Yedi the Kedi

This might come as a shock to many of you, since I never made a formal announcement.  I never posted tummy photos.  I never compared the size of the fetus to the sizes of various fruits and vegetables.  Nonetheless, here is my “new” baby (..."new," as in adopted in May):

I am funneling 27 years of pent-up maternal energy into this cute little monster.

On a semi-related note, an airline worker actually asked if I was pregnant as I boarded a flight last May.  You have to be at least 7 months pregnant to need any kind of doctor’s clearance.  7 months = a sizeable cauliflower, or a soccer ball.  A goddamned soccer ball.  I think I deserve an award for getting in my swimsuit the next day, maybe a big cookie or something.

My new kitten has two siblings, a plain black one and a black-and-white one.  The mom is colored like mine, but the dad is all black.  The dad is probably the brawniest, most intimidating cat I’ve ever seen—the campus bully.  And he must have had a falling out with mama cat, because she is not excited about granting visitation rights.  She prefers to claw him in the face instead.

But as I move forward in life with my new feline friend, I also need to look back and pay tribute to the cat that (oops!) never ever received a blog post:

Harry, a.k.a Kits McGee

I once blogged about being lovingly attacked by a feral dog in the middle of the night, but that’s not the only time in India that I inadvertently shared my bed with a wild animal (not a metaphor, unfortunately).  One night I was sleeping at home, as per usual, when I woke to feel a small, warm, body-like object curled up next to me.  I reached for the light, saw a bright orange cat innocently looking up at me, then turned the light back off.  Meh.  I could make sense of this in the morning.

In the morning, the cat was gone… perhaps a furry figment of my imagination?  Then my roommate knocked on my door, holding the orange cat and looking slightly accusatory.  To this day, we have no idea how it got in the house, but neither of us actively kicked him out.  My roommate ended up naming him Harold/Harry, and I alternated between that and Kits… short for Kits McGee… get it?

Don’t act like you’re not impressed.

Kits is with another owner in India now.  But obviously, I’ve set a really high bar for myself as far as choosing cat names is concerned.  I thought about giving my new cat a regular Turkish name so that he knows to be proud of his heritage.  I like Turkish names because they all double as real words (think of English names like Hope or Lily).  My favorite is Evren, which means “universe.”  But I know a real human Evren, so that would not do.  Instead, in keeping with my compelling and rich pop culture references, I’m giving a nod to Seinfeld... but with a Turkish twist.

Seven, in Turkish, is Yedi. 

I thought about changing the number from 7 to 9, which is Dokuz, because cats allegedly have nine lives… but I’m coming to realize that people are generally cooler once they’ve cycled through a few lives and reinvented themselves a few times.  Cats don’t usually have that luxury, so I'm helping him out.

AND Yedi rhymes with kedi, the Turkish word for cat.

AND Yedi looks/sounds like Yeti.

I would like to say I adopted Yedi with the mentality of a true do-gooder, but it was definitely a selfish decision.  I was in it for the warm, cuddly pulse of another living creature.  I was in absolutely no way prepared to adopt a cat, as evidenced by these Google searches I conducted AFTER taking him in: 

How long do cats live? 

How long should a kitten sleep each day?

Can a kitten fake being asleep?  If so, what would its motive be?

Will cats starve themselves even if there is food around?  Will cats eat themselves to death?

I want to eat my kitten because it’s so cute.
Can kittens be manic-depressive?

Can a kitten catch a cold?

                *Say that 20 times, fast.

Over the summer, someone came to my apartment to care for Yedi a few times a week.  As was to be expected, Yedi grew a lot over the summer.  I was kind of sad about it, but my sadness kind of intrigued me.  I have never understood when mothers (as in, 75% of my female Facebook friends) lament the fact that their smallish child is growing.  Shouldn't we be biologically programmed to rejoice when a child is successfully evading all of those Oregon Trail-esque infantile diseases?  But there I was, all sad and all.  I think the key difference is that, as children get older, they're able to hold conversations and tie their own shoes and make you macaroni art.  The only thing that cats start to do as they get older is purposely make eye contact with you while they use the litter box.

Or is this just my cat?

The Fox and the Grapes

Ms. Julia Schroeder

Living where downloading is okay

Visiting a land where it is not

This cruel, inconsistent world

Mr. Brother's Roommate

I’ll protect your identity

Fitchburg, WI 53711

July 11, 2015

Dear Brother's Roommate:

Today, my brother informed me that you were recently chastised by Fox Entertainment Group, Inc. for allegedly distributing episodes of Modern Family via your wireless network, which is whimsically named “PJ and Zippi” after my brother’s pet chinchillas.  How symbolically appropriate that those adorable rodents from the rocky wilds of South America serve as a mascot for your point of internet connectivity, all while being covertly monitored by a greedy, sly “fox” of a North American corporation.  Sofia Vergara would not approve.

Even though I don’t usually even watch what I download, I know that it was somehow my habitual Turkish torrenting that attracted the attention of the law during my visit to your home last week.  But, to be perfectly honest, I am confused.  Dumbfounded, even.  Or maybe just dumb, for the only definitions of “torrent” that I truly understand are the two thus provided by www.merriam-webster.com:

1) a large amount of water that moves very quickly in one direction

2) a large amount of something that is released suddenly

The only way I can make sense of my current feeling, this uncomfortable feeling that I am drowning in a torrent of corporate antipathy and taking you down with me, is to Paint™ (<I’m not taking any chances anymore) you a representative picture of my pain:

Of course, Fox is within its rights.  These bitter sentiments are just covering up my wounded, weakened soul.  I feel like a network representative should have to take me out to dinner and hear my life story before passing judgment on my copyright violations.  If I explained that my primary means of entertainment between the months of December and May was crying in the fetal position in a foreign country, would they so callously deny me 20-minute intervals of comic relief? 

Also, who knew they actually send Cease & Desist letters to anyone living in Wisconsin?  It’s such an innocent land populated by such an innocent people who consistently drive 5 mph under the speed limit.  I would argue that the only problems Wisconsin has ever caused are for the lactose intolerant.  That reminds me… Season 3, Episode 7 of Modern Family aptly reveals that Haley is lactose intolerant.  Do you think she put them up to this?  That little bitch.

But let me not place false blame.  Brother's Roommate, please do not pursue a life of crime because of my shameful precedent.  I may have artfully dodged/redirected the bullet by visiting your home and leaving in my wake nothing but a legacy of legal notices, but I acknowledge that I (albeit unknowingly) pulled the trigger.  I have, therefore, uninstalled all downloading software from my computer.  That’s right:  I am done with the Dunphys.  And with that, I’d like to close with a brief retelling (from Wikipedia, don’t sue me) of the timeless fable of The Fox and the Grapes, as one final, obscure message to Fox Entertainment Group, Inc.:

“Driven by hunger, a fox tried to reach some grapes hanging high on the vine but was unable to, although he leaped with all his strength. As he went away, the fox remarked 'Oh, you aren't even ripe yet! I don't need any sour grapes.' People who speak disparagingly of things that they cannot attain would do well to apply this story to themselves.”

The moral of this story is that I didn't want to watch you anyway, Modern Fam.  Also, wine is made from grapes and (in the words of Cam, also S3E7), “I think I need a drink-a-doodle-doo.” 

My sincerest apologies,

Julie

Gaziantep

I just had a fantastic weekend.

Lauren, Evan, and I made a semi-impromptu trip to Gaziantep on Friday afternoon.  Evan manned the wheel, Lauren was the navigator, and I just graced the car with my presence; if I had driven or directed, things would have ended badly for everyone involved.

Gaziantep is closer to the Syrian border than I’ve ever been.  U.S. government workers and military personnel need permission to visit, but the average tourist can go without a problem.  I never felt unsafe, and the people were as friendly as always.

Gaziantep—or “Antep,” as the cool kids like to call it—has been continuously inhabited as a city since around 3650 BC.  That’s pretty old, older than Varanasi by a couple thousand years.  I think if Gaziantep were a person, it would be one of these women.

We went to two museums on Saturday.  The first was the quaint Medusa Glass Museum, which displayed miscellaneous jewelry, toys, weapons, and general glassy items.  Some of the stuff was so old yet so intact that it was almost hard to believe.  There were a lot of beautiful items, but here are my favorite oddballs:

"fertility statues," aka penis pendants

I don't think an animal this cute and confused actually exists.

The second stop was the Zeugma Mosaic Museum, which just recently opened in 2011.  This was the coolest museum I’ve ever visited, probably because I taught mythology for the past two years and so was familiar with many of the stories depicted in the mosaics.  The mosaics all date from the 1^st-3^rd century A.D. and were recovered from the ancient city of Zeugma (near present-day Gaziantep), which is now partially submerged because of the building of a new dam.

The “Gypsy Girl” is the museum’s main draw, and she even gets her own special, dark room within the building:

I like her because no one knows exactly who she is supposed to be.  The greater mosaic that she was a part of is largely unrecovered.  And she might even be a he—Alexander the Great, specifically.  The audio tour compared her head/eye angles to the Mona Lisa.  Gigi has eyebrows, though.  I call her Gigi.

This is my other favorite mosaic:

Metiochus and Parthenope fell in love… she was sworn to virginity… then went into a self-imposed exile?  But their love never died?  I don’t really know.  I took a photo of the plaque so I could remember the story, but the message was significantly mangled in translation.  I remember that large segments of the piece were thought be lost to looters, but they ended up being found at a museum in Houston and the lovers were literally able to be reunited again.  Such symbolism.  While I generally do not support lifelong virginity pledges, I am a fan of immortal love and did audibly “aww” while I was listening to the guide.  

While Gaziantep has lots of museums—there are 12, so we have to come back later—it’s even more famous for its FOOD.  The city isn’t exactly the most vegetarian-friendly place, but everything there tastes better.  Photos won’t do the food justice, though they’ll be more adequate than words:

one of the many mezes (appetizers)

kasarli pide (cheesy bread)

various kebaps

BAKLAVA!!!

Between museum-going and gorging, we did manage to carve out some time for shopping at the bazaar.  The city is known for its copperwork, so there were a lot of tea sets and kitchen supplies for sale.  Lauren and Evan bought many gifts for friends and family, but since my parents are coming to visit in ONE MONTH (!), I just perused and listened in on the bargaining process.  I did grab these swans at the end because I kept seeing them—and liking them—all day.  I think I am developing an affinity for birds. 

I had to get two so they wouldn't be lonely.

Bazaar.

On the way back home, we made a mini-detour to see the Ancient Roman road on the outskirts of Tarsus.  Wikipedia tells me that it was constructed in the 1^st century A.D. and rebuilt/repaired in the 3^rd century, but that’s all I know.  There was no information at the site, since these types of ruins are so ubiquitous here!

Let's Talk Turkey.

Hi, friends.

I’m lacking motivation in the blogging department… and most other departments, for that matter.

Suffice to say that culture shock is a strange beast, and it is no less shocking when transitioning from one foreign country to another.  But Thanksgiving and the ensuing holiday season has given me a much-needed kick in the fat-pants to stop, reflect, and record.  Because what does everyone in America associate with Thanksgiving?

Turkey.

Educate yourselves here, ye pilgrims of the earth.

In short, turkeys are not from Turkey.  I have come to learn that this association between the country and the bird is annoying and maybe even potentially offensive to many a Turk.  Fair enough.  Though, I do think that snubbing the poultry is slightly ironic, seeing as the Turkish word for “turkey” is “hindi.”

And so it comes full circle. 

Also, "coconut" is "hindistan cevisi," or "Indian walnut."

Luckily, I learned this information before officially naming my blog.  Almost all of the other names in the running were bad, birdy puns... like the title of this very post.  Dad deserves credit for uncovering “Veni Vidi Vici” from the depths of Wikipedia:

“Veni Vidi Vici is a Latin phrase. Its popular usage reportedly originates from a letter that Julius Caesar wrote to the Roman Senate around 46 BC, in the city of Zela (now in Tokat Province, Turkey, and known as Zile), after achieving victory in his short war against Pharnaces II of Pontus at the Battle of Zela.[1] The phrase is used to refer to a swift, conclusive victory.”

I slashed the “Vici” and added a “Tici”, because I’m just here to teach, not to be violent or imperialistic.  So, I made up a Latin word; I know it's a stretch.

But, in order to grasp the full significant of the blog’s name, you have to know the story of my own.  I love this story, so if you’ve already heard it, just scroll forth.  The rest of you, buckle up for a wild ride to circa 1973, when my mom was still known as one Jana CISAR (for pronunciation, think “pizza, pizza”).  My dad, charmer that he was, teasingly called this gem of a woman “Julia.” 

Jana Cisar = Julia Cisar = Julius Caesar.  Ha. Ha. Ha.

Then this still happened, surprisingly enough.

But, back to the future.  We had a potluck on Thanksgiving—the first potluck of the year.  This is quite different from Woodstock, where The Potluck was a main pillar of our expat community.  Which reminds me, I still have to unveil the Great Potluck Tally of 2013-14 (see this post for an explanation).

Official count: 18.5

Our Thanksgiving was a festive success of a gathering.  I loved celebrating with my temporary family of one Canadian and eleven Americans (the on-campus expat staff in its entirety), plus several other friends.  And take a look at the adorable decor!

Although it makes no difference to me, there was a real turkey this year.  And, while I don’t think any group can outdo Woodstock when it comes to both quality and quantity of pies, there was baklava, so that’s an exciting new tradition.  It’s also a seamless transition into my baklava story—the only baklava story I have that is of poor taste.

One pre-Thanksgiving day, my dear friend Lauren and I had a hankering for baklava just as we were walking by our favorite baklava shop.  Coincidence?  I think not.  So we did as the Fates demanded and bought us some baklava.  It began as a transaction like any other.  I pointed to the baklava that spoke loudest to my soul.

Can you hear it there, whispering sweet nothings?

As the shopkeeper was dishing out the chocolate-covered variety, he randomly said “Obama baklava!” with a grin.  I thought I misheard him.

“Obama baklava?”

“Obama baklava!”

“Obama baklava?  That’s the name?”

“Obama baklava!”

“…Why?”

“Black!”

Hmm.  I suddenly lost my appetite.  My president is a person, not a striped, sugar-soaked confection!

Well, this is awkward.

This pastry portrait, cleverly christened "Baracklava," was done in Istanbul a few years back.  I just celebrated New Years Eve in that gem of a city, and I resolutely promise more holiday tales and general updates in this, the year 2015.

My non-beginning Beginning

The beginning is the hardest part, so I won’t start at the beginning.

I will start with today.  After school.

Every Monday morning and Friday afternoon, nicely bookending the school week, students and staff attend a brief flag ceremony.  The Turks love their flag, I would say even more than Americans love ours.  And if I were into color symbolism, which I am, I would say that it simply exudes power…. like a rectangle wearing a little red dress.  Rawr.  

You can see it flying here, right in front of the Bosphorus Bridge.

During the respective ceremonies, the flag is raised and lowered and the national anthem is sung.  The Turkish anthem’s tune is much catchier than the Indian anthem’s, which I always thought was beautiful but difficult to hammer down… especially that final, trailing note.  Turkey’s is much more marchy and no-nonsense, almost militaristic?  

Have a listen!

Another symbol of national pride for the Turks is Mustafa Kemal Ataturk; "Ataturk" literally means "Father of the Turks."  He was instrumental in fighting for and reforming the country after the fall of the Ottoman Empire in 1918.  He's a figure on par with George Washington… or would be, if Washington shat gold nuggets.  What I mean to say is, he's kind of a big deal.  Ataturk's face is prominently displayed in every Turkish classroom–including my own–and he is the face on Turkish lira.  In elementary school, I remember making the fronts of dollar bills into mushrooms by folding Georgie’s face in half; that might be borderline blasphemy with Ataturk's face.

PHOTOBOMBED BY ATATURK
(credit: Evan Handrick)

But anyway, today’s flag ceremony was simultaneously magical and frustrating.  Magical, because the Prep students that I teach were actually silent—it’s possible!  Frustrating, because the Prep students that I teach were actually silent—it’s possible, just not for me!  (Maybe, instead of constantly stopping class and waiting for them to be quiet, I should just start playing the anthem...) It’s always an adventure figuring out how to reach a new student culture, especially a culture within a culture that is different than your own… ahem, TurkeyIndiaAppalachia.  I'll figure out out; they really are lovely children.

After the flag ceremony, bolstered by coffee and crisp lira (about two lira to the dollar, by the way), I decided to do some grocery shopping.  In India, this would have required a change of clothes/shoes, some degree of physical fortitude, and at least a good three hours.  But now, I could probably make it to all of my necessary stops—all within two blocks of school/home—with a paper bag over my head.  But I don’t know why I would ever do that.  That was a weird illustration of convenience.

What was on my shopping list, you ask?

1. suzme yogurt (the Greekiest Greek yogurt that ever Greeked its way into my mouth.  But Turkish).

2. rice and chickpeas (staples for responsible adulthood)

3. the local version of Nutella (they also have real Nutella, but the kind I bought comes in a little 2-oz jar of cuteness.  I plan to put spices in the container when it’s gone, which might be within the next 10 minutes.)

4. peaches (because I live in the fricking Garden of Eden and my peaches are better than yours)

and…

5. toilet paper.

It might just be me, but is anyone else embarrassed to buy toilet paper?  Self-checkout doesn’t count, and neither does buying a wimpy 4 or 8-roll package that you can hide underneath everything else you’re buying.  I mean the big-kahuna-bulk-family-size-package, and particularly when that’s the only thing you’re buying, so you get self-conscious and ‘casually’ throw in a chocolate bar on top because you think it’ll somehow cover up the toilet paper or at least divert the cashier’s attention, but in reality it just enhances the awkwardness because you're looking at chocolate on toilet paper, which just creates unpleasant visual imagery for everyone involved, and then it doesn’t even fit in the bags so you have to carry it out of the store with your eyes averted and your imaginary tail tucked between your legs.

Am I right?  I know it’s not logical.  I’d rather people know that I use toilet paper than think that I don’t.

But regardless, I went into a convenience store in search of this unfortunately necessary item, and the smallest/only packages I could find held 32 rolls.  32!  I have no brand loyalty in this new land, so of course I chose the brand that looked like “Yummy.”  The one that featured the creepy bathroom bunny.

Yummy, Yummy, the Bathroom Bunny... will haunt me in my dreams.

I did the walk of shame up to the counter, completed the purchase, and was in eye-aversion mode when—hark!—I stepped outside into a full-blown rainstorm.  Rather than describe the next few minutes of public humiliation, I’ll let you put these pieces together (running, toilet paper, bunny) on your own.

So here I sit in Turkey, cuddling up to a glass of Cumartesi ("Saturday") wine on a Friday night–because I do what I want–and writing about toilet paper. 

Welcome to my blog!