a very very very fine house [part I]

After some pleading, begging, and tearful requests by dedicated readers, I've decided to do a post or two on my apartment. I can only imagine how utterly thrilled you are upon obtaining this news. I know. I almost can't handle it myself.

Ok, well, I'll start with a little background on where I live. I'm located in Bahcelievler [bahcheylee-evler; houses with gardens]. Now, this places is packed with apartments and shops, which means that there are no gardens. I don't know who made up such a craptastic description of the place! It must be like the whole Greenland-Iceland thing.

Anyhow, I live just off of Yedinci Caddesi--7th Street--which is one of the hot spots in Ankara. That means I'm surrounded by hoity-toity shops and all the fast food chains--KFC, Pizza Hut [with limitSIZ (limitless) pizza], McDonalds (home of the McTurco), and Burger King. Last Sunday morning, on the way to buying bread, I also noticed that the walls around a construction site on the corner were taken down to reveal...a brand new Starbucks. Golly.

But, I love it. There is a lot of life, places are open late, and the back streets are packed with goodies. Getting to any form of public transportation is a cinch, although I've decided I need to walk the back streets if I want to catch the dolmus any time between 12 and 1...it's out of control busy with all the business folks coming in to Bahceli for lunch. It's also not a good place to own a car--traffic is horrendous and parking is hell.

Throughout Bahcelievler there are tons of little coffee shops where I go to get out of the house. I currently spend a lot of time at the Jenga Cafe, where they have come to know me because I always sit in the same spot and only order water or tea. Heh, i'm not exactly a big contributor to their income, but they like the yabanci. Heck, who doesn't?! I'm cute, right? Ok, maybe not...but I'm an American who speaks Turkish and that seems to get 'em every time.


My apartment is on the 3rd floor [top floor] of my building. It's well-heated [the first comment every relative has made upon visiting] and gets so much light. It's absolutely wonderful. There are two bedrooms, an extra room, a salon, a kitchen, and two bathrooms--a la Franca [western toilet] and a la Turka [hole-in-the-ground toilet].













The salon is gigantic, but I spend surprisingly little time there. I'd like to make a defensive statement about this room: I didn't buy the couches. so, DON'T JUDGE ME! [at least, not based on the couches] I don't really watch TV because I don't have cable and understand so little. Consequently, I just fail to go into the room very often. But, it's awfully sunny and it's a wonderful place to sit and eat breakfast.


I use the extra room to I store things like extra chairs, the ladder, and the supergaz--the most amazing vacuum cleaner I've ever encountered. If you look at the left corner, you'll see the gray supergaz. It's a crap little thing, falling apart--it ain't no Dirt Devil. However, as I discovered a few weeks ago, I can plug it in in the kitchen and the cord is long enough that I somehow manage to vacuum the entire apartment without having to use a different plug. It's also pretty powerful.

One disadvantage of the apartment, and the real reason behind my love of the supergaz, is that EVERYTHING is carpeted. Let me just say--never put carpet in your kitchen. Sunday morning I was making a date shake for breakfast and it exploded. Yogurt went everywhere and I'm going to have to spend some time this week scrubbing the bloody carpet. ugh.

Moving on.
















I converted the other bedroom into my study/map room. It's wonderfully bright and I love it...given the amount of time I spend in here it better be ok! It lacks much decoration, but I've started to put stuff on the walls. I have two geologic maps on the back wall and above my desk I've got lists of Turkish food and shopping words. I recently bought a road map of Turkey and have started putting up pictures from each of my trips, connecting them by string to the map. It's pretty cool albeit unoriginal. However, I'm realizing that I'm travel heavy in the north and west...so, upcoming travel plans are gonna have to include a change of direction. Cyprus is in the works, currently, and that's pretty south...




Then we have the bedroom. Again, little decoration, but I'm working on it. Can I say something about the bed, too? I didn't pick the comforter. More importantly, though, I'd like to talk about the bed skirt. The base of my bed is a solid piece of wood--nothing is going under it. Do I need the bed skirt? No. Why do I have it? Well...



The comforter came as one of those sets. You know, with the pillowcase, sheets, and bed skirt. When I was moving in, my cousin was over to help out. I was putting the bed together and conveniently "forgot" the bed skirt. But, Berrin saved me from my folly and insisted I put it on. And now I can't take it off for fear of hurting her feelings. Hence, the bed skirt. But, it's a comfortable bed and the room has exquisite light [noticing a trend?].


I have two wonderful balconies. One has doors from both the study and the kitchen, which is great. The other is off the salon. Now that the warm weather is consistently coming, I anticipate spending an inordinate amount of time sitting on the balconies. Both face away from the sun, which is a bit unfortunate, but it'll be better in the summer.

It's amazing how soundproof my house is. It can be pouring rain outside and I'll have no idea. I am right around the corner from the Bahcelievler Camii but it's never woken me up at the 5:45 am call and I never have to stop talking to wait for it to end. But, it's nice to open the balcony doors when I'm working or cooking and suddenly hear all sorts of street sounds. Especially on Sunday mornings, when it's just me and the Simitci awake at 6:45 am, I like to hear the "Simitciiiiieeeeeeeehhhhhhh" call piercing the silence as he passes my apartment. He's never seen my face, but we have a special bond. In the afternoons, it's also nice to hear the kids at the primary school around the corner playing at recess and singing. In the morning, they belt out the national anthem...there are some distractingly loud and out-of-tune kids, I'll tell ya.


The foyer is also a key part of any Turkish apartment as shoe removal is a huge thing. The moment you walk into the house you take off your shoes and, most times, put on some slippers. No, if you have a need-to-pee emergency you can NOT bend the rules. You have to take off your shoes first [one reason why I enjoy living alone, as I am often afflicted by this predicament]. Most houses have some kind of large coat-shoe rack in the foyer. With my family members, shoes are never kept in a closet in the bedroom--always in the foyer closet. For me, it's become a nice big storage facility for all the superfluous junk I have no other place for. It also has a convenient little handle where I can hang my flashlight--you never know when the electricity is just gonna be cut-off. And who knows what they'll do if we go military coup!

The hall closet is home to the only mirror in the house, which can be both a good and bad thing. So far it hasn't saved me from going outside looking like a nutball. I think that, with all the intense fashion sense and constant dressing-to-the-nines amongst the Turkish youth surrounding me, I've actually become frumpier [didn't think that could happen, did you?]. I just can't handle the pressure! So, I try to look like a homeless person instead, thinking no one will notice my existence...but, unfortunately, I think it backfires most times and people just whisper about me or the crowds part to let Ms. Frump through. Shame. Looks like I'll have to try a different tactic. Maybe...hot/neon colors?

Doorbells are also a ridiculous thing in Turkey--they always play some crazy sound, without fail. Mine isn't so bad, kind of like a chirping bird. Problem is, whenever it rings I have a moment of absolute fear because I think I have let a bird into the house [see sidenote]. However, I think it's better than others. My cousin's plays a midi-like version of Mozart. My aunt's, It's A Small World...on crack.

sidenote: One time, in Chicago, I thought Aya was home because I heard something in the kitchen. I started talking to her and was getting no response. So, I went in to the kitchen to find...not Aya, but a squirrel who had chewed through the window screen and was eating a bar of chocolate. I wasn't really sure what to do. He gave me a look and kind of barred his teeth. Since I wasn't in the mood to be bitten by a squirrel [I'd had a long day in the lab] I just locked myself in my room. He eventually left, but we couldn't open the kitchen window ever again. It was too bad--he ruined a really good bar of chocolate.

Abrupt though it is, I'm going to stop here and keep the best room for a later installment. Any guesses on which room that could possibly be? Oh yes, wait and see...tee hee, tee hee.

conundrum.

I enjoy doing my laundry in Turkey. It takes forever—1.5 hours for one load—but afterwards I get to hang it out on the line to dry. Dryers? Not a big thing here.

Putting clothes out to dry is always quite an event for me. I’m on the top floor of my building and it manages to be eternally windy out on my balcony. Until recently, it’s also been incredibly cold. So, when I’m hanging clothes not only do I have to constantly chase after them, but I’m generally concurrently freezing my butt off. In March, I had to wear gloves because my fingers would clamp up Pamukcuitis style.

Nonetheless, I get some kind of sick pleasure out of hanging my clothes out to dry. It's just so satisfying when I manage to complete the task without dying [I bet you never would have guessed that hanging your clothes out to dry could be fatal]! I expect this enjoyment will die soon, but it has been 3 months already…

I pay particular attention and care in organizing my lines. I first pin all the main clothes up by color. By the time that's done I’ve usually run out of line space and clothespins. But, I've still got socks, etc., to deal with. So, like an exciting little brainteaser, I try to match sock colors up with clothes. It never works out, but it’s a seriously effective way of procrastinating.

Oh dear. I’ve revealed too much haven’t I? You think I’m a freak, don’t you? Well, I'm sorry if I've scared you, but I just can't hide the truth any longer!

It took me a bit to figure out the best way to hang things. I was apparently doing it wrong for awhile, pinning my shirts at the sleeves. One day I looked around and noticed that all the pros, i.e. my neighbors, were hanging their shirts from the bottom seam. So, I did that and, let me say, it actually did make some kind of a difference. It might be a mental thing, but I'm pretty sure this was an important thing to learn...maybe.

Now, there are definite pros and cons to the line dry.

PROS:

1. Everything comes out virtually wrinkle free, so no ironing is necessary.

2. If I put my clothes out in the morning they are dry by late afternoon/early evening [thank you dry Ankara air]. Consequently, I don’t have to worry about not having dry clothes the next day…that is, if it doesn’t rain/sleet/snow/hail as it did a few weeks ago.

CONS:

1. Sheets and towels come out pretty scratchy and so not fluffy. Pants also end up being stiff as a board. This can often be remedied by using a low heat iron on them…negating the 'no ironing necessary' aspect of the line dry. Dap naggit.

2. I haven’t really perfected the clothes hanging skill, which oftentimes creates a conundrum:

Every time I’ve put out my clothes, no matter how many clothespins I use, I’ve ended up with underwear or socks stuck in a tree below. And, of course, it’s on a branch I can’t reach. Thus, I end up sitting there shaking the tree, with some dopey fake smile on my face, while people look at me like I’m crazy. Really, though, that’s not so much of a problem...

But, what about when this happens? When your sock falls to the balcony below. WHAT DO I DO?!

Or, how about this, as happened two weeks ago:

My sweater fell. It caught the edge of the balcony below me and was hanging from the wrist area of the sleeve. [it looked like an invisible person was hanging on for dear life, actually] Now, I thought, one of two things could happen. One, the person would find it on her balcony and hang it on my doorknob, as she once before. Two, it would fall.

I was sure it would just fall off to the ground eventually. But no, neither of these options occurred. Instead, the wind caught my sweater and managed to move it 20 feet to the side and down...onto another person’s balcony.

When this happens, I usually spend the remainder of the day constantly praying that some divine intervention will cause it to fall to the ground. That’s what happened with my sock.

That is not what happened with my sweater. ah! now what?! Do I just forget the sweater because I'm too scared of making a fool of myself to get it back? Or do I suck it up and go talk to the people?!

Well, it was one of my favorite sweaters...

So [GASP] I decided to go talk to the people.

I rehearsed what I’d say over and over again. Then, around 11:45 am, I went downstairs. A man opened the door and stared at me like I was an alien. This stare continued for the duration of my time there.

I stuttered through what I planned to say and the man looked entirely flabbergasted. But, then the woman of the house came over and was much more understanding, though she too gave me a strange look. As she brought me to the balcony to collect my sweater, I noticed that 7 or 8 people were living in this tiny apartment. Most of them were still in bed. I knew because they had their doors open and pulled up the covers when I walked past. That is, except for the one’s who were sleeping on the couches, they couldn’t really hide.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this isn't just a normal apartment. I’ve seen a number of mentally and physically disabled people going up and down the stairs and stopping at that door, but I’m not sure if it’s some kind of organized system or if it’s just a family. I'm interested in finding out more, especially if it isn't just a plain old apartment. It seemed somewhat sketchy...or maybe just a bit unfortunate.

In any case, the whole experience was a little awkward.

But, hey, I got my sweater back! I’m thinking of trying to make orange bars next week—like lemon bars, but with orange instead! Maybe I’ll bring them some to thank them. It was one of my favorite sweaters, after all.

Slowly slowly I'm beginning to perfect the Art of Clothes Hanging. It’s kind of embarrassing. All these women around me just know how to hang and it’s easy peasy puddin' 'n' pie. No one but me ever has things fallen to the ground. Hopefully, one day, I can be as great as them. If only. Gotta dream big, Ay! Oh, what a dream…

no, really...Ankara IS higher than Denver.

An innocent little rumor I was spreading when I first arrived in Ankara...hey, someone smart told me it was true! But, even after determining that no, Ankara is in fact ~2000 ft. lower than Denver, I've been asked to continue dispensing the myth to gullible listeners. Which I will gladly do.

Hey, did you know that Ankara is higher than Denver?



Back when I really thought that Ankara was higher than Denver I started considering the problems of high altitude cooking and baking.

It all started after a late-night Hamentaschen baking session with Michael. While the cookies did indeed taste good, they spread together and cooked incredibly fast.



Added bonus in the face of disappointment: it made for a nice tessellation-like design.

There was also one cookie that had apricot jam in it and the apricot swelled up to make this huge mound. It was impressive.




Now, a few caveats. I've never baked with a Celsius degree oven and I haven't quite figured out the conversion yet. Additionally, it isn't like the oven is particularly well-tuned and most of the numbers have worn off. So, it's not like my oven is perfect to begin with. But, I was sure it was an altitude issue. Consequently, after the Hamentaschen event, I did all sorts of in-depth research and decided that I needed to decrease the baking powder and sugar while increasing the liquid and flour.

Long story short--it didn't make a difference...because I'm not at high altitude. It's just the damn oven.

sidenote: that being said, we are still 3,000 ft. above sea level, which means water boils at a lower temperature and you have to cook hardboiled eggs longer. admittedly, that has nothing to do with this. but, my point is, we still have elevation effects!


Since that debacle other baking endeavors have been considerably more successful. For instance, the strawberry bread I made earlier this week was perfecto. However, I do have to watch things carefully. Every 10-15 minutes I have to turn the pan one-quarter of a rotation to cook things evenly. I also have to cut my vegetables a lot thicker than usual if I want to roast them.

I'm still working on the whole temperature thing. Interestingly, installed ovens aren't found in many houses here. Most people have what looks like an enlarged toaster oven that has settings 1-6, i.e. no temperatures. Mine has temperatures, but I think they are wrong, so now I'm just experimenting with turning the dial.


A few weeks ago I had a breakthrough and discovered that my oven is, in fact, good for something. PIZZA.

I've had some interesting experiences with homemade pizza in the past few years. One of the most memorable was with my friend Michael Z. For about 3 years he and I cooked together once a week, alternating who would come up with ideas. In that time we had a number of not exactly successful attempts at making pizza. This particular time was probably our best bad event:

It was Michael's turn to choose. Before I got downstairs, Michael had put a large glass microwave plate in a 400 degree oven to heat up like a ceramic pizza stone. As the "stone" heated, we made the pizza. It was simple but good--tomato, basil, prosciutto, and mozzarella. It was really a very beautiful creation. When the "stone" was ready, we slid the pizza on to it. We let it cook for a bit then took out the whole thing, "stone" and pizza. As Michael placed it on the countertop the glass plate shattered, sending shards of glass into our beautiful pizza, making it inedible. We starved that night. I'm tearing up at the memory of it...

And here is a more recent attempt, this time with the Paleobotanist:

This was just ridiculous. The dough was perfect, the topping looked great. However, in my ultimate stupidity, I put the pizza on wax paper instead of parchment paper. We proceeded to put the pizza in the oven and let it cook. Of course, the wax melted and the crust stuck to the paper. So, we just picked off the filling, which was pretty darned good. But, another attempt later in the week was much more successful overall, we actually had crust to eat.


Last week, things were different.

I had some leftover honey mustard chicken and I didn't just want to eat it plain. So, I thought, why not some honey mustard chicken pizza?!

I made some pizza dough, which I spiked with rosemary and hot pepper flakes. I let it do its rising thing then split it into quarters. I let the oven preheat at "200"C for an hour to get the baking sheet thoroughly heated. In the meantime, I opened my dough and topped it with shredded chicken and leftover sauce. When the oven was ready I baked it...on parchment paper...

Result: It.Was.Perfect. The sides of the crust unexpectedly rose up to give that famous poofy edge and the pepper flakes gave it a beautiful ruddy color. The honey flavor complemented the spice of the crust excellently. With a little salad...mmm scrumptious.






Tonight it's calzone with one of the pizza crust quarters I froze and some leftover chunky meat sauce I made for pasta last night.





Ahh, the sweet taste of baking success. I beat you, oven! I BEAT YOU. It's glorious.

a case of mistaken identity.

I’m not who you think I am.

Heck, I’m not who I think I am.

In the past month, 64.2% of my identity has been called into question.

Let’s start with the first revelation:

As it turns out, I’m not part German. I’m part Lithuanian.

All these years mom believed the Brown family came from Germany. Recently, however, my grandpa received an email from a diligent family tree tracing cousin. He has been connected to Lithuanian and Jewish genealogy databases, which a few weeks ago provided him with a wealth of information concerning some great-great-great-greatx204 grandparents. In that email he provided such a thorough survey of the Braun history that I got pretty lost. But, I did pick up on one key point: we're Lithuanian.

One particularly interesting part of the email was this little story about a distant cousin:

"Nevertheless, on the assumption that any Shilansky from Siauliai is our
cousin, no matter how distant, it is worth mentioning Dov Shilansky. He
was born in Siauliai on 21 March 1924, survived the Holocaust, and
emigrated to Israel in 1948. As a member of the Likud party he not only
served as a member of the Knesset (1977-96) but also as its Speaker
(1988-92). He served 21 months in prison for having organized
demonstrations against Israel's accepting Holocaust reparations from
Germany. He also has written two books. My contact (his first cousin
once removed) informs me that Dov is currently undergoing kidney dialysis.

An English translation of his first book (published in Tel Aviv, 1962)
has the title "Musulman". (According to the online "Concentration Camp
Dictionary", this word literally means "Muslim" but was slang for
someone who "looked like a living corpse with open eyes".) Although
written in the form of a novel, Dov's book includes the following
authorial statement: "Everything I have narrated in this book and the
many descriptions of Musulmans and their fate are not the product of my
imagination. Some of it I witnessed with my own eyes; the rest I gleaned
from other eye-witnesses when I was confined in the ghetto and the death
camps, or in the course of my wanderings, on behalf of the fighting
Hebrew underground, in the displaced persons camps that were scattered
over Europe at the end of the Second World War."

His second book (published in Hebrew by the Yad Vashem museum in
Jerusalem, 2006) is an autobiographical Holocaust memoir whose
illustrations include a few photographs of him. The title is "Hashkekhah
le-or ha-yom: ma'avako shel tsa'ir tsiyoni be-Lita uva-mamhanot", which
the verso of the title-page translates as "Darkness shrouded the day: a
young Zionist in Lithuania and the camps"."

That's kinda really crazy.

All in all, the realization that we are Lithuanian was definitely unexpected. All those heritage projects I did in elementary and middle school? Yep, I lied. I also got really sick the day before I had to present one of them because I was so nervous…in retrospect, I was probably unconsciously just trying to save a bunch of 6th graders from forever thinking I was German on the Brown side...cause that's what everyone would latch on to for life, no?

Ok, moving on.

The second revelation takes place in Turkey and comes with a bit of a story...

If you will kindly remember, a month-and-a-half ago I had a bit of a run in with the police concerning my residence permit situation. I left the Emniyet fuming but was subsequently told by other Fulbrighters that I could forego the permit and deal with a tourist visa instead.

Ahh, all my problems were solved! But, no. Apparently, to stay at Kerkenes, I need a residence permit. So, two weeks ago I headed back to the Emniyet.

The day started out not in my favor. I planned on getting to the Emniyet early to get it all sorted out before lunch. However, I first needed to take out the 375YTL research fee from the bank. The closest branch of my bank is pretty far from my house and a bit of a pain to get to. But, I recently discovered that other ATMs would work with my card. However, on this day, they were not on my side. Just spitting my card back out at me saying there was some sort of problem. So, no surprise, I started getting worried.

I remembered there was an ATM for my bank near the subway station, so I went there. Of course, that day at that hour they were doing repairs to the machine. So, I had to go down to Kizilay and go to the main branch.

Ok, I wanted to get to the Emniyet by noon—everything in Ankara shuts down for lunch at noon. Seriously, it’s like the world stops rotating, time stands still. Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s definitely the case for government offices. By the time I got down to Kizilay, however, it was 11:00. So, I ran to the bank, hoping I wasn’t gonna have to go through some long-winded rigamarole. Luckily, the ATM worked. I was really not in the mood to have bank problems.

By that point, it was 11:30, so I rushed rushed rushed to get to the Emniyet. I managed to get there around 11:47 and made it to the Yabanci Subesi [foreigner’s bureau]. Luckily, it had been a month since I was last there and they forgot my face. This time I was much calmer and knew to expect a steep fee, so it was a much more pleasant process. I’ve learned to resign myself to “the law” here rather than try to understand it.

When I arrived, there were no overwhelming crowds like last time, so I managed to actually talk to someone in a reasonable amount of time…who then proceeded to tell me to come back at 1:00 because I’d have to go pay something somewhere.

Gaaaah. Ok, well, I knew I was pushing it. Thankfully, next door to the Emniyet is ANKAmall, which has a 5M Migros [gigantic grocery store, Target gibi]. I managed to waste an hour in the Migros looking for obscure American products, some of which I found, like HaagenDazs (ok, not American, but you get the point). I was pretty hungry too, but since it was Passover I was surprisingly limited in potential eat-on-the-spot food. An orange filled the hole pretty well.

At 1:00, on the dot, I headed back to the Emniyet. I went up to the Yabanci Subesi, and they told me that I had to 1) go to the Pasaport Subesi and pay 375 YTL then b) go to the cafeteria and buy a pink piece of construction paper which they claimed was a “dossier”…but it was really just a big piece of pink paper.

So, I went to the Pasaport Subesi. Of course, everyone and their mother’s brother’s father’s sister’s child [maternal or paternal safricans?] was there to deal with passport issues.

I picked up a number: 421…I looked at the call board: 137. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’d be there for days!

So, I went to the front desk to ask if I was in the right place. After having four or five people butt in front of me [gotta be ruthless/rude here to get anything done], I managed to ask the guy about it. He told me I just had to go over to this desk to pay, I didn’t have to stand in line. Huzzah!!!

Ok, got that out of the way. Now, up to the cafeteria.

Well, in the cafeteria there’s this guy behind a glass window making photocopies, because everyone needs to have a copy of their passport, who also sells the “dossiers." So, of course, there was a line of 35 or so people. The guy was pretty efficient, though, and I made it up to the front of the line in about half-an-hour. I paid my 1 YTL, took my piece of paper, and headed back to the Yabanci Subesi.

At this point it was about 1:45 and ohhhhh the crowds. I’ve never seen so many Mongolians in one place in my entire life. And they all speak absolutely perfect Turkish. Of course, it’s not so surprising seeing as they are part of that whole Turkic history bit…but my goodness. It was out of control. And they all had attitude. There were also a bunch of Yugoslavians and Germans. Again, everyone knew perfect Turkish. I had been having a hard time in the Foreigner's Office because no one spoke English, which is somewhat unexpected, but after seeing that scene I can understand why they don’t need to bother having people who can speak English.

Anyway, one of the police guys recognized me from before and picked me out of the crowd. He told me to walk over to another part of the room where it was less busy and he’d try to find me on the computer system.

Well, as it turns out, neither my grandfather nor my father have ever existed.

Honestly, no matter what they did they couldn’t find them. Ok, not so cool. Actually, not cool at all. [here's where I begin panicking] I can understand why they might have a problem finding dad as his kimlik is from when he was a baby and he’s got an American passport…but my grandfather? No way. He grew up in turkey, did his military service, came back often. And he definitely exists. If you don’t believe me, ask dad.

An hour later, we’re still working on this.

We’re going in circles and I'm being bombarded by questions: What’s your dad’s birthday? What’s your grandfather’s birthday? What’s your grandmother’s father’s brother’s name? Where did you come from? What are your aunts' last names? Honestly, I couldn’t answer any of their questions [doesn't help that figuring out how to say dates in Turkish always gives me pause]…but now I am way too cognizant of the fact that, in Turkey, you really have to be on top of your family history. These are all facts any normal person would know. I guess I just suck at life. Now, whenever I see my cousins I drill them on obscure family history so I'll be ready next time.

Eventually, I had two guys on the case and it was getting pretty funny/not so funny. They could tell I was nervous and worried and joked with me. Eventually, though, even they were ready to give up. So, they gave me a piece of paper with some writing on it. “Show this to one of your aunt’s and then come back.” No. Way. In. Hell.

I called my cousin Burcin and had the police man talk with her. He asked her her name, her kimlik number, her family name, my grandfather’s name, my dad’s name, etc. etc. So, they looked up Burcin and went through her family database.

And voila! They found my grandfather.

So, what was so complicated? Well, turns out some of the family’s last name is Buyukpamukcu [beuyeukpahmookchoo; the Big Cotton seller], not Pamukcu. We’ve known for years that these BPamukcus exist, but recently my aunt told me, with near anger in her voice, that no No NO WE ARE PAMUKCU. It was a different line of the family that was the Buyukpamukcu. Burcin’s parents are first cousins and her father was a Buyukpamukcu, so that’s why she is a Buyukpamukcu. But the rest? We’re all Pamukcus.

Or, not. Apparently, my grandfather is a Pamukcu…but my father? He’s a Buyukpamukcu. Which makes ME a Buyukpamukcu [my mother’s worst nightmare].

Ok, now, if you’ve missed the logic in this you’re just stupid. Just kidding--it actually really makes no sense. How in the world could my grandfather [and his father, and his grandfather] be Pamukcu and my father be Buyukpamukcu? HE IS MY GRANDFATHER’S CHILD.

The answer from the police? "Well, that’s your name." There was no thought that there could be some kind of recording mistake…it was just accepted that that’s the way it is. Soo, that’s it. I’m not who I always thought I was. Neither is my father for that matter. His kimlik from when he was a baby says Pamukcu on it, though…so, I have no idea where the screw up happened.

My goodness, the whole thing was such a process. At least I got a lot of exercise walking all over the place buying papers and paying fees. By the time I was out of there it was 4:00 pm. The guys took a liking to me, though, and when I was leaving one fellow sought me out to escort me to the door and say "Gule gule Buyukpamukcu." I think they liked me because [this time] I wasn’t being obnoxious and talking back like the Mongolians/Yugoslavians/Germans. I was just scared out of my mind that there was something bad that happened and I was gonna get arrested for some reason. I’m good at coming up with conspiracy and catastrophe theories.

In the end, they told me to come back a week later [pretty good, given that some people didn’t get their permits for 6 months]. So, I went back on Friday. They all recognized me and were really very sweet. And now, folks, I am official a resident of Turkey...at least until November 15th. And, luckily, my permit says Pamukcu...there could be a big problem [for leaving/reentering the country] if my passport said Pamukcu and my permit said Buyukpamukcu. But, all is well.

However, about 10 minutes after leaving the Emniyet with my new residence permit I almost got shot. I went to take a picture of the big Ataturk portrait hanging on one of the police buildings, and I stood on the wall to get a better view. The security guard came over with his semi-automatic at the ready and asked what I was doing—"it’s forbidden in there!" I blubbered something about being a yabanci. So, he just made me show him the pictures I took, which he said were “guzel”—nice. It ended up being ok…thrilling, though, let me tell you. Got my heart a thumpin’.

Was the photo worth getting shot for? Come on, kids...it's Ataturk, i.e. you betcha! Oh, caaalm down. i don't really think it was worth getting shot for. I mean, his mug is everywhere these days...

This time it all worked out, but I’m not gonna lie—if I never go back to the Emniyet it will be too soon.

And there you have it, the long way of telling you that I’m a totally different person than the Ayla you knew. I’m really coming in to this new identity and enjoying the process of reinventing myself. I’m even thinking of going back to my roots and becoming a big cotton seller, instead of just a regular run-of-the-mill cotton seller, in Lithuania. You won’t recognize me when I get back.

Also, if you didn’t like me so much before, now is your chance to tell me what to change. There is room in this new identity to fill! It’s just too bad these revelations came so late in my life—I lost 22 years of being myself all because of false information! I’m gonna go ahead and blame my parents.

i <3 buses.

Today, 23 Nisan [23 April] is the Cocuk Bayram [chojook bairam; Children’s Fest]. Thousands of children, from all over the world, are shipped in to Turkey today to participate in the festivals. I live about 10 minutes away from Anitkabir, where there was a big celebration, and I could hear all the noise through my windows. Children. They are super important.

It's also National Sovereignty Day...ie woah woah nationalism day! Everywhere you look there are ginormous Turkish flags and portraits of Ataturk. Look at that face...

But, those parts of 23 Nisan are really not very important. What is important is that no matter what your age there are no classes on Cocuk Bayram. And this year, that meant: three.day.weekend.

Now, instead of capitalizing on that fact and taking a three day trip, I went on a one day trip to Amasya, with Candas, Michael, and Ryan.

From Ankara, Amasya is about two-thirds of the way to the Black Sea and a six hour bus ride north-east. Now, you may ask yourself “why in the world would a person spend six hours on a bus only to have to turn around and come back? what in the world does Amasya have that would warrant that?”

All I can say is: Amasya is famous for their really small tasty apples?

Too bad it's not apple season...

Yeah, I've got nothin'.

The earliest bus to leave for Amasya is at 8:30 am (we went with MisAmasyaTur). That’s a pretty late start for a day trip to a place so far away. But, hey, no big deal! The ride is nice and smooth and there is decent scenery along the way. With good company, the ride's a breeze.

Furthermore, and more importantly, the rest stop for MisAmasyaTur serves wonderful food; I can recommend the super great chickpea stew and a pretty good eggplant stew. My rest stop experiences in Turkey have been generally top-notch--at least in terms of food, bathrooms are a different story--and they can really make-or-break a trip. People expect good food and service at rest stops and the subpar places go out of business pretty quick. There are, of course, some pretty bad places too...I've just been lucky thus far. The rest stop choices of bus companies should definitely be taken into account when choosing your ride. Ok, maybe the price is worth considering first...buuuut, details.

Additionally, the ride takes you through the city of Corum aka the leblebi capital of the nation…perhaps of the world. Bet you didn't know there was a capital for roasted dried chickpeas, chalky little rounds that Turks eat like nuts...but to an excessive amount. Whew, they're great on the digestive tract, let me tell you. And you can get them in so many varieties--salted, unsalted, covered with a neon pink sugar shell, rolled in honey and sesame seeds, chocolate covered. Oh the options for these little gems...endless!

The 8:30 bus puts you in to Amasya circa 2:30. Yesterday was an absolutely gorgeous day—sunny, very warm. Really, wonderful. We decided to take it pretty easy and we didn’t have that much time seeing as our return bus was at 6 o’clock. That’s right, we had three-and-a-half hours in Amasya. Ok, moving on.

Well, let me tell you, Amasya is indeed an incredibly beautiful place. Really, it is. the Yesilirmak [yehsheelermahk; Green River] runs right through the city and when the weather is gorgeous [as it was yesterday], it’s wonderful to walk along the path they’ve built next to it. There are Ottoman Houses along the banks and Pontic Tombs carved noticeably into the mountain. Many of the old houses have been turned into restaurants or cay bahcesi, so you can sit by the river and have a relaxing meal or cup of tea. Additionally, you can hike up to the Pontic Tombs and explore. It’s an incredibly picturesque and quaint little town.

We started at the large Sultan II Bayezid Camii in the middle of the downtown area. It’s the largest mosque complex in Amasya. I didn’t go inside, but the outside was quite nice. Ryan said the inside was comparatively lackluster. One strange aspect of many of the Amasya camii was the scrolling digital placards they hung outside. Definitely had the effect of ruining the atmosphere a bit.

After the camii we made our way over to the tombs. As we climbed up I took quite a fall. The rocks have become very slippery from the years of walking and weather and I managed to fall forward onto my camera, busting up my knee, wrist, and ankle. I hurt quite a lot for the rest of the day, but it’s gotten much better since. And, luckily, my camera was ok.

The tombs were nice but the view was even nicer. All over the hills there were red poppies and yellow, white, and purple wildflowers. It was just beautiful. The weather was so nice and there were little groups of people who would just sit down in the grass near the tombs and enjoy a good smoke or some tea.

We came back down from the tombs and decided to have a bite to eat. We found a nice place by the river, but it turned out that all they had to eat was tost. We wanted something a little more substantial than tost, so we went to the restaurant next door. While this place was not directly on the river, it was more comfortable than the first and still an incredibly enjoyable place to sit for an hour. We ordered a bunch of meze and bol bol ekmek [a whole lotta lotta bread] to eat and then just relaxed in the sun and calm atmosphere.

After our linner we had to get back to the bus...aaaaand, yeah, that's about it. We hopped back on the bus and had six more hours. On the ride back I had the wonderful opportunity to see Tokyo Drift [the sequel to The Fast and The Furious]. I decided to watch since I couldn't sleep. Luckily, as Ryan said, the plot is so simple that I could follow it without understanding all the Turkish. By the way, it's a really bad movie.

An additional interesting aspect of the ride back was the bus attendant. He was short. The bus left twice without him on it. Watching him sprint and wave his hands while managing to maintain the position of the cigarette sticking out of his mouth...it was impressive/hilarious.

We got back around 11:53 pm. We actually got to the bus station but then, for some reason, the bus driver had to circle again. So, we could have been arrived 6 or 7 minutes earlier. An important thing because we could have probably caught the last metro. But, we didn't, which meant we had to get a cab.

Can I tell you, trying to get a cab was the most excruciatingly difficult thing. We wanted to go in a direction that was opposite what most of the cabs were doing and for some reason they just couldn't fathom going a different way. It was absolutely ridiculous. They kept claiming to not understand us even though they understood quite clearly. Then, one guy said he'd pick us up at the corner...and came to the corner only to drive off!

So, Ryan told us to screw it and took us around the corner to his home turf--Emek--where he knew we could get a cab. [Ryan totally rules over Emek; everyone knows him there] On the way to the cab place Ryan told me that getting to my house was actually only a 10 minute walk. So, Michael and Candas took a cab and Ryan guided me home. In the end, because I didn't take the cab, the other two probably could have taken the other route and grabbed one of the cabs from before. Oops.

And that was the day.

Conclusions?
Well, Amasya is a beautiful place and I would definitely recommend a trip there. No doubt about it. Heck, it might be my favorite place yet--it is scenic and an absurdly relaxing place [granted, I had the advantage of being there on a Sunday when it was warm and sunny]



However, I think, coming from Ankara it would be better to use Amasya as a stopover point on a longer trip. It would be a great place to stay the afternoon/evening during a trip to the Black Sea.

In the end, it was a delightful trip and I'm glad I decided to go...

...despite 12 hours on a bus for 3 hours in town! [heh I'm sorry Candas, I just can't stop. ok, ok i'm really done now. i promise! mwah]

In all seriousness--it was great. And I'd check out Amasya if I were you...especially if it's apple season!

rolling rolling rolling.

Gozleme [geuzlehmay]--often incorrectly described as "the Turkish crepe"; not at all crepe-like, more like a quesadilla. but not.

Making good gozleme is hard. The filling isn't the problem, it's the dough. It's not even the dough. It's rolling the dough. Dough for a good gozleme is rolled to a thickness of 1-5 mm. Not an easy task, as those of you who have tried rolling a pie crust to 1/8-inch thickness may know.

Now, the woman who cleans Candas's grandparents' apartment, Sati, knows how to roll gozleme pretty darned well. Being the dear soul that she is, Candas finagled a little gozleme rolling party for a few of us who wanted to learn how to make it. So, on Thursday I headed over to Candas's place.

sidenote: I'm kind of stupid. I decided I would walk from Kizilay to Candas' place instead of taking the bus. I'm all about walking, especially if it's a nice day...and Thursday started out being a relatively cool but nice day. But, it was an hour uphill and I had gone for a run in the morning, so I was kind of tired from the get-go. Nonetheless, I was making good time, my map was guiding me perfectly. Then, all of a sudden, I'm lost. And then the black clouds come in, the temperature drops 5-10 degrees, snow is on its way, and I'm about to collapse. Eventually I made it, but there were some moments where I wasn't absolutely positive I wasn't going to die. Funny part was, I was only lost by one block but I went around in circles for at least half-an-hour.

I was the first to get to Candas' house and soon thereafter Michael and Yvonne showed up. Then the important part began.

Yvonne and I took notes on the dough, trying to get ingredient proportions and describe the texture of the dough at different phases. I can understand why no one ever figured out my babaanne's borek recipe. All the "the dough has the feeling between the feel of your cheek and the tip of your nose" stuff is a real pain. But, luckily, this one was a comparatively straightforward recipe. It's a simple dough but different people have different recipes. They all have the same base of flour, salt, and water. Some, like Sati's, also include yeast and/or eggs.

After the dough was made and we let it sit 10 minutes, the rolling began. The key? Flour. Lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of flour.












Sati was a pro--so fast! so agile! so thin was her dough! Then it was our turn.








Uhh, not so easy. The second key, we think, is getting the dough to make the signature Sati snapping sound when you flip the dough open...and none of us really succeeded in producing the sound. But, we all managed to roll it out without any major catastorphes. Of course, when we were done Sati would do a few more rolls to even out and perfect our not-so-perfect work. Yvonne and I were quite nervous when our turns came up, Michael and Candas seemed comparatively unfazed. Overall, we all ended up with the same results.







There were two fillings--peynirli [cheese], kiymali [meat]. Sati filled, folded, and cooked the gozleme to perfection. Then, we consumed. Like beasts. I thought I was gonna explode at the end. The bad part was that another friend, Melinda, was having a dinner party later that night. It took real effort to get myself hungry again, but that was worth it, too.




Now, the day of rolling doesn't just stop there. You'll notice there are, in fact, three "rolling"s in the title. So, on to number two.

Melinda's party was on the same street as Candas', and I was not at all thrilled at the prospect of going all the way home and back again in that cold. So, I went to Michael and Yvonne's for the afternoon.

Yvonne just got back from a nearly month long trip and she had picked up some nice stones. So, she played around with them for awhile and made a nice little bulb garden with the tulip bulbs she picked up in Amsterdam. While she was doing that, I looked up stuff about the bird migration over the Bosphorous--i'm thinking of taking a day trip to Istanbul to check it out.




Eventually, we got bored. And then, we had an idea: TAVLA! [backgammon for all you non-Turks]. But, Yvonne didn't have a board. Luckily, however, we were resourceful. As I said, Yvonne picked up some nice pebbles...by some, I mean tons! So, lo and behold, we manage to put together a pretty great tavla board. But then we didn't have any dice...no problem, Yvonne just drew dots on some of the square pebbles. And voila! The next hour was consumed with dice rolling and tavla playing. It was hard to finally pull ourselves away to go back up the hill. But, we've got the board for another day. Hooray.

Melinda's party was a good time and I had some good archeology/travel conversation with Lee. He and his gal, Heidi, are going to be traveling around Turkey for the month of May to check out a number of Hittite sites. They offered to have me hop on board for some of it, which I might do given that they are going east.

All in all, a long but great day.

BUT WAIT! There's still one "rolling" left.

The next day, still excited by all things rolling, I thought I might try to roll gozleme on my own. I decided to try a different dough recipe that didn't use the eggs and yeast. Best part? I got to break out the rolling stick I bought in Beypazari.


And let me just say: I got the snap! My dough snapped!

Results? Well, you can judge for yourself. Sati's are above and mine are here. I will say that I was pretty proud of myself. Hey, they looked and tasted right! Tack on a little homemade Ayran (yogurt drink) and salad...I had the perfect spring dinner. Mmm...afiyet olsun!