urbandictionary.com, a great resource for (often times vulgar) American expressions. Turns out it comes from a 1970's commercial. A little girl was washing greasy dishes with an adult. The adult produces Lemon Squeezy, a dish detergent, and they clean the dishes quickly. At the end of the commercial, the girl smiles and says: "Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy!"
Vancin then went on to say that he had learned it when he had said something was "jammy." He explained that it was slang for "easy," and a student had said the above expression as another example. So we decided to look up "jammy." Besides being a slang for pajamas or to describe someone as being lucky, it can also be slang for "gun," or even better..."penis."
I told Vancin he might want to avoid using that one next time.
"Easy," I said. "The word is 'easy,' as in 'Easy peasy lemon squeezy."
He looked at me, scratched his chin, and nodded. I love the way my colleagues take American expressions so seriously, as if contemplating worm holes or some other quantum physics theory.
"But where does it come from?" he finally said.
So we looked it up--heck, I didn't know. We found the answer in urbandictionary.com, a great resource for (often times vulgar) American expressions. Turns out it comes from a 1970's commercial. A little girl was washing greasy dishes with an adult. The adult produces Lemon Squeezy, a dish detergent, and they clean the dishes quickly. At the end of the commercial, the girl smiles and says: "Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy!"
Vancin then went on to say that he had learned it when he had said something was "jammy." He explained that it was slang for "easy," and a student had said the above expression as another example. So we decided to look up "jammy." Besides being a slang for pajamas or to describe someone as being lucky, it can also be slang for "gun," or even better..."penis."
I told Vancin he might want to avoid using that one next time.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
One of the most uncomfortable conversations I've ever had
I teach two speaking classes, and as part of their speaking practice, my students give five mminute presentations on any topic of their choice. The purpose is to get them comfortable speaking English, but also to help them learn some teaching skills to make them better teachers. So far my students have presented on their favorite cities, tango dancing, countries they've been to...one guy even tried to give a presentation on Women's History in five minutes...that was interesting.
Today one of my students wanted to present on "the gay." I was terrified, to be quite honest. Homosexuality is a very, very, very touchy topic here, and most people really shun homosexuals and homosexuality, especially gay men. Anyway, this student had a friend who found out that her friend of five years was gay. So my student was going to call her friend during her presentation and ask her what her friend knew about gay people as a result of this revelation. She would then relay this information to the class as her friend spoke on her cell phone. Or maybe her friend was going to come to the class...it was hard to make out the scenario in her broken English. I listened carefully, trying to hide my mounting horror at her presentation.
"I don't think you should call your friend," I said carefully. "This is your presentation. Your chance to practice your English. And what exactly will your presentation be about?"
"About the gay and how they become homosezuals!" she said, very excited. (That x sound is really tough for them.)
I wasn't sure what to do about it, but I asked my department head during break. He said that as long as it was general, why not? I decided to give it a go.
The hardest part about the presentation (besides the conversation afterward) was keeping my mouth shut. The presentation started off my by student asking people to raise their hands if they'd met someone who was gay (can you imagine?). It was hard to not get in an impassioned argument with my student when she pronounced that 26% of American males are gay...but that there are also MANY latent homosexuals (imagine explaining THAT one to your speaking class), so that number is probably higher. I told them that the numbers were WAY off, and that in fact ALL men in the U.S. were gay, which was why I came to Turkey. The laughter was much needed by all of us.
She also stated that there are 7 million homosezuals out there--because someone's doing a census, I'm sure--and that most homosezuals are men, not women. But the kicker was discovering how people become homosezual: by violence in the household, by not having a father figure (because remember, they're mostly all male), or because they preferred it, because most people prefer being part of a social group that has less rights and experiences such intense social hatred that they can't live openly. Hey, I'd choose that any day.
I couldn't resist. I had to comment back. I had to talk about research, and being careful where you get your facts from. I had to say that there isn't conclusive evidence about why people are gay, and that we should be careful about stating these things as facts. I had to correct some of her information, which she wasn't totally thrilled about, and to be honest, neither was I.
Then I backed off and let the students speak. For a while they just stared at me, terrified. Then finally some students explained that it's very hard for them to talk about this issue because if you defend gay people, people will gossip about you and call you gay. Parents will tell their gay children they have an illness if they're lucky, or disown them if they're not. Lesbians are much more acceptable, apparently, whereas gay men are completely unacceptable. Some of my students thought these beliefs were appropriate, others did not.
It's so hard to know what to do during these discussions. I remember how I said during my training that when I had these conversations, I would just listen and facilitate. Partly because anything I say will be spread all over campus and could really damage my reputation, and partly because I don't want them to just listen to me. I want them to feel heard. I want to help them think critically. And mostly, that's what I did. I let the students disagree with each other, and with me. I asked questions and asked for their thoughts. I told them that they went to university in order to expand their minds and develop their own thoughts and ideas. I told them I wasn't going to give my opinion because I wanted them to develop their own.
It was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
Today one of my students wanted to present on "the gay." I was terrified, to be quite honest. Homosexuality is a very, very, very touchy topic here, and most people really shun homosexuals and homosexuality, especially gay men. Anyway, this student had a friend who found out that her friend of five years was gay. So my student was going to call her friend during her presentation and ask her what her friend knew about gay people as a result of this revelation. She would then relay this information to the class as her friend spoke on her cell phone. Or maybe her friend was going to come to the class...it was hard to make out the scenario in her broken English. I listened carefully, trying to hide my mounting horror at her presentation.
"I don't think you should call your friend," I said carefully. "This is your presentation. Your chance to practice your English. And what exactly will your presentation be about?"
"About the gay and how they become homosezuals!" she said, very excited. (That x sound is really tough for them.)
I wasn't sure what to do about it, but I asked my department head during break. He said that as long as it was general, why not? I decided to give it a go.
The hardest part about the presentation (besides the conversation afterward) was keeping my mouth shut. The presentation started off my by student asking people to raise their hands if they'd met someone who was gay (can you imagine?). It was hard to not get in an impassioned argument with my student when she pronounced that 26% of American males are gay...but that there are also MANY latent homosexuals (imagine explaining THAT one to your speaking class), so that number is probably higher. I told them that the numbers were WAY off, and that in fact ALL men in the U.S. were gay, which was why I came to Turkey. The laughter was much needed by all of us.
She also stated that there are 7 million homosezuals out there--because someone's doing a census, I'm sure--and that most homosezuals are men, not women. But the kicker was discovering how people become homosezual: by violence in the household, by not having a father figure (because remember, they're mostly all male), or because they preferred it, because most people prefer being part of a social group that has less rights and experiences such intense social hatred that they can't live openly. Hey, I'd choose that any day.
I couldn't resist. I had to comment back. I had to talk about research, and being careful where you get your facts from. I had to say that there isn't conclusive evidence about why people are gay, and that we should be careful about stating these things as facts. I had to correct some of her information, which she wasn't totally thrilled about, and to be honest, neither was I.
Then I backed off and let the students speak. For a while they just stared at me, terrified. Then finally some students explained that it's very hard for them to talk about this issue because if you defend gay people, people will gossip about you and call you gay. Parents will tell their gay children they have an illness if they're lucky, or disown them if they're not. Lesbians are much more acceptable, apparently, whereas gay men are completely unacceptable. Some of my students thought these beliefs were appropriate, others did not.
It's so hard to know what to do during these discussions. I remember how I said during my training that when I had these conversations, I would just listen and facilitate. Partly because anything I say will be spread all over campus and could really damage my reputation, and partly because I don't want them to just listen to me. I want them to feel heard. I want to help them think critically. And mostly, that's what I did. I let the students disagree with each other, and with me. I asked questions and asked for their thoughts. I told them that they went to university in order to expand their minds and develop their own thoughts and ideas. I told them I wasn't going to give my opinion because I wanted them to develop their own.
It was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
Two sides of the table
Before we went to the club, the twelve of us (out of a class of forty) went out to a meal at a local restaurant. Half the students who came were very modern, and half the students...well, I didn't know until they arrived, but they came from more conservative families, as you can see to the left.
They got along just fine, of course, and were very kind to each other. But there was a clear difference between the two; it was palpable. I sat in between the two groups and conversed with both of them, bridging the middle somehow, interacting as much as possible with the awkwardly shy girls. The girls in scarves didn't come out with us to the bar after dinner either. When one of my more liberal female students told me that group wouldn't be joining us, she whispered, "So conservative! It's because they serve alcohol at the bar and they don't want to be seen there!"
What interests me most is how the two different sides of Turkey, the very Western and the more conservative and religious, manage to co-exist. Between young people, this existence is more harmonious. But this dichotomy between the West and Turkey's Islamic heritage is a mounting tension that constantly dictates her growth, her identity, her future, and sometimes threatens to pull her apart at the seams. It will be interesting to see how she moves ahead.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Film Project
So...you're probably wondering why I haven't updated in a while (and why I'm holding a fig). It's because good things are afoot. I was in training for a few days in Ankara with my colleagues and the English Teaching Assistant Fulbrights who are here. There are 9 of us English Language Fellows (ELFs) all over Turkey, and a bunch of ETA's as well. It was a great training. Then I came home and had my first week of class--it was great! I love my students! I'm teaching two speaking classes, a first year writing class, and an English poetry class which I'm super thrilled about.But the stuff I'm really excited about is extra-curricular. I found out that my students will have graduated from an English Literature department having on read Hamlet. ONLY HAMLET!! I mean, yeah, Hamlet's one of the greatest plays of all time, but there are some other pretty awesome ones too. Like Romeo and Juliet--you may have heard of it--or The Merchant of Venice, just to name two. So, since time is limited and my students are super busy, I decided to offer a Shakespeare Film Club, so students could come watch his most famous plays on film, then discuss them and familiarize themselves with them. It's only an introduction, yes, but that's okay. At least they'll be familiar with the stories and be able to connect other literature to these stories, should they go on to get Master's Degrees or P.H.D.'s. And if nothing else, it's a chance to keep working on improving their Old English speaking abilities.
But the project I am MOST excited about is this: I'm going to start a short-film production club! (Yes, I am so excited I made the font larger...it's not a trick of the imagination). Anyway, I'm ordering video cameras using some programming money I get with my job. My students will learn how to write film scripts for five to fifteen minute films, we'll shoot them in the early spring (or this winter if there's time, but I doubt we'll get the cameras by then). We'll edit for a month in the spring as well, then have a film festival and awards ceremony just before summer! I can't wait!
And the coolest part is that my students are going to team up with local under-priveledged high school students. These are students who have qualified for an after-school English language education to help give them opportunities they might not have otherwise. Not only will they have the chance to practice writing and speaking in English (all the films must be in English) they also will get to develop relationships with college students that will hopefully inspire them to do well in school and get excited for university. Plus, they'll learn how to use our film editing program and get more familiar with technology. It's such a cool program! I'm in the middle of putting it together right now--contacting the high school and getting student interest generated--so I'll keep you posted as it develops.
I do have to mention, though, that this wasn't my idea. My colleague and friend Dustin Schwindt came up with the idea and invited others to do it with him. Go Dustin!
By the way, if you're at all interested in donating a film camera to our project, let me know. We'd super appreciate it! I can only afford a few, and there will be a lot of students that will have to coordinate to use the cameras. We'd really appreciate a donation, if you're interested.
Hope you're well! And remember, if you're feeling sad, just eat a yummy fig like the one above (you have no idea how good the fruit is here) and it'll brighten up your day.
The delights of red pepper
So I was sitting around two weeks ago with some of the other people at my guesthouse (I still haven't moved into my home). Two of them hardly spoke any English, and then there was Fielding--the American Fulbright teaching assistant--and me. Because we lacked any real ability to converse, the game we decided to play was something like: What do you call this in your language?We pointed to the onions on our plate, and the guys said what they were called in Turkish: soğan, and then we told them what it was in English. We did tomatoes: domates, and so on. Yeah, I know, exciting, right? Finally, we got to the bowl of red peppers on the table. Biber. Ah, biber! I could remember that! It sounded familair enough to me.
Then one of the men, a doctor named Umit, said: kırmızı biber, meaning: red pepper. Then he said another word to further clarify: pul. He seemed to explain that there were two kinds of biber, the powder (like cayenne pepper) and then red pepper flakes like the one on the table. I tried to ask him if the word he was saying meant "flakes." He and his friend seemed confused by my question.
You see, I had learned that very day that pul meant stamp. Did it also mean flake? The dictionary came out. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. My insistence on understanding this word, pul, only lead to further frustration. I tried to make some charades-worthy gestures to indicate that pul also meant stamp. These gestures only drove the two men crazy. Finally, Umit pulled out his cell phone and called someone. He spoke rapidly and then handed me the phone.
"Uh, hello, um...yes, I believe my brother is wanting you to know about this biber from our region. It sometimes comes in a powder form, but it can also come in a bigger form, about one millimeter across and very flat."
"You mean a flake? It also comes as a flake? Does pul mean flake?"
"Um...I don't know what you are talking about...I'm sorry...it's from our region...it's only found in the east..."
I quickly ended the conversation, pretending I knew exactly what he was talking about. I stopped asking questions. Everyone was happy. The conversation moved onto other topics.
Now, two weeks later, I finally remembered to look it up. Pul does indeed mean flakes. And I found this happy little picture to prove it to you. Hooray!
I saw a hedgehog!
And he was so cute! He is known as an Eastern European Hedgehog, and he was rooting around in a grove/hedge of trees inhabited by hundreds of chirping birds. I watched him nose around for a bit.I think it's the first hedgehog I have ever seen.
My first day at school
So, I've been in school a few weeks now, but I have to tell you about my first day.
Though school technically begins on September 14th, I was told that I didn't need to come to school until the 28th of September because students would be gone for Bayram, the celebration marking the end of Ramazan. So on Thursday, September 24th, I wasn't planning on going into the office, I was just planning on spending my time preparing for the following week.
Of course, that was MY plan. Turkey had other plans for me. At 11:00am, I got a phone call in my room. It was one of my colleagues, Mehmet Uysal.
"Jennie!" he said, "I am here!"
"Uh...where is here?"
"Here at the office! I will come over now [to my guest house] and take you to lunch!" He teaches German and has a robust Turkish/German accent and pronunciation when he talks. You should pronounce each "w" word with as if it began with a "v" to get the full effect.
What could I say? I asked him to come at 11:30, so I actually had a few minutes to get ready, and so he picked me up then. I walked out into my guesthouse waiting room and he stood there, dressed in a nice black button-up shirt and pants.
"You have class today," he said with a nod. "At 1:20."
"WHAT?"
I shook my head and denied it, but he insisted. "Some students came by my office today, and they vere looking for you. I told them you vould be there at 1:20."
1:20pm! That was in two hours and we were going to a lunch I knew would take forever because I'd be introduced to ten million people and we'd walk at a snail's pace to and from the department building. I knew I needed a bit of time to prep in my office and look through some books I had there. Mehmet said I shouldn't worry, of course (one should never worry in Turkey). All I had to do was just chat a little, introduce myself, etc...but I wanted to be more professional, you know? I wanted to make a good impression.
So, we ate lunch, slowly, slowly...then walked back to the department...slowly, slowly...I met a few people, slowly, slowly...and then suddenly it was almost 1pm. I ran in a panic to my office, only to discover that my things were EVERYWHERE. My office had been opened up and shoved out into the courtyard. There was a man inside the empty white room holding a bucket, wiping down the walls without a care in the world.
"Uh...what happened?" I asked my supervisor as he sipped tea in his office.
"Oh, they're just painting your office. Should only take a few minutes."
I laughed. Nothing takes a few minutes in Turkey. I ran around, trying to find my desk (they were painting a couple people's offices, so the courtyard was full of desks and shelves and chairs). I finally found my book and leafed through a couple pages in a hurry. Then I ran to my class room and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
One student showed up. He sat across from me in a desk. I smiled. We made small talk. I dismissed him after ten minutes and told him I'd see him in two weeks, because I'd be gone the next week for an orientation in Ankara. I sat and stared at my empty classroom and sighed.
And that was my first day of class.
Though school technically begins on September 14th, I was told that I didn't need to come to school until the 28th of September because students would be gone for Bayram, the celebration marking the end of Ramazan. So on Thursday, September 24th, I wasn't planning on going into the office, I was just planning on spending my time preparing for the following week.
Of course, that was MY plan. Turkey had other plans for me. At 11:00am, I got a phone call in my room. It was one of my colleagues, Mehmet Uysal.
"Jennie!" he said, "I am here!"
"Uh...where is here?"
"Here at the office! I will come over now [to my guest house] and take you to lunch!" He teaches German and has a robust Turkish/German accent and pronunciation when he talks. You should pronounce each "w" word with as if it began with a "v" to get the full effect.
What could I say? I asked him to come at 11:30, so I actually had a few minutes to get ready, and so he picked me up then. I walked out into my guesthouse waiting room and he stood there, dressed in a nice black button-up shirt and pants.
"You have class today," he said with a nod. "At 1:20."
"WHAT?"
I shook my head and denied it, but he insisted. "Some students came by my office today, and they vere looking for you. I told them you vould be there at 1:20."
1:20pm! That was in two hours and we were going to a lunch I knew would take forever because I'd be introduced to ten million people and we'd walk at a snail's pace to and from the department building. I knew I needed a bit of time to prep in my office and look through some books I had there. Mehmet said I shouldn't worry, of course (one should never worry in Turkey). All I had to do was just chat a little, introduce myself, etc...but I wanted to be more professional, you know? I wanted to make a good impression.
So, we ate lunch, slowly, slowly...then walked back to the department...slowly, slowly...I met a few people, slowly, slowly...and then suddenly it was almost 1pm. I ran in a panic to my office, only to discover that my things were EVERYWHERE. My office had been opened up and shoved out into the courtyard. There was a man inside the empty white room holding a bucket, wiping down the walls without a care in the world.
"Uh...what happened?" I asked my supervisor as he sipped tea in his office.
"Oh, they're just painting your office. Should only take a few minutes."
I laughed. Nothing takes a few minutes in Turkey. I ran around, trying to find my desk (they were painting a couple people's offices, so the courtyard was full of desks and shelves and chairs). I finally found my book and leafed through a couple pages in a hurry. Then I ran to my class room and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
One student showed up. He sat across from me in a desk. I smiled. We made small talk. I dismissed him after ten minutes and told him I'd see him in two weeks, because I'd be gone the next week for an orientation in Ankara. I sat and stared at my empty classroom and sighed.
And that was my first day of class.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Cognac and Cake
This is a typical night for me. I have some kind of plan, say to finish prepping for my 9am Monday class before 10pm on Sunday night, when there's a knock on the door. It's Fielding, the American Fulbright teaching assistant who's staying in my guesthouse and will be my roommate when we move into our new home.
"So, that guy that always talks to us at breakfast..." she begins, "I can't remember his name...but it's his birthday and he wants us to come have some cognac with him."
I'm in the middle of prepping for class, and it's 8pm on a Sunday night, but of course I can't miss celebrating a birthday with one of the other residents at our guesthouse. Stefan (whose name I conveniently remember right before we head into the dining room) is a Moldovan professor who guest-teaches in the agricultural department. He and I shared several breakfasts together since his English is pretty good and he's very kind. He's lived in Turkey off and on for years, and he misses the wife and family he had to leave behind to take advantage of the financial opportunity teaching in Turkey brought for his family.
Five of us gather around one of the many tables in the dining room: me, Fielding, Stefan, Ramazan the hotel clerk, Umit, a doctor, and one of the security guards who stopped in to visit while roaming the campus grounds. There's a small plate of Turkish peynir (cheese), some cherry tomatoes, and olives and olives to pick at, as well as a towering stack of bread in front of Stefan. Typical Turkish fare.
"Is this your cake?" I ask Stefan as I point to his bread stack. He laughs.
"I'm sorry I didn't plan this better..." he says in his thick, near-Russian accent, "Usually we plan our birthdays..."
"Hey," I say, "You're not allowed to apologize for anything on your birthday."
Stefan smiles and pours us the cognac (I had to switch glasses with him when he poured me too much) and we toast in Turkish: şerefe!
We sip our cognac. Someone brings out a container of chocolate paste that looks like nutella. After Stefan mentions that cognac goes well with chocolate, I go grab the half-bar of dark chocolate I have in my room, then pass it around. Ramazan, the hotel clerk, runs out into the lobby, then comes back with a cake he'd had delivered at the last minute. He goes into the kitchen and lights a candle, and we sing him "Happy Birthday," American style, before we dig into the cake.
As the group of us foreigners and locals sit around and chat about English, about how we celebrate birthdays in our native countries, and about traveling around the region (Stefan acting as the primary translator between us), I remind myself that I'm not just here for teaching and lesson plans. In fact, it's the small, random moments that often enlighten me the most.
"So, that guy that always talks to us at breakfast..." she begins, "I can't remember his name...but it's his birthday and he wants us to come have some cognac with him."
I'm in the middle of prepping for class, and it's 8pm on a Sunday night, but of course I can't miss celebrating a birthday with one of the other residents at our guesthouse. Stefan (whose name I conveniently remember right before we head into the dining room) is a Moldovan professor who guest-teaches in the agricultural department. He and I shared several breakfasts together since his English is pretty good and he's very kind. He's lived in Turkey off and on for years, and he misses the wife and family he had to leave behind to take advantage of the financial opportunity teaching in Turkey brought for his family.
Five of us gather around one of the many tables in the dining room: me, Fielding, Stefan, Ramazan the hotel clerk, Umit, a doctor, and one of the security guards who stopped in to visit while roaming the campus grounds. There's a small plate of Turkish peynir (cheese), some cherry tomatoes, and olives and olives to pick at, as well as a towering stack of bread in front of Stefan. Typical Turkish fare.
"Is this your cake?" I ask Stefan as I point to his bread stack. He laughs.
"I'm sorry I didn't plan this better..." he says in his thick, near-Russian accent, "Usually we plan our birthdays..."
"Hey," I say, "You're not allowed to apologize for anything on your birthday."
Stefan smiles and pours us the cognac (I had to switch glasses with him when he poured me too much) and we toast in Turkish: şerefe!
We sip our cognac. Someone brings out a container of chocolate paste that looks like nutella. After Stefan mentions that cognac goes well with chocolate, I go grab the half-bar of dark chocolate I have in my room, then pass it around. Ramazan, the hotel clerk, runs out into the lobby, then comes back with a cake he'd had delivered at the last minute. He goes into the kitchen and lights a candle, and we sing him "Happy Birthday," American style, before we dig into the cake.
As the group of us foreigners and locals sit around and chat about English, about how we celebrate birthdays in our native countries, and about traveling around the region (Stefan acting as the primary translator between us), I remind myself that I'm not just here for teaching and lesson plans. In fact, it's the small, random moments that often enlighten me the most.
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