Birthday Bonus

I have half an hour left of being 23. While i should be out prancing around in my scandalous red lace dress, I'm instead having a typing party with the company of the latest hit tune 'MSN pop up sound'. Sad but true. Well someone has to bring home the bacon, maybe beef in this case. Fear not, when this little yabancı (foreigner) behind is out of the palace doors it will be unleashed and will shake a little tail feather. 80s style this time- yeah, its a bash at sal's and every ones invited.

So what are you waiting for? Don't worry, Ill make up the cost of the airfare with Turkish men, or women, or both- which ever you prefer. They're a dime a dozen here, funny that.

4 minutes until the clock strikes 12 and i feel a moment of birthday blues. When at home, my man has this habit of constantly being on the phone, not just enjoying an intimate chat while lounging on the couch, he likes to pace. He paces up and down the whole flat. I assume this is partly his man of the house pride and partly the desire to take back four years of leaving his goldmine of friends behind. Fair enough really. But i often think, shit. Where is my gold mine? Well, we all know where it is, it's just not able to be seen. My time here has been accompanied with the gold sifting pan in hand where I've tried to claim some shiny new friends. Well, i did, some nuggets came my way. Quite a few lovelies actually. But at times like those (the man pacing) and right now i think about what I've left behind. So this birthday ill be dancing with my new nuggets and ill be drinking for my solid gold rocks, you bloody buggers.

And the clock strikes 12. Twenty four and no return, thank god for that.

Me? A nanny?

Yes, i have taken two little boys under my wing to show them the way. My purpose isn't to wipe buıms and spoon feed pureed apple. Its to teach, ill give it a bit more credit. I am solely an English 'play' teacher. There are 5 maids to do the bum wiping and spoon feeding and there is a mum and a grandma to do all the gooing and gaaing. I'm the role model, the base, the rock or perhaps more the soul, if you will.

Not my job of choice i must admit, but i can understand why it could be someone else's. Especially under these conditions. With a house the size of flinders st station and endless comforts without having to lift a figure and not to mention the more than decent wage, one could be very content. And i am, as this is only a short term stint. I am living in full time, which translates to, if you hear us call then you come running. I have a 3yr old munchkin with eyes like giant marbles and a 7 year old who is trying to find his Independence without letting go of the glorious dependence he has served to him on a silver platter. I have spent the last four days locked in a mansion with no outside access beside my humble morning run. The mornings are spent convincing the little one to start the day and i spend my nights easing their sugar filled bodies with some light conversation over a puzzle or two.

Despite dealing with a touch of night time loneliness in my nanny den and the eruption of daily tantrums with tears of gold, I'm rather content to be a key part of these boys lives. Although, the 3yr old i think has dramatically matured in the last few days. He has taken a liking to whats underneath my clothes rather than the bob the builder set he was so content with last week.... hmmmm, natural?. The little bugger already has back hair for crying out loud, but hey, Turks are known for a little extra body hair.

Iv been getting the Turkish cranking with daily discussions ranging from 'why i don't pray' to 'how much could i get to be a cleaner in Australia?'. Some days i am stoned with Turkish and i just spit out some embarrassing sounds coupled with ridged movements. Other days I ramble on as if I'm Oprah on speed only to see an expression of confusion from the patient maid in front of me. So there you go, i get a bit more bang for my buck- the job has a Turkish course thrown in.

So in a conservative kingdom where praying 5 times a day is a must and spiritual music drifting through the house is a source of air, where does a not so small town Aussie girl fit in? Well she fits just about anywhere apparently, with room for about 700 gypsy families in this fortress, she finds a way to fit.

A Merry Muslim Christmas....

In answer to the most common question that is so gently presented by my sensitively thoughtful cherubs; no, Muslims do not celebrate Christmas. But what are those Christmas trees and Santa figurines doing in all those antique carpet store fronts you ask? Alas! They celebrate something but its not actually Christmas... its new years eve. Yes, news years eve.....is well, Christmas. Isn't globalisation sneaky and advertising clever! They do all the same things (minus baby Jesus under the chimney) they have presents, the big feast (where yours truly took charge of the turkey), a fake tree, and even those cute bell earrings with green and red ribbons tied in a bow (Memories are flooding back of my favorite auntie swanning around with a pare of these neatly tucked into each ear, and playing the role of Mrs clause oh so well).

So, as a foreigner expecting to have to go through some kind of rehab whilst suffering with drawl symptoms from Aussie Christmas fever, i was quite... well, id like to say excited, but more confused. In many ways i relished in the fact that i was somewhere soooo different that they didn't 'EVEN' celebrate Christmas. Shock! Horror! However, even though they don't celebrate the birth of Christ (not like we really do either), they bloody well celebrate Christmas!

So by the end of November, i have my man putting the pressure on with family presents, i have mum 'in law' (oops a bit presumptuous) asking me to do the turkey (i was tempted to turn up with a ham just to throw a spanner in the works) and jingle bells repeatedly playing on the radio!
Whats a culturally confused girl supposed to do? Just roll with it.

And so i rolled with it. We did the Christmas dinner on new years eve. I whipped up a turkey as if it was straight from my own back yard and seasoned it like i was Betty bloody Crocker. We did the presents 'ceremony', each person with their own time slot, we kissed and hugged and shed a little tear. We read our cards allowed, mine half in terrible Turkish and then even more terrible English. We cracked open the booze and didn't waste any time letting down the guard of family formality. We sat down at an intense spread of Turkish tasties and pastries, and braced ourselves for the ironically named dish, the Turkey. The mother of all meats went down well and so did Sal's reputation.

There were six of us- Yucel, Aysen, Utku and Ezgi and her new boyfriend, Mert, who i took under my wing as the 'new comer' and decided to educated him on a woman's worth (yes- i had few wines). We had pappa on one end sucking down raki (ouzo), mamma on the other being the hostess with the mostess and the two kids with their pissed partners on either side. Yes, it was a merry Muslim Christmas, and even though it doesn't quite measure up to fresh prawns, sunset swims and my brothers beer bellies, it still stood strong ground as a bloody good Christmas.

And who would have thought.

RIDE THAT WAVE

I feel like Carrie in 'Sex and the City', Turkish style. I am sitting in my dim lit lounge, feeling philosophically connected to my flat faced friend... my laptop. However, i am not wearing lace underwear and a wife beater singlet like Carrie, nor am thinking about why women are so unsatisfied with their complex/not so complex sexual conquests whilst sipping campari with touch of lime. In this episode i am wearing trackies, drinking beer and listening to turkish love songs..... whilst contemplating my complex/not so complex cultural conquests.

Im not sure if you can really call them conquests though. A conquest is something you have done, defeated, won. I have no conquests, and i don't think i ever will. However, i take things on like i am a conqueror. My mental metal shield and I stand in the front line, ready for the onslaught....

So drama aside..... I have began a life in Turkey. It is an interesting one and deserves my own objective attention. Although, now on my third beer and thirty-third turkish love song my objectiveness is shifting rather swiftly to sentimentality. Ok focus.....
I wish i could scan my brain and then cut and paste it onto this email page. It would be so much easier to see the compassion and confusion in the cultivation of my new found life.
I guess to give it a structure i should start from where i left.

The language was the first focus. I did a 2 week intensive which opened the happiness doors allot. It wasn't just that i was learning to communicate, it was introducing me to the lives of those other expats who chose to settle in the 'City of Lust and Fate' for whatever reason. A young politically-idealistic french couple, a swiss musician who tuned an old turkish ladies piano once a month, a sweed who had been working in Istanbul for 2yrs without knowing the language, a cuban ex-model who fell in love with a turkish tourist while on holiday in Havana, and a handful of german students curious about the turkish-german crossroads they have grown up with, and me. The classes proved to be as intense as their title and usually finished with a couple of beers in the nearby Taksim to ease the brain.
While id like to say that i am now so fluent that i can report on all political matters in turkish, im not (i cant even do it in english). But i can get my self mouthing something along the lines of 'no, lover turkish not want i' (i already have one so fuck off you sleezy bastard). So this period not only gave me the confidence to divert those prying eyes and to impress the local market with my extensive vocab of elma (apples), ekmek (bread) beyaz peynir (feta), it also gave me an intro to a life that i would develop solely on my own. Which was a trivial turning point.
A week after that, uni started. That was excitement central. I forgot what it felt like to walk into uni in its first week. The different societies doing their organic social sign-ups, turkish folk singers bustin a tune on the grass in front of a group of black sea folk dancers, spanish theatre, and friends gathering to tell their tales of their summer adventures. After feeling my fly on the wall status shift to sticking out like a sore thumb, i slipped into the international office where i was babysat for at least 5 minutes. There i see the small selection of international students, similar to a seasonal fruit platter. An assortment of students, some seasonal but a bit too firm for consumption, and others ripe and ready for an all consuming experience (eg- nectarine in peak season from northern queensland). I think i was one of the unseasonals, a mandarin that would peel away a piece of skin only to quickly put it back into place for some more ripening.

I took my time in the social department. I didn't want to rush into friendships desperately. I was more concerned about my study load (double than what i did in aus) and the incredible standard of academia around me. Bosphorus University takes the top 10% of students in Turkey and has a fantastic reputation, especially from humanities and social sciences. So you can imagine me waltzing into class on my first day with my aussie head held high expecting to be advantaged in class with my mother tongue, only to hear things like "but doesn't the Leviathan theory demonstrate that galilean physics provides a human model of psychology that lays the foundation of a genuine science of politics?" from my non-native english speaking fellow students.

Yes i thought i was up-shit creek without a paddle in the amazon for while there and enjoyed a lovely series of panic attacks. Now, after nuzzling my wet nose into the source of their geniusness and absorbing anything and everything in a spunge-like fashion, i have found a dignified place in my classes. All stuff Im really enjoying too, identity and culture, Turkish modern literature (in english translation), History of modern turkey, the play and the stage, social and political philosophy and of course a turkish language class. All juicy and contrasting stuff.

Now, the entertainment department definately has not been neglected. I went through a really 'interesting' time while Utku was playing rambo at military service. He was there for 3 weeks at the beginning of the semester, and naturally sal turned into a loose cannon! I made a party possie from uni and became 18 again. Fanbloodytastic. The weeks were spent roaming the city and giving in to its pull when the sun went down. And man is there a night life here! Forget New York and London, the whole worlds party/drunken/randy population is missing out my brothers and sistas! There is a huge choice of venues; reggae, world music, funk, chilled groves, live gypsy music, heavy metal rock bars, techno dance parties whatever the hell you want! So sal went a tad crazy and after hip-swivilen, booby shakin, belly-protruding dancing she usually ended up solo on the dance floor with her eyes closed mouthing the words she didn't know to a soulful french tune.

So the body got a battering and so did the soul after while. There is only so much drunken rampaging one can cope with. I am steady on my feet now, my head isn't so much in the clouds and i have a couple of great, grounding friends who want to continue their cultural intrigue without the beer goggles on. Still of course, when the night calls every now and again i give into the pull of the 'The City of Lust and Fate'.

Rather than observing the historic architecture, sights and general aesthetics of Istanbul. At the moment, my observations have been more closely related to the social structure here in Turkville. They arent calculated observations, just general feelings and energy i get from friends and 'the' family. At the moment i am struggling with it. I am struggling being part of something i am not sure how to be a part of. I will always be a foreigner, and that's ok.... for now, i think i am happy in that box where it allows excuses for not withstanding the pressures that have never before been presented to me. However my box has a crack, and i have a responsibility to mend it. Nobody can do it for me. I have to find a way to mend it without offending anyone and at the same time being true to myself. I know these metaphors aren't giving much away, im not quite comfortable typing it in an email where it can be taken out of context. Its something i am taking note of and bringing to the surface every now and again... when it needs to be listened to.

So i wanted to position this email more around the surface events. It hopefully paints a picture of the wave i was surfing and the unavoidable dump at the end (straight from Manly beach when the water witch is at her best). You know what, upon arrival at Istanbul they should plaster a big warning sign at immigration WARNING: THIS CITY IS LIKE A DRUG, ENJOY THE HIGH BUT PREPARE FOR AN ALL CONSUMING COME DOWN.