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!