"Do You Run?"

"When chased."

Are you kidding me? I'm not a runner; I never have been at home, and I probably never will be.

But when things are weird here-- x doesn't happen at work, y won't work at home, or cows crowd the buses on the highway for minutes on end-- all I can think is, "Oooh, I get to run this afternoon."

It's total magic.

Brown-Skinned Lady

Photograph Courtesy of Will Dinneen

That's me on the right.

In my life, I've had a few weird experiences predicated on my skin, eye, and hair color, but I've never been called blonde.

"Oh, but you are very blonde," said one of my colleagues today during çay, contrasting my hair color with that of Claire and Stephanie, both of whom have black hair. "Stephanie looks more Turkish than I do!" she added.

It's true that I have always looked ambiguous, but back home I know how to negotiate this better, and I've gotten used to the typical attitudes and questions.

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

“No, where’s your family from?”

“Seattle.”

“What’s your nationality?”

“I’m from here.”

“I mean, what’s your ethnicity?”

Or, “Are you adopted?” This only with my mom, who’s a legit blonde, because, “You look just like your father!”

Once, while I was riding my bicycle in Walla Walla: “White power! White power! White power!” (I think this had more to do with those four dudes in that car than to do with me.)

In El Salvador: “You can’t wear that red bandana. You’ll look like you’re in one of the gangs, and you’ll get shot.”

"What are you?"

“Is that your real eye color? Or are you wearing contacts?”

“You look very German!” (A comment I’ve heard here a number of times from various sources… Also, I begin to suspect that Turkish folk—at least the ones I know—have much less concern about skin color than do the folks back home. But most of the Turkish folk I know are also quite interested in hair.)

When I was on a ‘Diversity Fly-In’ visit to Whitman College with several other prospective students from the Seattle metropolitan area: I approached the group of African American and Asian American students who would share the five-hour drive with me, and one girl looked me up and down and said, “What are you doing here?”

What would it be like to have looked always like I fit in somewhere?

"Well, it's great to do a neighborhood concert..."

Tonight I went on my longest run yet, walked down to Sok to bring home five liters of water, and decided on the way back that I'd listen to Simon and Garfunkel during dinner. I enjoyed my pasta leftovers and other things on the balcony overlooking the woods.

I'll need to start work on [mother tongue in the foreign language learning classroom] research. But soon. Not now.

When I write about home, I've mostly referred to Seattle, Walla Walla and the Cascadia bioregion (you futbol fans, think of the Cascadia Cup towns). But I'd forgotten how deeply moved I have been-- and am-- by culture that is shared by all of the states.

Thirty years ago, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel gave a benefit concert in New York City's Central Park for the park and the city's other green spaces. I had been raised on the ensuing album, and I don't know that I heard many of their studio recordings except on the radio (and during my entire sophomore year in college, of course). It's incredible: the clarity and craftsmanship of this recording. I skip "Wake Up Little Suzie" because I hate it, even if it does have its musical merits. I let the remaining tracks move me as they will.

Tonight, it was "America". This isn't much of a surprise-- I've actually written about this song before, and it's definitely the entire reason I moved to Montana in the summer after my freshman year: I was looking for America, and I sought it working in Glacier National Park.

I had been compelled by this song with the same misunderstanding as the people who misunderstand the ending of "The Graduate" (yes, strangely connected, but I'm right here-- see (500) Days of Summer): I saw the promise without seeing the potential for hopelessness, boredom, and disconnection.

Yet one of the most poignant memories I have of that summer is the moment of indignation I felt when the price of gas went above $2.00. I was in a car full of other teenagers, and I think all of us felt betrayed by our government and by the system.

This was a summer of disillusion: I quit my job early, something I still regret (not for the money-- for the lost lesson in willpower) and hope I never do again. I decided that people who were looking for America were feeling nostalgic for something that has never existed-- or at least, has not existed in generations, probably since before the first World War.

But tonight, I all can hear is the promise. NPR's talking heads have been wondering for years why the youth and emerging adults of the States are disillusioned, we're in a desperate recession, we're in debt with degrees that can't get us jobs, Kim Kardashian's been allowed to date again, the election campaigns seem to rely on fear rather than hope.

I feel like I'm finding some of the best elements of the United States in the estadounidense folk that I've met here (I'm avoiding the use of the word "Americans" because not all who identify as "Americans" are U.S. citizens or residents-- I'm lookin' at you, Central and South Americans...).
It was our fifth night in Ankara when the Fulbright ETAs attended a reception held at an embassy member's home for past Peace Corps volunteers in Turkey. I bought a new dress, nursed a whiskey with one ice cube, inspected pictures from the 60s and early 70s, and suddenly found myself in the middle of an interview with two women who had been part of the first contingent of Peace Corps volunteers.
One of these women had met her husband here in Turkey. All of these volunteers had been addressed by (and, it seems, received benediction from) John F. Kennedy himself on the White House lawn before embarking for Turkey. And they had been here when he was assassinated. The stories of these people who were grown in the States-- I was called "American, home-made" the other day, by the way-- and who built a second home for themselves here, these stories were poignant and uncomfortable and filled with laughter.
When I was in Ankara, I didn't really know how to write about this reception-- it seemed so out of place in all the orientation proceedings and social absurdity, but now I am glad I have found a context for it.

Tonight, I see the problems as spaces of potential.

Thanks, Paul: "The guys who are selling loose joints are giving the city half of their income tonight."

Adventures in Cooking

This pot is too small!

Claire and I have home fries on Saturday night.

Proverbs and...

"Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime."

Today, Yavuz helped me figure out how to turn on the hot water myself. When it goes out now, I know how to make the sparks fly again.

I feel like a genius.

Everything I Know About Classroom Management I Learned While Waiting Tables

The disclaimer is, of course, that I've been through a Master of Arts in Teaching program (thank you for the bell, Walla Walla University! And for everything else.) and learned all the legitimate skills there.

But when I started teaching high school students (some seniors included), I was twenty-two, and I had never been up in front of a classroom before. Aside from my knowledge of my content area, I had no skills I felt I could apply to the teaching and learning situation. I was terrified, I had nightmares, and etcetera.

But what I quickly realized was that my classroom felt (very unexpectedly, mind you) like another work environment in which I had quite a lot of experience.

I had been in food service-- mostly waiting tables in fancy restaurants-- for over three years. Now, some of you may not have had table-waiting experience, so I'd like you to imagine your last eating-out experience. You've been a customer, and you've been a student. Consider the ways in which you want your eating experience and your learning experience to be the same:

1. you want your needs (having a good meal, understanding content/getting a certain grade) met efficiently,
2. you want good communication in what's expected of you and in what you'll get,
3. you want to trust that you'll be notified in case things change (what if the bouillabaisse got 86'd from the menu two minutes before you ordered it?)
4. you want to have a positive, respectful interaction with your server/instructor

These are just some of the basics-- I know there's at least one of you out there who expects to have other kinds of interactions with server/instructor (you know who you are)-- but they'll get us where we're going in the end.

So, as an instructor who knew how to wait tables and who had a vague idea that the abovementioned were some of the things that my students needed from me, what could I do? How could I step up in front of a classroom and create a positive and mostly dignified learning environment? The quick-and-dirty:

• PREP: I can't stress the importance of this enough in the world of waiting tables or of teaching class. A good class or shift begins early-- as you make yourself ready for your day. 
• Don't run out of candles, properly folded napkins, or sliced bread, servers!
• Much of what needs to be prepped in a restaurant can't happen until the day of that shift, but instructors should know that they should be doing the preparation for their classes at the beginning of the week to give themselves an overview of their goals and objectives.
• On the day of your lesson, review where you've been and what you've produced-- how does this fit into your longer term goals and your goals for today?
• This time will enable you to be calm in the face of inevitable fury that is a full classroom or restaurant.
• Fast Feedback: Is there a special today? You'd better know it already.
• And if you're grading student papers, you've got to be reasonable: aim for three days for feedback, unless you're reading term or thesis papers.
• Even if people want to linger over their meal (or their paper writing, for that matter!), they want you to be impeccably timed in your service.
• Understand Needs, and Be Preemptive: You have to become a genius at knowing when someone needs a new fork (even before they drop the old one on the ground). Or when you've got a fourteen-year-old on the verge of crying, know how to send that person to the bathroom before anybody else notices.
• What does this take? A lot of practice, a lot of observation, and a lot of circulation.
• One of the best things you can do in a classroom is circulate while they're doing work. Physical proximity to the student means that the student is 1) less likely to act out and 2) more likely to ask you a good question about his/her needs.
• Don't circulate aimlessly, though-- and this is the least effective thing you can do for time management in a restaurant; create a pattern for yourself based on "issues priority" (a hot meal about to come out takes priority over a teaspoon, btw) and vary that pattern if you need to-- neither students nor customers want to see you wandering.
• Never underestimate the power of eavesdropping-- the only difference is that your customers don't want to know about it and your students will be impressed if they do. My favorite: "I can't believe you heard that! That's amazing!" Also, students have a love-hate relationship with being caught using their cellphones in class. If you can do it, they'll be impressed. And more so if you don't care about taking it away.
• Lay It Out: let customers know the price of everything. Is it gluten-free? How long does that take? And if the kitchen has dozens of orders, let them know that, too.
• Students always want to know the minimum amount of work required to pass an assignment, and I let them know that. And I encourage them to do better.
• But lay it out-- give them an explicit syllabus that includes a course calendar of assignment due dates. They will feel overwhelmed at the beginning of the term (I won't liken this to the overwhelming feeling of looking at an excellent menu), but then they'll know what is expected of them and what to expect from you.
• Expectation is key in both restaurants and classroom, and if you have to change the expectations, do this as soon and as diplomatically as possible. Try not to blame your kitchen or your administration; students and customers both will be more happy if you're honest with them.
• Find An Ever-Genuine Smile, and A Gentle Frown: people can tell when you're being false with them, and it's disappointing.
• So make sure the smile you keep plastered on your face (when the customer walks into your French restaurant asking for a meal without butter or the students call you a crazy cat lady) is a real one. Think of this an experience to get to know (albeit briefly) a lot of people who are very different from you.
• But! Things will come up! I have had to ask people to leave my restaurant before; I have had to cut people off from further drinking. There are cases even more extreme than these, and in these times (when a student yells at me in blatant disrespect and threat), I am not afraid to be mean.
• But for the most part, people do dumb things (drink too much, throw spitwads in class-- this is real!) without malice. It's not my job to humiliate people when they're eating out or when they're trying to learn. I just let them know firmly that they've gone outside the bounds of propriety and leave them to figure it out themselves. The disappointment of seeing a gentle frown is sometimes all they need.

In the end, many of us want the same things: to be treated well in a reasonable time. I had learned to do this waiting tables, and I managed to figure it out as a teacher. 

Things Bright and Beautiful

After my run around the track this afternoon, I took a cold shower. I will not go so far as to say that this was a pleasant experience, but it was revitalizing. Now I plan to head out and read on the campus green so I can dry my hair in the sun.

But for the last half hour I have been considering the word revitalizing. So many things in my life, so many relationships, so many ideas that had been patiently waiting (waiting, I think, for Erich and I to move west of the Cascades), are bearing different fruit now that I am living so far away from all that is normal to me.

I am seeing the faces of my family members nearly every day; I don't know why we didn't practice this before. One of my best friends is a new mother, and she sends me pictures of her beautiful daughter; these pictures are all the more precious to me because I have never met this incredible being in person.

This is an extraordinary time.

Simple Gifts

This was a folk song (by Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, 1848) we used to sing at Wallingford Presbyterian, and it remains one of my favorites. The tune may also be known to Catholics who are familiar with "Lord of the Dance".

"Simple Gifts" begins,

"'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,

'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be"

And this is what I'd hoped to do tonight: compose a list of simple gifts, people and things for which I am grateful here. So, in no particular order:

Stray dogs are everywhere here. And they're mostly harmless.

Beans, Bread, Beyaz Penir (see item #2).

We make an onion, garlic, and cheese omelette tonight because our stove works.

1. my Turkish colleagues generally, who invite us to sit with them at lunch and join them for tea and make us feel very, very welcome
2. beyaz penir-- sheep's milk cheese, which Claire and I have consumed largely for dinner the last two nights
3. Yavuz, who stood in line for several hours Monday to help us get our residence permits; Yavuz also speaks fantastic English, has a delightfully "cool" sense of humor, and likes to watch Lord of the Rings
4. problems in the apartment solved (almost immediately): we now have hot running water, a washer that won't flood, and a stovetop and oven on gas
5. the running track a few minutes' walk from my house, and, as an addendum: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on audiobook ("read for you by Jim Dale!"). I wouldn't be getting any workouts done otherwise
6. the gentleman who runs around the same time I do in the mornings and who makes fun of me every time I quit sooner than he does
7. harran kebap
8. a legit bus system, even if I haven't figured out how to work it entirely
9. ayran
10. the beautiful views from my balcony and all the windows of my apartment
11. a body that strives to maintain normal function in the face of new places, bacteria, and stresses
12. critical pedagogy research-- more on this to come, instigated by the 3rd Black Sea ELT Conference in Samsun in November
13. the last two (if I'm getting this right) Champions League games: Real Madrid vs. Manchester City and Galatasaray vs. Manchester United-- Claire and I watched the highlights, and I've never capped off a day here so well
14. J.S. Bach's Cello Suites, which make housecleaning at 6am much more endurable
15. the pieces of jewelry from my family that I wear on my fingers, wrists, and ears everyday to give me a tangible reminder of home

The administrative building and the city. And my shadow.

The walk to my office in the morning.

The walk home on a hot afternoon.

I Drank the Water

Dear Home,

Before the wedding party Saturday night we visited Abdullah's parents' home for dinner. His father was away at another wedding party, so we shared a meal just with Abdullah, Yasin, and Sevim, their mother. She is an amazing cook (having won several local cooking competitions) and seems to be a really friendly and understanding person. I think all three of us were immediately impressed by her.

Photograph Courtesy of Stephanie Ruiz

As dinner was finishing, we came once again to the topic of Kokez water, and I laughed about how I was never going to drink any. So brandishing the pitcher out of which I'd earlier poured my water, Abdullah said, "I think this was Kokez water. I think you drank some!"

I panicked. I didn't let anyone see, but I panicked.

I already like Turkey more than I ever imagined or intended. Marmara University has a theology program. I am learning new things every day and am challenged in ways that I certainly wouldn't be at home or in my native tongue.

I'm hoping this feeling will wear off in about a month or two. I'm not sure that I could live long-term in a place with such persistent bureaucracy and hierarchy. My housing isn't perfectly solidified. And floss and Q-Tips are quite expensive here.

Photograph Courtesy of Stephanie Ruiz

But Saturday night-- the dinner, the wedding party-- rather took me out of myself. It was quite beautiful.

Love,

J

What To Wear?

I'm going to either a wedding or a circumcision tonight.

The Town So Nice, They Named It Twice

I tried to use this line to explain Walla Walla to some of my coworkers. It didn't really pan out. Another factoid: Walla Walla is the oldest city (different from settlement?) in Washington.

This is a picture of the entrance to Bennington Lake recreation area, which is managed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. I always end up taking pictures here during the late fall and winter. But this was close to the beginning of Spring in 2010.

October 2010: Michael and I are choosing our pumpkins at Klicker's, which is Mom's favorite place in Walla Walla, and we decided to climb up the haystacks and ride down the slide (just barely pictured here).

Also, I take incredible pride in having worked for Walla Walla Community College. Here's just a few reasons why:

And CC's on PBS Newshour!

Walla Walla; Hello, Bolu; Gule! Gule!

If I'd given it any thought, I might have expected that Turkish people would find my home's name really funny sounding. But over the years I've forgotten that "Walla Walla" isn't a standard [European] way to name a place.

Instead, the real surprise for me was that my estadounidense coworkers find this to be a ridiculous, fanciful name. A number of them even asked me if Walla Walla was a real place. [I'm just going to note here that most of them are from the East Coast. So perhaps there's less familiarity there with names like Walla Walla, Puyallup, or Medicine Hat (Alberta-- I'm lookin' at you, Thomas).]

Two of my favorites have turned out to be from Coon Rapids, Minnesota and Cheyenne, Wyoming. A couple of us (Billy, Wyatt, Ruby, and...?) are holding it down for the Left Coast.

Quite a number of people have said that you become more proud to be an American after you leave the country or when you spend time in a place that might be contentious about "American" perspectives. I can't really speak to "being an American" right now-- there are some really strange and scary things going on in the world (Anti-American Protests Over Film Enter Fourth Day), and I want to do more research on all of it. But I can speak to my pride in Walla Walla.

It's geography and weather, vegetation, animals and people.

Walla Walla exists at 46.0647° N, 118.3419° W. The climate and dirt contribute to thriving industries in sweet onions, wheat, and wine grapes. It's two degrees north of France's Bordeaux's coordinates, which makes it an ideal location for biodynamic French winemakers to experiment with familiar varietals in different terroir.

So, mineral and vegetable briefly addressed. Animal next time.

Ankara, Bolu, and Back Again. And Back Again.

Yesterday we departed from Ankara. Eight of us left the otel at 7:00am for ASTI, the major bus terminal, and I said goodbye to Kristin as Claire, Stephanie and I got on the 8:00am bus to Bolu. I don't go in for goodbyes much, and I like the advice of Annika (who's returning to Yahlova): "it's really saying, 'see you soon!'"

What I did not expect was to like so many people (read: American coworkers) so well.

I also didn't expect to get to Bolu and realize that I had left my passport in the otel room safe.

So Abdullah, in his truest fashion, got onto his phone with the energy of tulips in Spring and called everyone: Secil hanim, the otel reception, A.I.B.U's secretary general, a policeman in Ankara, and a bus company. Within in the hour we had determined that there was not enough time to mail it via PTT kargo and not enough safety in giving it to the driver on the next bus from ASTI to Bolu.

A brief note about time: my contract is slated to begin on 15.09.12, which is tomorrow (Saturday). That means that my paperwork for my residence permit and my teaching card needs to be finished today or the Ministry of Finance will be asking A.I.B.U why I didn't start on time.

So, the university's secretary general decided that I needed to get back to Ankara-- not on a bus, but in a car. A car with a driver.

Two hours is the average time for a drive to Ankara; this gentleman, Tasin/m, got us back to Ankara in 80 minutes.

We buzzed into the otel, snagged my passport and winter jacket (definitely a necessity in mountainous Bolu) and determined to visit the Ministry of Education (Yok) before 5:00pm to pick up more paperwork. Abdullah is pretty phenomenal (read: persistent and undaunted) about negotiating bureaucracy. As I'm mostly useless at getting through Turkish bureaucracy, I waited while he visited over a dozen different people in their offices to acquire various papers and signatures. Quite impressive.

We got home at seven, and Stephanie and I went out for doner and kebap while Claire toured city centre with a friend of her father (her father, Ahmet Baytas, is an economist and a naturalist who has written a book on the Butterflies of Turkey in both English and Turkish). At this point, I want to note how lucky I am to share this experience with Stephanie and Claire-- as I already said, I went to dinner with Stephanie last night and she's proving to be a real genius with language. Claire, I think, will keep us all sane in the upcoming months.

It's a gorgeous evening in Bolu, and after my photos get imported from the camera, I may try to share a picture of tonight with you.

Behind Otel Niza Park

I have been hesitant to write about most of my experiences in Ankara thus far for a number of reasons:
1) my camera [card?] has been misbehaving, and I am loathe to write without pictures (I lost all of the pictures of the tomb of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk);
2) I am both excited to get to know my Fulbright colleagues and quite anxious about social things like mealtime, when all sixty-seven of us crowd into the same room and try not to remind ourselves too much of high school freshmen in the cafeteria;
3) I don't think writing about the two former reasons will be very interesting at all.


I did teach some folk how to play Texas Hold 'Em, and since gambling for money is inappropriate, we decided to gamble our fingers away. I had 34 fingers (of five players) at one point.

Don't Drink the Water

Today and the next ten I write from Ankara, Turkey's capital city.

I feel quite grateful for the few early days I gave myself in Bolu-- I already sense that although language will be a barrier (for now), I have 'the lay of the land' and have connected to people whom already I know I can trust.

Here I want to give a little time to one thing that is unique to Bolu: water. Bolu province is in the mountains; it is home to many little lakes and mineral springs. Bolu's mayor, Alaaddin Yilmaz, has worked hard to clean up the city's utilities so that the water at public fountains and home taps is generally potable. Consequently, Bolu is one place in Turkey where you actually can drink the water.

I know a guy who tells me he spends 10TL/day on water in Istanbul.

But there's something else at play. On my second day in Bolu, Abdullah pointed at a large tiled structure taller than myself and said, "We call this Kokez water."

The people who had been surrounding the structure moved away, and I could see the water rushing out of its taps. "It's okay to drink?" I wondered aloud.

"Yes, yes, it's quite clean. We have a legend that anyone who drinks the Kokez water from these fountains in Bolu will be destined to stay in Bolu forever." He said this quite casually, and when I laughed, Abdullah and Yasin did, too. But it sits in my mind a little bit.

I won't be drinking any Kokez water. I have my beloved to get home to in nine months.

Izzet Baysal, More Bolu Impressions

The view from my balcony.

Look closely to see the beginning of a path.

The path is bordered by lampposts and lit in the evenings. I think it's nicest in the morning and afternoon when sunlight finds its way through the leaves.











It's maybe a fifteen-minute walk down to Izzet Baysal's tomb, which overlooks part of A.I.B.U campus. These buildings are the medicine and [politics?] departments. I'll be working a half-hour's walk to the right.

Izzet Baysal is dear to the hearts of Bolu's citizens, and many consider him to be "The Father of Bolu". However, I am told he is also important to the rest of Turkey, as he is unique in being such an active architect (and public servant) as well as a generous philanthropist. I am linking here a video from the university's website; however, the English version (narrated, incidentally, by my contact Abdullah Coskun) is currently unavailable. I'll refresh this as soon as it becomes accessible.

And on the way back to my room and my balcony.

Sheep Triumphant

Thursday, Abdullah and Yasin took me driving past Lake Abant and told me that weekend picnics are very common here. We had been discussing gender stereotypes and roles, and I joked about how much American men love to grill.

Consequently, Abdullah (like any good host) got it into his head that I must be taken to a picnic this weekend! He and his wife, Ayse (again with the "s" for which I have no symbol), picked me up at 12:15 and we headed out.

Sinan and Aylin also have a home near one of the mountain villages, so we had a traditional lunch there-- complete with tea, of course. I have not acquired all the names of all the foods yet, and it's the same for me with basic conversation. Listening well was my order of the day.

Their porch gave onto the neighbor's field, and a trio of sheep (one a ram with horns encircling his ears) nibbled grass by the fence and occasionally bellowed at Eray if he approached the border too closely. He is very shy, having spent all yesterday hiding his face in his hands whenever I looked in his direction, but the adults joked about how these ovine neighbors were really his good friends.

So, when the six of us including Aylin's father (all of these colleagues are from Bolu province, and this house was actually quite near Aylin's father's summer home) began our afternoon walk, the sheep determined to join us. Five minutes after their clanging neck-bells alerted us to our presence, a few of us had found slender branches to switch at them and encourage their return home. Eray, of course, was experiencing the the pleasure and terror of proximity with mammals both furry and biting.

The nine of us continued up the road toward the pond that was our goal, stopping on the way to pick blackberries or nibble thistles.

About ten or twelve minutes in, Aylin's father became seriously worried that the sheep's owner would be looking for them and get angry. He took one of the sticks and began prodding them back toward their field. The sound of the bells began to recede.

The next thing we knew, the bells were clanging again, and those rebellious sheep were cantering up the hill like a bad version of "The Brementown Musicians". We decided their wrath might be more fierce than that of their owner. Eray was in heaven. I hardly heard him string together a sentence yesterday, but today his outpouring words nearly always trembled with laughter.

We got to the pond, and I stood, hands on hips, admiring the surroundings. The sky was clear, and the green and wheat-colored fields ran straight up to the wooded foothills. A number of homes and a small mosque sat on one side of the pond.

Breathing the air deeply, I suddenly experienced a great force ramming into my hindquarters. Yes! I turned to see the horned ram backing up for another go and barely stepped out of the way of the second sneak attack! Everyone began to laugh, and between breaths Abdullah said, "Do they have many of these animals where you come from?"

"In Walla Walla? Yes, but we don't take them on walks with us!"

A Briefing-- Skim Past This One.

My mornings are mostly my own, but I have spent the last three afternoons on tour of Bolu's city centre and the surrounding countryside.

Thursday: Victory Day.

Abdullah and his brother Yasin took me on a real food tour-- I tried pide (Turkey's answer to pizza) and the portions were gigantic, Bolu chocolate with hazelnut (and caramel?), and ayran, a refreshing, salty yogurt beverage.
Yasin is in his first year of medical school and hopes to study in England next summer. I hope I can help him with some conversational skills before he leaves for school in October.

They're really hospitable. I remind myself that it's good to be a guest for a little while, and already I am scheming about preparing the menu for a meal typical of my childhood. (Of course there's a plan in the works for apple pie, but) I am thinking hard about my auntie Marianna's tarragon chicken recipe. Any other suggestions would be helpful.

In town, we also visited a number of markets, an historical mosque, and the cultural museum, which housed a number of artifacts from the Roman Age, including a skeleton and what we thought were "death ashes".
Out of town was Akkaya, the mineral water spring that has been bleached white from [calcium?], and Lake Abant.

Over tea (both brothers agreed that the only drawback to the guesthouse is its stale tea), I was warned against making friends with my students on facebook.

Friday: Apartment-Seeking.

I got lost on the way to the Language Centre (this is where I'll teach), but Abdullah's colleagues Sinan and Aylin were late, too, so we were all on 'Turkish time'. They had been at the bank finalizing paperwork for their new apartment-- it turns out that bureaucracy here is phenomenal (read: a thing unto itself). I may end up renting their new apartment, which is in the city centre. There were other apartments to look at, too, but these ended up being too expensive.

Because I am the earliest to Bolu, I've been given some of the responsibility for choosing housing for all three ETAs here. I hope we can all be satisfied if the best option is for us to live together. It would be much easier to learn Turkish by living with residents, but that may not be possible.

Sinan and Aylin have two children-- one of whom is Eray, a charming five-and-a-half-year-old who likes to dress like his father.

We ate a meal together, and I had kebab rolls; certain Turks are convinced that Greeks stole the idea for kebabs and sold them back to Turks as gyros. Perhaps more on this relationship later.

Sinan's incredibly well-connected and informed, it seems. He let me know about an adult learning center where I could take culinary, painting or hand crafting classes.

Aylin makes very professional (read: fantastic) Turkish kahve, and she plans to introduce me to some women who can read fortunes in the grounds.

My godfather would be relieved by the many reminders I've already received to be careful, especially in the evenings and especially around men (at construction sites, if you'll believe it!). My acquaintances tell me that Bolu is a very safe town, but that I want to behave in such a way that does not put me into uncomfortable situations.
Note: I was told to look up the story of two 2010-2011 Fulbrighters in Karabuk, and initially I was given the impression that this story was about harassment. However, it appears as though it addresses the suspicions surrounding Fulbrighters cum intelligence officers. Hmm?

Two versions available here and here.