i wanna hold your hand

A couple of the boys in my class have *ahem* difficulty walking in a line quietly in the corridors.  I will do the teacher thing where I stop the line, give them my teacher look (glare) and ask 'Do you need to hold my hand?'  They'll usually shake their head no, and them I give them a further warning; 'Cause if you don't stop, you'll be up here holding my hand like a little baby.'  The boys do not want to walk hand in hand with their teacher down the hallway.  How uncool is that for a 6 year old?

But this weekend, I had to hold someone's hand.

I went diving with my university's underwater society (Diving Club) in Fethiye.  I was a little anxious to go with this club because sometimes my Turkish is not quite good enough to work at an English-medium university, if you know what I'm saying.  I thought I might be the lonely yabanci in the corner while all of the conversations and fun were happening in Turkish.  So not the case.  These lovely Turkish university students were so unbelievably kind towards me...translating not only announcements and instructions but also talking to me, and making sure that most conversations were in English so I could partipate.  It was great.

Fethiye Marina: View from the breakfast buffet on the balcony of our hotel.

 

That said, I was a little rattled when I first started to get ready for diving.  I had only dove in one location, and spent three days there getting my license.  My friend  and diving instructor and the lovely crew at Derin Diving Center in Tekirova, Antalya showed me where the diving gear was, helped me find stuff that fit me and waited patiently while I put it on.  And then waited even more patiently while I took my sweet time getting up the nerve to jump off the boat.

Proteus Diving Center boat

This was not quite the case on the boat in Fethiye.  It felt like a free-for-all, with about ten divers all grabbing for gear and scrambling to put it on.  I was really stressed out as I looked for fins that fit, and had to take a larger size wetsuit thanks to my larger sized ass.  In all the commotion, I forgot how to assemble my tank, BC and regulator, I started to do it, but then just wanted a little bit of attention to make sure I was getting it right.  No one wants to discover they screwed up their air supply once they're in the water, am I right?  Then I realised that I didn't have a mask.  A member of the university dive club gets me one but then the dive master says it's the wrong kind.  Then I spit in the mask (to make sure it doesn't fog up) but I can't find the bucket of water to clean the spit off of it, so I have to ask for help again.  I'm so rattled that I can't jump off the boat.  I must have tried to step off like 5 times but I couldn't make myself do it.  I finally end up in the water with my dive instructor waiting for me.  He's not very impressed with my performance and asks 'How many men usually help you get ready before you get in the water?'  (This is an unfair point because there's only one female diver besides me).  So now I'm even more upset.

Tank, check! BC, check! Regulators, check!  Getting my equipment ready to go!

I want to go back to Tekirova, where everyone knows me and I know where everything is.  See, I actually am a good diver.  My dive instructor in Tekirova said that I have natural buoyancy, good finning technique and look like I've been diving for ten years. He said I could easily be photographed for a diving magazine.  Yes, I am THAT good.  So why was I sucking so bad in Fethiye?

I'm so rattled that I don't put my mask on properly.  Water immediately starts to seep in, and I need to expell the water from my mask, as I've done dozen of times before.  But this time, while 18 metres below the surface, I somehow suck a bunch of water into my mouth.  I try to spit it out the regulator but it's not getting out fast enough.  So I panic, and bolt.  I start to fin as fast as I can towards surface, and inflate my BC as I go.  I'm gasping as I reach the surface, and float there, gasping and crying until my dive instructor comes up for me.

Now, I have had fairly instense training to get my diving lisence.  I know how to take my regulator out of my mouth, for goodness sake, and share air supply with another diver.  I can take off all my equipment underwater and put it back on again.  I've done it all several times.  I know that I can spit, or even vomit into a regulator and that it's just going to filter the water, spit and vomit out and keep giving me oxygen.  I know all this.  But when you panic, you just can't think about these things...


Bil Underwater Society.  Please note the gorgeous MODEL of a Turkish man next to me.  Could be in a cologne ad. Sigh.


So, my diving instructor kindly tells me that he's going to be my 'boyfriend-but just in the water' and will hold my hand when I feel scared.  I consider myself to be a fairly independent woman...I move to foreign countries solo, and have travelled alone...I think I'm pretty brave for a country girl coming from the outskirts of a little town in Canada.  I actually let him hold my hand for the next two dives...just like a discovery diver, certainly not like a diver with a license should.  I know it's a little lame and I should have probably tried to dive without grasping my instructor but sometimes it's just nice to have someone holding your hand.

Diving girls!  My lovely roomate and I had a blast on the trip!

SHE IStanbul

A Turkish (male) friend once told me: There are two things you can't trust about Istanbul; the weather and the girls.  I told him that you can't trust the men anywhere in Turkey (although I am waiting to be proved wrong!), but my friend was right about one thing; you definately cannot trust the weather in Istanbul.

View from the top: Looking out on Istanbul at night.  My blackberry does not do it justice.

I hopped a plane with 8 friends from school and headed to Istanbul, the only city in the world that spans two continents.  Our reason for heading to Istanbul on this fine weekend in October?  The Istanbul Marathon.  We had all signed up to run the 8 kilometres that stretches across the bridge that seperates Europe and Asia, the Bosphoros.

Bosphoros

I was excited to go to Istanbul for a reason other than the marathon.  While I was backpacking through Turkey, I met a guy from Istanbul who was doing some travelling of his own.  While hanging out on the beach and partying at this great night club in Oludeniz we discovered that we have alot in common and decided to keep in touch, and then carried on with our travels.  So a month later when I tell my friend that I'm coming to Istanbul, we were both psyched to hang out again.  Of course, I'd been to Istanbul before, as a tourist.  Being blonde haired and green eyed doesn't exactly help you blend into a sea of brown haired, brown eyed Istanbulites, so I was treated as a tourist.  I was shouted at by the vendors in the Grand Bazaar ('Hey lady, can I help you?') and the mariachi boys who stood outside the restaurants ('Hey lady, you are so beautiful').




Spice Bazaar


But this time it was different.  This time I got to see Istanbul from the perspective of a local.  The weather was not so great (I don't think I've ever been so cold in all my life), but we enjoyed hitting up night clubs (one was so rad, I swear Paris Hilton must have been there when she was in Istanbul a couple weeks ago), and enjoying long breakfasts at pretty cafes.  We wandered the streets (in the rain), trying to see as much as we could in the miserable weather, ducking in and out of cafes and flagging down taxis.

Tulum Peynir: Cheese that's fermented inside an animal skin.  This method is becoming rare because of strict European regulations.

I decided to skip out on the marathon in favour of staying in bed for a little longer and keeping my toes dry (it was raining the day of the marathon and you can guess how I feel about running 8k with soggy toes), but I don't regret my decision one little bit.

Kirbie was here!

I was not prepared for the weather at all, having packed only flats, jeans, t-shirts and a cute but not rainproof windbreaker, but I was also not prepared for how much I would love Istanbul.  Being a beach girl, I usually choose the blue waters of the Mediterranean over bustling cities, but I must admit, this weekend, I fell in L.O.V.E. with Istanbul.

medical treatment in a foreign country

I've been sick pretty much since I've arrived.  In fact, I think I've seen more doctors in Turkey than I have have in my life.

When I first arrived, I was greeted by warm Turkish hospitality...and a cold.  This is quite normal when first arriving in a new country...change in temperature, different germs and jet lag can all contribute to this.  I no sooner got over my cold when I suddenly had a new reason for why my nose was running.  A pink nosed, white, furry cat who I was temporarily sharing my appartment with contributed to my pet allergies.  After sniffling and sneezing for weeks, my colleagues insisted I go to the campus doctor.  I reluctantly agreed and asked the female Turkish MD for some allergy medication, as I am allergic to my cat.  She cleverly asked if I keep the cat in my house.  I told her I did.  The doctor is now talking to me very slowly.  'So, you have cat allergies, but you're keeping a cat in your house.'  'Yes', I replied humbly, 'I'm saving the homeless cat of Ankara.'  'Might I suggest', the doctor suggested, 'that you feed the cats outside of your appartment?'  By this time, the doctor looks quite tired, and is looking at me as though I have four holes in my head.  I nodded then paused.  'Um, can I still have a precription for some allergy medication?' I ventured.  The doctor wrote out a prescription for a nasil spray and my cat allergies soon subsided.

A sometime later, completely unrelated to cat allergies, I discovered that I had a polyp somewhere that a polyp is not supposed to be.  It would require a 'short proceedure' to remove.  After more examination, it would require a longer proceedure.  After confirmation with my health insurance, it would require a fairly lengthy surgery, in a surgical theatre with general anesthetic and an overnight stay in the hospital.  Ohhh....great.  I booked the surgery for a day my friend Eilidh was off work and set to packing my bag for the hospital.  Tuesday morning, E and I got up early and took a cab to the large, private hospital near our university.  I must stop and explain the difference between public and private hospitals, because this is something we don't have in Canada.  In Canada, all of the hospitals are public, and healthcare is free (er, included in our taxes).  In Turkey, public hospitals are available to everyone, but those with good health insurance or good amounts of money, can go to a, shall we say, nicer, hospital.  I've heard horror stories about public hospitals in Turkey, but since I've never set foot one, so I can't really comment.  I can say that the hospital I went to was alot closer to a 5 star hotel than a hospital.  There are only about 100 beds in the whole place, and they are all comfortably situated in large, tastefully decorated rooms with private bathrooms complete with tiny bags of lavender and miniature bars of soap.  The whole place doesn't even feel like a hospital, because hospitals have a stressy, rush-rush kind of atmosphere about them.  But not this one.  There weren't very many people even in the hospital, that I could see, and there seemed to be more staff than patients.  The staff did not seem to be stressed or overworked (although I am sure they work very hard), they seemed to have the time to chat with the patients and answer questions.  Lots of staff took the trouble to introduce themselves to me and say 'get well soon.'  The hospital nutritionists even came around to ask me about my food preferences and bring Eilidh a tray of lunch.

Recovered from my last visit to a hospital, my body failed itself again.  When I was in Budapest, Hungary last year, I had a pedicure in those Turkish (Hungarian?) baths.  The tools were not properly sanitized, and as a result, I came home with a different kind of souvenir from Eastern Europe...a nail infection.  Super.  It took a while for me to notice (I paint my toes Barbie pink in the summer) and when I did notice, the campus dermatologist mis-diagnosed my nail infection as 'trauma to the nail', you know, from all those athletic activities I do (please note the sarcasm in the italics....those who know me well know that my fitness regime consists of dancing to rock bands and carrying shopping bags).  When I finally got the correct diagnosis, I started a series of antibiotics to help cure my nail, but in the end the nail had to be removed.  I go to the hospital solo on Monday, and have a near panic attack as they begin to inject anesthetic into my big toe(I don't do needles...E can attest that I am cool as a cucumber until someone hauls out a needle and reaches for my body).  At one point, I'm fussing so much, the nurse actually puts a cloth of something smelly over my nose, and I inhale for all I'm worth, hoping it will calm me down.  As usual, I recieved incredible care, the nurse made me stay lying down until I stopped shaking (post traumatic stress from the needles?), had the eczane deliver my meds, called me a cab and put me in a wheelchair to bring me out to the cab.  So, I am short one big toenail, but because the toe is so tender and walking the first couple days was difficult (I had to rest with my foot elevated), I got a week's resting report from the hospital.  My other injured friends who are recovering from other various surgeries (yes, there are that many of us) have set up a 're-hab' center of blankets and books on the lawn outside, and I have been working on my tan (it's getting quite nice).

What we learned:

May you never get a pedicure in Hungary, but medical treatment in a foreign country can be even better than where you're actually from!

I left my heart in Bodrum...

This time last year, I was 'stranded' on the coast of Greece due to the volcanic ash that forced airports to close the airspace all over Europe.  I gained an extra weeks' holiday and did nothing but lay in the sun, eat delicious food and drink delicious wine.  I remember sitting on the beach up until the very last second that it was time to get into the taxi to take us to the airport.  I wanted to cry.  It's so hard to go back home. 

I had the same feeling when I had to left the Paloma Yasmin in Bodrum.  Life in a sunny, warm, seaside, all-inclusive resort is so incredibly luxurious and easy, it's hard to go back to mundalities that is real life.  I look up at the cloudy, Ankara sky and wonder exactly I decided to move to the capital of Turkey (while the weather here is paradise here in comparison to Canada, it's not the Mediterranean).

One of the resorts three pools.  Paradise!

I spent a week in a Junior Executive Suite in a 5 star all inclusive resort in Bodrum with Laurel, Mandy and Amy.  We had a fantastic time.  Every morning, there was a cute Turkish man to make us omelets, and by the time we had finished them, the sun was hot enough to lay out on the resort's private beach and shortly after, order a pina colada.



Our favourite animateur!

Addicted to travelling, I have spent sometime contemplating exactly which kind of travelling I prefer.  Exhausted from my year of early morning flights, hostels and carrying a backpack, by the time I got to Turkey I was ready for something else.  I no longer care if I play tourist, or see everything the city has to offer.  Is there much point in running all over a foreign city just to snap a few photogs of some famous monument?  I'm not sure anymore.  What do I like to do when visiting a foreign city?  Eat in small, local cafes, drink in small local bars and pubs and just enjoy.  Enjoy the view, the food, the beverage and hopefully meet a few cool locals.



One of the few times we left the resort.  We took a bus into Bodrum (town center) to check out the markets, harbour and Starbucks.

 On this vacation, I did not come close to seeing everything Bodrum had to offer.  Not even close.  I didn't even take advantage of everything the Paloma Yasmin had to offer, as there were Turkish cooking and Zumba classes (among many other activities) that I skipped in favour of a good book and the sunshine.  But I did completely relax, and fall in love with the rhythm of resort life.

sangria saturday

On Saturday I woke up early and hangover-less.  Delighted to have so many hours in my day, I decided that such a beautiful day warrented some time spent out in the sunshine.  And it was sunny.  Eilidh, Bill and I walked to the Bilkent Starbucks and enjoyed out coffee on the patio.  It's March 19 and we're in t-shirts, enjoying the sun.  THIS is why I moved to Turkey.  You simply can't beat the weather (unless you move to Australia, Thailand or the Caribbean...which I plan to).  Winters are short and bearable, I can count the times I put on my winter coat on one hand.  The rest of the time you just need a light fall / spring jacket.  After coffee, E and I head to Real (the grocery store) to stock up on groceries and the supplies needed for sangria.  I have an orange squeezer, which,  along with the help of my arm muscles, produces delicious fresh orange juice.  Three large oranges produces about a cup of juice, which is enough for sangria.  Add red wine, sprite and cut up pieces of fruit to this orange juice and you've got a delicious summer beverage.  And it really felt summer-ish on Saturday.

Because it's 5 o'clock somewhere...

For the Nacho Ladies :)

Cheers!

E and I sat on my balcony, ate nachos and olives and drank sangria until it was too cold to stay out any longer.  We had until about 4pm until the chilly breeze forced us into the appartment.  Not too bad for the 19th March.

roasted tomatoe soup and twice baked potatoes

Eilidh and I made brunch on our snow day Wedndsday last week.  It included the typical western fare, toast, poached eggs, homefries and a couple very British additions; roasted tomatoes and fried mushrooms.  I remember these breakfasts well, the little caf at the bottom of my street served up delicious breakfasts that included these things and also beans and bacon (I skip out on British sausages and black pudding).  I discovered on Wednesday how much I love eating roasted tomatoes.  And they're dead easy to make; just cut your tomatoes into quarters, throw them onto a pan, drizzle with olive oil and some herbs and shove them in the oven.  Their juices cook and sort of carmelize into a sweet tomatoe-y liquid.

So tonight, while sprawled on my couch with my kitty laying on my belly, I rediscovered another very British thing: Sophie Dahl.  Sophie is famous children's book author Roald Dahl's granddaughter, and she is a chef.  I'd seen her program once before while living in London and was thrilled when I saw 'The Delicious Miss Dahl' listed on my Digiturk guide.  On 'The Delicious Miss Dahl', Sophie makes comfort food that reflects her mood.  Today, Sophie was feeling nostalgic, and made the English comfort food she craved while she was living in New York.  She made a very English meal; roasted tomatoe soup and twice baked potatoes, and 2000 miles away, in my little Turkish-ly decorated flat in Ankara, I felt nostalgic for a little taste of home cooking as well.  'Roasted tomatoes?' I thought, 'Why, that's my new favourite thing!'  I threw the tomatoes, onions, garlic and herbs in a pot to roast and ran down to Eilidh's to borrow a hand blender to make my soup.

Now, my supply of fresh vegetables is running quite low, but I always keep potatoes, onions and garlic on hand and buy fresh tomatoes and other veg fresh every week.  So, I had just what I needed to make this delicious recipe.  What I noticed tonight about Sophie Dahl is that she's unbelievably calm and zen when she's cooking.  She's relaxed, and doesn't seem to be too bothered about time or dirtying lots of dishes.  Mind you, Miss Dahl is a professional chef and works in a professional kitchen studio.  I am a teacher who's worked all day long and cooks in a small, windowless kitchen with very limited equipment.  Did I mention that I have only one mixing bowl?  This is pathetic, I know, but I wasn't exactly cooking much until recently.  I think I'll invest in a few more cooking things.

I have been on a roll with cooking recently.  I made a delicious pizza this Friday, breakfast on Saturday and bruchetta on Sunday.  Will let you know what's cooking tomorrow.

Twice Baked Potatoe and Roasted Tomatoe Soup, recipe courtesy of Sophie Dahl

pizza friday

For as long as I can remember, my mother made homemade pizza every Friday, and she still does.  In the summer, I frequently make pizza on the barbecue, and this pizza, I must say, is excellent.  I usually make what I have named 'BBQ Chicken Pizza', where I coat little pieces of cooked chicken in Diana's BBQ sauce, and drizzle BBQ sauce over the top.  I use mozzerella and parmesan cheese and cook the whole thing on whole wheat dough I made on the barbecue.

Since moving to Turkey, I have been on the quest for a good pizza.  I've ordered from Dominos, Pizza Pizza, Pizza Hut and New York Pizza.  I think I prefer Dominos to the rest, as it tastes the most like Western pizza...but it's still...bland.  There's not much sauce, or cheese and flavour is generally lacking.  I end up coating my slice in salt, pepper and red pepper flakes to try to make up for the lack of flavour, but it doesn't really help.

Then I discovered Kyma's pizzas.  These pizzas are sensational.  If you're reading this in Turkey, please go out and get yourself a Kyma pizza.  Their pizzas are specialty pizzas, like delicious works of art covered in expensive imported cheese.  Their 4 Season Cheese pizza is divided up into 4 sections, each sprinkled with a different kind of cheese.  Their 4 cheese pizza is coated in delicious cheese, including Hellumi cheese.  On a pizza?  Why not?

Last night, Eilidh attempted to re-create my mother's pizza fridays by making a pizza of my own.  I made my own dough, by using my favourite, very simple and easy recipe from 'Eat Shrink and Be Merry' and this is where the substitutions began.  I don't actually have measuring cups, because I don't usually cook or bake anything that requires measuring.  So, I guestimated using a drinking glass and the dough turned out fine.  It even rose properly thanks to the yeast that I found in the grocery store.  Grocery shopping for baking ingredients is not always eas, here.  Things like yeast, baking powder and soda are often packaged completely differently than we're used to seeing them, and of course the names are written on in Turkish.  I found the yeast because Eilidh and I were looking for baking powder and we saw little packets with pictures of bread on it, so we assumed it was yeast, and it turns out that we were right.  We weren't able to find canned pizza sauce (which I'm beginning to think exists only in North America, because I wasn't able to find it in England either, I guess Europeans must make their own), so I used salça (remember this?  I used it to make kisir as well).  Salça is a very thick tomato puree, and the kind I bought is even a little bit sweet.  It's quite thick for pizza sauce, but works well once you put the vegetables and they contribute their juices.  I cut up pieces of chicken and sauted them with a bit of curry powder (as I doubt very much I can find Diana's BBQ sauce here), and we used all the vegetables we happened to have in our fridges; red and green peppers, mushrooms, and tomatoes.  It was actually a great way to use up vegetables left over from the week.  We grated some Eski Kaşarlı cheese, which was a great substitute for mozzerella, even better, actually. 

So, with different cheese, curry powder and salça this pizza was not exactly like my mom's, but it's the best that can be done in Turkey, and Eilidh and I agreed that my pizza is easy to make, better than delivery, most likely healthier than delivery, and a great way to use up leftover veg.  I'm cooking!  Yay!  A pizza friday tradition may be started in Turkey.

I forgot to grease the baking sheet, so I had to hack the pizza up a little to get it off the tray, that's why you see all the crumbs :)  Will remember that for next time.

Snow day

Well, it's day two of my snow days from school in Ankara.  While I had a ton of ideas on how to spend this snow day (I could learn to dance Thriller?  Build a snowman?  Get drunk and eat cheese?  Book some trips out of here?  Do an mp3 abs workout? Ahhhhh....the possibilities!)

Well, the roads are clear and Eilidh and I are suffering from lojmanlar fever, so we head to Ankuva to our favourite restaurant, Kyma, for some brunch.  Well by the time we actually get there it's lunch time.  We do a bit of grocery shopping in Real, and I pick up some baking bits, as I may get up the energy later on to make some chocolate chip cookies to bring into school tomorrow.

As there is not much going on at the moment in Ankara, I'm making plans for warmer days.  Eilidh and I plan to try out hand at homemade wine!  I've only done homemade wine at WineKitz before, but seriously?  How hard can it be to make it in our flats?  It would be brilliant to have a nice stock of wine for summer drinking on the balcony.  In Turkey, they use these pumps on the 18 litre water bottles that sit upright on your floor so you pump your water out.  Well, we're thinking of filling the bottle with wine and using the pump to pump out not water, but WINE!  The ideas you come up with on snow days...  I'm looking into booking a trip to Mediterannean Turkey (or Rhodes, or Cyprus) for April break, and I'm looking into doing my training for my first certificate in diving.  I'd like to do my training in Ankara so that I can maybe visit the underwater city of Mindos in Bodrum.  Come on Ankara, get WARMER!

Well, I think we'll be back to school tomorrow unless it storms tonight.  The roads are clear and it's pretty sunny and warm-ish outside.

How many more days until I'm drinking wine on my balcony?  Any guesses?

Ankara'da çok kar var!

Of the places I've taught in (which, only really totals Canada, England and Turkey), I never would have suspected to have school cancelled due to snow in....Turkey?  But yes, that is what happened.  Unfortnuately, I do not live in Mediterranean Turkey, or even that close to it.  I live in Central Anatolia, where it actually gets quite cold and snowy in the winter.  Now, when I say cold, I do not mean cold as in Canadian cold.  The temperature rarely actually goes below zero degrees here, and tends to hover in the positives for most of winter.  I thought winter was pretty much over (Didn't someone tell me that March 1 is the first day of Spring?  Wouldn't we then assume that after that day weather would get warmer and, um, well, less winter-like?)  But no, and no, this is not the case in Ankara, the city that tends to benefit from both extremes of weather...scorching dry heat and cold dry winters.




Where am I?  I thought I moved to TURKEY!  Why is there SNOW here?


On Tuesday, the students and teachers were dismissed a half hour early from school, that is, classes were cancelled at 3:00 instead of the usual 3:30.  While making this announcement, the announcement that school would be cancelled for Wednesday was also relayed.  Sweet!  A day off!  Yes!  When we heard this, I immediately started making snow day plans for myself and the other teachers.  We planned a movie and ordering food night for Tuesday and cookie baking for Wednesday.  Well, the thing with days off work due to snow is that beyond the age of 8 playing in the snow loses it's appeal.  Unless you are Miss Mandy, of course (I say this with love, Mandy).  We quickly learned that: A) no sane food delivery places are willing to go out in a blizzard to deliver food to Bilkent. B) Our alcohol supplies are running dangerously low and C) Mehmet (the man who runs the canteen beside my flat) WAS actually open today, so we could stock up on the essentials (water, milk, chips and cookies).


Mehmets Bufet and the man standing outside who I practised speaking my baby Turkish with: 'Çok kar! Ben Kanadaliyum ama kar istemıyorum!  Kanada'da çok kar var!' Which translates to: 'There is much snow! I am Canadian but I don't want snow! There is much snow in Canada!'

Eilidh and I made a super brunch for lunch, and we have discovered that no matter how many times we make brunch, which is alot, we can never seem to have it cooked in under two hours.  Now, that said we had to do everything from scratch, including peeling and chopping fresh potatoes to make hashbrowns, but still, it's never happened to be any quicker than that.  It was a classic Western breakfast: fried mushrooms, roasted potatoes, tomatoes, poached eggs and toast.  The only thing missing is the bacon, but lets not talk about that sore subject, shall we?  We sat around for the early afternoon eating and drinking coffee.  It was really nice.  Then we pulled on our snowboots and trekked one appartment down to Mandy's place where we enjoyed making and eating chocolate chip cookies, Kraft Dinner and a watching a movie.

View from my snow-covered balcony.

We find out at midday that the primary school I work at has cancelled school for tomorrow as well, and we're waiting to find out more about Friday...so any suggestions for things to do during my snow days?  I've got alot of time and not much to do with it :)

Cooking for one?

By the time I moved to Turkey, I was sick and tired of cooking.  My kitchen in Turkey, while equipped with a oven/stovetop, fridge and coffee maker, is rather small and doesn't have any windows.  As my good friend Ray said 'there's something unnatural about a kitchen that does does not have any windows' and I agree.  I don't like chopping, boiling, and dirtying dishes in my kitchen.  I don't like putting in an hour's effort for some pathetic meal that I have to eat all by myself and don't even have the desire to eat at this point because I'm basically tired of looking at the food I slaved over.

I used to cook.  I cooked when I lived in Barb's basement in Fredericton, and I cooked healthy meals too.  I cooked when I lived on Montgomery in Fredericton, and while the cooking consisted mostly of coffee and bagels, I did, from time to time make twice-baked potatoes or smoothies.  Where I really shine, though, is at the barbecue.  I can barbecue almost anything.  My barbecued-chicken pizza, bruchetta and flatbreads (all cooked on the barbecue) are famous among my extended family.  Well, I do have a balcony here, but sadly, it is not equipped with a barbecue, so I am limited to what I can make in my small, windowless kitchen.

I have two issues with cooking and eating that makes it nearly impossible for me to cook for myself. I find it hard to cook food for just one person.  Recipes (if I even bother to use them) must be divided, and isn't it just a whole lot of work to prepare food for just one time, one person eating it?  I know you're thinking that I should just make two servings and reheat the second serving the next day for supper (I don't have to bring a lunch to school because the cafeteria at school serves delicious, vegetarian meals to teachers).  I can't do leftovers either.  I can't actually bring myself to eat the same food twice in a row.  I've tried, but I can't even force myself to do it.  The food has got to be freshly cooked.  Isn't this a dilemma?

The most action my kitchen gets is when I make my morning coffee from my one-cup coffee maker, or boiling water for my hot water bottle.  So, I decided, after being inspired by my collegue Mandy (who cooks every night of the week) that I would also cook, every night of the week.  Yes, this is the goal, a hot, healthy supper every weeknight (I don't cook on the weekends, something I remembered from an old boyfriend who told me 'You shouldn't have to cook on the weekend').  I decided, while on holiday, that when I return to Ankara, I would cook every night of the week.  Or, at least, not order takeout or visit Mehmet (the man who runs the little canteen next to my appartment building) who I saw all too frequently for my chip and pop run of shame.

Well, it's been three weeks since returning to Ankara from my sejour to Istanbul, London and Paris, and I have managed to cook a few times, and only visited Mehmet once for a snack of chips!  This is almost successful!  Proud of my efforts in the kitchen, I actually made sure to take photographic evience, just for you.

This is a chicken curry served in a tortilla bowl.  I liked this so much, I cooked it twice.  It's pretty easy to do.  You just have to fry up some pieces of chicken breast in a pan and then add diced tomatoes, chopped mushroom, curry powder, finely chopped garlic and some yogurt to make it a bit creamy.  If I was really on the ball, I would have chopped up some onion and cooked it with the chicken for extra flavour.  But I am not on the ball with cooking, yet.  Baby steps, baby steps.

I cooked these on the same night as I made the curry.  I basically just carmelized the rings of pineapple by heating them up in a pan with a bit of white sugar and a couple teaspoons of water to make them syrup-y.  I ate them warm and they were pretty good.

This was my effort at comfort food.  Eilidh and I were food shopping last sunday and she mentioned that she wanted to make macaroni and cheese.  I was intrigued.  I want to make macaroni and cheese too! I thought.  So I bought some Eski Kaşarlı cheese, which tastes kind of like aged white cheddar cheese (my favourite!) and Eilidh told me how to make a white sauce.  It's not hard, actually.  You heat up some butter in a pan, then whisk in a bit of flour and then a little milk and then add your cheese, grated, so it all melts up into a sauce.  I cooked my pasta then poured the sauce on top.  I cut up some more cheese to sprinkle on top (I didn't have any parmesan), and voila, comfort food!

So there are my efforts at cooking...I'm hoping to make more healthy food, since beach season comes early in Turkey!

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.

Play dough

Last Tuesday, I got the most amazing piece of news...I was offered a position teaching at the University's private primary school, starting next semester!  I was thrilled (I am still thrilled) and immediately accepted a chance to visit the school during my lunch break the next day.  I was brought to the Principal's office and then led on a school tour...starting with the kreş...in English, the Nursery.  A nursery?  The kids are beyond adorable, let it be known that Turkish children are some of the cutest in the world, in high competition with Asian children, who are also beyond adorable.  I've supply taught every grade level and subject, I have experience teaching in every age level...but I haven't really spent much time in Nurseries...the bulk of my teaching experience has happened to fall into the Key Stage 2 area...meaning, grades 3, 4, 5 and 6.  I've never really had an age preference in primary schools, I fell into my Grade 5 practicum because it was the only grade that was going through the Intensive French at that time.  I was offered a job in Year 5 in England.  I just love teaching kids, the age never seemed to make much difference to me.

I've been debating over the past few months with regards to which age level I like teaching best, university students or primary school children.  Children are easier to motivate, and excited to learn but often have more behavioural issues (sharing, fighting, listening to instructions...).  Adults are more responsible to motivating themselves, and don't tend to have behavioural issues (you don't need to reward them with stickers for sitting nicely, or take away their playtime for fighting).  Those points considered, I've been missing primary teaching like crazy these past couple months.  I miss the exciting, creative, organized-sort-of-chaos of it all.  I miss little children getting excited to learn.  I miss the teaching environment (primary school teachers tend to be the nicest people in the world...you kind of have to be pretty nice, in order to hang around with that many small children, all day long.  That said, I have met exceptions to the rule.)

I've never taught at a private school before, so I didn't really know what to expect.  I must admit though, this school is POSH.  (Although, you wouldn't expect much less from one of the nation's leading universities, would you?).  Classrooms are beautiful, immaculately clean, organized and shiny-new.  Turkish tea is made in large water hot water dispensers delivered by the cafeteria catering staff to teacher's staff rooms.  Hell, there's even a room just for tea (appropriately named 'Tea Room', they do take their çay seriously here.)  There is a vegetarian option and salad bar everyday at the cafeteria (Finally!), but my most favourite example of the extravagance in this primary school is this:  Children eat at round tables with linen table clothes, bread baskets and water pitchers.  With a few decorations, you could seriously hold a high class event in this cafeteria.

So, I'm teaching a total of 24 class hours per week (prep time not included).  2 hours of those are teaching French to 6 grade students, 22 hours spent divided between the 3 Pre Kindergarten and 4 Kindergarten classes, team-teaching Literacy in English to Turkish 5 and 6 year olds, who, by the way speak VERY limited English.  Think of it as French immersion, in reverse.  I've spent the past three days in the nursery, observing lessons, teaching observation lessons and getting used to the routines and proceedures of the school.  I have a two week break, starting on Monday, and on 14 February I'm starting my job full time.

travel. travel. travel.

I know why they call it 'the travelling bug'. I've studied enough Intro to Psychology to know that different personality types can be more prone to addiction than others. I do not have an addictive personality. I can smoke nargile (Turkish smoke pipe) and not crave it again. I don't feel any desire to drink often more than socially. I don't rely on any painkillers other than ibuprofen (for those morning afters when my social drinking has gotten the best of me). I do not have an addictive personality whatsoever...with perhaps one exception. Travelling.

I get a high like no other when I'm planning a trip. I can be a research demon, scouring the internet for information about places, historical sites, hotels and my personal favourite: flights. I get more excitement looking at flights than what most people would get when they win at Bingo. When I know I have vacation time coming up, I love going to http://www.skyscanner.com/ and typing in my vacation dates, and choosing 'Everywhere' from the list of country options. This beautiful little tool brings up all the countries you can fly to and lists them in order of ascending price. A $90 flight to Germany, don't mind if I do! A £120 flight to Athens, why not? (This brings me to my other freaky obsession, which is converting currencies. I'm your most annoying shopping companion, because I'll mentally convert the price of whatever it is your looking at into one of the following currencies: Turkish Lira, Great British Pounds, Euro, and both American and Canadian Dollars...seriously, 'If you convert it to pounds....it's a great deal!').

When I do get to my desired vacation, I'll spend a while soaking up the glory that is my different surroundings and then, it begins. The travelling addiction. Tugging on my clothes like a first grade student who is telling me that they finished their work. Niggling little thoughts begin to appear in my brain. 'Where should I go next?', 'Where have I not been to yet?', 'I hear the weather is nice in Syria this time of year...', 'I haven't had real Italian food in 6 months now...it really is time to go back to Italy...', 'When I get to an airport, I really must do some duty-free shopping...' Try as I might to ignore these thoughts and be satisfied with the place I just barely got to, I go into a near panic when I get near a computer. I've been known to search Skyscanner, EasyJet and Ryan Air while on vacation, to plan for the next vacation. Lately, I've been more successful in suppressing these urges, and waiting until I get home to let the Googling begin.

It dawned on me tonight, while talking to my ever-patient mother about my flighty ideas of where I want to live and travel to next that my addiction could be spreading to where I live as well. I'm the exemplary 'grass is greener' girl. I'll be living somewhere cool, but thinking about living somewhere even better. Working in a nice place, but thinking about working somewhere even nicer. I do feel that it is my privilege, nay, responsibility as a person who is living abroad to live in the raddest place possible. I mean, that is why we leave our own countries, right. If you're going to leave your home town, it's because you want to experience something different, something better. It occurred to me last week that if you're going to leave your hometown, you should be living in what you deem as the coolest place possible. Have a think about that. Many dinner conversation games include the question 'If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?' But how many people can say that their answer to this question is actually reality? I can. I asked myself this very question last week and I came up with this: a tropical island. So, at this very moment, I'm doing everything I can to get myself to a tropical island, in probably the Caribbean.

I have made the decision to abandon the comforts of home, family, friends and familiarity with a place in favour of relocating to a place completely different. A place where getting the comforts of home is expensive, if not difficult. A place where a different language is spoken, a different religion is practised and different cultural beliefs are observed. I shared this thought with Eilidh over our New Year's Eve dinner. Think of what you're giving up. Think of what you're getting into, when you move willingly to a foreign country. And then think, who pray tell, does that under their own free will? There are two types of people, actually. The first group of people are those who are rejects of their own society, and the second group are people who are most probably the raddest people you will ever meet. These people get high off the challenge of making it somewhere new. These people enjoy living in a place where buying milk is exciting, because it's now a challenge. Can you ever imagine that buying milk could be exciting? That's why people do it.

One of my students asked me why I like to travel so much. I told her that, by travelling, I get to do exciting things every day. I get to do things here in Turkey that I never would have done in Canada (making kısır, going to a hamam and participating in a korban sacrifice, to mention a few) and I wouldn't give up those experiences for anything.