I first noticed it in Turkish class this afternoon, at approximately three-twenty-something.
It started out as just like a tightness, a little bit of irritation, some kind of stinging, chafed feeling...Somehow so familiar....
I look down, at the skin on top of my arms, just above my elbow creases...
It's pink. Gloriously, gorgeously flushed.
And I'm like, "HEEELLLLLLSSSS YEEEEEAHHHH. First sunburn of the season."
I hadn't noticed it happening, but you rarely do. I guess I had just assumed that I was impervious to ultraviolet light. Just like I'm impervious to loud, repetitive music and attractive men.
I had just started thinking that if no one could see me, if no one could find me, Mr. Golden Sun sure as shit wasn't looking my way.
I had just been slouched in some remote corner of the courtyard all afternoon with my five dollar sunglasses all askew on my face, my boots kicked off, arms folded across my chest, wind whipping my hair all in my face. I'm sure I looked as disheveled and slightly insane as I always do, like a hobo sleeping on the floor of a train station.
Except that no one sees me. No one touches me. No one cares. And I'm all sinking into this grass letting ants crawl all over me and plant matter all stick to me and time is all ticking away and I couldn't give two shits because I'm. So. Angsty. Like, old Taking Back Sunday albums style angsty.
And I'm sitting there in all my contrived and awkwardly forced hardassery, totally oblivious to this hazy, wavy sun smacking me in my forehead. Running over my skin like lizards. Pumping me full of this pulsing and buzzing elan vital.
And sure, it's killing some perfectly healthy epidermal cells, but damn, it's bringing me life.
I tell this story to demonstrate the fact that I often feel like I am disappearing. Like if nothing calls me back right effing now, I'm just going to disintegrate into a cloud of atoms and float away into the cosmos.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
If I am slumped over in this corner and no one sees me and no one knows where I am, do I even really exist?
And then there was this sunburn.
And it was like, yes, fool, you are here. You are now at a higher risk of getting skin cancer and you are here.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
If it walks like a dude and talks like a dude, it probably pisses like a dude
Turkey is getting warm(er), so I have finally been able to peek my head out of my 13 scarves that I wear every day and taste life. Every night I get black out drunk, experiment with hallucinogens, and engage in promiscuous sex with beautiful Turkish men. Oh and I also got the Turkish flag tattooed on my right butt cheek. I probably have all kinds of diseases, but I caught one in particular that is making it impossible to live my life, and it's not AIDS.
I have wanderlust.
In fact, after I'm done failing this semester I am going to drop out of school, sell everything I own except a pair of Tevas and a hemp knapsack, stop washing my hair, and make the globe my BETCH.
And I can already cross one of my destinations off of my 9-meter long list (yes I am using the metric system now)!
Last weekend I went to Prague with some girlfriends and
IT
WAS
INCREDIBALLS.
If I'm being completely honest, I didn't even know where Prague was until about six months ago. In fact six months ago I probably still thought Prague was a jarred spaghetti sauce. I don't know why all of a sudden I was dying to go to Prague, I just knew that it was cheap and beautiful and a two hour flight from Istanbul. So off we go.
The first thing I notice in Prague is that I am blind. No seriously. My eyeballs had adjusted to the weather in Turkey in such a way that they were prepared to never see the sun again. The weather was extraordinary. I felt like the picture on the VHS sleeve of the Sound of Music.
The second thing I notice is that there are a lot of cool things like this:
and this:
and this:
and this:
and this:
and this:
The third thing I notice is that Prague is a city of dudes. Lots and lots of dudes. Tall dudes, short dudes, loud dudes, drunk dudes, tool-ey dudes, friendly dudes, dudes in groups, dudes on Segways, dudes on tours, dudes on Segway tours....I'm telling all you dudes out there right now, if you are looking for a city to pick up girls PRAGUE IS NOT IT.
Due to a mix-up with the booking at the hostel in which they predictably thought I was a dude because of my name, my friend Hallie and I were forced to share a room with 6 American dudes and 2 British dudes. Despite growing up with brothers, this experience showed me how little I actually knew about our Y-chromosomed counterparts. I learned a lot of valuable lessons about dudes, and I think I totally get it now. If someone were to sneak into my room tonight and somehow perform a sex change without me being aware of it, I would be probably be able to adjust to life as a bloke pretty smoothly because my former female self would have drawn up a comprehensive guide to dudes that she will share with you all now.
1. Because you have the equipment that allows you to piss wherever you want, you are allowed to piss wherever you want.
The very first night at the hostel, we all crashed at about 10 pm because we were exhausted from a long day of rain, traveling, and failing midterms. It was also the last night at the hostel for some 70 Irish dudes, so needless to say there was an offensive amount of partying, noise, and intoxicating beverages going on in the hostel. Hallie and I had our own "room" that didn't have a door but DID have the lockers and the bathroom in it, so we had loud drunk boys coming in and out all night, obviously unaware that we were there and that we were female.
Now I can't give an accurate account of this story because I had miraculously managed to remain asleep, but Hallie and I have told it so many times that I know what obscene events unfolded. At around 4 am Hallie hears a strange sound and realizes in cold-blooded horror that an absolutely plastered dude is PEEING in the corner of the "room," three meters from the bathroom and no more than one meter from her head. Fortunately she had the good sense not to try speaking to him lest he whip around and piss all over her bed. The next morning we examined the spot where he allegedly pissed and there was nothing there. So either it had already evaporated or he had by some act of God managed to to re-route his stream to the tiny trash can.
Two of my friends who shall remain unnamed took it as a challenge and pissed in the street a couple of nights later. YOU LADIES SURE SHOWED HIM. And I hope you have cleaned the urine off your shoes by now.
2. If you can't afford to take your girlfriend to Paris, take her to Prague and just pretend its Paris.
Now see, there ARE some ladies in Prague, but they are usually attached to a dude by their tongues. There was so much coupley-ness bombarding us from all sides that I felt like I was an extra in one of the video montages in the middle of a romantic comedy where it shows the couple doing lots of fun things and getting caricatures drawn and kissing in scenic locations and sharing an ice cream cone. Which is really cute and all, until you bring the sex scene that gave the rom com its PG-13 rating straight to the Charles Bridge. Or the bagel shop. Or the chocolate museum. Or the tram, for hell's sake, which is definitely not a sanitary enough environment to have your tongue anywhere but tucked away safely inside your own mouth.
PDA= Prague's Dirty Action.
3. When it comes to Axe Body Spray, more is more and too much is perfect.
The "Axe Effect" in detail:
Open door.
Walk into solid wall of "Phoenix for Him."
Choke.
Gasp.
Momentarily lose consciousness.
Slowly regain senses.
Stagger to window.
Open all of them.
4. Try everything. No seriously, ANYTHING.
I get the distinct impression that dudes are a lot more willing to experiment with things that can potentially end human life. Must be the testosterone that lends to terribly awfully misled "I am invincible" notion.
We were all enjoying a rousing game of "Never Have I Ever" in the Chamber of Secrets (the bar in this dungeon at the hostel. Not its real name). Mark Zuckerberg doppleganger proposes, "Never have I ever done walrus tranquilizers." Silence. Giggles. An "awww maaaan!" and then who should put a finger down but Piss Boy himself.
Walrus Tranquilizers.
WALRUS tranquilizers.
Walrus TRANQUILIZERS.
This invariably begged many questions. First of all, Piss Boy hailed from St. Louis, which from what I understand has a very sparse walrus population. Did he have to import them from somewhere? Are tranquilizers common enough that they can be easily obtained?
"Oh sure. They got cat tranquilizers, moose tranquilizers..." Then he starts talking about how when you're on Kedamine it looks like you're really small and everything else is really tall and that's about the time I decided that I needed to cover my ears and rock back and forth in a dark corner or just go to bed.
5. The douchier you act, the more edgy and interesting everyone will think you are.
I mean, the pink Vineyard Vines bowtie should have been an adequate tip-off.
His friends called him "Reagan" after his man-crush/favorite President of the United States, but the girls and I referred to him behind his back and maybe once to his face as Doucher McDouchenugget.
He managed to work how much he loved America into every conversation. And, okay, patriotism can be cool. But when you talk about your love for America in the context of how many houses you own in the U.S., and how much you hate Europe and Europeans, and how America should close its borders to immigrants, and how much you love Kid Rock, and how you wish you had a hair dryer to dry your goofy Donald Trump-ian hairstyle, IT BECOMES REALLY REALLY NOT COOL.
Let's add to the "really really not cool" list: the barbed wire tattoo on D McD's upper arm. Totally clashed with yellow polo shirt. But at least it wasn't something like an American flag or "I <3 GOP" or something.
6. When trying to get into bed with a girl, "no" means "yes" and "get the hell out" means "keep trying."
Let us hearken back to the first story about Piss Boy. Back to the first night. Before he owned up to doing walrus tranquilizers.
After Piss Boy finishes pissing in the corner of our "room," he tries to sit on Hallie's bed and she kicks him out. This is the part where I wake up, because Piss Boy is now climbing UP the ladder into MY BED. He gets in MY BED, looks at me right in my face, and passes out. IN MY BED. Due to shock and trying to convince myself that I was not trippin balls, it took me about two minutes of looking desperately at Hallie to respond. I hit Piss Boy in the leg.
Me: "HEY."
PB: "rrmmmpph"
Me: "This bed is only big enough for one, homes."
silence.
Me: "HEY."
PB: "rrmmmphh"
Me: "Get out of my bed."
At this point Piss Boy sits up.
PB: "What? This is my bed."
Me: "No it's not.
PB:"Yes it is."
Hallie: "No. It's not."
PB: "Then where's my bed?"
Hallie: "Over there."
Thus I learned that getting rid of unsavory dudes requires a sharp tongue and a firm backhand. Hallie, however, didn't pick up on this right away. Two nights later, on the night that I didn't go out, our other roomie Allegedly Mike (allegedly because we were never really sure if that was his name) followed Hallie around like moths on a lightbulb. When she returned to the hostel later that night, Allegedly Mike was still hovering, all 5'1" of him, in our "room" in his wifebeat and dogtags. We tried to go to sleep, but he kept making excuses to come into our "room" After about 30 minutes he stopped beating around the bush and begged, I'm not kidding, BEGGED Hallie to let him get into bed with her. The only reason I didn't intervene right away was because I kept expecting her to zip on her badass pants and beat the daylights out of him right there, but instead she just kept saying, "Just go to bed...No, in your own bed." After way too many minutes of this I leaned over my bunk and saw Allegedly Mike kneeling by her bed in his skivvies in position that looked an awful lot like pleading and desperation.
I found that if you use phrases like "Aw HELL naw," and "You respect the lady's wishes," all in one sentence, it catches them off guard and they have to leave. Some threatening doesn't hurt either.
We slept soundly that night.
And yes, I do provide bitch lessons, MWF, 30 Turkish Lira per hour.
7. Honestly, it doesn't make much sense
I will never forget freshman year of college when one of my guy friends was flipping through one of my girly magazines and said, "It's funny that they have all these articles about what guys think. Honestly, we don't really think that much."
And I'm like, "Obviously."
I feel as though what I learned about dudes from Piss Boy, Mark Zuckerberg, Doucher McDouchenugget and Allegedly Mike was more valuable than the knowledge I gained from 21 years of having brothers. In addition to "always check the couch cushions for Gogurt wrappers before you sit down" and "if you don't know what it is, don't pick it up," I can add to my list of cautions gems like:
"If it walks like a dude and talks like a dude, it probably pisses like a dude"
and "Don't jump over fences into closed parks with Mark Zuckerberg in the middle of the night in foreign cities, or else you will fall and break your arm and your friends will have to button your pants for you and make you a sling out of a scarf until you can receive medical attention."
and "Never, ever use your real name."*
*For the sake of future shenanigans I will not be providing the psuedonyms we used at this time
and "For the love of the Almighty, clearly indicate your gender when making lodging arrangements."
I have wanderlust.
In fact, after I'm done failing this semester I am going to drop out of school, sell everything I own except a pair of Tevas and a hemp knapsack, stop washing my hair, and make the globe my BETCH.
And I can already cross one of my destinations off of my 9-meter long list (yes I am using the metric system now)!
Last weekend I went to Prague with some girlfriends and
IT
WAS
INCREDIBALLS.
If I'm being completely honest, I didn't even know where Prague was until about six months ago. In fact six months ago I probably still thought Prague was a jarred spaghetti sauce. I don't know why all of a sudden I was dying to go to Prague, I just knew that it was cheap and beautiful and a two hour flight from Istanbul. So off we go.
The first thing I notice in Prague is that I am blind. No seriously. My eyeballs had adjusted to the weather in Turkey in such a way that they were prepared to never see the sun again. The weather was extraordinary. I felt like the picture on the VHS sleeve of the Sound of Music.
The second thing I notice is that there are a lot of cool things like this:
and this:
and this:
and this:
and this:
and this:
The third thing I notice is that Prague is a city of dudes. Lots and lots of dudes. Tall dudes, short dudes, loud dudes, drunk dudes, tool-ey dudes, friendly dudes, dudes in groups, dudes on Segways, dudes on tours, dudes on Segway tours....I'm telling all you dudes out there right now, if you are looking for a city to pick up girls PRAGUE IS NOT IT.
Due to a mix-up with the booking at the hostel in which they predictably thought I was a dude because of my name, my friend Hallie and I were forced to share a room with 6 American dudes and 2 British dudes. Despite growing up with brothers, this experience showed me how little I actually knew about our Y-chromosomed counterparts. I learned a lot of valuable lessons about dudes, and I think I totally get it now. If someone were to sneak into my room tonight and somehow perform a sex change without me being aware of it, I would be probably be able to adjust to life as a bloke pretty smoothly because my former female self would have drawn up a comprehensive guide to dudes that she will share with you all now.
1. Because you have the equipment that allows you to piss wherever you want, you are allowed to piss wherever you want.
The very first night at the hostel, we all crashed at about 10 pm because we were exhausted from a long day of rain, traveling, and failing midterms. It was also the last night at the hostel for some 70 Irish dudes, so needless to say there was an offensive amount of partying, noise, and intoxicating beverages going on in the hostel. Hallie and I had our own "room" that didn't have a door but DID have the lockers and the bathroom in it, so we had loud drunk boys coming in and out all night, obviously unaware that we were there and that we were female.
Now I can't give an accurate account of this story because I had miraculously managed to remain asleep, but Hallie and I have told it so many times that I know what obscene events unfolded. At around 4 am Hallie hears a strange sound and realizes in cold-blooded horror that an absolutely plastered dude is PEEING in the corner of the "room," three meters from the bathroom and no more than one meter from her head. Fortunately she had the good sense not to try speaking to him lest he whip around and piss all over her bed. The next morning we examined the spot where he allegedly pissed and there was nothing there. So either it had already evaporated or he had by some act of God managed to to re-route his stream to the tiny trash can.
Two of my friends who shall remain unnamed took it as a challenge and pissed in the street a couple of nights later. YOU LADIES SURE SHOWED HIM. And I hope you have cleaned the urine off your shoes by now.
2. If you can't afford to take your girlfriend to Paris, take her to Prague and just pretend its Paris.
Now see, there ARE some ladies in Prague, but they are usually attached to a dude by their tongues. There was so much coupley-ness bombarding us from all sides that I felt like I was an extra in one of the video montages in the middle of a romantic comedy where it shows the couple doing lots of fun things and getting caricatures drawn and kissing in scenic locations and sharing an ice cream cone. Which is really cute and all, until you bring the sex scene that gave the rom com its PG-13 rating straight to the Charles Bridge. Or the bagel shop. Or the chocolate museum. Or the tram, for hell's sake, which is definitely not a sanitary enough environment to have your tongue anywhere but tucked away safely inside your own mouth.
PDA= Prague's Dirty Action.
3. When it comes to Axe Body Spray, more is more and too much is perfect.
The "Axe Effect" in detail:
Open door.
Walk into solid wall of "Phoenix for Him."
Choke.
Gasp.
Momentarily lose consciousness.
Slowly regain senses.
Stagger to window.
Open all of them.
4. Try everything. No seriously, ANYTHING.
I get the distinct impression that dudes are a lot more willing to experiment with things that can potentially end human life. Must be the testosterone that lends to terribly awfully misled "I am invincible" notion.
We were all enjoying a rousing game of "Never Have I Ever" in the Chamber of Secrets (the bar in this dungeon at the hostel. Not its real name). Mark Zuckerberg doppleganger proposes, "Never have I ever done walrus tranquilizers." Silence. Giggles. An "awww maaaan!" and then who should put a finger down but Piss Boy himself.
Walrus Tranquilizers.
WALRUS tranquilizers.
Walrus TRANQUILIZERS.
This invariably begged many questions. First of all, Piss Boy hailed from St. Louis, which from what I understand has a very sparse walrus population. Did he have to import them from somewhere? Are tranquilizers common enough that they can be easily obtained?
"Oh sure. They got cat tranquilizers, moose tranquilizers..." Then he starts talking about how when you're on Kedamine it looks like you're really small and everything else is really tall and that's about the time I decided that I needed to cover my ears and rock back and forth in a dark corner or just go to bed.
5. The douchier you act, the more edgy and interesting everyone will think you are.
I mean, the pink Vineyard Vines bowtie should have been an adequate tip-off.
His friends called him "Reagan" after his man-crush/favorite President of the United States, but the girls and I referred to him behind his back and maybe once to his face as Doucher McDouchenugget.
He managed to work how much he loved America into every conversation. And, okay, patriotism can be cool. But when you talk about your love for America in the context of how many houses you own in the U.S., and how much you hate Europe and Europeans, and how America should close its borders to immigrants, and how much you love Kid Rock, and how you wish you had a hair dryer to dry your goofy Donald Trump-ian hairstyle, IT BECOMES REALLY REALLY NOT COOL.
Let's add to the "really really not cool" list: the barbed wire tattoo on D McD's upper arm. Totally clashed with yellow polo shirt. But at least it wasn't something like an American flag or "I <3 GOP" or something.
6. When trying to get into bed with a girl, "no" means "yes" and "get the hell out" means "keep trying."
Let us hearken back to the first story about Piss Boy. Back to the first night. Before he owned up to doing walrus tranquilizers.
After Piss Boy finishes pissing in the corner of our "room," he tries to sit on Hallie's bed and she kicks him out. This is the part where I wake up, because Piss Boy is now climbing UP the ladder into MY BED. He gets in MY BED, looks at me right in my face, and passes out. IN MY BED. Due to shock and trying to convince myself that I was not trippin balls, it took me about two minutes of looking desperately at Hallie to respond. I hit Piss Boy in the leg.
Me: "HEY."
PB: "rrmmmpph"
Me: "This bed is only big enough for one, homes."
silence.
Me: "HEY."
PB: "rrmmmphh"
Me: "Get out of my bed."
At this point Piss Boy sits up.
PB: "What? This is my bed."
Me: "No it's not.
PB:"Yes it is."
Hallie: "No. It's not."
PB: "Then where's my bed?"
Hallie: "Over there."
Thus I learned that getting rid of unsavory dudes requires a sharp tongue and a firm backhand. Hallie, however, didn't pick up on this right away. Two nights later, on the night that I didn't go out, our other roomie Allegedly Mike (allegedly because we were never really sure if that was his name) followed Hallie around like moths on a lightbulb. When she returned to the hostel later that night, Allegedly Mike was still hovering, all 5'1" of him, in our "room" in his wifebeat and dogtags. We tried to go to sleep, but he kept making excuses to come into our "room" After about 30 minutes he stopped beating around the bush and begged, I'm not kidding, BEGGED Hallie to let him get into bed with her. The only reason I didn't intervene right away was because I kept expecting her to zip on her badass pants and beat the daylights out of him right there, but instead she just kept saying, "Just go to bed...No, in your own bed." After way too many minutes of this I leaned over my bunk and saw Allegedly Mike kneeling by her bed in his skivvies in position that looked an awful lot like pleading and desperation.
I found that if you use phrases like "Aw HELL naw," and "You respect the lady's wishes," all in one sentence, it catches them off guard and they have to leave. Some threatening doesn't hurt either.
We slept soundly that night.
And yes, I do provide bitch lessons, MWF, 30 Turkish Lira per hour.
7. Honestly, it doesn't make much sense
I will never forget freshman year of college when one of my guy friends was flipping through one of my girly magazines and said, "It's funny that they have all these articles about what guys think. Honestly, we don't really think that much."
And I'm like, "Obviously."
I feel as though what I learned about dudes from Piss Boy, Mark Zuckerberg, Doucher McDouchenugget and Allegedly Mike was more valuable than the knowledge I gained from 21 years of having brothers. In addition to "always check the couch cushions for Gogurt wrappers before you sit down" and "if you don't know what it is, don't pick it up," I can add to my list of cautions gems like:
"If it walks like a dude and talks like a dude, it probably pisses like a dude"
and "Don't jump over fences into closed parks with Mark Zuckerberg in the middle of the night in foreign cities, or else you will fall and break your arm and your friends will have to button your pants for you and make you a sling out of a scarf until you can receive medical attention."
and "Never, ever use your real name."*
*For the sake of future shenanigans I will not be providing the psuedonyms we used at this time
and "For the love of the Almighty, clearly indicate your gender when making lodging arrangements."
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Naked Frescos bring SexyBack to Cappadocia
Merhablar Nubs and Nublettes,
I can't believe I've been in Turkey for a month already! I am literally barfing up incredulity.
I'm actually not barfing but I might be soon because my guts are feeling a bit queasy at the moment. I guess that's how your body punishes you for having peanut butter and sutlu kahve for every meal.
I'm just Brainstormin' Norman a way to express in human language the awesomeness that unfolded this weekend in Cappadocia on the International Student Society trip, but I'm having a helluva writer's block so I'm going to take a break and probably nap more.
.............
*****
###
%
$
Okay so its been three days since I started this post, and I'm still not exactly sure how one goes about putting an entire weekend full of end-to-end adventures into a coherent blog post. Many men and women stronger than I have tried and failed. So I decided I'm not going to. I'm going to cop out big fat weener time and post a link to Emily Masseo's blog because she already wrote about everything that happened, and whatever happened to her happened to me because she followed me around like ants on a Poptart all weekend. No need to be redundant, right?
http://ematurk12.blogspot.com/2012/02/cappadopeia-weekend.html?spref=fb
Let's briefly review the highlight reel just in case you can't figure out how to paste that link into your Internet Explorer browser on your archaic Windows XP desktop (yes Mam I'm talking to you):
There's so much more I would say if only I were able...But pictures are worth a thousand words so why not slap somma those down on this bad boy?
(BTDubs pictures are not worth a thousand words when writing essays. Prompt says "explain the events that led to the collapse of the Ottoman empire." Upload expertly photoshopped picture of Topkapi palace getting smashed by Godzilla. Receive F-)
I can't believe I've been in Turkey for a month already! I am literally barfing up incredulity.
I'm actually not barfing but I might be soon because my guts are feeling a bit queasy at the moment. I guess that's how your body punishes you for having peanut butter and sutlu kahve for every meal.
I'm just Brainstormin' Norman a way to express in human language the awesomeness that unfolded this weekend in Cappadocia on the International Student Society trip, but I'm having a helluva writer's block so I'm going to take a break and probably nap more.
.............
*****
###
%
$
Okay so its been three days since I started this post, and I'm still not exactly sure how one goes about putting an entire weekend full of end-to-end adventures into a coherent blog post. Many men and women stronger than I have tried and failed. So I decided I'm not going to. I'm going to cop out big fat weener time and post a link to Emily Masseo's blog because she already wrote about everything that happened, and whatever happened to her happened to me because she followed me around like ants on a Poptart all weekend. No need to be redundant, right?
http://ematurk12.blogspot.com/2012/02/cappadopeia-weekend.html?spref=fb
Let's briefly review the highlight reel just in case you can't figure out how to paste that link into your Internet Explorer browser on your archaic Windows XP desktop (yes Mam I'm talking to you):
- Approximately 30 total hours on a bus
- A ridonkulously nice hotel/spa in the middle of effing nowhere
- Way too many buffet-style meals
- Naked Frescoes
- Lots of rocks with holes in them
- Fascinating and rich history that I couldn't tell you the first thing about. Wikipedia that shit if you really want to know
- A snowball war of epic proportions
- "You will have 15, 20 minutes to take pictures"--Efe the tour guide
- Lots of pictures of the same thing, namely rocks with holes in them
- Super dope pottery. Raging Bull (my Native American name) managed not to break a single breakable thing
- Asian style squatting toilets. I squatted and it was great
- Sliding face-first down the face of a cliff. Face on face. Currently printing a t-shirt at Copyland that says "I fell off a cliff and all I got was this lousy t-shirt"
- CAMELS
- The Underground City, which is literally an underground city. Apparently built by dwarfs
There's so much more I would say if only I were able...But pictures are worth a thousand words so why not slap somma those down on this bad boy?
(BTDubs pictures are not worth a thousand words when writing essays. Prompt says "explain the events that led to the collapse of the Ottoman empire." Upload expertly photoshopped picture of Topkapi palace getting smashed by Godzilla. Receive F-)
 |
| CappaDOPEia |
 |
| CappaSNOWcia |
 |
| CappadociAWWW |
 |
| CHAPSadocia |
 |
| CappaBROcia |
 |
| CappaWOAHcia |
 |
| Smurfadocia |
 |
| Cappa-ARTSY-a |
 |
| CappadoTREEa |
 |
| CappaJOKEia |
 |
| FLAPadocia |
Monday, February 13, 2012
"Nerılısın?" she asked Nobody
This genius (points to self) somehow managed to lock herself out of her own computer. So until I figure out how to hack myself (sounds dirrty lolz), I will be forced to use the library computers that have tricky Turkish keyboards with keys like:
this Ş
and this Ğ
and this Ü
and NOT this @, which took me about 9½ minutes to figure out how to type yesterday.
Not much to report from The Most Interesting City On Earth other than being sick in bed for two days, eating an OBSCENE amount of Çokokrem (Turkish Nutella AHMAHGAH), and freezing my ars off STILL.
Although on Saturday night a quest for sushi ended with another nail in the coffin of effective communication with Turkish locals.
After dropping mad Lira on a taxi and gorging our fine selves on some Americanized sake rolls, me and a couple of my main bitties found ourselves lost in the middle of Taksim. It was freezing tits as per usual, and we must have asked everyone in the world who does not speak English how to get to the club we were trying to find. We eventually made it there, but everyone knows how the story of clubbing goes: get groped, hang out in the bathroom for a minute, and then leave because it sucks.
We ended up at (arbitrarily named) bar with our table scooched next to some really nice Turkish dudes from a different university. And then shit got awkward. I´m already infamously dreadful at small talk with English-speaking people, so trying to swap life stories with people who know three phrases in the mother tongue is a giant cosmic joke.
"What your name?" asks Seth Myers (I already forgot all their names. Dude 1 looks kind of like Seth Myers)
"Brittany," I lie.
"Where you from in US?"
"Los Angeles," I partially lie
"How old are you?"
"22." Whatever.
5 minutes later.
"What you say your name was?" asks Gryffindor (wearing maroon and yellow scarf)
"Los Angeles," I yell over the shitty American music that followed me across two continents and an ocean.
We leave the bar and start trekking back down the main street, which is no less crowded at 2:45 am. I start chatting with Dude 3 whom I will affectionately refer to as "Um" because that´s the word he used the most.
Stoner thought interjection: what if we were all like Pokemon and the only word we could use was our own name? My name would be something like "Damn, Son" or "Çokokrem."
Anyway, Um kind of broke my heart because he kept apologizing for his Tarzan English. And I didn't know how to explain to Um that it was okay, because me no speak English good too. I speak a language that some of the smartest people in the world just get lost in: I speak Irony.
One of my biggest challenges in Turkey so far has been trying to recover the bits of my personality that get lost when I can't speak Irony. If I can't use sarcasm and bad puns and cliches and made-up words, who am I?
When someone asks me where I'm from, what I want to say is, "I am but a rugged nomad riding through the desert on a horse with no name," but instead, I have to say "Los Angeles."
When someone asks me what my name is, what I want to say is "Call me Carmen Sandiego, motherf____," but instead, I have to say, "Brittany."
If I had my way, in these Survival Turkish lessons we would be learning how speak in clever metaphors and make references to funny Youtube videos before learning how to ask where someone is from or how old they are. Because you can ask those questions, but after that, the conversation either grinds to a halt or you awkwardly order a chicken wrap because that's the only other thing you know how to say in Turkish.
I guess if I were wise and thoughtful, I would say that it is enlightening and cleansing to discover who you are once all the words are stripped away and you stand there glowing, a mere essence. But I am not feeling wise or thoughtful, so I say
"TAVUK IZGARA DÜRÜM"
Oh and look at this! There is finally pictorial evidence that I´m actually in İstanbul and not just blogging from a padded dungeon!
Oh Snapdragon, they almost had me.
this Ş
and this Ğ
and this Ü
and NOT this @, which took me about 9½ minutes to figure out how to type yesterday.
Not much to report from The Most Interesting City On Earth other than being sick in bed for two days, eating an OBSCENE amount of Çokokrem (Turkish Nutella AHMAHGAH), and freezing my ars off STILL.
Although on Saturday night a quest for sushi ended with another nail in the coffin of effective communication with Turkish locals.
After dropping mad Lira on a taxi and gorging our fine selves on some Americanized sake rolls, me and a couple of my main bitties found ourselves lost in the middle of Taksim. It was freezing tits as per usual, and we must have asked everyone in the world who does not speak English how to get to the club we were trying to find. We eventually made it there, but everyone knows how the story of clubbing goes: get groped, hang out in the bathroom for a minute, and then leave because it sucks.
We ended up at (arbitrarily named) bar with our table scooched next to some really nice Turkish dudes from a different university. And then shit got awkward. I´m already infamously dreadful at small talk with English-speaking people, so trying to swap life stories with people who know three phrases in the mother tongue is a giant cosmic joke.
"What your name?" asks Seth Myers (I already forgot all their names. Dude 1 looks kind of like Seth Myers)
"Brittany," I lie.
"Where you from in US?"
"Los Angeles," I partially lie
"How old are you?"
"22." Whatever.
5 minutes later.
"What you say your name was?" asks Gryffindor (wearing maroon and yellow scarf)
"Los Angeles," I yell over the shitty American music that followed me across two continents and an ocean.
We leave the bar and start trekking back down the main street, which is no less crowded at 2:45 am. I start chatting with Dude 3 whom I will affectionately refer to as "Um" because that´s the word he used the most.
Stoner thought interjection: what if we were all like Pokemon and the only word we could use was our own name? My name would be something like "Damn, Son" or "Çokokrem."
Anyway, Um kind of broke my heart because he kept apologizing for his Tarzan English. And I didn't know how to explain to Um that it was okay, because me no speak English good too. I speak a language that some of the smartest people in the world just get lost in: I speak Irony.
One of my biggest challenges in Turkey so far has been trying to recover the bits of my personality that get lost when I can't speak Irony. If I can't use sarcasm and bad puns and cliches and made-up words, who am I?
When someone asks me where I'm from, what I want to say is, "I am but a rugged nomad riding through the desert on a horse with no name," but instead, I have to say "Los Angeles."
When someone asks me what my name is, what I want to say is "Call me Carmen Sandiego, motherf____," but instead, I have to say, "Brittany."
If I had my way, in these Survival Turkish lessons we would be learning how speak in clever metaphors and make references to funny Youtube videos before learning how to ask where someone is from or how old they are. Because you can ask those questions, but after that, the conversation either grinds to a halt or you awkwardly order a chicken wrap because that's the only other thing you know how to say in Turkish.
I guess if I were wise and thoughtful, I would say that it is enlightening and cleansing to discover who you are once all the words are stripped away and you stand there glowing, a mere essence. But I am not feeling wise or thoughtful, so I say
"TAVUK IZGARA DÜRÜM"
Oh and look at this! There is finally pictorial evidence that I´m actually in İstanbul and not just blogging from a padded dungeon!
Oh Snapdragon, they almost had me.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Racism is just a color in the flag of ignorance
I'm strictly opposed to partying on school nights (or really any nights for that matter), but somehow the erratic trajectory of my life landed me at a house party last night at so and so's apartment in some really hilly part of wherever the crap in Istanbul we are. All was hunky dory until someone had the worst idea in the world to start a rousing game of some-kind-of-liquor pong. We were told it was CRUCIAL to keep the noise level down, but telling 20 drunk college kids playing some-kind-of-liquor pong to keep the noise level down is like telling the Titanic to duck.
So I was about this much surprised | | when the police rolled up in front of the building on account of several bajillion noise complaints. Thirty seconds later we were hauling ass up the stairs and stashing booze, coats, and shoes wherever we could. We squeezed all 20-something of us into a little loft bedroom upstairs, turned off the lights, and prayed to our various Gods that we wouldn't get thrown into Turkish prison and our decaying carcasses get munched on by Turkish rats.
After a record ten seconds of silence, out of the darkness came an unidentified voice.
"I feel like a Jew."
Because it did kind of feel like we were Jews. A few people did the nose-snort chuckle, but a certain token Jew among us was not amused.
Nor were the token black kids among us amused when our program director asked them why they weren't more excited to eat chicken.
Nor was anyone at all amused when I made the unforgivable error of lumping all Central Americans in with the Mexicans.
(I'M SO SORRY MELI YOU KNOW I KNOW BETTER)
Racism is an extremely delicate subject, and me choosing to talk about it is like handing a newborn to a yeti, but it's something I have been trying for years to understand and talking about it helps.
I'm fortunate enough to have never been a victim of racism or racial humor (that I know of). I've gotten plenty of flack for my religion, but that is something that I can and do choose to withhold if I want. I do, however, have a very racially diverse group of friends that I care for deeply. Hearing them talk about the crap they've gone through is really difficult for me because I feel like there's nothing I could ever say to console or empathize. As a boring lame white person, I will just never understand.
But I did get kicked out of a class today for being an exchange student.
The professor had no intention of offending me, and if anything she just didn't want me to be uncomfortable in a class I couldn't keep up in. But it was still embarrassing to be singled out in front a group of strangers whose language you don't speak and who already have some unfavorable notions about Americans.
Fortunately I blend in pretty damn effortlessly with the Turkish students as long as I keep my stupid American mouth shut, but if anyone tries to talk to me, my stupid American-ness will become stupidly, American-ly obvious. Yesterday I held the door for a girl who proceeded to say something in Turkish at me that I can infer from her tone was something like "What, bitch, you think I can't get the door myself?" When I just shrugged and said "What? Sorry," she just scoffed and rolled her eyes and dipped out in the other direction.
And I'm standing there thinking to myself, "should I really have to apologize for only speaking English at an English medium university?"
And then I'm like, oh...shit son. Moment of Clarity.
NO ONE should have to apologize for being what they are.
I'm obviously in NO WAY being purposefully discriminated against in Turkey. And it's not like after a week here I alla sudden just have this instantaneous "YEAH MAN!" about racism and all its complexities and formalities and definitions. It's just that I've always been "in," and now, I'm so very much "out." And I want to be "in" so badly, but people aren't going to just automatically like me or trust me and my "outwardness." So I hide my outwardness with unprecedented dangerous levels of Bitchface, because I'm like "holy crap I'm so mad at myself for being American right now."
SIGH.
My biggest questions about dealing with different races are still unanswered. Is racism drawing attention to differences, or ignoring them? Am I supposed to treat everyone the same? How am I supposed to be sensitive about racial differences without being totally insensitive?
I feel really aldjfhskdjf talking about it. It is inherently an uncomfortable topic, and when a white person talks about it everyone's guards immediately go up like a mighty fortress.
CAN WE JUST ALL BE FRIENDS PLZ AND IGNORE SKINS AND EAT RAINBOWS AND DANCE A LOT AND MAKE UP SOME NEW LANGUAGE AND ALL LEARN IT TOGETHER?
That would be ideal.
Let's work on that, and on the side I'll keep whippin up these Turkish flashcards like it's my MF occupation.
So I was about this much surprised | | when the police rolled up in front of the building on account of several bajillion noise complaints. Thirty seconds later we were hauling ass up the stairs and stashing booze, coats, and shoes wherever we could. We squeezed all 20-something of us into a little loft bedroom upstairs, turned off the lights, and prayed to our various Gods that we wouldn't get thrown into Turkish prison and our decaying carcasses get munched on by Turkish rats.
After a record ten seconds of silence, out of the darkness came an unidentified voice.
"I feel like a Jew."
Because it did kind of feel like we were Jews. A few people did the nose-snort chuckle, but a certain token Jew among us was not amused.
Nor were the token black kids among us amused when our program director asked them why they weren't more excited to eat chicken.
Nor was anyone at all amused when I made the unforgivable error of lumping all Central Americans in with the Mexicans.
(I'M SO SORRY MELI YOU KNOW I KNOW BETTER)
Racism is an extremely delicate subject, and me choosing to talk about it is like handing a newborn to a yeti, but it's something I have been trying for years to understand and talking about it helps.
I'm fortunate enough to have never been a victim of racism or racial humor (that I know of). I've gotten plenty of flack for my religion, but that is something that I can and do choose to withhold if I want. I do, however, have a very racially diverse group of friends that I care for deeply. Hearing them talk about the crap they've gone through is really difficult for me because I feel like there's nothing I could ever say to console or empathize. As a boring lame white person, I will just never understand.
But I did get kicked out of a class today for being an exchange student.
The professor had no intention of offending me, and if anything she just didn't want me to be uncomfortable in a class I couldn't keep up in. But it was still embarrassing to be singled out in front a group of strangers whose language you don't speak and who already have some unfavorable notions about Americans.
Fortunately I blend in pretty damn effortlessly with the Turkish students as long as I keep my stupid American mouth shut, but if anyone tries to talk to me, my stupid American-ness will become stupidly, American-ly obvious. Yesterday I held the door for a girl who proceeded to say something in Turkish at me that I can infer from her tone was something like "What, bitch, you think I can't get the door myself?" When I just shrugged and said "What? Sorry," she just scoffed and rolled her eyes and dipped out in the other direction.
And I'm standing there thinking to myself, "should I really have to apologize for only speaking English at an English medium university?"
And then I'm like, oh...shit son. Moment of Clarity.
NO ONE should have to apologize for being what they are.
I'm obviously in NO WAY being purposefully discriminated against in Turkey. And it's not like after a week here I alla sudden just have this instantaneous "YEAH MAN!" about racism and all its complexities and formalities and definitions. It's just that I've always been "in," and now, I'm so very much "out." And I want to be "in" so badly, but people aren't going to just automatically like me or trust me and my "outwardness." So I hide my outwardness with unprecedented dangerous levels of Bitchface, because I'm like "holy crap I'm so mad at myself for being American right now."
SIGH.
My biggest questions about dealing with different races are still unanswered. Is racism drawing attention to differences, or ignoring them? Am I supposed to treat everyone the same? How am I supposed to be sensitive about racial differences without being totally insensitive?
I feel really aldjfhskdjf talking about it. It is inherently an uncomfortable topic, and when a white person talks about it everyone's guards immediately go up like a mighty fortress.
CAN WE JUST ALL BE FRIENDS PLZ AND IGNORE SKINS AND EAT RAINBOWS AND DANCE A LOT AND MAKE UP SOME NEW LANGUAGE AND ALL LEARN IT TOGETHER?
That would be ideal.
Let's work on that, and on the side I'll keep whippin up these Turkish flashcards like it's my MF occupation.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Üşüdüm, dammit
Day four in Istanbul and the temperature is declining as rapidly as my competency. I finally got my room to be warm and snuggly enough that I don't have to wear a beanie and mittens to bed, but we just got back from dinner at a restaurant that was actually a docked boat and my little toesies are still thawing out.
I've been trying to absorb every word of Turkish that comes my way, down to the "çekiniz" and "ikiniz" on the doors. My vocabulary now consists of approximately 50 words and maybe 5 sentences. Still relying on pointing and flapping and yelling singular words like "SU" and "KARDI?" to get what I need.
Here are my initial assessments of Turkey/Istanbul/Koç:
THINGS I LOVE:
- Turks are much more aware of their surroundings. No one talks on the Dolmuş, they just kind of stare out the window and stare at the ground and stare at you and then don't look away when you look back. They are curious about things. They like to know things.
- The exchange rate. 1.80 TL for every $1? Don't mind if I do. I can't remember the last time I got a three-course meal for four bucks. I say, "Super!" which in Turkish, is "Super!"
- There are no serving spoons. Everyone just kind of eats off the same dish with their own utensils like germ-oblivious family. This is how we do it at the Lalli household, so it feel just like home.
- The water pressure in these showers is incredible
- Attitudes towards alcohol. Maybe it's only because I don't drink that I notice that American kids get plastered just so they can be even louder than they already are and do stupid things without feeling responsible for themselves, whereas in Turkey, people drink as a social thing. And instead of getting drunk and doing dumb shit, they get drunk on Rakı (some kind of really potent crap that tastes like black licorice) and ponder life's serious problems. Kids drink with adults. The program staff actually bought us Rakı on the boat/restaurant and everyone was merry.
- The public transit system. In LA, it takes an hour to get somewhere that's 20 minutes away. In Istanbul, it takes 20 minutes to get somewhere that's an hour away. And you don't have to sit around and wait in a sketchy dirty bus stop for a half hour and then get accosted by schizophrenics and sit in puddles of homeless person urine and/or syrup and/or two-shot caramel macchiato frappucino with extra whip spilled all over the seats.
- The tunnels under the school that connect all the buildings. Students are actually encouraged to use them, and every few strides there is a brilliant piece of graffiti on the wall like "I used to blink, but then I got shot in the knee with a bow and arrow," and "Nope, Chuck Testa."
THINGS I DON'T LOVE:
- The unseasonably cold weather. The sun hasn't made an appearance yet and it has snowed every day (the snow doesn't really fall, it just kind of blows around). They said this is the coldest winter in 30 years, which reminded me of first-year orientation at Oxy when it was 110 degrees and the hottest summer in 30 years or something. Either way, it makes you not want to do anything, and during orientation, YOU HAVE TO DO LOTS OF THINGS.
- This campus is large. Large=more walking distance in the snow in inappropriate footwear.
- All the labels are in Turkish, so I can't tell which one is the shampoo and which one is the conditioner. I took my chances and bought an upright bottle and its upside-down friend. I was right, but heaven forbid next time they both face the same direction.
- This is allegedly an English-speaking university, and technically it is because the students and the faculty all speak English. But most of the cleaning staff, restaurant staffs, baristas, facilities people, cashiers, etc. probably couldn't tell if I was speaking English or Zulu. Which is a shame, because I really want to speak to them and know their stories, but all I can say is "ÇAY LÜTFEN?"
But as always, it will get better. It has to get better. Tomorrow's another gün, and I accept the challenge.
İyi geceler, Amerika
Sunday, January 29, 2012
A strange and foreign land, wrought with magic, mystery, and subzero temperatures
Merhaba from a blustery and wintry Istanbul!
I imagine that this is the coldest country on our Mother Planet Earth right now besides like, Greenland, but I have prepared myself for the day by putting on two pairs of pants.
It's about 9:00 am here in Istanbul, which means it is roughly bedtime in the states. My biological clock has no idea what is going on. I slept four hours last night, twelve hours the night before, and about five minutes the night before because I was on a plane and the only people who can sleep on planes are celebrities and wizards.
This is my third day hereabouts and I am a slimy floppy fish out of water (speaking of which, yesterday I almost trudged through a puddle of sardine carcasses in the middle of the sidewalk).
Things that are different between Turkey and the U.S.:
On the agenda for today, we are going back to downtown Sariyer to get some cellular telephones and other necessities. I'm pretty stoked to get a hair dryer because yesterday I walked outside with damp hair and it immediately turned into icy hair-cicles. Sariyer is the neighborhood just down the hill from Koc University (my current location), and it is the most incredible place I've ever been. It's right smack on the coast of the Black Sea and looks kind of like a hybrid of San Francisco and Santorini. You have to take a teeny weeny bus called the "dolmus" to get there from the University. "Dolmus" literally means "stuffed." There is no capacity limit. I don't think personal space is really a thing outside the U.S.
Anyway, we spent most of the day in Sariyer yesterday in an Arctic blizzard completing a series of tasks, which proved difficult considering LITERALLY NOBODY SPEAKS ENGLISH. One of the tasks was to go into this bakery and buy cookies, and fortunately one of the dudes in there knew what "half kilo cookies" meant. The rest was just a lot of blank stares and awkward flailing gestures, which I was left to interpret as the rest of my group inched slowly out the door.
My appetite finally came back sometime yesterday with the force of a thousand well-bodied men. A few of us went back to Sariyer for dinner, and by some miracle managed to find a restaurant, get seated, order pizza, eat pizza, and pay our bill without any verbal communication with the staff. After that I decided that I MUST learn Turkish and learn it REALLY FAST. I'm already a little bit ahead of the group as far as grammar due to a few 15-minute Youtube tutorials, but I'm still pretty much limited to greeting, thanking, and asking where the toilet is.
In a minute I am going to go get ready for this action-packed day. "Getting ready" in this case means piling on all my clothes (which isn't a lot of clothes, I decided to "pack light." Terrible idea) and applying my mascara snuggled up next to the "radiator", which I also put in quotations because it does a poor job of actually radiating anything.
Iyi geceler (good night) America.
I imagine that this is the coldest country on our Mother Planet Earth right now besides like, Greenland, but I have prepared myself for the day by putting on two pairs of pants.
It's about 9:00 am here in Istanbul, which means it is roughly bedtime in the states. My biological clock has no idea what is going on. I slept four hours last night, twelve hours the night before, and about five minutes the night before because I was on a plane and the only people who can sleep on planes are celebrities and wizards.
This is my third day hereabouts and I am a slimy floppy fish out of water (speaking of which, yesterday I almost trudged through a puddle of sardine carcasses in the middle of the sidewalk).
Things that are different between Turkey and the U.S.:
- in the U.S., dorm facilities provides you with toilet paper and paper towels. In Istanbul, you have to weirdly take your own TP into the bathroom with you.
- In the U.S., you can drink tap water and not die. In Istanbul, they "strongly recommend against it."
- In the U.S., people obey traffic laws. In Istanbul, people have never heard "traffic" and "law" in the same sentence.
- In the U.S., people speak English. In Istanbul, ACTUALLY NOBODY SPEAKS ENGLISH.
- .......
- ...........
- ..............
- pretty much nothing
On the agenda for today, we are going back to downtown Sariyer to get some cellular telephones and other necessities. I'm pretty stoked to get a hair dryer because yesterday I walked outside with damp hair and it immediately turned into icy hair-cicles. Sariyer is the neighborhood just down the hill from Koc University (my current location), and it is the most incredible place I've ever been. It's right smack on the coast of the Black Sea and looks kind of like a hybrid of San Francisco and Santorini. You have to take a teeny weeny bus called the "dolmus" to get there from the University. "Dolmus" literally means "stuffed." There is no capacity limit. I don't think personal space is really a thing outside the U.S.
Anyway, we spent most of the day in Sariyer yesterday in an Arctic blizzard completing a series of tasks, which proved difficult considering LITERALLY NOBODY SPEAKS ENGLISH. One of the tasks was to go into this bakery and buy cookies, and fortunately one of the dudes in there knew what "half kilo cookies" meant. The rest was just a lot of blank stares and awkward flailing gestures, which I was left to interpret as the rest of my group inched slowly out the door.
My appetite finally came back sometime yesterday with the force of a thousand well-bodied men. A few of us went back to Sariyer for dinner, and by some miracle managed to find a restaurant, get seated, order pizza, eat pizza, and pay our bill without any verbal communication with the staff. After that I decided that I MUST learn Turkish and learn it REALLY FAST. I'm already a little bit ahead of the group as far as grammar due to a few 15-minute Youtube tutorials, but I'm still pretty much limited to greeting, thanking, and asking where the toilet is.
In a minute I am going to go get ready for this action-packed day. "Getting ready" in this case means piling on all my clothes (which isn't a lot of clothes, I decided to "pack light." Terrible idea) and applying my mascara snuggled up next to the "radiator", which I also put in quotations because it does a poor job of actually radiating anything.
Iyi geceler (good night) America.
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