update

[originally written on September 28th, 2011)

Hey friends,
I’m in an interesting predicament. I have lots of things to say and write and yet no internet to share my thoughts. It occurred to me a minute ago in the shower (where all important pondering takes place) that I don’t need my blog to write for my blog. I don’t even need the internet. Hell, I just need a pencil and paper. So I should probably hop to it.

My move to Istanbul has probably been the most difficult, most uncertain move I’ve ever made. Nothing - and I mean nothing - has gone according to plan. About two days before my flight I got a one-line email from my future employer saying, “by the way, could you send me another copy of your teaching certificate?”

I don’t have a teaching certificate. I was very upfront about this from the beginning.
Where were my answers? To my insignificant, paltry questions like: What’s the address of my apartment? What’s the address of my school? When am I expected to start work?

I shared my concerns with the unlucky people I spoke to in the days leading up to my departure and they all gave me the half-sympathetic, half-deeply worried look of citizens gazing upon the town crazy. Clearly I must be off my rocker to be going ahead with this when everything about the job seemed so immediately dodgy. And yet I somehow managed to shrug most of it off. Don’t get me wrong - I was anxious. Part of me wondered if this was some very elaborate identity fraud scheme. That same part also wondered if I might end up at the airport only to be whisked off into the Eastern European sex trade. I called my friend Sarah the day before I left, mostly to whine. Sarah’s boyfriend lived in Istanbul for two years and returned rather recently, so he’s been an endless supply of information, guidance, and enthusiasm. And so has she. Sarah reassured me that despite the insanity of just how little information they were providing, it sounded pretty normal based on everything she’d heard, and that though I might be tempted to have an ulcer, I should drink a few beers instead and take some deep breaths. I probably wouldn’t end up a very expensive call girl in Tokyo. (I’m paraphrasing, of course.) I don’t know about the deep breaths, but I did have a few beers and spent a luxuriously carefree hour watching the season finale of True Blood. Which was kind of awful. I sat on my back porch for a few minutes and said goodnight to the kitties. And then the next morning I was off.

(Side note: I think the people who live above us are having a MAJOR spat. And by the sounds of it, he did something bad... Yikes!)

I’ve been trying to understand my own response to all of this and I keep making the inevitable comparisons to France. It’s the only other overseas place I’ve lived so it seems pretty reasonable in my brain, plus they’re both kind of in Europe, right? Moving to France the first time was really, really tough. I vividly remember the many nights I would lay awake in my bed staring at my ceiling (nearly blind without glasses of course), wondering how the fuck I was going to get out of my commitment to the job. I’d told so many people about it that I knew if I backed out I’d face a wall of judgment, and rightfully so. But I also knew that my nerves and the flutterings in my heart had different ideas. I had two friends in France, Guillaume and Judith, and I briefly considered asking them to send people postcards posing as me to keep up the charade. I’m not even kidding. I wanted my friends to pretend to be me so I could get out of moving to France. Ha. And if I’d known what awaited me on the other side, I might not have dismissed that plan so quickly. The first month in Bordeaux was a complete shit show. I lost about ten pounds my first week not only because I was walking everywhere, but because I’d mysteriously lost all appetite. I lived on the mouthwatering diet of one tuna sandwich and two handfuls of trail mix every day. I cried constantly. Shit. Show.

I’m trying to figure out when it was that things started getting better in BDX. Or at least when I started feeling more equipped to handle the onslaught of Bordelais bullshit. Maybe when I met Laura? When I moved into Maryse’s apartment and started living somewhere somewhat stable - and with a new friend who shared my troubles? I don’t really know. That year was simultaneously the best and worst year of my life. I’ve never felt so constantly vulnerable or inadequate or giddy or just full. Everything was important and everything meant something. Compared to that roller coaster, my second year there was a breeze. It was fun and easy and one wonderful discovery after another. No crying after class or coming home hoarse from yelling. No near heart attacks over visa issues or banking questions. I ate brunch a lot and made quiche in a functioning oven I didn’t have to light with a chopstick. (Not that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy the adrenaline of thinking my hair might catch on fire every time...) I laughed a lot.

Maybe I know I’ll get to the laughter in Istanbul. Maybe I know that the grey hairs I’m accumulating wading through this murk will be fewer this time. Maybe I’m just naive. The problems are annoying, I’m not going to lie. The fact that the one person I thought I’d really be able to count on has basically turned into a massive flake (or maybe always was?), I find very, very annoying. But does it surprise me? Not really. No offense gentlemen friends, but dudes are kind of shitty sometimes. And when they get scared they’re really shitty. I’m choosing not to take it personally. So I feel okay. You know, not perfectly content. Not necessarily as absorbed by the exotic majesty of Istanbul like I was when my mom and I came in April, but I’m getting there. No longer thinking of flying back to LA with my mom next week, in any case. Already laughing. Already smiling. Haven’t lost ten pounds yet, but at least six or seven - and I haven’t even given up eating. Ha.

I’m heading to an internet cafe by my apartment in a minute to check my email and take a little walk before class tonight. I have no hope of posting this for some time, but that just means you’ll all have a lot of new reading material eventually. Next post: what the fuck is wrong with these people, i.e. CULTURE SHOCK.

buckets of love,
anya