du pain / ekmek

Warning: weirdness coming your way. Cats in heat, bowling shoes, breakfast foods, and Québécois accents. All in your immediate future. Think before you continue.

This post probably should be titled “Did That Really Happen v. 5.0,” but it’s actually too big for that name. After my snowy week-long hibernation, real and tangible things started happening on Friday when my old pre-intermediate class went bowling. If you know me even remotely, you know that I a) suck at bowling, and b) am stupidly and quietly very competitive. These two qualities aren’t very flattering. I suck at bowling, yet I secretly think I should be good at it. Fun times! Anyway. Aydın and I decided a while ago that we wanted to keep our relationship under wraps when it came to his classmates and my former students. One of the funnier complications of dating your students... (What are other complications, you might wonder? I’ll save that for another time.) So when one of the girls in the class, Necla, offered to meet me at school so we could travel to the bowling alley together, Aydın and I agreed it would be a good idea. That way we’d get there separately and the duplicitous hijinks could begin in earnest. It was a surreal experience, pretending like we hadn’t seen each other in two months and didn’t know each other beyond the classroom. It actually forced me to look at him a bit more objectively than I usually do, and I understood a few things.

I really need to learn Turkish and meet him half way. He’s this whole other complete person in his own language. He tells jokes and people laugh. I can tell from our conversations that he actually has a great sense of humor, but humor is so difficult to translate. I wish I could know that person better.

I’m actually shy as shit. Really. The girls insisted on taking twenty billion pictures, and when Aydın put his arm around me, I got super awkward and nervous. Like “why is this Turkish guy touching me. Be a frosty bitch, Anya. Frosty bitch.”

I think the only person who may have “caught on” was their new teacher, Daniel. He happened to be going the same way at the end of the night, and watched me totally contradict myself when I told him which direction I was heading in... Oh well.

Saturday was a blur of homemade Turkish brunch and my introduction to the TV show Heroes. Sunday. Let’s talk about Sunday. (Yesterday.)
First: I made pancakes. Real pancakes. Except only kind of real, because I couldn’t find maple syrup and we used honey and bananas instead. And I had no measuring utensils, so had to eyeball and compensate with things that are otherwise meant to be quite precise. Like baking powder. Miraculously, my picky Turkish breakfast companion loved the ‘cakes, and ate about five of them before moving on to the savory dishes. (Which are always tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, cheese and bread doused in olive oil and lemon juice with lots of salt sprinkled on top.)

Then: I moved. It was epic. And bafflingly painless, save for the three minutes Aydın and I spent lugging all my shit up five flights of stairs in one go. Because when I suggested we make a several, easier trips, he scoffed. (And then took the lighter bag, I might add.) Both of my roommates, Seval and Hatice, were home and welcomed me with smiles and hugs, and walking over the threshold felt like a bittersweet, yet welcome relief. I’m really delighted to be somewhere much more central with two girls my age who can teach me things and be my friends. They both speak really excellent English and seem so open with their opinions and hearts. Seval is a masters student in architecture and Hatice works as a banker - I’m not sure I could’ve asked for two better Turkish roommates, though I realize it’s a little premature to say so. I say bittersweet, because I know I won’t be seeing Aydın very often now that we’re not living in sin together. He has one night off every week, and that’s kind of it.

The girls immediately asked me to sit down and have tea. Aydın very cunningly picked up some baklava which he later told me was for my roommates (“to make a good, polite impression”) and that was laid out for a sweet afternoon snack. Hatice glanced at me nervously and announced that we actually had a houseguest, and she hoped I wouldn’t be upset. Hold on to your knickers, friends. The girls have an adorably ugly cat named Layla who looks like a calico version of cinematic Crookshanks. You know - smushed nose, lots of long wispy fur. Apparently Layla has been “meowing” a lot lately and is in hot, hot heat. For reasons unknown to me, Turks aren’t fond of neutering and spading their pets. It’s baffling. There are so many goddamn stray animals in this city, and granted they are all pretty well taken care of, but still. This year, Hatice and Seval decided rather than ignore her very loud and obnoxious meowing, they would find her a suitor so she could fulfill her feline needs and perhaps produce a litter. So they asked around, and borrowed a gentleman caller / gigolo / sperm donor from a friend. And this is our houseguest. “They will make love this weekend, and then my friend will come for him on Tuesday.” I asked them how this romantic experiment had been going, and apparently not so well. Layla’s a hefty girl and had taken to swatting “Kaçak” (“Fugitive”) rather than getting feisty with him. I asked whether he might not be up to the task. Kitty shyness, or something. “No, we asked for him because he is a great lover. He has already made baby cats before.” Oh, okay.

The first time they made magic happen, I felt like I was watching Animal Planet Porn. Seval and Hatice were quite possibly holding their breaths, and most definitely whispering for fear of disturbing them. So. Effing. Weird. I don’t know if kittens are in the future, but I do know that at very least, cat sex is much less disturbing than duck sex, which can only be classified as duck rape. Mother Nature is a vicious mistress.

My last funny tidibt - after years of being a passive observer, I finally took the plunge and actually took part in a couchsurfing “thing.” Since joining the Istanbul group, I’ve gotten at least four or five messages from people wanting to hang out. Most of them have been questionable Middle Eastern men whom I suspect want to spend an awkward evening flirting with me, BUT I did get a message from an interesting Québécois dude asking if I knew anyone with a couch who spoke French. Hélas, I don’t. But I did agree to get coffee with him and take him on a little walking tour. This afternoon we met in Taksim Square, along with a French-Turkish girl whose name I never caught, but did take us to her very bohemian apartment with the best view of the Bosphorus I’ve ever seen. Having next to no experience with French Canadians, I was unprepared for the Canadian’s accent and the speed at which he spoke. No offense, people of Québéc, but you sound ridiculous. How do manage to slaughter the word pain so thoroughly? My French is oh so rusty, but come on! Actually, to be less of a snobby bitch, the Canadian was super nice, friendly, and really interesting. I only understood maybe 60% of what he said, but he’s been all over the world and he builds massive igloos for “les Esquimaux” (yep!) when he’s back in Montréal. The French/Turkish girl was super nice, as well, and the perfect combination of the two cultures. Waifishly thin, cool, and gorgeous with black hair, olive skin, and bright blue eyes. I walked with them from her apartment to Dolmabahçe Palace while they compared the drugs they’ve taken. Then I peaced out. All in all, a fun two hours, and a true pleasure to speak low-pressure French when I haven’t done that maybe ever. It made me realize how much I miss feeling even slightly linguistically at home somewhere. I’ll never speak French perfectly, but it’s engrained in me. To some degree, it feels comfortable. A little bit like home. I have a hard time believing that Turkish ever will...