Acculturation

My ten months in Turkey are over. After many glasses of tea, cups of coffee, and delicious meals, I watched Konya disappear from an airplane window.

My Turkish hosts remain to be some of the kindest and most generous people I have had the pleasure of being around. Authentic Turkish food is incomparable to the bland kebabs we find in the US. Unfortunately, I had the displeasure of trying US kebabs in Chicago last week...very sad.

While I leapt into my husband's arms at the airport in New Orleans with relish, I do not regret the ten months I was away from home.

Thanks for reading my little essays. It was a great way to reach my experiences across the pond.

Now my adventures in the US can begin!

Where the archaeologists go

When I was a senior in college, I wrote a paper on fertility goddesses in the Mediterranean. One of the goddesses I studied was from 9,000-year-old Catal Huyuk.

When I was assigned to Konya, I was thrilled to learn that this Neolithic site was nearby. However, I could not find anyone to take me to the site. No buses go there and a taxi ride is outrageous.

In the summer, the archaeologis

ts leave their dusty offices at far-flung universities around the world and camp out at their favorite sites. It is perfect time to visit these sites to see how they work.

Two friends and I tagged along with a bus full of elementary school teachers and followed them to the site outside of Konya.

Catal Huyuk is a mound hiding layers of civilization. In fact, Catal Huyuk is the oldest settlement found on earth. They think that at one time 8,000 people lived here.

A Turkish archaeologist led the tour and walked us through several excavations being led by several universities.

The houses they have foun

d have no windows and no doors which leads researchers to believe that everyone entered and exited through a hole in the roof. The inhabitants painted their walls with vultures and leopards and well as their own hand prints. Catal Huyuk is also special because it is the oldest civilization to revere women. Many "fertility goddesses" were found at the site with huge breasts, thighs, and hips. As far as the researchers can tell, women and men held equal status in this settlement.

One of the night guards related to my friend that groups of foreign women had snuck into the site late at night to dance naked on the mound. Obviously, this place has a power over people.

The most amazing experience for me was walking on the mound that had not been unearthed yet. What treasures are below?

After the tour, we enjoyed a great lunch sponsored by Shell. In fact, everything was sponsored by Shell including the free baseball caps we were given. I'm glad that someone else besides us nerds care about the place.

Our researcher friend waited for the tour bus to leave and invited us behind the scenes to the bunk house. My buddies chain smoked while I looked around at the Spartan accommodations with thin foam mattresses and leaky toilets. Sitting on benches in crisp cargo pants and catchy t-shirts sat my smiling colleagues from 10 years ago. All of the laborers were college students from Australia, Poland, and the US. I remember the allure of the dig and how students had to pay to work with researchers. They were so excited to be a part of something important. Our archaeologist friend gave us beers and I relished every drop.

A Sun Rise with Ancient Kings and Queens

Among the mountains on the Malatya Range, one stands alone with its man-made peak of gravel. Mount Nimrut graces all the guide books and tourism ads. Monumental heads of eagles, lions, royalty, and tourists stare unblinking at the rising and setting sun.
We climbed into a cramped Volkswagen at midnight to join two Austrians and our Turkish guide to climb the peak. Even though our driver didn't know a lick of English, we knew it was going to be awesome. Four hours later, we were beating the sun which was beginning to creep out from under the mountains. We scrambled up the gravel peak to meet about twenty mostly Turkish tourists waiting with their bodies facing the east. The statues, whose huge heads had rolled off their bodies long ago, sat in gray light waiting like the rest of us. There was King Antiochus and his attendants: his queen, a couple of eagles and lions. The enormous gravel peak is thought to be a giant tumulus tomb for the king. Due to the precarious nature of the peak, no one has been able to see what is really underneath. A few careful digs have not found much; its a virtual Turkish pyramid full of mystery.
As the sun rose, we all became giddy with the orange light shedding around us. The cracked stone statues glowed and the monument was magical.
On the western terrace of the mountain, matching statues waited patiently for the sun to fall again.

Baklava King of Turkey

Questioning any Turk on the best food in Turkey, they will all give the same answer: Gaziantep. This mammoth city near the Syrian border is nestled in orchards of rosy pink pistachio trees and golden fields of wheat.

My Third Pilgrimage

My buddy and I crept west along the Syrian border and were stunned by the people on the bus with us. Dark-skinned women with gold nose rings and old men with scarves twirled around their heads. Outside the windows, the wheat fields were being harvested by hand scythes.
Sanliurfa won the prefix Sanli- (glorious) by defending the French from annexing their city into Syria. But glorious Urfa has plenty of treasures which also help earn the name.
Abraham, the prophet accepted by Judaism, Christianity, and Islam was born in Urfa. The legend is that his mother hid in a cave while all the other boy babies were being slain by a jealous King Nimrod. After he was found, he was slingshot across the the city to be burned by a fire that he landed in. Lucky for Abraham, he landed in a pool of water in which the firewood had been turned to fish. The sacred fish pond is full of fat and pampered carp. The slingshot is represented by two columns on top of the citadel. With Antioch and Ephesus, this marks my third Christian pilgrimage in Turkey!
Sure, Urfa has a huge castle and Abraham's sacred cave, but the most amazing thing about Urfa is the people. Everywhere, men and women of all ages wear lavender headscarves. Some of them drape down their backs and other curl around their heads in a turban. The women wear long dresses that are topped with heavy wool cloaks. Sometimes the cloak is tossed like a toga or belted in the middle.
One tradition that may not last much longer in Urfa is tattooing. Using natural dyes, parents used to tattoo their baby's forehead and mouth with numbers, weapons, or animals to protect them. I was thrilled to see a few tattoos on some older women's faces.
The local bazaar in Urfa sells local tobacco that comes in three varieties. A handsome local tobacco seller explained it all to me over some tea. Urfa is so hot during the day that nighttime is the only opportunity to relax and recover from hours of sweating under shade trees. Urfa comes alive at night with most restaurants not opening until 7 or 8. All over the city, rooftops ring with drums and Arabic flutes. They dance in a line together with men holding up a white handkerchief above their heads.

Falling off the map

There was one more place in Turkey that I had to visit before my ten months is up. Who has not dreamed of looking on the fields of Mesopotamia? Who doesn't want to stand on land that has been cultivated and cherished for thousands of years?
My Turkish friends were worried about me. Upper Mesopotamia in Southern Turkey is Kurdistan. People have been killed or kidnapped as recently as 5-6 years ago. However, I have the benefit of not being Turk. Honestly, I wanted to see what all this business about Kurds and the PKK was about.
Our first stop was Mardin, perched up on a rocky cliff topped with an ancient citadel still monitored by the military. From the city, endless fields of wheat stretched all the way to Syria. After living in Arizona, I never thought I would feel the suffocating heat of the a Sonoran summer again, but Mardin was at least 100 degrees. As the sun fell, children flew kites and tied them to their houses. The homemade toys competed with diving swallows.
The soft stone allows for gorgeous carved walls and doors. The local people bang on copper pots all day creating beautiful bowls and plates. Of course, Mardin is famous for the Shameran legend of the half-woman, half-snake.
All I heard was Kurdish, which resembles Arabic. When I did hear Turkish, the words were dragged out like a Texas drawl. We were visiting a shop famous for their Shameran painting when a beautiful young Kurdish woman walked in. Her t-shirt and jeans were crowned with a long strand of 24-carat gold. Her earrings and bracelets matched. I knew that she was decked out in her wedding gear. She and the shop owner had been married for four days. I have never felt so white in my life.

How You Know You are Wrong

Turks love to have guests and be guests. Because hospitality is entrenched in their culture...where the first word you hear from a stranger's mouth is "hos geldiniz!" (welcome), it is intimidating to host Turks in your own house. Dinner at a Turk's house is long and theatrical from soup to nuts...literally! Hours pass after the food has been eaten and you are still drinking tea, or Turkish coffee, or coke. They will even offer you to sleep at their house.
My colleagues started to drop hints like, "I've never seen the inside of your building," or "Do you ever have people in your house?" I realized I had to bite the bullet and have a party.
After the success of our English conference, I owed it to the committee to have them over. What can I make? A pot luck? A huge vat of chili? Turkish food? I decided to make a dessert party with pumpkin pie and zucchini bread. It was American food, so I had control.
My guests arrived and brought their own slippers to wear. They expected me not to have slippers for them, which was correct. They brought me a bottle of wine (shocker!) and a heavy box of baklava.
We settled down and started to sample the pie and cake. They were very impressed with my cooking. I started to relax. "Who wants tea?" I boiled the water, poured an ample amount of loose tea into a teapot and filled it up. I waited awhile and started filling cups.
Suddenly it hit me. My god! Who is crazy enough to serve tea to Turks????
As they sipped the weak tea, one guest asked, "How do you make tea in America. I'm curious."
I knew that I had ruined it. My tea was not the color of rabbit's blood. It was not burning hot and it had leaves floating in it.
"Let's make some more tea and maybe you can show me how." She marched into the kitchen and went to work. "There must be two pots boiling: one for tea and one for water. You have to keep the water one hot all the time. After serving some tea, you make more water."
We made the tea and one guest commented, "This time it's hot."

Martyrdom for a Good Cause

I took the plunge. I wrestled up all the rest of my program grant and threw it into a English Language Teaching Conference.
"Conference" seems to be a magic word in Konya. As soon as I uttered it, all the coldness, gossip, and xenophobia gave rise to a small and devoted committee. Teachers who had never said more than "merhaba" to me were excited to jump in and take responsibilities for the conference.
We had a program, 12 speakers, free lunch, and 50 participants...which soon grew to 100.
Three months ago, I was reserving classrooms and finding speakers. On Saturday, I walked into the university with a suit and a fancy name tag. It was my wedding day all over again. I looked great, but what horrible calamities were waiting for me?
First, our reserved rooms were full of students and no one had checked the projectors in each room. We made quick adjustments and were back on top.
Our guests began to arrive and we scuttled to help them find the building and register...each with a meal ticket and raffle ticket. Of course, no one understood what a raffle was, but they knew that the ticket was very important.
The plenary speaker arrived in grand fashion complimenting the hotel room we booked and slyly slipped me the bill for her car's gasoline. Her speech went off without a hitch.
Next came the concurrent sessions. I waited for reports from student volunteers of failed projectors or no-show speakers. All I heard was silence. All the participants were earnestly listening to first speeches.
My next worry was lunch. Did the restaurant remember to make the food? Did they have enough tables? Would we be able to finish in one hour? The wedding reception is a prime opportunity for something to go wrong.
I walked into the cafe to find bustling waiters passing out Konya's speciality, etliekmek, to long tables of chatting teachers. I sat down myself to a full hot meal with complimentary tea!
After filling our bellies, I began to relax that everything was going to work out. I started to consider my own presentation which was slated to begin during the last session of the conference. I turned on my computer and hooked it up to an empty projector. To my chagrin, I realized that an adjustment a helpful student had made to my monitor settings barred my presentation from appearing on the wall. Transferring my presentation to another computer was not an option since the computer itself had software I wanted to showcase.
Three student assistants worked on it for an hour. I announced to them "I will have to cancel my talk." They were steadfast and insisted that it would happen. Minutes before my slot, we had a breakthrough and the projector worked. I moved to my room and waited for the room to fill.
My presentation began well and I was able to manipulate through the media and the projector. Five minutes in, I noticed that the light on my power cord was not lit. I whispered to a student volunteer, "I need power. This outlet is dead. Please get an extension cord." He ran and got one but the light did not turn on. I kept talking...waiting for my laptop to run out of power. Then, the assistant went looking for power cords to replace mine. Here I am trying to speak without using my computer at all.
Just as the student volunteer was plugging in a new cord, the computer died and rebooted itself. Trying to keep my cool in front of an audience of invited speakers and colleagues I joked, "I'm glad this is happening to me and not to any of you." It was true. My ancient laptop had already been through two power cords in Turkey. It was purely coincidence that it decided to murder another power cord during my presentation. As I finally wrapped up my presentation having bypassed examples and colorful explanations, I asked, "Do you have any questions?" Not a sound in the room.
The raffle was a hit and lots of participants received free textbooks from the State Department and Macmillan Publishing. The conference committee was thrilled with the results and started calling it "The First Annual Voices of Experience Conference" to my pleasure.

Magic

Mom, Dad, and Liz came to visit me for two weeks on a whirlwind tour that included Istanbul, Izmir, Pamukkale, Cappadocia, and lots of buses.
They were lucky to get off the beaten path and see how Turks really live outside of the tourist traps and rug shops. Real Turks are limitlessly generous and kind.
Before they left, Mom and Dad were given an article about a restaurant in Istanbul from the New York Times. We were determined to find this place and embarked on an adventure that required a breezy ferry ride across the Bosphorus. We wandered around a residential area but could find no indication of where the restaurant was on the maps we had. Dad decided to get a haircut and we rested inside a barber shop. Inside we met the barber, Mustafa. Along with him was a 12-year-old apprentice who was meticulously watching Dad's haircut behind thick glasses. His father sat nearby admiring his son's education. We finally broke down and asked the father if he knew where the restaurant was. He told us it was a delicious place, but we needed a taxi. I asked for more detailed directions and he simply said that he would help us after the haircut.
Soon thereafter, a taxi arrived. Mom, Liz, and I piled into the backseat and Dad got in the front. Our helper started talking to the taxi driver who didn't know where the restaurant was. To our surprise, the Turk pushed Dad over and climbed into the front seat with him. We were on our way. We were dumbfounded as the Turk traveled several blocks away, attempted to pay for the taxi and jumped out to lead us to the restaurant. We winded through alleys and crowds to reach the cafe. We never would have found the place alone. After we found it, he simply said "Afiyet Olsun" (bon appetit) and left us in shock.

The Inadvertent City Tour

I had an afternoon free to be a tourist. With my handy dogeared guidebook in tow (I highly recommend Fodor's), I decided to see the last few sights of Konya I had missed. There is the 13th century mosque in the center of town, the mosque full of a forest of Roman columns unearthed from ancient temples, and a seminary that had been made into an archaeological museum. My Fodor's had directions on how to get there and detailed descriptions of the artifacts inside each.
I stood on the sidewalk and watched one-two-three-four! minibuses pass me by without stopping. Fuming, I walked to the city bus stop merely thirty feet away. Soon a big red city bus stopped and all of us climbed onboard. I smiled at my genius and laughed at those still waiting for the minibus. I took the last seat in the back.
The bus started along my street passing familiar sites. Suddenly, the bus took a sharp left...straying from my familiar route. I didn't panic but thought "it will turn back around soon." But, it didn't. Without the sweet release of a red light, the bus kept turning taking me furhter away from my stomping grounds. There were tunnels and overpasses, hypermarkets and primary schools. Pretending to know what was happening, I kept my eyes glued to the window to find landmarks: the highrise shopping mall, the two sleeping volcanoes, the tram tracks. Soon, I had lost my sense of direction and all of my landmarks were hidden by thousands of pastel-colored apartment buildings. If I got off the bus now, I would never know how to get home. I decided to stay on the bus until it completed the route and started the circuit again taking me back to my apartment.
After thirty minutes, I was getting deeper and deeper into unknown territory. More and more people got off the bus wandering off to strange markets and parks. Finally the last man got off the bus. To my horror, the bus driver looked in the rear view mirror and asked me "Where are you going?"
Embarrassed, I ran up to the front of the bus and mumbled in broken Turkish "I want a different bus." Apparently, his shift was over and he was taking the bus back to the garage. He forced me off the bus and told me to wait for bus #53.
There I was standing on the sidewalk with about six rough-looking suburbanites waiting for a bus that I had never been on before. I didn't have enough money for a taxi and there weren't any around anyway. I waited patiently and another red bus took us all on another city tour.
This time, the bus arrived at the city center where all the ancient mosques and museums are. Unfortunately, I left my Fodor's on the bus.

Successful Survival

Anyone can bumble their way around a foreign country: buying dinner, shopping in a supermarket, or going to the movie theater. A successful ex-patriot can buy vegetables at the outdoor market or ask and understand directions.
I consider myself successful by returning an unwanted item to a computer store AND for paying a speeding ticket.
Jon and I were anxious to get back to Konya from Antakya last week. The speed limit was painted on the road and we did not see it. An officer standing near a parked police car, waved us over to the side of the road marked with tiny orange cones.
Usually if you are too much trouble, an international cop may not put up with you; however, my pretending not to understand him did not work. He wrote out a speeding ticket for driving 5 km over the limit. Preposterous!
The fine was obscene. Given the scant amount of information the cop knew about us, "home address: America," we were going to forget about it. But, since the ticket had the rental car's address on it, we feared retribution from Avis and decided to pay it.
Instead of wimping out and asking a friend to escort me to the office and translate everything for me, I opted to figure it out alone. I was also extremely embarrassed to have the ticket at all.
At City Hall, I asked two security guards where to pay my ticket.
On the second floor of the building, a haggard man with three empty tea glasses next to him typed something into a computer and wrote on my ticket. He sent me downstairs to wait in line with about fifteen rough-looking men. When I reached the front of the line, a second man behind glass typed the information into a computer and passed a new piece of paper through a slot to another guy behind glass.
This third gentleman typed more information into another computer and took my money.
Counting my neighbor, the security guard at my apartment, and a colleague at the university,
I only had to deal with seven people for help, but I paid it all by myself...without any English. That is amazing.

Jon's Trip to the Barber

In a country where many women cover their long dark hair in a headscarf, women's hair salons are infrequent. However, barber shops are a huge business. Men pay a lot of attention to their hairstyles. Many of my students proudly wear the Turkish fauxhawk (a fake mohawk). This spiky hairdo is also called the Apache.

Passing by the many barber shops downtown, I have watched shaves with a straight razor, face masks, and meticulous attention to hairspraying a perfect spiky hairstyle. Each shop has its own drying rack full of handtowels drying on the doorstep.
When Jon arrived in Konya and needed a haircut, I found my opportunity to enter into the man's world of Turkish barber shops.

My Turkish pal took us to his friend's shop at around 8 p.m. The place was full of patrons. The shop looked like the old style barber shops we see in the US with the spinning red, white, and blue pole gracing the front.

Jon climbed into a chair and was draped in a cape. Mustafa, the barber immediately started snipping with his sharp scissors all around Jon's head, spending maybe 25 minutes meticulously shaping every angle of his head. All the while I was trying to translate the "boy talk" that was floating around the room to Jon. Then the barber said "go ahead" in Turkish. I couldn't understand what he wanted until they pushed Jon's head forward into a sink where they washed his hair. There was more cutting and arranging by Mustafa. I had become immersed in eavesdropping on the conversations around me until I heard Jon say, "Oh, this is going to be something. Get the camera ready." Lo and behold, Mustafa was lighting a Q-tip on fire. Mustafa then expertly applied the flaming swab to Jon's ears, burning away all the tiny hairs.

Jon was a patient customer who got one heck of a great haircut. My friend insisting on paying for the cut and dinner afterward.

The Volcanic Blessing

Jon and I have struggled during my time abroad. What we thought would be a fabulous adventure with exotic rendezvous is in reality hurried Skype conversations at odd hours with lots of sighing on the phone. To keep ourselves sane, we set up an elaborate plan to see each other. Jon traveled to Turkey in November for a week; I met him in London in December; I went to Louisiana in February; and he came here last week. These week-long meetings have been stuffed with frantic trips, hotel stays, night clubs, Mardi Gras parades, and fancy dinners.

I was upset that his last visit to Turkey would be for only five days: long layovers and overnight stays in Istanbul totaled seven days. To capitalize on our time together, I made hurried reservations for a trip to Antakya, otherwise known as Antioch. He arrived in Konya and we sped off to the Syrian border for two days of sea, sun, and delicious food including hummus! We saw the first Catholic church, founded in a natural cave by St. Peter himself. We peeked into cave tombs of early Christians, and we took a quick dip in the very cold Mediterranean Sea.

On the long drive back to Konya, my heart began to sink knowing that soon Jon would get back on a plane and leave me alone. We made some quick purchases for gifts at home and prepared to say goodbye again to each other. We celebrated our wedding anniversary early with a mediocre meal and an awesome whirling dervish ceremony. Packing Jon's suitcase, we took a quick check of the news. We learned that a dramatic volcanic eruption was taking place in Iceland and people were stranded in airports. As time passed, we put the suitcases aside and took more notice of what was developing. Sure enough, all of Jon's flights were canceled.
I could hardly hide my joy. Masallah!

Jon got a new ticket this morning for Sunday night but will have to stay in Konya for another week. After the initial shock and requisite calls to the employer and petsitter, we relaxed for the first time. We had no plans, no bus tickets, no hotel reservations. We took a long walk, got caught in the rain twice, and sat on benches together.

We are two very lucky people not only because of the strong connection we have to each other, but also because a freak volcano has given us an opportunity to be together. Our wedding anniversary is Wednesday and we will celebrate our three years of marriage together without Skype or email, but in person!

Segregation

The Modern Mosque

While Turkey is considered a secular nation with a strong democracy and a powerful financial market that continues to grow stronger and stronger, it is a Muslim nation with the rules and customs that come along with it.
First of all, there is not a shred of pork in this fair country. That means no bacon, no ham, and sadly, no sausage. While there is Turkish sausage, it pales in comparison to our delicious bratwurst, smoked links, and pepperoni.
The most prominent Muslim tradition rings out five times a day as every mosque in town issues a loud, long, and strong call to prayer. In Konya, nicknamed "the city of ten thousand mosques," the call to prayer is a mighty force. The muezzin, whose job is only to sing the call to prayer in Arabic, begins with the familiar "Allah akbar," praise to God. The muezzin encourages believers to come and pray and to carry out good deeds. The ezan can be seen as a concentrated summary of what Muslims believe. Each ezan mentions that Allah is the only God and that Mohammed is his prophet. The ezan can last from a few minutes to more than ten depending on the particular muezzin's style, the time of day, or the day of the week.

Despite what I assumed, most Muslims do not stop in their tracks and run to the nearest mosque when the ezan begins. Most people keep buying those socks, or drinking their tea. A good Muslim must pray five times a day before the sun goes down. They have all day to accomplish this. Nevertheless, the ezan is not unheeded. Recently I learned that during the ezan, people should uncross their legs. If you are in a cafe with the t.v. blaring, a server will turn down the volume while the ezan is heard. I must also observe this in my classroom. I wait until the muezzin has finished before I continue playing my listening exercises. As far as I can tell, lectures can continue without interruption.

When believers go to the mosque, they first perform ablutions by washing their feet, hands, and faces. Many also visit the toilet before entering. Women must cover their heads. They remove their shoes and take a place on the enormous carpet the fills the room. Each parishioner is facing the same direction, toward Mecca in Saudi Arabia.

The first ezan is at around five in the morning. That's right, every morning at five, there is an rousing cry that fills the city. During this ezan, there is a line that is translated as "prayer is better than sleep." The other four are throughout the day ending at around 8:00 in the evening. The last ezan is significant during Ramazan when it is the permission for Muslims to finally break their fast and enjoy an evening meal. The timing of the ezan depends on the sun and yes, there is an iphone application for that.

Friday is the holy day of week, and the 1:00 prayer is the most important one to attend. The ezan is long with lots of heady meditative pauses between phrases in the song. This ezan is often made by the imam himself, the Muslim preacher who presides over the prayers in the mosque.

The ezan is such a presence in Muslim culture that a popular music style arose from the wailing patterns of the call to prayer. Arabesque, using the vocal style of the ezan, focuses on love and is accompanied by lyres, drums, and maybe a guitar.

The ezan comes from the minarets of each mosque. Decades ago, the muezzin would climb up through the narrow spiral staircase to the top of the minaret and literally call from the balcony. If there is a mosque on every block, it was loud enough to fill the neighborhood. I have also heard that many muezzin were blind so that their view from the balcony would not intrude on anyone's privacy.

Nowadays, the ezan is amplified by a speaker system perched on the minarets. Usually, the individual muezzin from each mosque gives the ezan, but sometimes, the city itself creates a centralized broadcast for all the mosques in the city so that there is one call instead of a cacophony of many voices.