When I lived in Boston, I lived about a two-minute ride from a bike trail where I could ride along... and park at the locked bike cages near the subway (if I was planning to stay out super late). Or I could just pedal on to Whole Foods, and then woosh my way up and down the hill on Concord Avenue, past the mini-woods of the former observatory and into Harvard Square. The journey would take about 25 minutes door to door, including locking my bike in the well-ventilated, air conditioned parking garage where I worked. When I finished work, I could throw my skirt and blouse in my backpack and just hop on my bike wearing my bike shorts & a tiny tank top. Or, in cooler months all the way through January-- I could roll up my pants, plop on my helmut, zip on my rain pants over my work clothes. Then I could light up a couple of Frogger lights and go... wherever I felt the urge to go-- home, downtown, over the "Mass Ave." bridge by MIT to the bike trails on the other side of the Charles River... to watch a play, a movie, take a yoga class, go to my friend's dance performance, go to the French library or Kenmore Square-- the options were limitless. But I didn't realize that back then.
Here in 'Antep, I also bike some. I also spend a fair amount of time near two local universities, and there is a mini-woods nearby. Those are the only similarities to my old life that I can think of... even the teaching is completely different. (More on that later). I haven't been to a single play or watched a single movie on the big screen. I haven't taken any yoga classes. I did take a Turkish folk dance class for a few sessions on the solid floors of an old historic building in the heart of the city... the semi-dishevled but elegant old building has changed religions many times. (More on that later). I found the teacher to be fun, and adept with teaching non-Turkish speakers and enthusiastic folk dancers of all ages and ability levels. It was by far one of the most fun things I've done in Turkey. I found the floors to be.... as hard as stone. After a few classes, I stopped going. I had other parts of Turkey to see. Routines such as a weekend dance class have been too much for me to add to my 22-26 classroom hours of teaching and my intermittent touring of the country. And I have yet to bike to work a single time-- as determined as I was to keep up this 7-year-long routine before leaving the U.S. -- it just hasn't seemed like a good idea here... (more on that later).
So what do I do instead? I am not sure. I guess part of what I write about here will explain just how very different life is here. Part of the difference is living in the land of a new language. Simple things like buying food become an adventure.. Part of it is the culture... and part of it is just the sheer exhaustion factor of my teaching responsibilities. Instead of waking up, showering, dressing, gathering my supplies and a change of shoes in my backpack and speeding into the Square on my bike-- picking up that day's fresh salad lunch and coconut yogurt on the way-- I actually prepare and "get ready"for more than an hour each morning...checking messages, preparing for class, doing yoga alone in my living room, washing dishes (more on that later) and finally throwing together my "teacher outfit" (more on THAT later) and going to work via a small bus, along with all of my coworkers. Every morning, we tromp our way down the echo-y stairs of our modern cement apartment buildings and across the pediment, such as it is, at pretty much the same time each morning. Our time is spoken for between 7:45 a.m. and 6 p.m. every workday. The roads, as I have mentioned, are chaotic-- and there is no established bike lane on my work route that I could cling to during rush hour. (Yes, I realize that is too much to ask for in most parts of the world, including the U.S. in fact, but one can hope! Not all the world is the Netherlands!) Plus, the air is billowing with dry-earth dust and filled with auto exhaust, especially during commuting times-- not great for a cyclist. There is no shade along the way, and it would be highly inappropriate for me, as a woman alone in southern Turkey, to ride along morning rush hour traffic in biking shorts and a small tank top. I suppose I could still towel off in a ladies room-- but there are no private ones at the school (that I am aware of). So, I no longer ride my bike to work every day, and that is by far the biggest single change I've had to adjust to this year.
I do ride some when I'm in town, though, when it isn't rainy-- but only on the weekends when the roads are more peaceful... and I have tons of wonderful things to say about those rides. But for now, I am thinking about how much my daily life has changed. I still try to eat healthy food, but I find the range of fresh, high-quality produce is more limited than what spoiled American me had grown accustomed to in Boston. I haven't had a single bubble tea or coconut milk yogurt since I've arrived last September. This was my decision, though. I decided to leave behind the variety and extravagance of a major city in a more developed country... in exchange for the raw exuberance of a part of the world that is still in various stages of development, and still shows off a lot more traditional, old-world ways. I look forward to sharing more about the benefits of my decision to move here in future posts... but for now... I am missing Bubble Tea (Jasmine, less sweet, less boba, less ice). :-) I wonder what I will dream about tonight...
Me, one month after I arrived...
I was overjoyed when this photo was taken at a small bike shop where I purchased my used bike.
5/27/2011
5/15/2011
My New Life in the "Gateway to the East..."
Consider this to be the slowest-ever-to-blossom blog... my apologies for all delays. It has been quite a year. Since arriving last September, I've experienced late summer, fall, winter and now spring.
I've been living in a land of rapid change. Imagine an urban village. There is a busy, four-lane boulevard. In the middle, there is a newly functioning tramway. Along each side of the traffic, there are crumbling sidewalks covered in light, dry dirt or pale brown mud-- depending on the time of year. Often, motorcycles will abruptly leave the road and head up the sidewalk, or ride against traffic. Women in ankle-length raincoats cover their heads with bright, silk scarves year round. They can be seen perched on the back or front of motorcycles, in flatbed trucks, behind the wheel of their own car, riding mini-buses, or sometimes walking in groups, often with their families. Farmers from the nearby villages send their goods in to town with their horse or donkey drawn carts, riding along the same busy road. Honking is a constant, 24-hour phenomenon. I pity those horses and donkeys, and residents with a roadside bedroom in one of the painted cement high-rises-- many recently built or currently under construction, especially along the edges of the city. Rugs, shirts, pants, towels... hang in perpetual ornamentation of the large, cement apartment complexes. From balconies and window ledges, people dry their laundry in the dusty air, polluted by auto exhaust-- and, in winter, coal that residents buy from corner shops also selling vegetables, soap, newspapers and other basic household supplies.
People drive up for the day to shop here-- usually Syrians... or folks from the village. Near the university, there are many trees-- olive, cypress, and pine trees. Upon approaching the city center, pistachio groves and the Jandarme Police compound flank either side of the boulevard. One block set in, there is a giant park... surrounded by older blocks of concrete and sometimes brick apartments. The park is the place to go on the weekend for peoplewatching-- children, teenagers speeding on bikes, packs of runners in uniform steer through the pebbly paths past old people lounging near fountains or bar-b-ques. During the holy holidays, the smell of cooking meat is ever present along the entire boulevard and the edges of the park. Heavy-set ladies in flowered pants and bright scarves chase children around jungle gyms and across fields. Elegant women in long raincoats chat at picnic tables. Everyone comes to enjoy the tall canopies of trees, filled with birds that take over all of the branches at night. A few couples stroll along, often headed to one of the nearby cafes near the Botanical Gardens after a day of shopping. At the far end, the giant, terraced Sanko Park shopping mall presides over the whole area, as the park continues to meander its way past the other side of the mall, toward a Cami (mosque) and ultimately in the general direction of the soccer arena. It is through Sanko Park's revolving glass doors and airport-style security gates and scanners that all of the visiting shoppers pass before they can enter and spend their money. Those arriving to town to buy or sell melons or sheep or mandalinas will opt for the nearby open-air markets in the older part of the city center instead... where it is still possible to have a suit or a pair of shoes custom made. This is truly an amazing place-- an urban village.
The people are relaxed and usually smiling, except for the tiny, thin old men in Turkish style black pantaloons or boys in jeans who push carts of odds and ends through the street... on foot, shouting their arrival and their wares as they push their way past, sometimes along the sides of the busiest roads. Some of the more well-to-do residents will have an apartment for most of the year, and a small house outside one of the neighboring villages-- for getaways with the family during good weather. The whole spectrum of economic and social status can be seen on nearly every sidewalk.
Interlopers like me stand out a mile. Wherever I go, people always try to guess my country. As one of my co-travelers has remarked, they always make sure I exit the bus at the correct stop. Local storekeepers often offer me tea, which they call Chai. They laugh at my rudimentary Turkish skills, often interrogating me kindly-- mostly in their language. A few ask in English: "Where are you from?"
They smile knowingly when I answer: "I'm from 'Antep." Even with the language barrier, they know a silly joke when they hear one! It is very, very different from Boston. And this is what I wanted-- I wanted to change everything. I wanted something completely different. This is.
I've been living in a land of rapid change. Imagine an urban village. There is a busy, four-lane boulevard. In the middle, there is a newly functioning tramway. Along each side of the traffic, there are crumbling sidewalks covered in light, dry dirt or pale brown mud-- depending on the time of year. Often, motorcycles will abruptly leave the road and head up the sidewalk, or ride against traffic. Women in ankle-length raincoats cover their heads with bright, silk scarves year round. They can be seen perched on the back or front of motorcycles, in flatbed trucks, behind the wheel of their own car, riding mini-buses, or sometimes walking in groups, often with their families. Farmers from the nearby villages send their goods in to town with their horse or donkey drawn carts, riding along the same busy road. Honking is a constant, 24-hour phenomenon. I pity those horses and donkeys, and residents with a roadside bedroom in one of the painted cement high-rises-- many recently built or currently under construction, especially along the edges of the city. Rugs, shirts, pants, towels... hang in perpetual ornamentation of the large, cement apartment complexes. From balconies and window ledges, people dry their laundry in the dusty air, polluted by auto exhaust-- and, in winter, coal that residents buy from corner shops also selling vegetables, soap, newspapers and other basic household supplies.
People drive up for the day to shop here-- usually Syrians... or folks from the village. Near the university, there are many trees-- olive, cypress, and pine trees. Upon approaching the city center, pistachio groves and the Jandarme Police compound flank either side of the boulevard. One block set in, there is a giant park... surrounded by older blocks of concrete and sometimes brick apartments. The park is the place to go on the weekend for peoplewatching-- children, teenagers speeding on bikes, packs of runners in uniform steer through the pebbly paths past old people lounging near fountains or bar-b-ques. During the holy holidays, the smell of cooking meat is ever present along the entire boulevard and the edges of the park. Heavy-set ladies in flowered pants and bright scarves chase children around jungle gyms and across fields. Elegant women in long raincoats chat at picnic tables. Everyone comes to enjoy the tall canopies of trees, filled with birds that take over all of the branches at night. A few couples stroll along, often headed to one of the nearby cafes near the Botanical Gardens after a day of shopping. At the far end, the giant, terraced Sanko Park shopping mall presides over the whole area, as the park continues to meander its way past the other side of the mall, toward a Cami (mosque) and ultimately in the general direction of the soccer arena. It is through Sanko Park's revolving glass doors and airport-style security gates and scanners that all of the visiting shoppers pass before they can enter and spend their money. Those arriving to town to buy or sell melons or sheep or mandalinas will opt for the nearby open-air markets in the older part of the city center instead... where it is still possible to have a suit or a pair of shoes custom made. This is truly an amazing place-- an urban village.
The people are relaxed and usually smiling, except for the tiny, thin old men in Turkish style black pantaloons or boys in jeans who push carts of odds and ends through the street... on foot, shouting their arrival and their wares as they push their way past, sometimes along the sides of the busiest roads. Some of the more well-to-do residents will have an apartment for most of the year, and a small house outside one of the neighboring villages-- for getaways with the family during good weather. The whole spectrum of economic and social status can be seen on nearly every sidewalk.
Interlopers like me stand out a mile. Wherever I go, people always try to guess my country. As one of my co-travelers has remarked, they always make sure I exit the bus at the correct stop. Local storekeepers often offer me tea, which they call Chai. They laugh at my rudimentary Turkish skills, often interrogating me kindly-- mostly in their language. A few ask in English: "Where are you from?"
They smile knowingly when I answer: "I'm from 'Antep." Even with the language barrier, they know a silly joke when they hear one! It is very, very different from Boston. And this is what I wanted-- I wanted to change everything. I wanted something completely different. This is.
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