- The curriculum is totally counter-intuitive at this new place. They split the courses up into five sections: Grammar, Reading, Writing, Speaking, and Listening. So for two weeks we study only grammar. Literally. I think you can imagine how BORING AS FUCK that is. Maybe you can also imagine how un-conducive it is to actually learning a language.
- The book is a pile of shit. There are so many spelling, grammatical, and factual mistakes I’m shocked they haven’t hired someone just to fix it. There is one exercise per grammatical concept, which means I get to search the interwebs and the book I stole from the old company to beef up my lessons and make sure the kiddies understand.
The good news is that most of the students are way more serious about learning, and this company is ten times more professional in general. For starters, they had me sign a legit ten month contract. (Which I signed knowing I’d be breaking, by the by. I’m not staying here until January.) They’re also already filing the papers for my residency and work visas. Phew. And getting me a bank account. They only hire foreign teachers, which I have mixed feelings about, but that generally translates to a much friendlier, collaborative atmosphere. I’ve already met some really interesting people at work and they’ve all welcomed me with open arms and curiosity. So far my only major complaint revolves around scheduling - I work all weekend. And by all weekend, I mean all weekend. My morning class is in Kadıköy, which is a lovely neighborhood. In ASIA. So I get to haul my ass out of bed at 6.30 and get on a bus to cross the Bosphorus. And then after a four hour class, I get to take the same bus back to Mecidiyeköy where I usually work (and where I live) and teach another four hour class which ends at 7. It’s a lot of transportation. And a lot of me standing around trying to teach the difference between “ ‘s “ and “of.” No more leisurely Turkish breakfasts with Aydın, or much time with him at all. Boo.
Anyway. I didn’t start this post to feel sorry for myself or bitch about work. Last weekend two marvelous things happened and I felt they needed to be documented and shared.
1. After weeks of hemming and hawing, I took a small plunge and bought a new street snack, unsure of whether it contained cheese or meat or both, or something weirder. There was a time when I wasn’t so wary of trying new baked goods, but a trip to the amazing bakery-turned shady “Tex Mex” place in Bordeaux taught me an important lesson a few years ago. I bought a baguette, took it home, and then I bit into it. Imagine my delight when I realized it was studded with whole hazelnuts. And then imagine my confusion when I realized it was also studded with chunks of sausage. Bread, hazelnuts, and sausage. Mmmm. For some of you, that sounds tasty. In my brain, I can see how that might be a culinary delight. But for my personal palette, not so much. And when I tried to offer it to Laura, an avid meat-eater, even she wasn’t digging it. So I’ve learned that sometimes, things aren’t what they appear.
Simit, a sesame seed encrusted pretzel type ring, is the ubiquitous treat sold on what seems like every street corner. Men set up stalls (I’ve never seen a lady simit seller) and usually charge 1 TL . Sometimes they sell little single-serving packets of beyaz peynir, which is the Turkish equivalent of cream cheese, to accompany. Personally, I think simit tastes best when smeared with honey or nutella, but who am I to say... Regardless, I’ve noticed that some of the stalls in my neighborhood sell other things alongside their simit. And one of those things looks suspiciously like an obese bagel, potentially filled with something good. I have no way of asking what that might be, so one day, I just bought one and hoped for the best.
Turns out açma, as my roommate informed it is called, is filled with nothing. It is, in fact, a Turkish bagel. Score. I ate my plunder slowly, savoring every last bready bite, and wishing it had been boiled like a real bagel. If I closed my eyes and ignored the seagulls squawking outside my window though, I could almost imagine I were home. Delicious.
2. I think it’s pretty normal that I’m really interested in prostitutes here in Turkey. People always laugh at me when I ask about “the oldest profession,” but my curiosity is earnest and totally sincere. Turkey’s complicated. And sex here is super complicated. Turkey might be a predominantly Muslim country, but its history is less than pure, and there’s a reason English dictionaries define “harem” (which is a Turkish word) the way it does (which is different than its Turkish meaning). Turkish men are men. They like sex. But there’s a problem. Because Turkish women aren’t supposed to surrender their “gift” until their wedding day. So what do you do with a lot of horny men and women who are taught that their personal worth depends on their chastity? Two things, really. You set up state-run brothels, and you import a bunch of Russian prostitutes. Did your jaw just drop? Because the first time I heard the phrase “state-run brothels,” mine sure did. My friend Chip was invited to one by a student back in November, and it was by the grace of his foreign passport that Chip wasn’t allowed to enter. Selfishly, I wish he had been allowed in so he could give me the dirt, but alas. Word on the street is that most Turkish men pay a visit to these establishments for their first time. What a system.
Though I’ve refrained from asking my students about this subject, a surprising amount of them have brought it up on their own, in a way. Mostly it comes in this form: “Anya, you must be careful in Taksim after midnight. It is very dangerous. There are [word stumble] lots of transvestites.” Despite my many efforts to ask them why transvestites are “dangerous” and worth avoiding, I never really get much of an answer. Turkish people are in so frustratingly narrow-minded about sexuality and race sometimes. After a lot of prodding and questions for Aydın, I’ve finally surmised that a lot of the trannies in Taksim are prostitutes, and have a bad reputation because they’re hot and unwilling to take shit from anyone. Last weekend Aydın and I went to dinner in the area and in the car on the way over, I confessed that it was a goal of mine to see one of these legendary lovelies. The night was a bust in that respect, and we drove home a little disappointed. (Ok, I was disappointed. He wasn’t.) We got caught in inevitable Saturday night traffic about ten minutes from my apartment - this time because police were shining lights in heavily tinted cars - and I glanced at the sidewalk, about half a block up from the police blockade. Lo and behold! There she was in her supremely tall glory, wearing a miniskirt in the freezing cold, a plunging v-neck sparkly top, and a leather jacket. As the line of cars slowly moved, I noticed the station wagon directly in front of us was full of five or six head-scarved girls, probably a few years younger than me. They were openly gawking, gaping, and giggling. The tranny saw them staring at her, and responded by caressing and then grabbing her DD breasts while licking her lips in the girls’ direction. Aydın missed the whole thing and didn’t seem to think much of it when I tried to relate the incident to him, but for me, it was kind of a big deal. Turkey in a nutshell. Girls unwilling to show so much as a wrist or an ankle coming into contact with a sex worker. Genius. I’m not ashamed to admit that though this wasn’t a fight, I was definitely rooting for the latter.
1 comment:
Totally fantastic.
Mm...bagels.
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