Turkish drags

Tonight, Rule and I were waiting for a cab when a car flashed its brights and pulled over. Two Turkish women with fake fingernails and shiny, blond hair started whispering sweet nothings to us. Rule found this rather flattering and - being a man - he smiled and silded up to the car.

That's when we noticed that these were no ordinary women. They were the ugliest drags in Istanbul. Rule's eyebrows shot up, a smile spread further across his face and he reached for his camera.

Great, I thought. It's 5 a.m., we're in the middle of a random Turkish street and Rule is crouched next to a car, arm extended, trying to get a shot with two queens. (When did life become so strange?)

That's when another cab showed up and - thinking he had gotten the picture - I told Rule I would let him get kidnapped by the drags if he didn't come.

We hopped in the back of the cab and Rule said, "Damn. I really missed a great picture for your blog."

"Oh no," I said. "You didn't get it?"

"No, I blew it. Really blew it."

Now it's 5:45 a.m., the morning call to prayer has just finished and I'm worried I may never see a Turkish drag queen again.

Scammed

My friend Michael was scammed. It's a scam that's popular in many countries, it targets men and it worked like this:

Michael was hanging out by himself in a touristy neighborhood when a polite, well-dressed guy approached him and said, "Hey, are you new to Istanbul?"

The guy seemed sincere and Mike is generally a good judge of character. The guy said he was from out-of-town, wouldn’t it be fun to adventure around a bit? Mike said sure.

They went to bar that the guy chose and sat down for a few drinks. A few of the guy’s friends showed up- at least one guy and two women. Everyone had a few drinks and did a little dancing. When the bill came, it totaled 700 Euros. That’s when the guy stopped smiling and said, “Alright, my friend, now you pay the bill.”

Mike didn’t have the money. “No problem,” the guy said. “We’ll go to your house and get it.”

They somehow threatened Mike (I didn’t ask details). They took Mike to his apartment. There, they copied his credit card numbers and took a copy of his passport (to get his home address in Germany). The next day, a charge for 700 Euros showed up on Mike’s card.

Why not block the card? The guy knew Mike’s address in Turkey and Germany.

How do you rack up a bill for 700 Euros (about $1,000) in Turkey? You don’t, the restaurant is in on the scam.

Why target guys? Most women wouldn’t trust a random man. It’s also easier to distract guys by having beautiful women “randomly” show up at the bar, which happened in this case.

Where else is this scam popular? Greece, Italy and Spain.

Pretty upsetting stuff. Thought I should still share. In other news, the throbbing in my head has lessened and I should be walking sans limp very soon.

Don't Run in Heels in Turkey

Just as my voice starting coming back, I fell - more like dove - on the busiest street in my neighborhood. Now I'm raspy, scraped and limping. Smooth.

I was going to a restaurant to meet the Dutch guys for manti. Manti is mini-ravioli topped with yogurt and tomato sauce and sprinkled with chili powder and mint. I eat it as often as possible.

On the way to the restaurant, I realized I was running a little late and decided to do the girl-jog (taking long steps while hopping on the ball of one's feet). For a short while, I kind of looked like I was in a shampoo commercial - deftly maneuvering through a crowd of people. At an intersection, I realized a cab was about to hit me, so I picked up the pace. Heels and cobblestone just don't mix and before I knew it, I was laying face-down on the sidewalk.

"Dsdofiu sdfou," a couple running over said. "Wlsjfd osdifue sdfoiuer."

"Tamam, tamam," I said, trying to hold back tears and wiping silt off my face. "I'm okay."

My knuckles were bleeding. My knees and elbows managed to get scraped through my jeans and leather coat. As I sit writing this, I realize that I even managed to bruise the left side of my head.

When I showed up at the restaurant, the waiters gave me that Uh-oh-what-happened- here look and brought over an ice bag, a band-aid and a handful of toilettes to clean the scrapes. The Dutchies wiped my knuckles and emphasized that I should see the bright side... "Shannon, at least the skin is still there," Wow said.

Yeah, Wow, it's still there. It's just that now I look less like a shampoo model and more like a 4-year-old boy who lost a fight in the sandbox. Ouch.

Singing in the rain

Emrah, a Turkish guy with a thing for GunsNRoses, went with me to a nearby neighborhood to get a waffle yesterday. The neighborhood, called Bebek, sits on the coast at the bottom of a very steep hill.

As I sat munching on my banana/strawberry/nutella waffle, it started to drizzle, then rain then pour. Within in 20 minutes, water was rushing downhill and flooding the boutique shops and fancy restaurants that line Bebek. Cars were sloshing through a foot of muddy water, shop owners were cursing the sky and women wearing designer suits suddenly looked like wet poodles.

Within 20 minutes, water had flooded our waffle shop and cut the electricity. The problem is, there are curbs from the road to the sidewalk in Turkey, but a shop is typically on a lower level than a sidewalk. (You step up to get from the street to the sidewalk, you step down to get in the store). Once the water floods the curb, it's in the shop.

At first, the shop owners were calmly squeegee-ing the floors to get the water out, but by 1 they had given up. They gave me a small stool to prop my feet on and Emrah started telling stories about Noah, who, incidently, built his ark in modern-day Turkey.

Once the rain let up, Emrah and I left the store to go home. Walking was faster than taking a cab, so we trudged up the hills from Bebek and I introduced him to "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head" (not his favorite) and he taught me about a million GunsNRoses songs.

Today, I have no voice. Here are some camera-phone pics.

The street outside the shop.

Singing in the rain.

Squeegee-ing the floors.

Me, worried that we will need to build an ark, and Emrah, working on looking cool.

Today I made him blush

In Turkish class today, we learned some terms related to driving (drive, honk, traffic, damn the traffic, drivers license). As usual, I didn't understand most of what was going on, but at one point Erdan pulled out his license to show the class. I perked up and asked if I could "Lutfen (please) see it." Silly Erdan. He probably thought I had a genuine curiosity about Turkish licenses and, without pausing, he handed it over.

That's when I started a little fact hunt: How old is Erdan anyway? How much does he weigh? Are his eyes really that blue? Contacts? Was one of his teeth always coffee stained, or was this a recent thing?

The payoff was better than I imagined.

"Erdan! Erdan!" I said, interrupting him as he was getting ready to right on the board, "Senin birthday yarin!"

Roughly translated: Your birthday tomorrow. The man is turning 36 in a few short hours.

At this point, the class did a collective "Ahhh!" and burst into the Greek, German and Italian versions of Happy Birthday (no Hebrew version, bummer). I was glowing with pride over my mini-discovery when Carlo said, "In America, they sing it like Marilyn Monroe."

On cue, I started to give a rather breathy rendition of Happy Birthday, but had to stop after the first line as Erdan's face went from pink to red to kinda purple. Poor guy.

Tomorrow, Aysa will bring in cake. In the meantime, we all agreed to learn Happy Birthday - this time in Turkish, no breathiness - and have it ready for class.

The Funny Dutchmen

These are some photos, courtesy of Rule, from my night of going Dutch.

Wow, left. Rule, right. Playing Tavla. For the record, I beat Rule in Tavla two times tonight. When I beat him the second time, a Turkish guy sitting next to us said, "She may be beating you here, but don't worry. This much luck in Tavla means she sleeps alone tonight." I lost the next game.

Me saying Koochie-koochie-koo to the littlest kebap in Istanbul.

Holland's best and brightest. (Wow left, Rule right)

A photo from one of the most expensive restaurants in Turkey, TGI Fridays. I'm serious.

The story of Begum and Danny Pee Pee

This is my roommate Begum (bay-goom) and her boyfriend Gokcen (gurk-jen - it's a tough one, story to follow). I especially like this photo because Feyza's friend Deniz - the little person bouncing in the background - kept trying desperately to get in the picture.

Begum and Gokcen have been dating for a year and a half. I usually find that in a relationship, there's the nice one and the less-nice/mean one (Yes, this is true in my own relationship. Even if you're thinking it- don't say it). With Beegie and Gokcen, they're both nice. One time, Gokcen said shut your mouth to Begum (he has since apologized) and one time Begum made fun of Gokcen's belly fat (she has not) but other than that there's not a negative word between them.



A little story about the evolution Gokcen's name:

Feyza's Spanish boyfriend Juan came to visit two weeks ago. Juan had trouble saying every Turkish word except 'Feyza'. One night, Juan, Feyza and I were in a car having a little conversation when Juan said, "And what about that Jem-Chook guy? Where's he going?" Feyza and I looked at Juan like, "Who in God's name are you talking about?" Juan repeated the question, this time implying that he was talking about Gokcen (Gurk-jen). Feyza started laughing so hard, she nearly had to pull the car over. Come to find out, Jem-Chook actually means something in Turkish. Jem (written phoenetically for English speakers) is a common Turkish name for boys, like Danny or Joey. Chook (again, phoenetically written) means pee-pee, as in what little boys call their little friend.

Today, nearly all of Gokcen and Begum's friends have heard the Danny Pee-Pee story and - like most nicknames you never asked for - this one has stuck. So to whomever comes to visit, if you meet Gokcen and if you have trouble remembering his name- don't worry. You can also say Jem-Chook or Danny Pee Pee and, because he's a nice guy, Gokcen will turn around.

Nicole = Kostas = haircuts

My friend Nicole has been traveling around the world for the past year. When I say "around the world," I don't mean a quick stop in Asia then Europe then back home. Nic started in Indonesia, ventured through Southeast Asia, India and the Middle East. Then she flew to South Africa and worked her way through Namibia, Kenya, Congo and Egypt, to name a few.

Nic has worked to re-build towns damaged by the tsunami, she has helped deliver a few babies, she has ventured through war-torn countries and she has watched endangered gorillas play in a jungle.

Two months ago, Nic was somewhere around the Mediterranean when she met a Greek guy named Kostas who lives in Istanbul. She introduced me to Kostas via e-mail and the other night, the two of us decided to meet.

Now maybe this is because Kostas and I are strange people, or maybe it's because we're just practical, but within minutes of knowing each other, we decided to get haircuts. No joke. He picked me up at 7:30 and by 8:00, my head was in a sink and a man wearing very strong cologne was saying things about my hair that I will never know.

Something interesting about haircuts in Turkey- instead of using clips to hold up the shorter layers while the longer layers are getting trimmed, Turkish hairdressers have apprentices hold your hair. As some of you may have noticed, I've got a lot of hair. Mid-cut, I had two guys holding chunks of my hair and one guy inspecting and snipping the dead ends. The blow-drying process was especially interesting. One guy used the comb and another guy angled the blow-dryer just-so and ran it down the length of my hair. Since I can never manage to hold a brush and blow-dryer without tangling my arms and my hair, I thought this was quite clever.

Kostas' haircut took a little longer than mine, so I watched and waited. Afterward we politely sipped tea with the shop owner. Then Kostas was handed the bill for both trims ("Can you believe that? They didn't even think that you might want to pay for your haircut!" he said, laughing). When it came time to leave, the owner said he was very happy that A. I have such nice hair and that B. I'm so pretty. I think he was trying to keep it simple as my Turkish isn't exactly conversant.

Kostas and I then left the hairdressers, went to a tango bar, met with a friend of his, grabbed some kepabs and chatted about our crazy friend, Nic. Near the end of the night, he told Nic's favorite joke, which goes like this:

Why do Greeks know Jesus was Greek?
1. He thought his mom was a virgin, 2. She considered him God, 3. He went into his father's business and 4. He lived at home into his 30s.

Here's a picture of my new haircut:

About a bowl

Tobias (the boyfriend) came to visit last week. Technically, Toby should be living in Istanbul, not visiting Istanbul, but let's save that happy topic for another day.

Toby came for the weekend, and together we walked around the old part of the city. We toured the Blue Mosque where they velcroed a long, blue skirt around me and gave me a headscarf at the door. We saw Aya Sofia, once a gem of Christianity, later a mosque and today a magnificent museum. We sampled Turkish wines, indulged in Turkish breakfasts and took a trip to Asia. Perhaps the best thing we did was visit Kapalı Çarşı, or The Grand Bazaar.

The bazaar's among the oldest malls in the world. It was built in the 1460s and today, it's 4,500 shops sell everything from action-hero figurines to antique elephant tusks. Everywhere you look, there are dresses, purses, rings, rugs, armoires, dishes and chandeliers. There are Jewish menorahs, Russian matreshki and enough backgammon boards to supply the Chinese army. In two hours, we saw only a few hundred shops, but I swear if you look hard enough, you can buy a wife, two children and a pre-fab home in suburban Ohio.

Toby and I managed to squeek by with only two purchases: a kitsch, bookmark-sized banner that says Istanbul (complete with glass beads and some dangling metal stuff) and a lovely red bowl that has about a dozen crezcent moons and stars on it. Toby and I wanted to get something that was distinctly Turkish and, in that sense, we succeeded. But when I came home after shopping and showed Feyza the bowl, her eyebrows shot up, she kinda winced and after a two-second delay she said, "Wow. That's a bit... nationalistic." Looking at it now, I guess it kind of looks as if the Turkish flag (also red with a white crescent and star) procreated on the bowl.

"Toby," I said, "Feyza hates our bowl."

He laughed and later said that if a friend from overseas was visiting me in America and came home one day with a stars-and-stripes bikini, I might react the same way. I guess he has a point... this time.

Here are a few photos from the bazaar. As usual, my camera died, so I'm sorry there's not a better variety.

Toby shopping for a bowl. This is the store where The Bowl was purchased (not pictured, sorry). The vendor started the bid at 50 Lires (about $40). I got him down to 22 Lires (like, $15). He called it the "blue-eye special."

This is one of many halls that help make the Bazaar feel like a labyrinth.

Handmade, glass and copper lights.

This is an antique art store where, one day, I'd like to do a lot of shopping.

This is a cafe that sits under the gaze of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of the Turkish Republic and the country's first President. His picture, by law, is in every classroom. Among many things, he made Turkey a secular state. (More on him later)

Make friends, go Dutch

Feyza is getting ready to leave Istanbul to study in Madrid. As my boyfriend Toby pointed out, this means one-third of all my friends in Turkey are leaving (the network includes Begum, her boyfriend and Feyza).

Yesterday, I decided it's time to make friends. This was especially important as Begum and Feyza had other plans for the night and - unless I did something quick - I would end up alone, on a Friday night, envisioning a future as a spinster/catlady.

With all of this in mind, I walked to the university to register for classes. Once on campus, I realized two things: 1. nearly no Turkish students had arrived yet and 2. all of the other foreign students seemed to have loads of friends. They had even formed cliques: The Americans, The Dutch, The Dutch-German mix, The German/Austrian mix etc. In my mind, they looked so happy lumped in their little circles, that I decided to do what I should not have done: I walked away.

I went to a bank nearby to try to sort out some problems. The woman took especially long and due to miscommunication, she nearly closed my account.

Frustrated, I left the bank and saw the Dutch clique in the distance, walking uphill toward the campus exit. This was a sign, I thought, so I plowed after them. At the top of a very steep hill, I caught up with them, tapped one of the guy's shoulders and said, "Hi, uh, uhhh," (huff, huff, huff, where is the oxygen in the air? why didn't I prepare a question?) "are you studying here too?"

Dumb question. So dumb that we both started laughing.

The guy's name is Walter, but since he's Dutch he pronounces it "WOW-teRRRR." We chatted for a few minutes and he mentioned that he planned to go shopping for a phone with the other Dutchmen. In desperation, I said, "Oh, that sounds fun. Can I come too?"

So Wowterrr, Roel (Rule), Jack, Maurice and Allishan (who is actually Norweigan) let me tag along on a trip to Taksim, a nearby neighborhood. We meant to look for phones but instead we went to an outdoor bar, drank beer and played backgammon for a couple hours. Then we left and went to a terrace cafe. Then a kebap shop. An indoor backgammon bar. Another kebap shop. A TGIFridays, and, around 1 a.m. Wowter and Rule walked me home.

Throughout the day, Rule tried to impress us with his English. He found ways to incorporate "slaughter," "decapitate," and "direct headshot" (I guess this is when you kill someone with one shot in the head?) into the conversation. Rule said his knowledge of war words has improved tremendously thanks to his American roommate, who plays Half Life 27 and other video games all day.

Rule's knowledge of Turkish is a little more limited. When we stepped out of a cab once, he wanted to tell the cabbie "Allahaismarladik," literally, "Blessings from God," but also "Goodbye." Instead, he looked at the cabbie and said, "Allahhhh??? Uh, Allllaaaah??? Allah something?"

Like good friends, Wowter and I stood at the curb and started laughing. "Rule," I said, "stop saying 'God' to the cabbie. Just say 'Tesekürler' (thanks) and let's go."

At the terrace cafe, we hung out with a Turkish student who is studying at the same university. His name is Emra. I was worried, at first, that fellow students would want to discuss America's foreign policy and other tense issues upon meeting me. Emra proved me wrong. When I told him I'm American, he said, "Great! Do you like GunsNRoses? I play in a band and we play GunsNRoses." Before I could get in a word, he burst into song with, "WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE, WE GOT FUN AND GAMES. WELL-COME TOOO THE JUN-GLE."

So it seems that even though Feyza's leaving, I might be able to make a friend or two. And with any luck I won't end up alone, in a dark room, friendless, drunk and surrounded by cats anytime soon.

I thought he was polite, but then

Security in Istanbul can be intense. Your bags are checked before you enter an airport, concert or mall; before you board a train and as you walk into most high-end clubs. At first this made me nervous (I always feel like I've done something wrong if someone's suspicious), but then I got used to it.

Today, my Israeli friend Aysa and I went shopping at a place called Cevahir Istanbul. It's one of the largest malls in the world - even has a built-in roller coaster - and it includes a fair amount of security: metal detectors, spot checks and armed guards at every entrance.

When Aysa and I finished our shopping, we headed to a tram that runs beneath the mall. I passed through the turnstile and showed the guards my shopping bag of hot- pink hangers. They smiled and let me continue. Aysa was fumbling near the entrance with her newly-purchased comforter and pillows. A security guard approached her, smiled and put his hand out to help her with the bags. She looked at me and said, "How shockingly polite. He's helping me carry my stuff."

The guard said something to her that neither of us understood and we smiled back and nodded. Then he yanked the bags, walked away, opened them and checked them with a metal detector.

"Whoa," we said in unison, as he examined the puffiness of the comforter.

"Dude," I said, "I don't think he was trying to be polite. I think he thinks you're... uh ... the bad guy."

When the guard finished, he approached us, nodded, and handed Aysa her loot. We walked away and compared security measures in Turkey, Israel and the U.S. As Aysa tried to explain how Israel is a safe place, I started wondering if the only reason terrorists haven't attacked our trains or subways or shopping centers could be because it's just too easy.

Congratulations Mom and Dad

Today is my parents' 30th anniversary. Thirty-one years ago, they shocked friends and family and announced their plan to get hitched. The groom wore bell-bottoms, the bride donned a broad hat. They said "I do" and drove to Nova Scotia for their honeymoon. Since then, they've raised three kids, shipped us off to college, and warmly embraced empty-nesterhood. Although Dad has taken to talking to an imaginary shrink ("Chuck says I should say something nice now"), I think they're doing just fine.

Here's a little something Colleen wrote today about Mom and Dad's anniversary vacation last week. While I'd like to think the happiest day of Dad's life was the day I arrived, I believe Colleen's story is closer to the truth...

"My parents just went to Mazatlan (yes, even though there was a hurricane - which apparently, just missed them) - needless to say, due to the hurricane, there were not too many people vacationing at the time.

So, they decide to go golfing. The course had been flooded for the previous few days (again, hurricane) so there were not too many people out on the course that day - a total of three to be exact. Mom, Dad, and one other person - the...whole...day.

Dad steps up to the (I believe 6th?) tee-box, a nice little par 3 about 115 yards long... and gets a hole in one!!!! woo-hoo!!! the crowd (Mom?) goes wild - (thank GOD Mom was paying attention, sorry Mom). The Mexican security guards who happened to see this as they were passing by were cheering (in Spanish) Dad was yelling (in English!) and it was all very exciting! The club pro came out, congratulated Dad, and said that this means 33% of all the people who golfed that day got a hole-in-one! (You know how Dad loves statistics)

As customary, when you shoot a hole in one, you must buy drinks for EVERYONE in the clubhouse.

All 4 people.

There was an article printed, attached below (in Spanish, Dad can't read it, though they did have it translated) with Dad's picture (there's no picture in the online article), I've seen it, it's very nice and Dad is very happy - it says something about waiting 45 years for this moment...

...what extraordinary lengths Mom will go to to get Dad to go on vacation to a place with a hurricane passing by and a 15 hour trek home (bad layover). Dad was still actually in a good mood when I talked to him yesterday...

http://www.noroeste.com/web/index.php?body_nota=202259

~colleen"

Mom and Dad, congratulations to you today. I may not agree with everything you say, but I think you're pretty cool. Thanks for showing that love's not just in the falling, but in the staying.

Love,

Shannon

Photos of you, part 1

Today was a day to sit back, sip some tea and think about my friends. Below are some pictures and a few of my thoughts about you.



Tanya on the Fourth of July.

This is my friend Tanya. If you want to see her face, stop by the South Bay office of the San Diego Union-Tribune. Before meeting Tanya, I was convinced that I had the most "distinctive" laugh in the world. T-dog, as I call her, has me beat. Tanya makes me want to do many things including: speak Spanish, take a chance on new restaurants and be a better reporter.



Rockstar ACDC.

This is my grandmother on my mom's side, Mimi. No, she's not an ACDC groupie, but while shopping at Wal-Mart a few months ago, she found this well-knit, soft-cotton tee-shirt on sale.

"I thought it was made with very good fabric," she said, "and I liked the rhinestones."

Before buying the shirt, Mimi asked my grandfather, GT, if the words "ACDC" meant anything.

"Alternating current, direct current," GT said, pointing to the little rhinestone lightening bolt in the middle of the letters. "I didn't know it had this other meaning," he later added.

Mimi has an eye for detail, so she decided to have the sleeves and bottom of the shirt hemmed. It cost about twice as much to hem the shirt than buy the shirt.

Nobody told Mimi about the shirt's "other" meaning until she debuted it on a date with GT in Naples, Florida.

"Everybody else at the tiki bar knew what it meant," Mimi said. "Finally, a waitress told us."

Today, Mimi wears the shirt when she's running her regular errands in suburban Wisconsin. When Mimi and I walked into her usual restaurant recently, the short-order cook looked up, smiled and said, "Hey there! I see we've got ACDC today!"



This is my friend Jeff. Jeff and I first met in college. I guess we sort of met in high school- he went to the all-boys school, I went to the all-girls school- but Jeff insists I was too cool for everyone then. In college, Jeff and I lived in the same dorm and that's where we became friends.

Today's Jeff's a globe-trotting adventurer. Sometimes he's in Asia. Right now he's in Australia. Most of the time he's in his adopted homeland, New Zealand. These days, Jeff's the conversationalist, the joker, the uber-accomplished, artistic yuppie.

But long ago in a faraway land called Illinois, Jeff was shy. He wasn't the best at eye contact, he wouldn't initiate a conversation and the best way to get him to talk was to ask him to help you with html coding. Walking in public with Jeff was really difficult because he would constantly try to walk around people if he thought he might be in their way. He was like a human sailboat, zig-zagging a path through malls, museums and the quad at school.

Finally, one day, we decided to change that. We walked through a mall in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois and Jeff tried to take a few steps in a straight line. As we walked out of Sears, he said, "Look! I did it! She got out of my way."

I looked back and saw he was talking about a toddler who was waddling toward the mall's playplace.

"Jeff," I said, "it doesn't count if the other person is, like, two."

*****
(When I get a photo scanner, I'll happily include more photos, coupled with my favorite stories, about the rest of you. Watch out. Or, as they say in Turkish, Dikkat.)

Just speak

Thanks to some comic relief, my Turkish class is going better. When we take turns asking each other questions, the other students no longer laugh at me. Instead, they give a look that says, "C'mon little buddy, you can do it."

Sometimes I comprehend, most times I don't. This morning I thought the teacher was asking if the book was yellow, but in fact he had said, "Who is next?". When it was Q and A time, my new friend Yitka asked, "Shannon, are the glasses on the table mine?" My response was, "Yes, Yitka, the glasses on the table are mine."

I started to get a little down on myself during a break when Carlo, an Italian translator who is making Turkish his 10th language, pulled me aside and tried to cheer me up.

"Shannon, do you want to know something funny about Chinese?" he asked.

"Please Carlo," I said, "I'm dying to know something funny about Chinese."

Carlo approached the board and grabbed a marker.

"This," he said, "is the Chinese sign for women." He sketched a Chinese character on the board and looked over to see if I understood him. I nodded and smiled but thought to myself, "Listen man, I'm not that mentally challenged. I just don't speak Turkish."

"This," he continued, with the same cautious look, "is the sign for roof."

"Got it. I follow," I said, head nodding, same fake smile.

"And this," he said, drawing the sign for women under the sign for roof, "means problem! Isn't Chinese funny!"

Carlo went on to explain how three woman in one room means "chatter" or "gossip," and how the sign for field with the sign for power beneath it means "man". His earnest attempt to cheer me up was flattering and it worked. I vented a little and he explained some tricks to learning a non-Western language.

"The most important thing is to speak," he said. "Just speak. It's like the Chinese say, if you never draw, the first time you draw- even if you just draw a snake - you'll draw in legs. And that's ok. You can make mistakes. It doesn't matter. Make them and move on."

The rest of the day, I continued to make mistakes- some big, some little.

At the end of the day, when the teacher picked up his pen and asked "What is this?", we all said "That is a pen." Then I said, "No, no, wait..." (at this point, everyone looked over as if to say, "Shhh, you were doing so well, don't ruin it") then I said, "Bir MAVI kalem," or "That is a Blue pen."

Everyone busrt into applause. Carlo smiled and said, "Bravo."

Charades

My Turkish teacher's name is Erdan. He is quite a hit with a few ladies in class, particularly the Israeli girl. I hear the Russian women in level 2 can't get enough of him. Erdan's 40ish. He wears snug pants, a watch, a shirt buttoned to the top and- as the Israeli reported today - a wedding ring.

Erdan teaches Turkish in Turkish. I haven't heard him say more than a word or two in English and, rarely, he speaks German to explain something.

Today, Erdan proved that he is a master of charades. Our topic was "where is" and "what is" and a few of the advanced kids were using words that nobody else knew. They would name a new word, four or five of us would have blank faces and if Erdan couldn't explain it or draw it, he would imitate the word until we got it. This included gems like "alien," "rooster," "Statue of Liberty" and, my personal favorite, "bunny".

To explain "bunny" Erdan tried drawing a picture on the board, but his bunny looked like a tophat on a bush. In desperation, the man started hopping around the room, using his hands to imitate bunny ears. Some of us were tempted to pretend that we still didn't get it, to see how far he would actually hop. It worked pretty well until one of the German girls blurted out, "AH! DAS IST EIN BUNNY!".

"Rooster" was even better. Erdan puffed his chest, pursed his lips and started saying "üü-ürü-üüü," the Turkish version of "Cock-a-doodle-doo". The first thing I thought was, "Well that's just great. Even roosters can say the damn umlauts and I cant."

To do "Alien" Erdan made little circles with his fists, put them by his head and did an accented version of, "EEEEEETTTTT. Phoooooone hoooooome."

The room fell silent when he started doing the Statue of Liberty. Erdan put his left hand to his chest and extended his right arm into the air. I know I wasn't the only one who thought, "Oh my God. Did the Cypriot girl actually use a sentence with the word, 'Nazi'?".

Crashing dates, "Juntos pero no revueltos"

.Feyza, temporary roommate, and Juan, her Spanish man.

Juntos pero no revueltos is a phrase I learned from Carlos and Fernanda, my favorite Mexican couple, when I first moved to San Diego/Tijuana. Fer and Charlie let me crash dozens of their romantic dates. We became such a regular fixture about town that Carlos started calling us "Juntos pero no revueltos" (mixed but not scrambled, or more correctly "together but not mixed"). When I told Juan about my experience in this role, he seemed... less than elated. Juan came from London to visit "Feyzita" for the weekend.



.View from the car as we drove to the cafe.

This is one of many promenades along the coast. We passed several yachts and seaside mansions. Feyza drove, Juan tried to prounouce Turkish words and I sat in back, playing the role of the "Japanese tourist".




.Where we ate.

This is Sade Kahve. When we walked into the restaurant, an acoustic version of the song Guantanamera was playing. The air smelled like a mixture of coffee, wooden furniture and fried pastries. And a man was making Börek, a flaky pastry filled with cheese, meat or veggies.



.View across the street, bridge to Asia.

It's hard not have waterside dining in a city surrounded by three bodies of water.






.What we ate.

Traditional Turkish breakfast, which we ate at 2 p.m., includes omelettes, fresh cheese, olives, coffee and "Bal Kaymak".






.Bal Kaymak, up close.

Looks not so good, but tastes incredible. It's cream from milk, mixed with honey. If I come home looking overweight, blame it on the bal kaymak.






.View as we drove away from cafe.

We left the coast and headed West to go to a concert called Rock'nCoke. There, we met up with Begum and several of her friends. Finally, Feyza and Juan could get some "alone time".

I lie a lot

This morning, I told a room of attentive students that Chicago has a population of 10 million (lie #1). I said it takes 16 hours to fly to Chicago (lie #2) and that there are no direct flights from Chicago to Turkey (#3). I topped it off by saying I live in a neighborhood in which I do not live.

It was my first day of Turkish class. Of the students - one Israeli, four Cypriots and a dozen Germans - I am the worst Turkish pronouncer and understander. I have absolutely no ability with numbers and I am incapable of saying Ğ, Ö, Ü and I. Those letters are kind of like A,E,I,O,U.

I can't say where I live. I can't say where I'm studying or my profession. I'm pretty bad at figuring out if I've been asked a question. And forget asking me how old I am because I have no idea. I knew once, but I keep forgetting.

I sounded so ridiculous that the German contingent couldn't contain their laughter when it was my turn to say the alphabet. At the end of class, one girl from their coterie said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh at you. It's just that your pronounciation is so funny." I thought this apology was comparable to: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to call you a piggy. It's just that you're body is so fat."

Despite my negativity, I feel alright. I mean, a German not knowing a lick of Turkish is like an American getting confused when someone says "Hola" or "Taco". And the Cypriots, well, they're from Cyprus. They've been looking to berate the "unrecognised Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus" for decades; ripping on someone in their own language- that's effective insulting. As for the Israeli woman, well, I really don't have clue what she's looking to do.

Nuts and coffee

This is my first photo in Istanbul. It's the view outside my language school. Sorry, but it's the only shot that went through before my digital camera killed itself. Hold tight for postcard vistas of 700-year-old mosques and other remnants of ruling empires.

For those of you who are wondering (eh-hem, Dad, Mom), Turkey's not the kind of place where women are encouraged to cover up (notice how modest our little "Miss Poem" model is).You want to cover up? Fine. You don't? Even better.

Also in the photo, the sign beneath the large Coca-Cola ad translates as "Nuri's Place". Nuri's great; he helped me find my school. The sign reading "Ozkervanlar Kuruyemis" is a shop that sells nuts. That's right, row upon row of nuts. More nuts than you or I could have imagined. Turks are big on nuts ... and coffee and kebabs.

I'm sorry, no wait... I'm cold?

Turkish people are not used to hearing a foreigner speak Turkish. Or maybe just not a foreigner with an American accent. This is my rationale, at least, for explaining why nobody understands anything I say.

This morning, I learned that "Üsgünüm" means "I'm sorry". All day, I've been Üsgünüming everyone. The woman who I hung up on (story to follow). The guy who sold me metro tokens and who I couldn't understand. The grandma selling watermelons who I was trying to pass on the street. And all day I've been wondering why, in God's name, is everyone trying to give me something to wear when I say Üsgünüm. Yeah, well, Üsgünüm - as pronounced by me - sounds like "I'm cold." I guess it could be worse.

But this isn't the first example of me being completely inept when it comes to Turkish. Later this afternoon, the phone started ringing. Normally I wouldn't pick up, but I was feeling brave. I had just navigated through the city, alone, and I had that I-can-do-anything feeling coursing through my veins.

"Allo," I said.

"sdfeoiu dfklgjiouer woeiruwsdkf jdfsdo dsiofsfrksndlk sgusie," she said, more or less.

"Inglizce biliyor mosonoz," I said (roughly translated: do you speak English?).

"SAFDFSDF SDLFKJSFUD WEROUSD FDSJFAOEIUR!!!!," she said about 2,000 decibals louder. Isn't it funny when you tell someone you don't speak their language and they think speaking louder will solve the problem.

I politely said "Üsgünüm" - in ShanTurkish, that's "I'm cold," unfortunately not, "I'm sorry"- and then I pulled out my favorite "Gule Gule" (bye bye), and I hung up.

From this moment on, I vow to be extremely patient with anyone who has the courtesy to speak a language that is whack to them. In the meantime, I'm going to continue making an ass of myself and hopefully not offending too many people along the way.