tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63966503102232579532024-03-13T03:19:37.114-07:00A Haphazard Diary of an Airman in IzmirAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-36327264520013544232014-07-14T10:35:00.001-07:002014-07-14T10:47:55.158-07:00The Nature of Friendship<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Last week, I needed to ship some NATO equipment from Turkey to Italy. The system was going from one NATO site to another; you'd think this is the sort of thing that happens all the time and NATO people would have a process. Everyone acted like this had never been done before, no one knew what to do, and it was no one's job. (It wasn't my job, either, but I had an interest in making sure it happened.) Fortunately, a Turkish Master Sergeant, Mehmet, whose job is to handle the customs paperwork, helped me out with the entire process - he called shipping brokers and airlines, forklift drivers and warehouse guys. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We had a lot of time to chat about the English language, life in Turkey, his American friends from when Izmir was NATO HQ Air Command. Mehmet described an American Captain as one of his best friends; the guy attended Mehmet's sister's wedding. They stay in touch even now. I like Mehmet, and had lunch with; stopped by his office - in another building - just to say hello. I am friendly with Mehmet...but I'm not sure I'd call him my friend. Typing that sentence makes me feels a little squishy, it feels like I'm being wrong. But that word, to me, incurs a burden of responsibility. And I don't think I'm alone with that feeling...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mehmet and I were waiting for the delivery truck to pick up the system, and Ramazan, the forklift driver, waited with us. Ramazan has worked at this Garrison for about 25 years. He's seen Americans come and go. Some worked with him in the motor pool, and a handful he regarded as his special friends. They shared meals with him (in his own words). They called upon him for extra help with their own vehicles, and they were his friends, so he helped them. They exchanged addresses and phone numbers and promises to bring their families to meet him when they visited Turkey; they said if he were ever in their neck of the woods, look 'em up! They'd be glad to see him again.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">They moved on, and he's never heard from them again. They don't write, they don't call. They don't even email, or answer his Facebook friend request. How could they call him their friends?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I tried to explain to Ramazan the transient nature of U.S. service people. That we can sincerely mean our words of friendship in the moment, but time passes and we move on. There are people I hold close in my mind - I think of them often. I wonder how they're doing, and I'd love to see them again. I know I would enjoy every minute I could spend with them, and I'd welcome them into my home in a heartbeat. There are people I think of fondly - when I think of them. Perhaps I'm reminded of them at a specific time of year or day, or in a certain place or circumstance. I'd be happy to see them again, I would chat with them easily. I wish them well. But I wouldn't want them too close, or too often. Do I still get to call them "friend"? I want to. It seems to diminish them not to, and I don't want to do that to them.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I arrived in Turkey, my new Turkish co-workers gushed at me: We have awaited your arrival as we await a goddess! (I am not kidding, this is not hyperbole.) They called me "friend" and didn't even know me. They declared themselves my friends, I would be their special guest. It was too much for me, and I felt squeamish and suspicious. I thought them over-the-top and false; I still shudder to think of that first day, first encounter. Maybe it's my fault we never got along, were never able to work together. I did not embrace them as friends.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I work with a NATO civilian, and have socialized with him and his wife on a couple of occasions. I like them; they're very nice people, and I get along well with them. I could choose from a number of tables at the NATO Ball, and I was pleased to be able to sit with them. They've lived in Turkey a long time, and they travel a lot, but not on the typical tours Americans take - they forge out on their own. They tell stories of hiking across fields and having shepherds invite them into their modest one-room homes to share the family's midday meal. They stop to photograph a mountain and find themselves the special guests at a wedding. Their car breaks down in a tiny village, and a local takes them in overnight while a mechanic travels to get parts. A forest ranger has them breakfast with his family. These people are all their friends. The couple recall them all fondly and enthusiastically. They visited the forest ranger and the shepherd years later, and the tell of the ranger's and the shepherd's wives crying with joy to see them. </span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">These people are all their friends. </span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I feel a bit ashamed of myself. I am a terrible friend. I don't write, I don't call, I hardly email... I love my parents very much, but I interact with them about as much as I do anyone I call a friend (so Mom and Dad, I really am sorry, and friends, don't think I dislike you). I write a Christmas card to my English grandmother every year, but I send it perhaps one year in five...and I think of her nearly every other day...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">People here tell me they will miss me when I'm gone...their faces suggest they want to hear me say I'll miss them too, but I don't say it unless I mean it. There are people I'll recall fondly, people I will remember, people I've enjoyed working with and would be happy to work with again. But I won't miss them. I don't feel our relationship carries that weight, incurs that responsibility. Are we friends?</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-55167829183082747852014-07-07T11:07:00.001-07:002014-07-11T08:38:49.552-07:00A Day at the Bank<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Okay, not a day, but a few hours. Definitely way longer than I ever plan to spend in a bank. American banks are mostly boring, tedious during Girl Scout Cookie Sales, and terrifying when signing a loan. But Turkish banks...Turkish banks are awful. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My first experience was the day after I arrived. I went to the bank on the Garrison to open a Euro account to receive my travel payments. I was the only customer, but I still had to take a number. The two tellers and the three ladies at desks ignored me like I didn't exist - customers are clearly socially inferior to staff. The electronic number counter ticked thru several numbers evidently taken by people who either left or died waiting. I tried approaching the tellers, but they gave me a look - the kind that transcends spoken language and sent me back to my seat until my number came up and they were ready to help me.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">That experience formed the foundation of every future Turkish bank trip. Later visits to both the bank on Garrison to pay my gas bill and the bank outside my apartment to pay the rent were just like that....</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The staff at the bank where I pay my rent speak not a lick of English. When I walk in, I say hello to the guard, who raises his eyebrows at me and punches a button on the ticket machine. My ticket number will get me to the right teller's desk with the maximum wait time possible. Of course, the bank is often full, so I join the queue to get a ticket, but many Turks don't line up the way we Americans do...if I'm not physically pressed against the person in front of me, I'm not in line, and someone <b>will</b> step right in front of me - even on me, if I'm close enough to <b>almost </b>touch the person in front, but not close enough that there's no daylight showing between us.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is no air conditioning in the bank, and the heat was on thru May (dear dog, that is not hyperbole, the heat was seriously on in the bank when I paid my rent in May; I was drenched in sweat in shorts and a t-shirt, and everyone else wore hats and scarves). The wait in the heat is miserable... And I don't understand the wait. I have waited nearly two hours to pay my rent. My transaction takes a few minutes - everyone else's seems to take forever, and people go up to the counter whenever they feel like it, interrupting whoever is already there. And a trip to the bank seems to be a family affair: one number pops up on the display, and a gaggle of people shuffle to the counter, bags everywhere, money everywhere, every adult talking to the teller at once.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I finally get to a teller, I always get the same one - which is a good thing, because he knows me. For my first eight months here, we went thru the same routine: I tell him in Turkish that I want to pay my rent, he doesn't understand me, I show him my little book with the sentence written out, he asks me a bunch of questions that I don't understand, I shove money at him - insistent that he take it, I point to the bank account number and my landlady's name, he shakes his head at me and counts the money, and I sign the form and walk away hoping I didn't just give a stranger $1000. Now, we <i>mostly </i>go thru the same routine, but we start with him waving me over to him, regardless of which teller my number says I should go to. He still asks me a bunch of questions, and I still don't know what he's asking. I don't know <b>why</b> he's asking...what's there to talk about? Here's money and a bank account. Put the money there! But he smiles at me now, and tells me to have a good day.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The ladies at the Garrison bank still treat me like a mangy cat wandered in from the street...I can't wait to say goodbye to them!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">UPDATE: Today I paid my last rent payment. I squeaked into the bank with nine minutes to spare, so it wasn't crowded...I still waited half an hour.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So teller #2's customer finished her business and left, and teller #2 pushed the button for the next customer: the bell chimed, the number changed, and an old man with a cast stood and shuffled to the counter...and he was not quite at the counter when teller #2 pushed the button again, the bell chimed, the number changed, and a middle age woman launched herself at the counter, pushing aside the old man's money and shoving her money at the teller...who pushed the button and the bell chimed, the number changed, and a twentysomething guy charged the counter. The middle age woman won the tussle, and the two men ambled aimless orbits about each other, awaiting teller #2's attention.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I had the misfortune of completing my business at this bank with teller #2, who spoke not a lick of English and maintained a steady stream of Turkish dialogue at me, shaking his head and clicking his tongue at my inability to understand him. My personal teller nodded and smiled and helped when he could, and when I finally managed to complete my transaction, he called out a cheerful "</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Görü</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Ṣ</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">ürüz</span></span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 107%;">!"</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-65306096919153576802014-04-27T06:25:00.002-07:002014-04-27T06:25:27.171-07:00In the privvy<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Turkish toilets are something a wee bit different... I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do in there, so when I have a choice, I avoid them. At the airport, for example, each restroom generally has a couple of stalls of "normal" toilets, and a couple of stalls of traditional Turkish toilets. Often, I can tell as soon as I walk into a restroom whether there will be Turkish toilets, because there is usually an unpleasant funk in the air, even when the room has just been cleaned. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I do have some Turkish friends I could ask, but I'm not really sure how to ask politely. I don't want to offend anyone, or confirm their opinion that I'm a weirdo, by letting them know I don't know how to properly use their toilets. I also don't want to offend anyone using the toilet after me...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What you find in there is a porcelain hole in the floor, with grooved space to either side, probably for your feet. There's a faucet close to the floor, and a watering can or measuring cup looking thing...for pouring water down the hole? So, I'm assuming you squat over the hole, like peeing in the woods. But when you pee in the woods, you're already out in the wild, and who cares if maybe a little dribble gets on your clothes?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While I did find the Turkish toilets in the woods outside Istanbul, I also find them in the mall, the airport, pretty much everywhere. The Turkish ladies are generally well-dressed, particularly the more conservative-looking ones who look like they follow traditions and might choose a traditional toilet. How do the pee in their pretty clothes, with their fancy shoes? Don't their nice trousers pool around their feet, which are resting on the wet grooves to either side of the toilet hole?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Also, apparently you're not supposed to wash your feet in the bathroom. Before or after you pee?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have other questions, but I'll leave you with pictures. Yes, I'm the kind of gal who takes photos of toilets.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-16415590787622219502014-03-30T06:52:00.002-07:002014-03-30T07:06:52.300-07:00Don't Worry, We're Professionals<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Notes and vignettes of life in NATO. </span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At least once a week, my office hosts an update briefing for the senior leadership. Our responsibility is primarily administrative: we organize everyone's contributions into a single presentation, and we set up the computers and the broadcast to geographically separated participants. It should be a routine task, but we experience new and different technical problems <i>every </i>session. We often have a technician on hand to help us, so there are two or three of us clustered around one computer while the briefers address the Generals. One time, one guy was typing a message to an out-station, and another guy grabbed the mouse and clicked elsewhere on the computer...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This week, we had a mysterious hot-mic in our room - but every microphone was turned off. Turns out a camera in the room had a microphone that had never been activated before this week. We don't know how that microphone was activated; we didn't even <i>know </i>there was a microphone on the camera...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I go to work each morning, a team of middle aged men is cleaning the compound. I don't know whether they're contractors, conscripts, or convicts. Each morning, the same guys are sweeping the very same spots. What with cats and birds and trees, there's always something to be swept up, but I just can't imagine sweeping the same spot, the same path every single day. I feel sorry for them. But then, how different is it from sitting at the same computer every day, checking my email? At least they're outside in the sunlight and fresh air....and then I feel sorry for myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">These are my experiences, and my truths. They will not be true of everyone, nor of every situation.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A German Lt Colonel, whose ordinary conversation is sprinkled with swear words, paused, and told me, "You know, we don't swear like this when we are speaking in German. It's unprofessional, and rarely happens in the workplace. We pick this up in NATO, working with the British."</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm no longer Major Tomlinson or Major T, I'm Sacha. Major Sacha, if I'm very lucky. Pretty much everyone calls pretty much everyone else by the first name, except the most senior of Colonels, and of course the Generals. I hate it.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is no order, task, or assignment so important that it cannot be discussed in NATO until it just goes away and doesn't matter any more.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">NATO</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">: </span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">N</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">othing </span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">fter </span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">T</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">hree </span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">O</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">'clock.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">A typical day for some of our co-workers:</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">(Duty day starts at 0800)</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">0815: Show up, change clothes, start computer</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">0830 - 0900: Coffee break</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">0900 - 1030: Work</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1030 - 1100: Coffee break</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1100 - 1130: Work</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1130 - 1230: Tennis</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1230 - 1330: Lunch</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1330 - 1430: Work</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1430 - 1500: Coffee Break</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1500 - 1645: Work</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1645: Shut down computer, change clothes and leave</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">(Duty day ends at 1700)</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A French officer I work with is actually in a civilian billet. So he's in the French Army, but is coded as a civilian and works in a suit and tie. He says there are many benefits, but it becomes a problem when he goes into war zones and is not permitted to handle a weapon because he is a civilian, but simultaneously required to handle weapons because he's a military officer; a bizarre French Catch-22. Anyhoo, this French officer has an outrageous, Python-esque accent; I love listening to him talk. He's incredibly strict and treats his contractors like dirt: "Faysal! Click on the f*#king link, or I will cut off your bloody fingers!" </span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Some nationalities will spend 20 minutes explaining why they will not do a 5 minute task. This explanation usual comes right after they agree to do the task. "Of course, Major Sacha, it would give me great pleasure to do that!"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I've mentioned before how impressed I am with all of these people going about their jobs in a foreign language - I could never do it. On the other hand, I find some days terribly taxing, working with people for whom English is a second language</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">. Trying to explain concepts when people don't understand the words I'm using; reviewing emails and explaining that something should be written one way and not another; them explaining that when I use a word or phrase it sounds to them that I mean something completely different - mostly because they deal in the purest definitions of words, and we Americans and Brits don't use our own words properly. Some of them think Americans are very rude because we don't pepper our conversation and email with polite nothing words (would you be so very kind as to...? Thank you very much indeed!) It all makes my head hurt, it makes their heads hurt, and we all go home with headaches and not much done.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But sometimes very funny things come from the language differences: One dour Croatian published a Rooster for all of us to update with our vacation days. (So I drew a chicken on the board...) Another guy was telling us about the Army Corpse. (So I drew a dead body on the board...) A German was describing something he saw in the Angel of his Eye. Took me a long time to understand that wasn't a German expression, but merely a mispronunciation.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When Czechs have multiple responsibilities, they "sit on two chairs"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Polish have a saying that I've adopted as my personal motto; I use it as often as possible, and you wouldn't believe how much of my workday it applies to: </span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Not my circus, not my monkeys.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-71800184704146980892014-03-22T08:01:00.000-07:002014-04-27T13:22:23.324-07:00Between the Russians and the Riots...<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">....I haven't had a lot of personal time for the last few weeks. I'd love to tell you more, but I don't want to be impolitic, nor do I wish to upset or offend my host nation friends. I saw a friend's daughter's schedule for spring break, and I thought perhaps you'd like to here my plans for spring break - well, this weekend, at least. Times are approximations - I'm not as organized or disciplined as some kids. I'd love to hear how you spend the weekend, too!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1000-1200 Wake up, get a Starbucks mocha frappuccino and a Leibniz pick-up! cookie from the fridge, and back to bed to play on my tablet for an hour or two (check Facebook - look for new photos of my kids!, Scramble with Friends, Words with Friends, Juice Cubes, Candy Crush, email, watch a couple of YouTube videos. Read ALL about a horror movie the Bloggess watched but I will never watch because I don't like much of that sort of thing, but think it sounds really interesting, so maybe Mike should watch it and tell me about it.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1200-1400 Decide I really like the spring break schedule I saw on Facebook and will blog one of my own. Determine I'll do a couple of chores before I treat myself to a shower, then a cup of tea and a book. Crawl out of bed, grab some laundry to hand wash, head into the kitchen where I realize I'll have to wash dishes before I can wash the laundry. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wash the dishes, realize my kitchen floor is filthy again, then (do my hand washing, scrub the floor Cinderella-style using the left-over hand wash water, empty the fridge and freezer of old food, wash <i>those </i>dishes, lift weights, re-wind some yarn, do some ab work, and gather up all the trash and recycling in the house. Wonder whether, if I put my big bottle of water out with my trash and recycling, my kapici will arrange to have my water replaced.). </span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--E2I_bVfeY4/Uy2j-wl0IjI/AAAAAAAAApU/FsxNrvryOI4/s1600/IMG_7079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--E2I_bVfeY4/Uy2j-wl0IjI/AAAAAAAAApU/FsxNrvryOI4/s1600/IMG_7079.JPG" height="200" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I do the things in brackets not consecutively, but rather in little bites depending on where I am in the apartment. For example, as I move my kitchen weights (5-lb and 10-lb) to the hallway so I can clean the floor, I do some bicep curls and triceps work. When I go to get the trash from the bathroom, I also switch out the soap and soap dishes and stop in my workout room for some ab work and more weight-lifting. When I take the hand-wash to the laundry room to lay out to dry, I realize I'm never going to finish the project on top of my yarn stash, so I unravel it and wind the yarn back into the ball. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This makes me want to crochet a bear for the Mother Bear Project, so I head into the living room to find the pattern; wonder whether the colours matter to the African children, and whether they'll like my bear, which won't have anything fancy about it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I can't find the pattern, but when I move my books around, I notice some professional reading I've neglected and a Christmas card I never sent and lament my lack of discipline. I feel so badly about myself, I need chocolate to cheer up, and that's when I realize the fridge needs emptying. And the chocolate didn't help, so maybe a little glass of vodka tonight. Ooh! The vodka bottle looks pretty in the sunlight! I'll photograph it! </span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9AE03QKIvhs/Uy2juuJs8mI/AAAAAAAAAo8/8q_quwhQbFI/s1600/IMG_7076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9AE03QKIvhs/Uy2juuJs8mI/AAAAAAAAAo8/8q_quwhQbFI/s1600/IMG_7076.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">1400-1600 A nice long shower with St Yves apricot face scrub </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">and</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> their body wash. Contemplate the article I read last night about microbeads trashing the environment and poisoning critters, because the beads leach toxins from the water - which is good for the water, but bad for the critters that eat the beads. Think it would be a really cool project for high school or college kids to work on, and wonder whether there are creative kids out there right now working on a solution, and whether our current bureaucratic and politic environment will let their solution work. And wonder why it will take until 2017 for businesses to stop using microbeads - why can't they stop </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">right now</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I finally get to have my </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">special loose-leaf vanilla tea</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> and cookie, and the tea pot stand needs polishing, so I polish my duck, too, and my dining table, and I decide the teapot looks so pretty, I'll photograph it. I read a bit of Nicci French's <i>Blue Monday</i>, recommended by my Scottish boss, but then I need a tea refill, and I think maybe I'll get started blogging. While my computer boots up, I prepare to boil a couple of eggs, so I have to find my cookbook (yes, I can't boil eggs without a recipe. Don't laugh, it's my problem, not yours.) and I realize I still have <i>Martha Stewart</i> and <i>Real Simple</i> magazines from <b>Christmas</b>, so I stand at the dining table and flip thru them, tearing out everything interesting and putting the pages into a folder to be ignored for a few months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1600-? When I get back to my computer, I realize the Turkish-viral-crap I inadvertently downloaded to my computer last night - but I thought I had fixed - is <b>still </b>on there, so I swear <u>very loudly and profusely</u>, ordering my computer to do things it just wasn't designed to do and only William S. Burroughs could imagine, except I saw <i>Naked Lunch</i> and wish I hadn't...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then I blog for a bit, and wonder whether you'll like this... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tonight I'll watch some Downton Abbey while I knit and drink my vodka. I expect I'll do this all again tomorrow, without the blogging, and it will be my living room floor I mop and the sheets I'll wash.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-27185053606392580122014-02-09T07:46:00.001-08:002014-02-09T07:46:48.355-08:00Turkish Bath<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I didn’t enjoy the movie Taken 2 nearly as much as Taken,
but the setting certainly caught my attention, and I spent a lot of today
thinking about the fight scene in the hamam, because that’s where I spent most
of my day. Not the same hamam, of
course, and there was no fighting, but my day was certainly a “significant
emotional event,” as one of my bosses used to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A hamam is a traditional Turkish bath house, and today I
screwed my courage to the sticking point, and let it not fail, and stepped
WAAAAY out of my comfort zone to visit a hamam with a few girlfriends. The ringleader was Bahar, a lovely, lovely
Turkish woman; the purveyor of Persian carpets and friendship at the
concessionaires outside the little Base Exchange in downtown Izmir. She is a community fixture mothering all of
us Americans – and dozens of feral dogs.
Like most Turks, she goes to the hamam quite regularly; she brings us
Americans along whenever she can. She
set up this visit as a last hamam trip for one of our gals heading back to the
U.S. Along with Bahar and the nearly
departed, we had another U.S. NATO officer – a hardened veteran of the hamam –
and a civilian wife visiting her husband here in Turkey; the wife and I were
the only ones who hadn’t been to the hamam before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I told Bahar that I wanted the full hamam experience, and I
made sure she knew I was quite worried about this experience, so she could tell
the ladies to treat me well. The ladies
were all very nice, but not a one of them spoke a lick of English. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We were the first customers in the hamam – here’s the
website: <a href="http://www.hosgorhamami.com/">http://www.hosgorhamami.com/</a> Check out the “Galerie” for pictures of
inside the building. The pictures only
show male customers and staff; the hamam is gender-segregated by business hours
and days, so there were absolutely no males anywhere in the vicinity during our
visit. I try not to think about my butt
sitting where some guy’s butt had been sitting just a few hours before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The lobby area is a rough decagon with a central coal-burning
stove for kahve/coffee and ҫay/tea and just to keep the place warm. The room was ringed by changing rooms on the
main floor and up at least one more floor, perhaps two. Everything was dark old wood and marble, and
clotheslines hung with tartan bath sheets crisscrossed the open space between
the gallery balconies on the floor(s) above.
We were to have brought shampoo and body wash, and shower shoes and spare
underwear or bikini bottoms. One gal forgot
her shower shoes, so the attendants, dressed in plaid lumberjack-style
button-up shirts and seemingly nothing else, issued her traditional wood and
leather sandals, along with the tartan bath sheets issued to each of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There was no easing into this experience: we crossed over my threshold for personal
comfort upon arrival, when we were assigned changing rooms to store our stuff
in. Not in the hamam 5 minutes, and
already I’m stripping to my underwear with a relative stranger. I’m not too talented with a bath sheet, so
when the thing kept slipping down, my companion happily grabbed it for me,
tugging and tucking to make it stay in place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Next stop was the waxing room, two of us at a time. Many Middle Easterners feel cleaner and more
comfortable after a good waxing with honey or sugar wax. While I found the entire experience horribly
embarrassing, the ladies just absolutely do not care. It’s all business as usual, nothing they
haven’t seen before. I felt like a
chicken being prepped for Sunday dinner.
I laughed hysterically the entire time; it was dreadful. At least we were early enough for a
room. When we left, ladies were being
waxed while sitting in the lobby, one arm in the air and then the other – or standing
on a chair, turning this way and that to get their legs done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After the humiliations of the waxing room, my attendant
grabbed me by the shoulders and steered me into the main room of the
hamam. Another decagon, completely of
marble, with a high domed ceiling set with small panes of colored glass above
large marble platform. The room was
steamy and filled with nearly naked girls and women of all ages, shapes,
sizes. My attendant yanked off my
tartan, folded it into a pad for me to sit on, and set me up next to a basin of
hot water with a bowl. The rest of my
little group was there, too, all chatting away and sluicing themselves with hot
water. One by one we were taken to the
platform, where we spread out our bath sheet and lay down on it so the
attendants, wearing only bikinis now, first scrubbed us with a loofah mitt
evidently made of the coarsest grit sandpaper available. Did I mention the waxing first? I did.
And the sandpaper? Ah, yes. They scrubbed everywhere…everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After scrubbing vigorously to remove dirt, dead skin cells, and
the last shreds of dignity, the attendants washed us down with a different sort
of scrubby cloth and lots of body wash.
Again, they washed just everywhere.
I swear, I must have the cleanest butt cheeks on the planet. What a weird experience. And yet completely impersonal, nothing at all
intimate or inappropriate. The
receptionist at the fancy Swissotel Spa said the hamam attendants wash you down
like a baby. Actually, I felt more like
a dog at the groomers – being scrubbed and shampooed; prodded to turn over,
turn around, stand up, sit down; rinsed off with bowlfuls of hot water
splashing down my face, into my eyes and ears and up my nose; nothing in my
control. Taken on the whole, though, honestly,
it wasn’t a bad experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After “having a wash”, as Bahar called it, we were wrapped
in fresh dry towels and taken thru the lobby and up a tight marble staircase to
the next floor for oil massages. One gal
had her massage on the balcony, overlooking the lobby. Two of us were massaged in a room
together. It all sounds very decadent
and intimate, evoking images of 1001 Arabian Nights, but really, it was all
just business and body care, no more intimate than a shampoo and haircut. Once we felt up to it, we wandered back down
the marble stairs, changed into our clothes, paid, and left. Lots of ladies hang out and chat over kahve and
ҫay in the lobby among the customers getting their legs and armpits waxed, but
our little group was starving and ready to head out to lunch.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-20820102697422073202013-12-14T02:18:00.002-08:002013-12-14T06:55:25.034-08:00Flashcards and a Duck<h2>
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Heat! I have Heat! <span style="font-size: x-small;">(So of course today was the warmest day in two weeks)</span></span></h2>
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">The heating repair guy came today - at long last - and my landlady (who lives in Switzerland) arranged for Beyhan, the old woman downstairs, to come up here as a translator. She spoke as much English as the repair guy, which is to say none at all. Fortunately, I made a couple of flashcards to explain the problems I didn't think I could explain with gestures:</span><br />
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The young repair guy and the old woman were both very nice, but when I didn't understand their Turkish spoken normally, they shouted Turkish slowly and gesticulated wildly. Pretty much like typical Americans confronted with people who don't speak English, as though increased volume and larger movements will somehow make it all clear.</div>
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I actually understood most of what the guy wanted to tell me: there was a plug of nasty muck in the water pipe and he had to snake it out with a long wire (a relief to me - that means I'm not a dummy unable to operate a water heater and some radiators, my hypothesis was correct, and I couldn't have fixed it myself - and I'm also relieved I wasn't the one pulling that slimy black eew-y muck out). Also, I shouldn't turn on the bathroom water heater ever. Well, okay, I can turn it on if the balcony water heater breaks again, but only then. <span style="font-size: small;">(So why is it even installed? It's clearly brand new!)</span> And here's the number to call if the system breaks again. Call the number, say "<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #660000;">Amerikalıyım</span></span>" and give my address, slowly, in Turkish, and they'll understand and send someone out. (I <em>think</em> that's what his pantomime meant...)</div>
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While the fellow was fixing the water heater, Beyhan wandered my apartment, picking up things and pointing at things, and shouting Turkish words at me. Many of my possessions were "<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #660000;">ҫ</span></span>ok g<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #660000;">ü</span></span>zel" - "very good", some were just g<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #660000;">ü</span></span>zel. Others, like the wonderful Shy Monster in a Box from the inimitable Chris Little, were...puzzling? weird? I don't know what Beyhan was trying to say. Probably "AWESOME!"</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I moved Dc<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #660000;">ü</span></span>k off the top shelf so you can see him. Beyhan was quite taken by the duck. I got the feeling she was hoping I would gift it to her. Sometimes, culture is as much a challenge as language. I knew enough to welcome her and the repair guy with "Ho<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #660000;">ṣ</span></span> geldiniz", to which they replied "Ho<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #660000;">ṣ</span></span> bulduk". They offered to take their shoes off, and I told them they could leave them on (my floor is super-cold, and I'll mop tomorrow) - that was really inappropriate of me, apparently - Beyhan clicked her tongue and shook her head; one does NOT wear shoes in a Turkish house. Beyhan was wearing house shoes, so that was okay, but the guy carried his shoes to the balcony and put them back on there. Should I have offered water or coffee? Should I have tipped the guy?</span></div>
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She liked my knitting and crochet and wants us to hang out together because she makes socks. Maybe over coffee. Something like that. There was definitely "kahve" involved somehow, and she was pantomiming either knitting or breaking pencils. (Anyone remember "breaking up is hard voodoo"? Name that show? I used to watch it every night in college.) She had me put on my shoes and follow her down to her apartment, then she waved me away. Did we set a date and time? I'm not sure. I don't want to stand her up. Maybe she should have shouted louder and more slowly, and waved her arms bigger.</div>
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This chapter is closed for now, but the story will continue when I can get an electrician over here. When the circuit breakers last popped, two of my lights went out - the only light in the bathroom I always use, and the bedroom I rarely use. I finally changed the bulbs today, only to discover I have no electricity in the sockets - the bulbs themselves are probably fine. Never mind - the emergency flashlight I'm using when I take a shower is actually brighter than the bathroom light ever was.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This post brought to you by the feral dogs in the park howling to the call to prayer.</span> </div>
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</span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-73838010363027754962013-12-06T11:46:00.000-08:002013-12-06T12:00:09.949-08:00Radiator Porn for Uncle Tom<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well, Uncle Tom, in my pursuit of hot radiator porn for you, I made a discomforting discovery: my balcony water heater, which had previously seemed to be functioning within acceptable operating parameters since I had hot water in my faucets, is now flashing a mysterious "27".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">**If you don't know what I'm talking about, scroll past the pictures for an explanation of this post.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I don't know what it means, so I poked at all of the buttons on the digital control panel, systematically, of course. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">At one point, the enigmatic icons on the digital display switched to the picture of a radiator and the numerical readout rose incrementally from 41 to 70...whatever that meant (water temp, I assume)...then it switched back to the flashing 27. (The radiator icon is really obvious...the other pictures on the digital display look like an umbrella and a light bulb; I don't know what the heck they mean. It's a bit odd, since printed to the left of the digital display is the picture of a faucet, and to the right is the picture of a radiator. Those pictures correspond directly to up and down arrow buttons on the panel. They are obviously for control of faucet and radiator temperature. So why isn't there a picture of a faucet on the digital display?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm a bit concerned about this flashing 27 because maybe that's an error code, and I don't know what the error is, and it's a gas heater, and I don't have any sort of gas detection system. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm now quite leery of the "Reset" button, which I'm usually a fan of, because I don't want to inadvertently cut off some pilot light and ultimately cause a gas explosion. (Yes, I looked around, I don't see a pilot light or any panel that might conceal a pilot light, but it's definitely a gas heater.) Pulling the plug on the system, which is my favorite troubleshooting technique ("nothing else has worked, let's cut the power and see what happens when we plug it back in") is now right out. (Have I mentioned I didn't use my stove for a solid week after moving in because it's a gas stove?) But maybe the 27 is for under temperature, or overpressure, or...yeah, I just don't know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Ultimately none of the buttons jabbed at individually or in combination caused any other visually observable change in the system.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">And the radiator icon on the balcony water heater begs the question: what the heck is the electric water heater in the bathroom for??? THAT water heater was unplugged, but I had hot faucet water, and when I turned on the radiators nothing happened, so I assumed the bathroom water heater must be for the radiators.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">Anyhoo, back inside the house: I've systematically bled all seven of the radiators, repeatedly. Some hiss, others piddle, and one pees a frickin' river when I look at it funny. I've removed about two litres of cold water from that one (I was catching it in a bottle, so I've some idea of how much water, but then I got tired of catching radiator piss in a bottle and used every towel in the house to soak up the mess). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I've had a very boring night. My fingers are pruny, my towels are soaked with smelly water, the flashing code on the water heater is freaking me out, and the radiators remain stone cold.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here's your radiator porn. I'm going to start experimenting again in the morning, assuming I don't get blowed up while I'm sleeping. Thanks for sticking with this. Love you!</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DvA2qiReQWI/UqIkKPX5CXI/AAAAAAAAAUU/IQ6pLVZc54U/s1600/IMG_6453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DvA2qiReQWI/UqIkKPX5CXI/AAAAAAAAAUU/IQ6pLVZc54U/s320/IMG_6453.JPG" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bathroom electric water heater. Plugged in, turned on, and hot water in the outflow hose.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jjz3QWkvIf0/UqIkOA8JNFI/AAAAAAAAAUY/ABFktEn2bys/s1600/IMG_6456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jjz3QWkvIf0/UqIkOA8JNFI/AAAAAAAAAUY/ABFktEn2bys/s320/IMG_6456.JPG" width="213" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Piddling radiator. (Good pic, huh? You can see the water drops and even the shadows of the water drops!) Also, good bath towel that shouldn't be used to soak up stinky water.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lgGk8Fkh-rM/UqIkfl_uo-I/AAAAAAAAAVE/b_HGryRYu34/s1600/IMG_6461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lgGk8Fkh-rM/UqIkfl_uo-I/AAAAAAAAAVE/b_HGryRYu34/s320/IMG_6461.JPG" width="320" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> I don't know what these red knobs are for. They're in the little bathroom I don't use. When the radiators weren't warming up, I turned them all the way on and the one on the left leaked water all over the floor, but eventually stopped leaking. I've left them in the open condition because why not?</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MQ5oXdUBvJY/UqIkaWg3e_I/AAAAAAAAAU0/sGDW3-kiw0c/s1600/IMG_6458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MQ5oXdUBvJY/UqIkaWg3e_I/AAAAAAAAAU0/sGDW3-kiw0c/s320/IMG_6458.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bUDeiURj51c/UqIkHvf105I/AAAAAAAAAUM/Os1ZMdPwAT0/s1600/IMG_6454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bUDeiURj51c/UqIkHvf105I/AAAAAAAAAUM/Os1ZMdPwAT0/s320/IMG_6454.JPG" width="213" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bathroom radiator, with some of the tools of my trade.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pFFAt-0wQ9c/UqIkcLvHUnI/AAAAAAAAAU8/dkfHoQnnVsA/s1600/IMG_6460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pFFAt-0wQ9c/UqIkcLvHUnI/AAAAAAAAAU8/dkfHoQnnVsA/s320/IMG_6460.JPG" width="320" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The knob at the top of each radiator. I turn this to bleed off air and water. (I really wasn't sure what you wanted pics of...)</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z1mhPhBJ9v0/UqIklaHUxoI/AAAAAAAAAVM/-6sDEuieqfw/s1600/IMG_6462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z1mhPhBJ9v0/UqIklaHUxoI/AAAAAAAAAVM/-6sDEuieqfw/s320/IMG_6462.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The top of my kitchen door. The door is closed and locked. The black is the outside world. The grey stuff is from the coal people burn to heat their houses; my floor is coated in it.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0g0Rava7qUU/UqIkmc5t1DI/AAAAAAAAAVU/crchtjtlKCI/s1600/IMG_6464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0g0Rava7qUU/UqIkmc5t1DI/AAAAAAAAAVU/crchtjtlKCI/s320/IMG_6464.JPG" width="213" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Gas water heater on the balcony.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gNpT2XA1Wq8/UqIkoQJEsRI/AAAAAAAAAVc/xaPBbS6PZNE/s1600/IMG_6465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gNpT2XA1Wq8/UqIkoQJEsRI/AAAAAAAAAVc/xaPBbS6PZNE/s320/IMG_6465.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> Balcony water heater digital display. Awesome photo, because that 27 is flashing!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">For those of you new to the conversation: Izmir, Turkey, after being miserably hot for months, is now quite chilly. It's about 40 degrees Fahrenheit right now, which isn't bad, but my apartment is poorly insulated, so it's probably about 55 - 60 degrees in the apartment; nice in the summer, uncomfortable in the winter. I'm wearing the fingerless gloves I knit for myself so that I can type without stuttering. Oh, and I have to have my window open when I run my dryer, so it gets even colder inside.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I haven't been able to get my radiators working. I have A/C units in my bedroom and living room that can blow hot, dry air, but they're noisy, and I have an only slightly terrifying portable radiator on wheels. I don't like using it because when I unplug it, there's a bright flash of white light from the area between outlet and the wall - pretty much all of the wall outlets are loose and pulled slightly out of the wall. I haven't caused an electrical fire in the wall yet, but every interaction with the outlets seems dicey. Have I mentioned how much Turkish infrastructure sucks? And I have a modern, remodeled apartment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I should mention that I used to be a Biomedical Maintenance Equipment Technician. I could fix pretty much anything in the hospital - except the patients, of course. Although it's been a while since I held that job, I consider myself a pretty smart gal and I have a handy tool bag (thanks, Mike!). How hard can starting up radiators be? I don't want to call a maintenance guy because I don't speak Turkish <span style="font-size: x-small;">(and I'm having trouble using my Turkish cell phone...again)</span> And I'm pretty stubborn, besides. My Bulgarian neighbor has offered to help, and sure, I know a lot of people at work I could ask, but really, chatting with my uncle on Facebook is the closest I will come to asking a man for help with this damn problem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">So all that's left is this: "Why oh ye gods of heat are you doing this to me?! Is this punishment for teasing the Czech guys about their wimpy constitutions? Seriously! It is NOT cold in the office!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: xx-small;">(Thanks, P!nk, for keeping me company while I spent four hours bleeding radiators. Now all of the neighbors know I'm a slut like you.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-17167276502947004992013-11-10T11:01:00.004-08:002013-11-10T11:01:33.697-08:00I spent the weekend in Europe<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You know Turkey is mostly on the continent of Asia, with a bit in Europe, right? I knew that, but I didn't <strong>know it</strong> know it until I spent the weekend in Istanbul with Andrea. Realizing I was spending the weekend in Europe - without leaving Turkey - is one of those silly things that just tickles me pink.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Anyhoo, I joined Andrea in Istanbul - in Europe - for my first orienteering experience and we squeezed in a little sightseeing, too. We flew in Friday night, stayed in a fantastic hotel, very posh with a lovely breakfast, and quite close to the Hagia Sofia and Blue Mosque; orienteered Saturday and took a little boat ride Saturday night; orienteered Sunday morning and did some touristy stuff Sunday afternoon, and flew home Sunday night. This is the orienteering event we participated in; we only did days 4 and 5. <a href="http://www.ist5days.com/default.asp?lang=eng">http://www.ist5days.com/default.asp?lang=eng</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">First, orienteering. Consult Wikipedia for a professional description, or read my own haphazard description here. This really is a sport for nerds: it's a race, but the course isn't set. You have a compass and a map and a list of points - "controls" - you have to get to in order. How far you run and how long the race takes depends entirely on the path you choose for yourself. The race might include dozens of participants, but you're not all on the course at the same time; three or four people start at a time, in intervals spaced perhaps a minute to five minutes apart. You start out with your compass and acquire a clue sheet - the list of your controls in order, with symbols indicating geographic features to help you find your controls. When the clock starts for your little group, you run forward and grab the map for your division (gender & age), then you orient yourself to the map and figure out where your first control is and how you plan to get to it. While you're running. I hadn't realized that part. I had a basic understanding of the sport, and I can use a map and compass, but this was nothing like I thought it would be. Fortunately, I didn't register myself as a participant - I was Andrea's shadow for this event. She tried to get me to do some navigating, but I chickened out. I'll tell you, I'm quite in awe of her mad map skillz.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The first day of orienteering was in the Belgrad Forest, here: <a href="http://goo.gl/maps/lRTaL">http://goo.gl/maps/lRTaL</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We left around 0830 to be bused to the site, which was some sort of national park. The assembly area - a couple of kilometers from the race start point - had a festival air, with a Red Bull Humvee providing modern music, a couple of vendors selling gear, a hut with snacks, and naked bottoms. This was a multinational event, and there were people everywhere, many more than I was expecting. They set themselves up by club or family group at various picnic tables in the woods, and we were treated to the sight of a number of them changing their clothes before or after running.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">During the race itself, we ran thru the woods, generally choosing an "as the crow flies" path - a straight line from point a to point b. The photos here are official photos from the race site. </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CUgvVrTI89U/Un-G66AghII/AAAAAAAAADs/OrXHjsCsnnU/s1600/0.+Beautiful+forest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CUgvVrTI89U/Un-G66AghII/AAAAAAAAADs/OrXHjsCsnnU/s320/0.+Beautiful+forest.JPG" width="320" /></a> Look at this lovely, innocuous forest. You can't even see murder vines running thru the leaf litter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GZhTs7JvW2Q/Un-G6gblvBI/AAAAAAAAADo/HVcO-32WwrQ/s1600/1.+Start.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GZhTs7JvW2Q/Un-G6gblvBI/AAAAAAAAADo/HVcO-32WwrQ/s320/1.+Start.JPG" width="320" /></a> This is the race start line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IpQTOUod_YQ/Un-G7fi9e7I/AAAAAAAAAD0/1RaaWEJE-Ag/s1600/2.+Maps+at+the+Start.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IpQTOUod_YQ/Un-G7fi9e7I/AAAAAAAAAD0/1RaaWEJE-Ag/s320/2.+Maps+at+the+Start.JPG" width="213" /></a> These grey bins hold the maps, sorted by division.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--0FhmdSthLo/Un-G7-lMGtI/AAAAAAAAAEA/RX8sSXP_VpM/s1600/3.+Random+guy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--0FhmdSthLo/Un-G7-lMGtI/AAAAAAAAAEA/RX8sSXP_VpM/s320/3.+Random+guy.JPG" width="213" /></a> Random guy at full run - and he's only just picked up his map.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-otWOA9OvVdM/Un-G80yPr6I/AAAAAAAAAEE/2c7mXWzdIXs/s1600/4.+Kids+do+this.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-otWOA9OvVdM/Un-G80yPr6I/AAAAAAAAAEE/2c7mXWzdIXs/s320/4.+Kids+do+this.JPG" width="320" /></a> Kids participate, too. The orange and white thing is a control, and the widget on the boy's finger plugs into an electronic reader atop the control.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lIRBhmeCsJ8/Un-G9g8-GvI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/b6fGBaCwdJ4/s1600/5.+A+little+schmutzy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lIRBhmeCsJ8/Un-G9g8-GvI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/b6fGBaCwdJ4/s320/5.+A+little+schmutzy.JPG" width="320" /></a> Not all of the terrain had murder vines. There were boggy streams, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ixNh8HiZ-hQ/Un-G-lGrFiI/AAAAAAAAAEY/DDx21VIwnTA/s1600/6.+Approach+to+the+finish.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ixNh8HiZ-hQ/Un-G-lGrFiI/AAAAAAAAAEY/DDx21VIwnTA/s320/6.+Approach+to+the+finish.JPG" width="320" /></a> Sprint to the finish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SkmJEOiGRo4/Un-G-rpOhSI/AAAAAAAAAEc/U4Nvb0Is_YM/s1600/7.+Finish+line.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SkmJEOiGRo4/Un-G-rpOhSI/AAAAAAAAAEc/U4Nvb0Is_YM/s320/7.+Finish+line.JPG" width="320" /></a> I was so happy to see the finish line, even knowing it was a 2 km walk to the assembly point (and bathroom).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The forest looked beautiful and easy to run thru. It lied. It was an evil, evil forest, full of vines as thick as my thumb and armed with inch-long thorns. Notice the runners in the pictures above? They have long pants or gaiters to protect their legs. Not Andrea and me. We started like this:</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JagH7nEup9g/Un-MzghBdTI/AAAAAAAAAEw/jJIjgYblmEU/s1600/Andrea+ready+to+run.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JagH7nEup9g/Un-MzghBdTI/AAAAAAAAAEw/jJIjgYblmEU/s320/Andrea+ready+to+run.jpg" width="240" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> Andrea, smiling and happy. She doesn't know about the murder vines.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UYR2UD7sOeo/Un-MzllCHqI/AAAAAAAAAE0/6LeszD2jC8Y/s1600/sacha+ready+to+run.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UYR2UD7sOeo/Un-MzllCHqI/AAAAAAAAAE0/6LeszD2jC8Y/s320/sacha+ready+to+run.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> Me, sporting my nifty multi-purpose headgear - around my neck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And ended up like this:</span> <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fNvPPEgksbs/Un-M-EyotiI/AAAAAAAAAFE/5lzy_4B4qI4/s1600/Andreas+legs+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fNvPPEgksbs/Un-M-EyotiI/AAAAAAAAAFE/5lzy_4B4qI4/s320/Andreas+legs+2.jpg" width="240" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Not shown: the blood running down the back of each of our legs.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pzoc1OgPwvI/Un-M_NdNCtI/AAAAAAAAAFU/jXWzVkAXLQc/s1600/sachas+legs+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pzoc1OgPwvI/Un-M_NdNCtI/AAAAAAAAAFU/jXWzVkAXLQc/s320/sachas+legs+2.jpg" width="240" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I thought my legs couldn't look any worse. Then I met murder vines. They left bruises, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">There was a lot of swearing involved (on my behalf, anyway; I think Andrea is too nice to swear), particularly when my right ankle would hook a vine and drag it into the back of my left leg. It wasn't long before my scratches had scratches; the photos really don't do the damage justice. We looked like we'd stood in the midst of a cat fight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We showered and snoozed Saturday afternoon, then joined other orienteers for a "party boat ride" on the Bosphorus. That is to say, we circled round and round the same area on the water, drinking cheap wine and eating boring sandwiches. We did meet an interesting Finnish fellow who played his harmonica while we waited to cast off, and there was dancing on the bottom deck. The dancing was interesting to watch; the music was a mix of modern Western party-type music and Turkish music - I've no idea whether it was traditional or modern. There was one song all the Turkish women knew all the moves to, it was quite lively and fun; and a particular song all the Turkish guys - young and old alike - strutted to. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Sunday was the day I was really looking forward to. We got to run thru the Grand Bazaar like heroines in a James Bond flick - sprinting down the wide aisles, dashing into narrow passageways, and charging up and down stairs in search of controls. Unfortunately, the Grand Bazaar was closed, so we couldn't go crashing thru stands, knocking over fezzes and indignant chickens. We had 30 controls, and we finished in 28 minutes. There was one section that was a little artificial maze with maybe ten controls. At one point, I just refused to do any more stairs - hey, I wasn't even registered!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I stood in a small courtyard and watched Andrea and five or so other people running up and down stairs and in and out of doorways like characters in a Warner Bros cartoon. Wish I had a camera with me! Here are some photos from Andrea's camera and from the official site: <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FOzdcDKNalw/Un-lwIrfGnI/AAAAAAAAAFs/oFzx4sCvKhc/s1600/Andrea+at+the+Grand+Bazaar+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FOzdcDKNalw/Un-lwIrfGnI/AAAAAAAAAFs/oFzx4sCvKhc/s320/Andrea+at+the+Grand+Bazaar+start.jpg" width="240" /></a> Andrea grabs her map.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s2zQimUk78Q/Un-lwIrEQ3I/AAAAAAAAAFw/SvP653N_DpE/s1600/DSC_3142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s2zQimUk78Q/Un-lwIrEQ3I/AAAAAAAAAFw/SvP653N_DpE/s320/DSC_3142.JPG" width="212" /></a> Random guy running. He's wearing a headlamp. I was a little worried about the instruction to bring headlamps, but we didn't really need them.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fRZeVYsb_aI/Un-lwEwdcbI/AAAAAAAAAFo/YZPmZWNVafU/s1600/DSC_3147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fRZeVYsb_aI/Un-lwEwdcbI/AAAAAAAAAFo/YZPmZWNVafU/s320/DSC_3147.JPG" width="320" /></a> Kids competing.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SedIaGHHIus/Un-lxCUj1gI/AAAAAAAAAF8/UHpsrbiAXJk/s1600/DSC_3174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SedIaGHHIus/Un-lxCUj1gI/AAAAAAAAAF8/UHpsrbiAXJk/s320/DSC_3174.JPG" width="320" /></a> Bazaar is closed today.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gCYvcPGMe7U/Un-lx980B9I/AAAAAAAAAGI/ECGpcyakQNU/s1600/DSC_3176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gCYvcPGMe7U/Un-lx980B9I/AAAAAAAAAGI/ECGpcyakQNU/s320/DSC_3176.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_8B-Wp1BUg/Un-lyZQr-QI/AAAAAAAAAGM/fW_Mqmvbajg/s1600/Entrance+to+the+Grand+Bazaar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_8B-Wp1BUg/Un-lyZQr-QI/AAAAAAAAAGM/fW_Mqmvbajg/s320/Entrance+to+the+Grand+Bazaar.JPG" width="212" /></a> This is an entrance to the Grand Bazaar.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DjgEzdvFhjg/Un-l09yLC-I/AAAAAAAAAG4/ehJtTTx6hoQ/s1600/extra+fun+control+maze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DjgEzdvFhjg/Un-l09yLC-I/AAAAAAAAAG4/ehJtTTx6hoQ/s320/extra+fun+control+maze.jpg" width="240" /></a> The maze of controls.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A5ISLNf_DVc/Un-l1LNEEXI/AAAAAAAAAHA/v7Dt0MMtwBs/s1600/grand+bazaar+start.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A5ISLNf_DVc/Un-l1LNEEXI/AAAAAAAAAHA/v7Dt0MMtwBs/s320/grand+bazaar+start.JPG" width="212" /></a> These are the maps for the Grand Bazaar.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pQqGI88poRI/Un-l11IgH9I/AAAAAAAAAHI/YXjsea_IFqc/s1600/its+a+beautiful+day+to+run.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pQqGI88poRI/Un-l11IgH9I/AAAAAAAAAHI/YXjsea_IFqc/s320/its+a+beautiful+day+to+run.jpg" width="240" /></a> Me, ready to run.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_TX1zJC9k60/Un-l23MC6FI/AAAAAAAAAHg/ylLtW1LVFns/s1600/lots+of+kids+ready+to+go.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5x6AY4k84c/Un-lzs-3OtI/AAAAAAAAAGg/YNjWVk_K7bw/s1600/Runners+in+the+maze.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5x6AY4k84c/Un-lzs-3OtI/AAAAAAAAAGg/YNjWVk_K7bw/s320/Runners+in+the+maze.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oghZRY605Qg/Un-l3apR4JI/AAAAAAAAAHc/yaZOMhZqZXc/s1600/running+thru+the+Grand+Bazaar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oghZRY605Qg/Un-l3apR4JI/AAAAAAAAAHc/yaZOMhZqZXc/s320/running+thru+the+Grand+Bazaar.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLtyrXH2P6Q/Un-l3BBEQsI/AAAAAAAAAHY/7vN1rg3DIMU/s1600/thanks+goodness+these+stalls+werent+open.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLtyrXH2P6Q/Un-l3BBEQsI/AAAAAAAAAHY/7vN1rg3DIMU/s320/thanks+goodness+these+stalls+werent+open.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aME3BGveJ4A/Un-l0Mp0OqI/AAAAAAAAAGw/3lKn35svU3Y/s1600/The+maze.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aME3BGveJ4A/Un-l0Mp0OqI/AAAAAAAAAGw/3lKn35svU3Y/s320/The+maze.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bPz4ZD22x3I/Un-l08wIHpI/AAAAAAAAAG8/jcXG4pK2i-I/s1600/There+were+a+lot+of+people+involved.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bPz4ZD22x3I/Un-l08wIHpI/AAAAAAAAAG8/jcXG4pK2i-I/s320/There+were+a+lot+of+people+involved.JPG" width="320" /></a> Seriously, people who've never heard of orienteering: it's a big deal!</div>
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We finished our trip to Istanbul with a visit to the Topkapi Palace (we picked up a geocache in the Palace's Gulhane Garden), followed by the Blue Mosque. The Palace was quite interesting; there was a whole little building for the sultan's turbans. I liked that hat room; see if you can pick it out from the pictures below. Lots of history there, and it was such a beautiful place. </div>
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This was my first time in a mosque; the building was extraordinary. We were required to place our shoes in plastic baggies and carry them around the mosque, and we ladies had to cover our hair with either our own scarf or one provided by the site. The mosque was full of both tourists and worshippers; I felt like I was intruding.</div>
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I've put a bunch of pictures below; before you get to them, here are two little vignettes:</div>
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1. The streetcar from the hotel to the airport - with our suitcases - was insanely crowded. Like viral Japanese subway video crowded. We didn't think we'd be able to get off at our stop, but a group of college-age guys behind us also needed off at the same stop, and they just shoved like...guys in a viral Japanese subway video. The doors kept trying to close, and door alarms kept going off, and finally Andrea and I and these guys popped off the streetcar and onto the platform like a cork from a champagne bottle. It was a horrible experience. I'll pay good money not to ever do that again.</div>
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2. While waiting for the subway/metro to the airport (after the streetcar incident), we literally saw the blind leading the blind. No joke. I'm putting my camera away in my backpack and not paying attention and Andrea grabs my arm as a little old man with a blind cane, arm-in-arm with a little old lady with a blind cane, stumbles over my suitcase. The pair of them toddled across the platform and nearly off the other side. I was too astonished to retrieve my camera, and it felt like a rude thing to do, anyway. A couple of bewildered-looking guys took each of them by the arm and helped them onto the escalator. Afraid to know what happened to them at the top; I had trouble navigating the area, and I've got all my faculties.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pGZl5fmA9Xc/Un-010UCMdI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/iCfLvogpBtg/s1600/IMG_6201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pGZl5fmA9Xc/Un-010UCMdI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/iCfLvogpBtg/s320/IMG_6201.JPG" width="320" /></a> A mosque at night from the boat.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0U-1OhWroTo/Un-08whJOzI/AAAAAAAAAIk/gN4ZH6UQzUk/s1600/IMG_6206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0U-1OhWroTo/Un-08whJOzI/AAAAAAAAAIk/gN4ZH6UQzUk/s320/IMG_6206.JPG" width="320" /></a> One of the two bridges we kept passing on our boat ride.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IFiS312iKzs/Un-1K4zlJzI/AAAAAAAAAJM/_yqnnjrcX_Q/s1600/IMG_6211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IFiS312iKzs/Un-1K4zlJzI/AAAAAAAAAJM/_yqnnjrcX_Q/s320/IMG_6211.JPG" width="320" /></a> Dancing at the boat party.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nIoldHND7ww/Un-1K9UiEzI/AAAAAAAAAJI/KAgWbSLSYQk/s1600/IMG_6212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nIoldHND7ww/Un-1K9UiEzI/AAAAAAAAAJI/KAgWbSLSYQk/s320/IMG_6212.JPG" width="213" /></a> Under the bridge.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlKQW6NpJXA/Un-1V0niijI/AAAAAAAAAJg/QB2KLfRdW5o/s1600/IMG_6215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlKQW6NpJXA/Un-1V0niijI/AAAAAAAAAJg/QB2KLfRdW5o/s320/IMG_6215.JPG" width="320" /></a> The Hagia Sofia from our hotel. It was a grey weekend.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eTxjJl_d0L0/Un-2MwOSlRI/AAAAAAAAAKo/FBTLciDzZDc/s1600/IMG_6225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eTxjJl_d0L0/Un-2MwOSlRI/AAAAAAAAAKo/FBTLciDzZDc/s320/IMG_6225.JPG" width="320" /></a> A corn and chestnut roasting stand. We see a lot of them in Izmir, too.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-58Gtb2yLm8w/Un-2LEwWFZI/AAAAAAAAAKc/JFhxQXbphE8/s1600/IMG_6226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-58Gtb2yLm8w/Un-2LEwWFZI/AAAAAAAAAKc/JFhxQXbphE8/s320/IMG_6226.JPG" width="320" /></a> Random street corner with interesting architecture. I liked the juxtaposition of Western and Eastern architecture and art throughout Istanbul; truly a cultural crossroad.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fwwLmjL24oU/Un-2SgUpeJI/AAAAAAAAAKw/YHks-5srvrU/s1600/IMG_6230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fwwLmjL24oU/Un-2SgUpeJI/AAAAAAAAAKw/YHks-5srvrU/s320/IMG_6230.JPG" width="320" /></a> Our lunch companion.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4h0lHjWRrs/Un-2lBaFxHI/AAAAAAAAALQ/FpOu76Jv98k/s1600/IMG_6234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4h0lHjWRrs/Un-2lBaFxHI/AAAAAAAAALQ/FpOu76Jv98k/s320/IMG_6234.JPG" width="213" /></a> Andrea with our yummy lunch.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hE9LJPWr8QE/Un-2okaoBuI/AAAAAAAAALY/zc77QhWY8iU/s1600/IMG_6235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hE9LJPWr8QE/Un-2okaoBuI/AAAAAAAAALY/zc77QhWY8iU/s320/IMG_6235.JPG" width="320" /></a> Ladies making the Turkish bread.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4tnmdnd_CB8/Un-2txRdxKI/AAAAAAAAALg/M1xJzVMZMkQ/s1600/IMG_6238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4tnmdnd_CB8/Un-2txRdxKI/AAAAAAAAALg/M1xJzVMZMkQ/s320/IMG_6238.JPG" width="320" /></a> Blue Mosque.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5YIiLpeMx3Y/Un-3Cd3sO0I/AAAAAAAAAME/CLwdmkmJKD0/s1600/IMG_6243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5YIiLpeMx3Y/Un-3Cd3sO0I/AAAAAAAAAME/CLwdmkmJKD0/s320/IMG_6243.JPG" width="320" /></a> Gate near the Palace.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1R2OXP_SMnk/Un-3B0PcwRI/AAAAAAAAAMA/ZGOGWBaITe8/s1600/IMG_6244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1R2OXP_SMnk/Un-3B0PcwRI/AAAAAAAAAMA/ZGOGWBaITe8/s320/IMG_6244.JPG" width="320" /></a> Entrance to the Palace grounds.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FAeVWXN-RBE/Un-3GXMHqvI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/WnGSHc0tX2k/s1600/IMG_6245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FAeVWXN-RBE/Un-3GXMHqvI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/WnGSHc0tX2k/s320/IMG_6245.JPG" width="320" /></a> Armed guard. Not sure what he and his compadres were guarding, but they looked quite serious, and weren't at all moved by the adorable puppies frolicking at their feet.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uvCaWCpeVD8/Un-3d4PW6ZI/AAAAAAAAAMw/xjIMUQNQxUo/s1600/IMG_6247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uvCaWCpeVD8/Un-3d4PW6ZI/AAAAAAAAAMw/xjIMUQNQxUo/s320/IMG_6247.JPG" width="320" /></a> Entrance to the Sultan's Palace. (It looks like it belongs in Disneyland...)</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LdfoTwVzZtM/Un-4D9Yb8aI/AAAAAAAAANU/k_8YKtmtsM0/s1600/IMG_6253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LdfoTwVzZtM/Un-4D9Yb8aI/AAAAAAAAANU/k_8YKtmtsM0/s320/IMG_6253.JPG" width="213" /></a> Gorgeous old tree. Imagine all of the history it's seen.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1vb1ib6tWQU/Un-4DRQUW3I/AAAAAAAAANQ/Z3nVltwYtAY/s1600/IMG_6255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1vb1ib6tWQU/Un-4DRQUW3I/AAAAAAAAANQ/Z3nVltwYtAY/s320/IMG_6255.JPG" width="213" /></a> Other side of the tree.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f8rtUWI1OWE/Un-4ShD8E9I/AAAAAAAAANs/m1aufTnUY6E/s1600/IMG_6257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f8rtUWI1OWE/Un-4ShD8E9I/AAAAAAAAANs/m1aufTnUY6E/s320/IMG_6257.JPG" width="320" /></a> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAOvvWtgazE/Un-4SzkKZ2I/AAAAAAAAANo/b95dDCHs410/s1600/IMG_6260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAOvvWtgazE/Un-4SzkKZ2I/AAAAAAAAANo/b95dDCHs410/s320/IMG_6260.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HzS_AJontsI/Un-4yQ6BLpI/AAAAAAAAAOg/B1wuEOIOXgQ/s1600/IMG_6267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HzS_AJontsI/Un-4yQ6BLpI/AAAAAAAAAOg/B1wuEOIOXgQ/s320/IMG_6267.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O3-UVnVWyOk/Un-4_9JxNAI/AAAAAAAAAOw/9-LQqT2bVX4/s1600/IMG_6271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O3-UVnVWyOk/Un-4_9JxNAI/AAAAAAAAAOw/9-LQqT2bVX4/s320/IMG_6271.JPG" width="320" /></a> Rowr.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TUCohiP3qoQ/Un-5HG2pbbI/AAAAAAAAAO4/xNCOWd07g2w/s1600/IMG_6272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TUCohiP3qoQ/Un-5HG2pbbI/AAAAAAAAAO4/xNCOWd07g2w/s320/IMG_6272.JPG" width="320" /></a> Andrea and I thought this room was perfect and peaceful for tea and reading.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cW_SCfHTOzY/Un-5Z-u0AVI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/reUwzchW9oM/s1600/IMG_6274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cW_SCfHTOzY/Un-5Z-u0AVI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/reUwzchW9oM/s320/IMG_6274.JPG" width="320" /></a> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mByevZolrm4/Un-5omy6wVI/AAAAAAAAAPo/Ovwl4Bur_H0/s1600/IMG_6280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mByevZolrm4/Un-5omy6wVI/AAAAAAAAAPo/Ovwl4Bur_H0/s320/IMG_6280.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YmJFqmrO0Oo/Un-5-UdWjfI/AAAAAAAAAQE/4QRvwrtdYXI/s1600/IMG_6281.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YmJFqmrO0Oo/Un-5-UdWjfI/AAAAAAAAAQE/4QRvwrtdYXI/s320/IMG_6281.JPG" width="213" /></a> Those are turban shaped cubby holes.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vs7shbA0OsI/Un-5xmwWbzI/AAAAAAAAAPw/Llc2h8l4hKs/s1600/IMG_6282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vs7shbA0OsI/Un-5xmwWbzI/AAAAAAAAAPw/Llc2h8l4hKs/s320/IMG_6282.JPG" width="213" /></a> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fg4fKycKnxY/Un-53FKzidI/AAAAAAAAAP4/opGdqbMtKFw/s1600/IMG_6283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fg4fKycKnxY/Un-53FKzidI/AAAAAAAAAP4/opGdqbMtKFw/s320/IMG_6283.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kQmIRWjypCE/Un-5-VTUM6I/AAAAAAAAAQA/g5y8XdQ4UHs/s1600/IMG_6284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kQmIRWjypCE/Un-5-VTUM6I/AAAAAAAAAQA/g5y8XdQ4UHs/s320/IMG_6284.JPG" width="320" /></a> This building had something to do with circumcision. A nice enough building, but it's purpose seems a little off.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-233eBrhKi0s/Un-6Vmd5E6I/AAAAAAAAAQY/t6ybF5M0AF4/s1600/IMG_6288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-233eBrhKi0s/Un-6Vmd5E6I/AAAAAAAAAQY/t6ybF5M0AF4/s320/IMG_6288.JPG" width="320" /></a> I love what they do with black and white pebbles around here and in Rhodes. Must take forever to pave the streets like this. (This was just one small section; Rhodes had a lot of it)</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3kbaPjqV_1M/Un-6ZuMPsdI/AAAAAAAAAQo/66XqDJfpheg/s1600/IMG_6289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3kbaPjqV_1M/Un-6ZuMPsdI/AAAAAAAAAQo/66XqDJfpheg/s320/IMG_6289.JPG" width="320" /></a> I don't know what this symbol means, but I love it. Hope it means something nice.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8mROUhYMe9Y/Un-6eFJlvxI/AAAAAAAAAQw/rRWak452FLA/s1600/IMG_6291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8mROUhYMe9Y/Un-6eFJlvxI/AAAAAAAAAQw/rRWak452FLA/s320/IMG_6291.JPG" width="320" /></a> Such a variety of architectural styles just within the one Palace, spanning hundreds of years.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8SWVF4klNFo/Un-6p5uwmJI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/XRJ5Dq6lEr8/s1600/IMG_6292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8SWVF4klNFo/Un-6p5uwmJI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/XRJ5Dq6lEr8/s320/IMG_6292.JPG" width="213" /></a> They put a lot of effort into the ceilings.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--x7O1ThMNUs/Un-6pTcL6eI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/UwvWOA8Ig9Y/s1600/IMG_6294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--x7O1ThMNUs/Un-6pTcL6eI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/UwvWOA8Ig9Y/s320/IMG_6294.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lpEoAQiyKUM/Un-6uj00lnI/AAAAAAAAARI/XZGAIVd4pNw/s1600/IMG_6295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lpEoAQiyKUM/Un-6uj00lnI/AAAAAAAAARI/XZGAIVd4pNw/s320/IMG_6295.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--BGnBEFLNzU/Un-67Ga403I/AAAAAAAAARY/xW2UH42PJ7k/s1600/IMG_6300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--BGnBEFLNzU/Un-67Ga403I/AAAAAAAAARY/xW2UH42PJ7k/s320/IMG_6300.JPG" width="320" /></a> The Blue Mosque</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Ydg5-uUoi0/Un-7GnvuTxI/AAAAAAAAARo/ta63tZ0ZUfE/s1600/IMG_6301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Ydg5-uUoi0/Un-7GnvuTxI/AAAAAAAAARo/ta63tZ0ZUfE/s320/IMG_6301.JPG" width="320" /></a> Inside the Blue Mosque. Very difficult for the average person to get a decent photo showing the majesty, scale, intricacy and beauty of the building.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-adKlVEI32dE/Un-7KSn7-CI/AAAAAAAAARw/gXK4xGilhfs/s1600/IMG_6302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-adKlVEI32dE/Un-7KSn7-CI/AAAAAAAAARw/gXK4xGilhfs/s320/IMG_6302.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eEIpZaWroHs/Un-7YxUg6YI/AAAAAAAAASA/p7oFvylcEYY/s1600/IMG_6305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eEIpZaWroHs/Un-7YxUg6YI/AAAAAAAAASA/p7oFvylcEYY/s320/IMG_6305.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7MI2ox11_Oo/Un-7ggudmYI/AAAAAAAAASQ/KY5mortNvNg/s1600/IMG_6306.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7MI2ox11_Oo/Un-7ggudmYI/AAAAAAAAASQ/KY5mortNvNg/s320/IMG_6306.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CZyd9r18v5w/Un-7na0HwWI/AAAAAAAAASY/TSghun-jvts/s1600/IMG_6307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CZyd9r18v5w/Un-7na0HwWI/AAAAAAAAASY/TSghun-jvts/s320/IMG_6307.JPG" width="320" /></a> Look, kids! Nutella!</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7hHZtOPX8dk/Un-7nwWT2EI/AAAAAAAAASc/x51w4xvl7nU/s1600/IMG_6308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7hHZtOPX8dk/Un-7nwWT2EI/AAAAAAAAASc/x51w4xvl7nU/s320/IMG_6308.JPG" width="320" /></a> We walked up and down this street quite a bit; I liked the architecture.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oTX7Mg_H_-Q/Un-8BPKoeKI/AAAAAAAAASw/OKcjLcGDAYc/s1600/IMG_6310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oTX7Mg_H_-Q/Un-8BPKoeKI/AAAAAAAAASw/OKcjLcGDAYc/s320/IMG_6310.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gaJA-t77n6o/Un-8BSj4leI/AAAAAAAAAS0/GQhTyXGEkuE/s1600/IMG_6311.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gaJA-t77n6o/Un-8BSj4leI/AAAAAAAAAS0/GQhTyXGEkuE/s320/IMG_6311.JPG" width="320" /></a> Love the city symbol.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">This blog brought to you by Dave Matthews Band and a funny smell in the apartment.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-46060652013501286402013-10-17T09:17:00.001-07:002013-10-17T09:17:13.248-07:00Flying Solo<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I've never lived entirely on my own before. I kind of suck at it. Maybe I need more practice. Maybe I shouldn't be living alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">My very first day in this apartment, I stood with one foot on my nightstand and the other on the railing outside my fourth floor window so I could hang a sheet over the door as a curtain and thought, "I need adult supervision."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">The next day, I went out for four hours and left candles burning throughout the apartment; they were still lit when I returned home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I didn't cook anything at all on my stove for the first week because it's a gas stove and I'm terrified of blowing up the apartment - or at least singeing my eyebrows. (I'm mostly over it now, and it's kind of fun roasting tomatoes over the naked flame so I can peel them easily.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm having bacon and French fries for dinner; it's the only meal I've eaten all day. (Well, I did have a Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino when I woke up.) Heeding the advice of my Belgian friend Francoise, I'll probably wash it down with a V8. Because, you know, vitamins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I grew up in a standard-issue family: two parents, two kids, a variety of pets. I went off to college on schedule and had four different roommates over the years. I spent summers and holidays at home with the family. After college, I lived with my parents for about a year and a half before I went off to basic military training to share a room with 53 of my closest friends. Had a roommate for part of technical training school, then a room to myself while dating my husband-to-be, so that doesn't really count as living alone; then I got married. Sure, I've had days to myself in hotels or temporary living quarters during TDYs and military schools, but basically, I've always lived with someone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Sometimes I resented this fact; I've felt cheated of some movie/TV/book-stereotype of freewheeling single life. I was looking forward to coming out here and figuring out who I really am at my core, without the influence of other people sharing my space. I brought cookbooks and kitchenware and thought I'd cook awesome meals of the kinds of food I want to eat, without having to cater to kids and a lactose-intolerant husband. I brought books and DVDs and my body weight in yarn. I even brought origami paper and writing paper and a journal and a cool fountain pen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">The reality is though, that even without my family, I'm still a wife and a mom. I might be living solo, but I am in no way single. I can't go out on dates - obviously (and to be clear, I don't want to!), and I can't just travel at the drop of a hat to wherever, whenever. I have a family budget to consider, not a personal one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">This week has been a bit of a revelation. The office is closed for the entire week for the Festival of Sacrifice, a Muslim holiday, and I've got the office Blackberry, so no trips for me. (That's a good thing, and I volunteered to take it. I have my fitness test next week, and I can't afford to go gallivanting about, eating out every day.) Without work and responsibilities to shape my day, I've naturally reverted to a creature of the night. I did get up at 0630 Monday morning to go for a run, but after that, all semblance of responsible adult-type behavior has slipped away. Even though I went to bed at a decent hour on Monday, I crawled out of bed at the crack of noon on Tuesday. Didn't even mean to. Didn't hear my alarm, and that's something that rarely, rarely happens. Since then, I've watched movies and played computer games and read until the wee hours each night. I might wake at 0700 regardless of how late I stayed up, but then I read until 1000, or 1100, or until I have to pee desperately and finally get up to take care of business and get a Frappuccino. I've watched four movies and a season of Dexter. I did knit one fingerless glove and am working on a pair of them. I've swept a little, and cleared off my table with the intent of dusting, and done a load of laundry because I enjoy clean underwear. And I wrote a blog, so there's that. But mostly, there's nothing driving my daily actions. No real reason to get out of bed each day except the need to pee. I can't be bothered to cook anything for just myself (and I never have the ingredients to make what I want), I owe nothing to no one, so what's the point of doing anything? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I feel quite disappointed in myself. Is this all there is to me? Without a family and dogs and work, I'm not really anything?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I know part of the problem is the job. It's not stimulating or engaging or challenging. It is very interesting, in a sociologist-studying-a-new-culture kind of way. But it's nothing to take home with me, nothing to need a break from. The other part is the family. I've done an awesome job of raising confident, independent children, and I have an awesome husband who doesn't need my help. We Skype once a week and Mike and I chat via Facebook, but basically, they have nothing to talk about with me. So I am unchained, adrift without an anchor. Curious to see where I end up, still wondering who I am.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: xx-small;">This blog brought to you by Florence + the Machine. Dog Days are Over at 100+ plays and counting.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-17356310173839310482013-10-14T08:18:00.005-07:002013-10-14T08:18:45.587-07:00Speaking in Tongues<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">My Dad has
called me a space cadet for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
I was a kid, I thought it was pretty awesome:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>yeah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a Space Cadet!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll explore strange new worlds, seek out
new life and new civilizations…!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Took me
years to figure out I wasn’t on the road to some cool Star Trek job, and when I
understood why he was calling me a space cadet, I hotly denied it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I just own it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m distracted and forgetful enough to worry
whether I have warning signs of Alzheimer’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I carry a notebook pretty much everywhere so I can write down pretty much
everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did have a handle on
my own shortcomings, but this assignment seems to have made my forgetfulness,
my distractedness, much, much worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought it was the effects of missing the family, of culture shock, of hormonal
change, and I’m sure all of that plays a role, but a big part of it is that I
am too busy listening to *how* my co-workers talk to listen to what they’re
actually saying.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ll start
with the easy one first:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my British
boss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s an Army Colonel from
Scotland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His accent is very mild – I wouldn’t
guess “Scotland” at all except for words with a double “o”, like “good” and “look”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly, hearing him say them just makes me
giggle; I try not to be obvious about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And he says “f*(k” ALL the time, except when he says it, it’s as inoffensive
as little old ladies eating cucumber sandwiches; when the Americans – and Germans
– use that sort of language, they sound like a garbage disposal grinding rocks
and spewing excrement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I think the
funniest thing about his accent is that my Turkish co-workers can’t understand
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he leaves after talking to
them, they turn to me for a translation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I love
listening to the Italian Lieutenant Colonel in charge of our section.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His English is perfect, but he, like most of
the Italians here, throws an extra syllable on the end-a of almost-a every word-a,
especially when he gets excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
there I am, grinning like an idiot as he provides important instructions in
his movie-stereotype Italian-accented English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fortunately, he’s an awesome guy and doesn’t seem at all put out by my
lack of seriousness.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Speaking of
movie stereotypes:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Croatian Guy finally
arrived and his accent would make him perfect for any Russian movie baddie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We call him Croatian Guy because we knew he
was coming from Croatia, but we didn’t know his name until he showed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He introduced himself as Godot, and it took
my brain a bit to catch up with his agile and subtle humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Godot, as in the play; his name isn’t really
Godot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love talking with Croatian Guy;
his dialogue is slow and heavily-accented, but his English is perfect and his
mind and wit are sharp.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can’t even
figure out what distinguishes Czech Guy’s accent – although I listen intently
to everything he says to try to isolate what makes a Czech accent different
from Polish, or Romanian, or Belgian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
have two Czech guys here, and their English is nearly perfect in grammar and
vocabulary, but their accents really set them apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them was speaking English on the
phone to someone in another country, and they each realized – by the accent –
that they must be speaking to a fellow Czech, so they switched to their native
language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best I can do is say it
sounds “bubblier” than English spoken by an American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They seem to use too many syllables, but not
as obviously as the Italians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever –
they’re fun to listen to, and I worry that I hurt Czech Guy's feelings by laughing at nearly everything he says. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Germans
come in three varieties:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>English accent,
American accent, and German accent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somehow I find the Germans speaking English the least surprising –
perhaps because I’ve lived in Germany, so this isn’t new to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, the Germans seem most comfortable with
our language; they have a near-complete grasp of idiom as well as vocabulary
and grammar. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">To help you
understand why I find people speaking English marvelous and terribly distracting,
try this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>imagine going about your day in
a foreign language, maybe that Spanish you learned in high school. I can speak enough Spanish to get myself in trouble in Mexico, and enough German to get along in Germany, but my co-workers are ensuring the security of our nations in ESL.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am in
continuous awe of the folks here at NATO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
M</span>eetings here should be as boring as any other Dilbert meeting
anywhere, but the most mundane subject is inspiring because it's in
ENGLISH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look around, and I'm the only
native-English-speaker in the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I'm
often the only woman, too, but that's a different blog entry.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in a meeting last week with people
from eight countries, everyone intelligently discussing budget and
planning, except that one guy - there's always that one guy who doesn't track
with everyone else - but he doesn't get it in ENGLISH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the U.S., I'd think he's an idiot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, I marvel at his genius!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There's so much more to be said on this subject, but I don't want to bore you, and I do want to post this...perhaps I'll add a part 2 someday.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This post brought to you by Red Hot Chili Peppers: Californication, Dani California, and Snow</span></span></div>
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-85522358776561620852013-09-22T09:02:00.001-07:002013-09-22T09:02:58.869-07:00Buses and Taksis<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">After reading about driving in Turkey and the hassle and expense of registering a car here, I decided to rely on public transportation during my year-long assignment. I was pretty anxious about riding the trains and buses. I'm not a fan of people - smelly, germy, impatient people - and I don't read the language, which makes timetables and instructions fairly useless. Nevertheless, my anxiety about driving here overrode my anxiety about taking public transport.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Public transportation is extensive, cheap, and very easy in Izmir. One magnetic card - the Kent Kart, which I can reload pretty much anywhere - will get me on any train, subway, bus, or ferry. One trip costs 1.85 TL (Turkish Lira), and I can transfer anywhere for free within 90 minutes. I've actually taken the bus from my apartment to the city center, completed my business there, and caught the train home all for 1.85 TL. On the whole, I don't mind taking the public transport - plus it's a very ecofriendly thing to do - but it can be...interesting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I woke up this morning at 0715, after going to bed at 0300 <span style="font-size: small;">(I finished <em>Graceling</em>, very good book)</span><span style="font-size: large;">, read until 1000 <span style="font-size: small;">(<em>Raven Boys</em> - I recommend it)</span> while drinking a Starbucks mocha frappuccino, goofed around for a bit, and finally set out around 1200 for free brunch at the All-Ranks Club and shopping at the Commissary.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I decide to give the bus another chance, although I prefer the train, because the trip generally takes less time and involves less walking. The bus stop down the street from my apartment is empty, suggesting I've just missed a bus, so I settle on the bench to wait. A young woman soon arrives, examines the electronic board displaying when the next bus is due, and turns to me: "Blah blah blah, yetmish blah blah?" Oh, I know this one - I'm quite good with my numbers, and I'm waiting for otobus 70 too! "Avet" I say, with an authoritative smile and nod, and point to the board, which has helpfully changed to show that bus number 70 is indeed on its way. She seems satisfied by our exchange and thanks me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Our bus arrives a few minutes later, and the woman jumps on first - and then the bus driver closes the doors and starts to pull away. Like a true Turk, I jump in front of the bus and wave at the driver, who stops again to let me on. The bus is packed and standing room only. The sign shows the bus can carry 54 seated passengers and 114 standing passengers, and I assure you, that's how many people were already on this bus. After threading my arm around one guy's waist and under a woman's arm to scan my Kent Kart, I am standing at the very front of the bus, nothing between me and the broad windshield. It's awesome. We're at my favorite spot on the bus ride: the top of a hill with an incredible view of the Gulf of Izmir. The bus is swaying and bouncing as it speeds along, and I have the urge to throw my arms wide and cry, "I'm king of the world!" Okay, no I don't. But you get the picture. Then the bus stops and the doors open, pinching my heel; the pain quickly subsides to total numbness, I limp back a few paces, and 10 more people get on the bus. None get off. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">And we set off down the road, and stop, and more people get on the bus, and none get off, and the bus driver yells something and we all shuffle around, and the people who got on at the middle-of-the-bus-doors pass up their Kent Karts and someone scans them and passes them all back. (This is extraordinary to me. Everyone trusts they'll get their own card back, and the bus driver trusts everyone to pay for the ride.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">At this point, we are packed into this bus with every inch of everyone mashed into every inch of everyone else. And some of us stink. Not me; I don't stink. Other people do. And this is when I realize I've been up for hours, I'm bouncing along on a bus mashed against stinky people and I haven't had anything but a Starbucks Frappuccino. I'm feeling a little green...and I don't mean ecofriendly. I break out into a cold sweat, followed by a hot flash, and I'm desperately planning my exit strategy - my bus stop is in sight, but I'm still crushed in the middle of the bus. "Lutfen, lutfen!" Please, please, let me off this damn bus NOW. A couple of kind women realize the situation and call something out to the driver. Maybe, "Let her off here, before she pukes on us." Once on the street, my head clears and I feel a wet warmth in my heel and realize the pinched spot is now bleeding freely - I'm leaving bloody footprints. Fortunately, I'm a Girl Scout, and I have wipes, Neosporin, and Band-Aids in my purse.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">My visit to the American center in Izmir is tasty, brief, and easy. I'm not about to tackle a bus or a train with eight bottles of Starbucks, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Grey Goose - not to mention the various canned goods and cleaning products - so I catch a taksi home. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Taksis are plentiful in Izmir; you can't cross a street without nearly being hit by one. Like any elementary school kid, I have proudly memorized my address, so I recite it to the taksi driver. He repeats it back to me correctly and takes off at break-neck speed, honking at every other vehicle and living thing on the road...while entering my address into the GPSr because he doesn't know where it is. Unfortunately, my street doesn't exist in the digital world - it's not on Google maps, nor is it in the driver's GPSr. I'm able to point him in the right direction by asking for him to take me to Nah-to. Once Nah-to is in sight, I tell him to turn left, turn right, left again, go straight, stop here. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">And this, this, is the highlight of my day. I was pleased to learn "Hello, how are you, my name is, what's your name..." but I'm just tickled pink that I can give directions to my apartment in my rudimentary Turkish. My pleasure is only slightly dimmed when this taksi driver doesn't offer to help me carry my groceries to my door (most of them do), but hey, I made it home, and that's what really matters.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This post brought to you by the children laughing and screaming at the park, who I can hear because I don't have my A/C on; it's finally starting to cool off.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6396650310223257953.post-28931808121976442772013-09-15T05:12:00.003-07:002013-09-15T05:18:54.276-07:00An Afternoon at the Spa<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So after a week of working hard and working out, I decided to treat myself to a massage at the Swissotel spa. I'd enjoyed a massage there soon after arriving in Turkey, so I felt safe going back to them again. Rather than tackling an appointment over the phone, I dropped by to make the appointment in person. I lucked out and was able to get a one-hour Balinese massage that very afternoon; my massage therapist would be the same one I had before, a very nice Balinese woman named Waya. </span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Although my session wouldn't be for an hour and half, the massage "experience" includes the sauna, steam room, hammam, various showers, and a relaxation room. I had plenty of time to try it all - again. Last time, I tested these luxuries out with Andrea, and I don't know about her, but I felt like a little kid playing at being an adult. This time would be better, very relaxing and enjoyable because now I'm familiar with the equipment, procedures, dress code...</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The staff at the spa - the entire Swissotel, really - are all incredibly professional, polite, and kind. The woman from the service desk showed me into the ladies changing room and instructed me in using the locker and the facilities, and provided me a robe and rubbery/plastic-y sandals. I changed in a little changing room, rather than out in the open, and discovered my robe, which fit me nicely, had no belt. No problem. I locked up my clothes and sundries in my locker - lucky number 13* - and went to find another very nice staff member, who gave me a new robe, complete with belt. This robe, of course, was more suited to the typical Turkish spa-goer, that is to say model-thin, and not at all suitable for a grown woman with, shall we say, child-bearing hips. I was in serious danger of flashing my crotch to the room. Five minutes into my spa experience and the robe business was beginning to damage my calm.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Well, we're all girls here, and many of the women, while not buck-naked, were flashing a whole hell of a lot. Settle down, Sacha. You're a adult among sisters. Deep breath. Read the instructions for using the rooms. Reading instructions is always re-centering, the translations are amusing, and your well-covered back will be to everyone else.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">So, the instructions say to take a shower before using the sauna or steam room. I'll try the Adventure Shower! I step in, slip the robe off, and snake my arm out the door to hang up my robe. And then snake my arm out again to slip my underwear into the robe pocket.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">There are three buttons: Mist, Caribbean Forest, and Atlantic Ocean. I start with "Mist" - that sounds gentle and refreshing. I push the button, the lights dim, and I am deluged with ice cold water. Holy *&^%! That was not expected, and not particularly nice. "Caribbean Forest" has to be warmer, at least. I push the button, the lights turn foresty green, and a gentle mist descends from the ceiling. This is good! I like this! The lights change again, and the chamber echoes with the screeches of agitated monkeys. I feel a little...unsettled...I don't care for monkeys...and I am deluged with buckets of ice cold water. F&*k! Yeah, this is an adventure. "Atlantic Ocean" can't be worse. While I'm already standing here naked, cold, and soaked, I might as well give it a try. I push the button, the lights change to an oceanic blue, the chamber roars with the ocean as heard from inside a diving bell in a tsunami, and again ice cold water buckets from the ceiling.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Feeling more like a disgraced dog banished to the back yard in a storm than a sophisticated spa patron, I shrug into my robe, slouch out of the shower, and shiver over to the sauna. My last sauna experience was rather abbreviated; I didn't like the hot metallic air singeing my nostril hairs. Today, the sauna is mercifully empty and the temperature somewhat south of Saharan. I flip the sand-timer so I can have a visual gauge of how long I've been in here and settle onto the wooden bench. I'm actually enjoying the heat after my shower adventures, and the music piped in - bells that make me think of a Buddhist or Zen monastery, although I've never been to one - is relaxing. I feel like I can handle a sauna, at least, when a couple of Turkish women come in. They smile and wave, strip to the waist and settle onto the benches chattering away. Calm again damaged. I smile, looking firmly at faces, and slip out of the sauna, flashing them, I've no doubt, because I loosened my death grip on my robe in my efforts to open the door. Humph. </span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I check the time in the locker room, since there are no clocks in the relaxation areas. (How am I supposed to relax with a deadline but no timepieces or alarms?) 15 minutes have passed. Seriously? I have about an hour left, and I've already tried out all three Adventure Shower settings and the sauna...</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I hear the traditional Turkish hammam experience is supposed to take about half an hour, and I have plenty of time for that, so I go to that room next. I wish I had a camera to show you that room - I love it, well at least the ceiling. The ceiling is curved and starred with color-changing fiber optic lights. I would love a ceiling like that. The fixtures are marble: a large oval knee-high table in the center of the room, a marble bench curved around three walls, with four brass faucets arched over marble basins, beautiful brass or copper bowls resting on each. The fixtures are a mystery, and will remain so for now. No one came in to take charge of the hammam, so I will schedule a session for myself sometime.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I head into the steam room. Again, it's mercifully empty, so I settle onto a tiled bench and try to enjoy the heat, sticky humidity, air too thick to breath, hot water dripping from the ceiling in large splats onto my head and down my collar. This is not relaxing... I try to spend a reasonable amount in time in here, in case anyone observed me entering, but I leave within what was probably two minutes or less. I take a seat on a bench in an alcove and wave to the two Chatty Cathys from the sauna, now cooling themselves down with handfuls of shaved ice from the most elegant ice maker I've ever seen.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">With 45 minutes still to kill, I next try out the Swiss Shower; after all, the instructions said to shower after the sauna or steam room, and I'm now covered in sweat again from the steam room. The Swiss Shower has no buttons, colored lights, or music. This chamber is equipped with three large knobs, a huge shower head on the ceiling, six shower heads arrayed on the walls to attack the bather from all sides, and a shower head on a flexible hose. I'm leery of that ceiling showerhead, and huddle next to the knobs on the wall. I don't want another ice bath, so I figure I'll get the temperature right on the hand-held shower head first. I think I spent 20 minutes fiddling with those three knobs before I got water where I wanted, at a temperature I liked. The Swiss Shower is (eventually) nice, and I highly recommend it. Once I'm ready to leave with my robe back on, I can hear the other ladies wanting to use the shower. I drop the soap six times before I finally step out, wave gracefully, and go to check the time again. Yes! Only 15 minutes left!</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I try out the Relaxation Room next. The room is a nice temperature, dimly lit, with four chaise-lounge style chairs. There's a towel on some chairs where one's feet go - indeed, each towel has a cute little picture of feet. Am I supposed to pick up a towel from somewhere? I don't see any. I grab a towel from outside the room, and it's actually some sort of body or hair wrap towel, with elastic and Velcro. There's no attendant in sight... I can't even get a Relaxation Room right. </span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This whole spa experience thing really isn't terribly relaxing, and I'm seriously in need of a massage to get rid of the tension all of this relaxing has built up in my shoulders. The Balinese massage itself was wonderful; well, aside from the special disposable massage underwear the masseuse has me wear. That was...uncomfortable. Not a fan of butt floss. I am, at last, relaxed. I enjoy a second Swiss shower to remove all of the massage oil, hang out in the Relaxation Room again </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">and discover I can't re-open my locker. I swear I know my passcode, it was only four digits. So with my locker sounding an alarm like a siren and no attendants in sight, I head into the lobby with my crotch-flashing robe to find help. Because I want to leave now, thank you. I'm all relaxed out, and I really just want to head into the streets of Izmir, 4 million people strong. I want to ride the ESHOT bus with 37 sitting passengers and 108 standing passengers, all of them sweating as much as I do in our lovely Aegean weather and half of them coughing the next plague. I want to shove my way through my fellow passengers to the bus exit, and Frogger my way from the bus stop across the street with no crosswalks. So thank you, yes, I'll sign the form indicating I'm an idiot who can't figure out a locker so I can get my clothes back.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This blog brought to you by Mumford and Sons, particularly Little Lion Man, which my neighbors must all know the words to by now.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04177318678661210358noreply@blogger.com0