Another year in Turkey?

If you'd asked me a month or so ago if I would stay in Turkey another year, I likely would have politely declined.  Or replied something along the lines of 'Like hell.'  I had been enjoying my time here, but had also recently discovered that I really didn't like teaching English as a Second Language quite so much.  I had a blast teaching Elementary level English, but the Upper Intermediate level didn't exactly capture my heart.  Feeling more like a pseudo-professor than a teacher, teaching a variety of topics that I'm not really that interested in (the role of ethics in organ markets, anyone?), I found myself wondering why couldn't I wasn't teaching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, again? Oh, right...I'm not teaching ten year olds.  But I want to teach ten year olds!  I want to teach children!  I want the messy craft activities (I hereby apologize to the custodians at my primary school for the flour and play dough fiasco), the songs, the books, the hugs, the high fives and smiles.  I'll take the extra workload, longer hours and runny noses (I no longer mind wiping kids noses!).

So when my prayers were answered, and yes Mom, I did pray, that I could find a job at a primary school again and STAT, I began re-thinking another year in Turkey.  I love my job!  I work at a good school with an amazing team and well behaved children (well, they are a little noisy, but we've never had to call the ambulance because a kid drop-kicked another kid in a jaw like in my old school.  So I'm working on the noise level using the behaviour management techniques I picked up from working in South East London, mate).

I got some more details ironed out with regards to my 18 month contract today, so it looks like I'll be finishing out this school year, taking a nice, long 7 week summer break, and then heading back to Turkey.  Well, actually, plans are in the works to fly back to Turkey a couple weeks before school starts and go to diving school so I can explore the depths of the Mediterranean sea.  Not too shabby for Kirbie.

Classe de Français

Dear me, I do love teaching French. Part of my job assignment at the primary school I'm working at is to teach two course hours of French to a grade 6 class.  So, every friday, I take a little break from the chaos that is finger painting and play dough in the nursery to the sixth grade wing, where I teach French.  I'm teaching French to the advanced French class, children of twelve years of age, who, wait for it, actually want to learn! Quoi?!  Vraiment?!  Children who actually want to learn French?  How novel.  To quote the Wizard of Oz, 'We're not in Kansas, er Canada, anymore, are we, Toto?'  These children, so far, are quite lovely.  They can understand French easily, and make an effort to speak it themselves.  They do not complain, or ask me to 'Speak English!'  In short, they put sixth grade Canadian children to utter shame in the language learning department, speaking much better than Canadian children the same age.  And this is only their second year of learning French.  What exactly are we doing wrong in Canada?  (You know, besides the government changing the French program about every two years so neigher schools, teachers nor children can keep up.)

On Friday, I spent the first block doing introductions, discussing class rules and just chatting to the kids, in French, mais oui.  Now, during the second block, something happened that rarely happens in classrooms.  We actually got a lot of work accomplished.  No time was wasted on getting drinks, going to the toilet, gathering books, passing out supplies, children locking each other in the cloak room, or spitting in each others faces.  I did not have to play referee or counsellor.  I did not have to administer first aid, ask the students to put away their mobile phones, or please refrain from sleeping.  Incredible.

We learned new vocabulary, the children explained the words in context, we looked at the sex of the words (masculin or feminin) and changed the articles in front of the words(from une to la/ un to le, in case you were wondering).  We drilled pronunciation, we practiced connecting sentences to make a diologue.  The students rehearsed the diologue in pairs (yes, they actually did it!) and then several groups presented it to the class.  We looked at articles again, then changed the articles and words from singular to plural.  The children completed an exercise in their cahiers and I checked each students work.  All, very impressively, in the short time period of forty minutes!  Incredible!  Where's my Teacher of the Year award?  Where are the Students of the Year award?  Just kidding :)

Mais oui je parle français...qu'est-ce que tu penses alors?

I'm not exactly sure what they put in these macaroons, but they're sinfully delicious.  I'm ashamed to admit that this is the third time I've been to Paris but the first time I've had a macaroon. Ma bonne amie Héloïse introduced me to these delicious little cookies when we went out for brunch on Saturday.  Today, as I was too sick to drag myself out to Versailles, I decided to drag my sick self out to a little boulangerie / cafe near Héloïse's flat.  I ordered a croissant, café allongé and a vanille macaroon (there was no chocolate left, malheureusement) and brought a book to keep me company while I enjoyed my afternoon coffee.  How do I describe macaroons?  They look like a sandwich cookie but to call them such would be an insult to macaroons.  The middle of the macaroon is fudgy, gooey goodness and the outside layers are not made of cake or cookie but, more sugar?  Oh dear.  You can buy gros and petit macaroons.  I had a gros with my coffee today and bought a box of 8 petit macaroons for dessert for Hélo and I tonight.

Paris is charming, as usual.  I love hearing French everywhere, and I'm speaking French almost all of the time.  I'm delighted to report that after a 2 year sejour from la belle langue I can still speak French très bien. It really does come back quickly!  I was a little nervous to speak in the beginning, but after talking to Héloïse on they way to her flat and during dinner with her parents, I really felt like my French was coming back.  Héloïse's parents thought I was truly bilingual!  Which, I am...or at least I have a probably expired certificate from the Province of New Brunswick, saying so.

Yesterday I went on a 3.5 hour long walking tour of Paris which was really interesting, as I learned about all of Paris' gross and gruesome history.  They really were into brutal executions here.

I'm back to London tomorrow, spending one night, then catching a flight from London to Istanbul.  Duty free airport shopping, here I come!

London love?

In 2009, I moved to London without very much guaranteed.  I didn't have a job, just some agencies who provide supply work, who I signed up with.  I didn't have an appartment, and was staying with some very kind friends of my cousin.  Within a matter of hours of arriving in London, however, I left Oxford Circus (with the help of my good friend Aly) armed with a loaded Oyster card, a bank account, a mobile phone and a hair straightner.  It was a good start to a good year.  I think I took advantage of my time in London.  I   photographed it's historic sites, I shopped it's stores, I wandered it's old cobble stone streets and I dated it's bankers.

And then, after living in Turkey for 5 months, I went back to London.

The problem with going back to a city where you have so many good memories and friends is that you begin to miss living in that place. Alot. So much so, that you begin to maybe, just maybe, wonder if you made the right decision to leave.

I met up with a good friend in London, who just so happens to be Turkish but living in London, and was recounting to him my stories of living in Ankara and traveling Turkey.  Turkey is awesome, I told him, but Ankara is, well, Ankara.  There's nothing amazing or awful about it.  There is not endless entertainment or fascinating cultural landmarks, like Istanbul, but I'm not exactly hurting for a trip to the hamam, a night out in a bar, or a band to see in Ankara.  My friend asked me to rate Ankara from 1-10, considering work, social life, Turkish men...everything.  I lied and told him 7.  He knows me too well and we agreed on 6.  A 6 is not bad, he said, and really the best you can hope for when you move to a completely foreign country.  In Ankara's defense, my rating fluctuates depending on how much fun I'm having (read: how many glasses of wine I've had and if Soul Project is playing).  In those cases, Ankara can easily become an 8 or 9.  Just don't ask me what I think about Ankara after I've sat on an 8 hour overnight bus.  I'll likely just snarl and grumble profanities.

I know I had to leave London, and I think I figured out how you know when it's time to leave a city.  You know it's time to go when you're on vacation and the idea of going back to where you live fills you with utter dread.  I remember trying to decide whether or not to take the job in Turkey when I was living in London.  I was on vacation in Greece (a prolonged vacation due to winning the EasyJet Iceland Volcanic Ash Sweepstakes), sitting on the beach waiting for my cab to take me to the airport.  Please, please, please don't make me go back to that bad, rainy, unfriendly, busy, crowded place, I thought.  I just want to stay here in the sun.  And the next week, I was on a plane to Turkey to visit my then-prospective school.