The Skaian Gates

So long, farewell (well, I hope not!)

2010-03-17T15:22:00.003+02:00

I've taken a big step in the last few months. I've set up a language-editing business, Skaian Gates English. It's a little scary but I'm hoping it will take off in the next while. Hence why my posting has been a bit erratic

This will be my last post here.

And I'm not one bit sorry, because the Skaian Gates is moving on. I've got my own domain and set up a Wordpress blog.

So come visit The Skaian Gates and we can pick up from there!

And Happy St Patrick's Day to you all as well.

Talking Point

2010-03-02T15:26:00.003+02:00

Last Sunday morning's Dialogue2010 discussion left me floating for the day. Apart from the wonder of talking across continents and timezones to nine other women, I felt very much like I'd talked to some of my oldest friends. The fact that I've spent a few hours in the company of some of them, a few months of twittering with others and some were completely new acquaintances really did not present any barrier to our discussion which was both personal and broad-reaching.

We all have two things in common, an artistic/creative drive and links to other cultures. I found myself asking through the day were we sharing our hybrid lives because of our creativity or because of our experience of being expats. The two seemed interlinked and yet separate, like a binary star about which we orbit.

A few highlights:

Judith's insistence that a sense of humour is needed to live this hybrid life and her comparison of the Netherlands as chihuahua to the US's great dane

Elmira's analogy of a hybrid life being like a high definition television compared to black and white and saying that she was forced into this hybrid life by her parents choices

Rose's knowing laugh at being asked by Judith whether her core took a while to catch up after she moved to Turkey, her leaving perfectionism and impatience behind

Sezin declaring herself to be not just living a hybrid life but to being a hybrid, and finally after years living in the same house with all her journals

Karen's hints that her patriotism has clashed with her expatriatism and releasing herself from the responsibility and obligation that come with being a daughter

Catherine's discussion of leaving behind materialism and stuff to live more fully

Jocelyn on being an outsider all her life and how one serendipitous decision can shape a whole life

Anastasia on how being an expat can involve leaving behind independence and extroversion

Tara and how her values have been strengthened by her expat life, of how she is both and neither

There were so many other wonderful moments in this discussion that I will come back to explore in future posts as they seep through my mind. The podcast and transcript will be available at some point so you'll all be able to hear what these great ladies had to say.

Mapping My Worldview

2010-02-26T14:57:00.003+02:00

Inspired by Rose Deniz' wonderful post about finding her path I've made a map of my own. This isn't a path though, just two snapshots placed side-by-side to show how my worldview has changed. The left focuses on my parent's house, and hence my childhood and schoolyears; the right is where I am now. After that I think you can work it out for yourselves. It shows that I may be physically grounded while being a global connector in other ways, a counterpoint to Anastasia's post about the subject.

The reason I'm thinking about this is that I'm due to take part in the inaugural Dialogue2010, a discussion with nine other women scattered around the globe about mapping and living a hybrid life. Tune into the podcast once it's live and see what we all have to say!

International Politics

2010-02-08T16:09:00.003+02:00

Sometimes I'm just stunned by how wonderful the internet is. It's terrific!

Browsing Magicmum this morning with Tweetdeck running George Lee's name cropped up everywhere all at once. It attracted me as I'd had a conversation with my Dad last night about him. I don't know much but here goes.

George Lee was an economic correspondant in RTE, Ireland's national broadcaster. In the economic recession of the last few years he was very busy and very well respected. Then he joined Fine Gael, the opposition political party. He was elected in Dublin south nine months ago.

So Dad was saying he'd been holding meetings and so on in the last while, but that he hadn't appeared to influence party policy in any way. Dad was wondering if Fine Gael was taking full advantage of his economic mindset.

Now lunchtime today, just in time for the one o'clock news, he resigned, not just from Fine Gael but from his seat in the Dail (Irish parliament). In double quick time he appeared on the 'News at One' on RTE, on Newstalk and currently he's getting an earful from a member of his constituency on 'Liveline'. Liveline is a national institution, hosted by Joe Duffy, it allows anyone to call in a make a comment on whatever is being discussed. And I could listen over the internet to all these interviews.

On Twitter he caused a terrible amount of confusion when the #Glee hashtag was taken over by Irish politics in place of an American high school musical.

But there were some fantastic one-liners:
@DeclanFlynn George Lee & Charlie Bird to star in new RTE reality show, Celebrity Big Baby. #georgelee
(Reference to another RTE reporter coming home early after a shorter-than-expected stint abroad)
@Padraig #georgelee is quitting over a lack of influence over the policy of a party that has no power to implement it.
@urchinette God, George Lee is such a ridiculous baby. Did he think that just cos he's famous he'd suddenly become a leading politician?
@RositaBoland Cover your ears. The sound of George Lee whining on the News at One right now might just blast your eardrums
@eoinpurcell How hilarious is it that the OPPOSITION is imploding when the economy is in the toilet?
@RositaBoland He's unstoppable. There is nothing #georgelee is not saying "I don't like your preachy voice"!! to the female caller on liveline!

And two new Facebook pages too:
Who cares if George left Fine Gael group
George Lee: Don't let the door hit you on the ass as you leave the Dail page

And he's been caricatured too Caricatures Ireland

So whether I think he should have resigned or not; whether it was ego or not; whether he's causing greater economic hardship by forcing a by-election; whether Fine Gael are right or wrong; whether Fine Gael will win or lose (again) the next election; or whether it's all a bit irrelevant to me (the hard truth of the long-term expat); I could still instantly access a range of opinions and facts and even hear the man himself.

Snow Diary

2010-01-28T15:54:00.003+02:00

Here's how we've spent the last week. It started snowing at lunchtime on Friday and by 3pm the garden it was starting to accumulate.
By Saturday morning there were drifts of dry snow in the garden.On Sunday the snow and wind had stopped but the temperature was two below freezing.On Monday the temperatures were even lower, six below freezing and Canakkale was draped in white.On Wednesday the snow made one last attempt to fall, wet and heavy.And today it's all melting away....

Falling in the Cracks

2010-01-21T13:01:00.000+02:00

Living outside town brings many advantages; peace and quiet, a view of an olive grove, a garden of our own. There are some disadvantages though, none more confusing then the bureaucratic web surrounding us.

Our electoral register is held in one village, our post office is in another, and the public health centre in a third village.

Now there’s a fourth village to add to the mix. The Ministry of Education has linked us to this fourth village and thus we should send our children to a school in Kepez town. Their address-linked system links us to this school and if we want to send them elsewhere we have to work around this system.

The confusion arises after a chat with our next-door neighbour. For two years her eldest boy went to this same school in Kepez. Yet when she tried to register her youngest boy there in September she was told she couldn’t. The address-linked system linked her to the school in the village that holds our electoral register. As the school there doesn’t operate the children are bussed to a school in Canakkale town itself. She ended up taking her eldest boy out of the school that we are now supposed to send our children to.

Somewhere in the twenty metres separating our houses there’s a bureaucratic boundary we never knew existed.

Being Quiet...

2010-01-18T17:15:00.004+02:00

It's very easy to be silent here. To sit behind a computer screen and watch the world go by. But it's not very satisfying in the long run.

So there's going to be a few changes in the next few months. The ideas are ripe at the moment, the plan is being prepared and will soon be put into action.

In the meantime thanks to Anastasia Ashman for the highlight on her blog Furthering the Worldwide Conversation. Anastasia was named one of the Expat Bloggers to watch in 2010 by Cindy King. She recently announced the expat+HAREM Istanbul 2010 blog carnival which will be running through the year.

2010 the year of action!

A Driving TEST!

2009-12-08T15:23:00.005+02:00

Last week ten years after getting my first provisional licence I finally got my full driving licence. It's been a real learning experience.

First there was a month of classes in the three topics covered in the written exam: Traffic, Motor and First Aid. I attended all the classes, something only two other people in the class did. The exam was a centralised so about four hundred people from the state of Canakkale descended on a primary school one Saturday. We crammed into tiny desks and answered 120 multiple choice questions on the three topics.

Then came the driving lessons themselves. These were an hour and a half of driving on consecutive days, totalling fifteen hours of driving. My teacher was relaxed and calm and managed to allow me to feel in control from the very start of the lessons. She refused to keep to the designated routes for teaching students, arguing that as they were both relatively simple (not too many traffic lights or tight maneovering needed) they don't prepare students to drive in traffic. Our lessons would begin with a run on the test route, which ran from the Sanayii to Tansas and back; 3km straight road, a turn and back along the same road with several lights, two roundabouts and no maneovres. Then we'd either work on reversing, parking, or turning and then drive through the town. By the end of nine lessons I was comfortable in the Toyota Yaris and reasonably happy with my progress.

Now came the trouble. My final lesson was with a different teacher, the one who would accompany me during the test. She opened the glove compartment, blocking the view of her feet and then used the pedals continuously. It made for a very nerve-wrecking experience. I didn't feel in control. At one point I began to slow down, as I could see the lights were about to change. But she hit the accelerator and sped us up through the changing lights!

So I was quite nervous coming up to the test. I sat in and said hello to the two testers in the back of the car I could see the glove compartment was open. I adjusted the seat, checked the mirrors and put on my seatbelt. Turned the ignition, took off the handbrake, signalled and hit the accelerator while gradually raising the clutch. The engine began to roar. And we went nowhere. Then the instructor finally began to raise the clutch to allow us to move. It was probably an instant but it felt like a lifetime. The rest of the test is a mercifully short blur of nerves. She accelerated along one stretch and then when I finally felt the accelerator in my control she warned me about driving too fast! I went through an orange light (not a problem in itself, but I would have prefered to stop) because I was afraid I'd ended up cut out in the middle of the junction if she tried to speed up as I tried to stop.

I came out a nervous wreck with a severe dent in my driving confidence. When I rang to get the results a day or two later the secretary joked that I'd failed and I nearly believed her. I got the licence last week having paid the money and been fingerprinted. Last weekend I started on our own truck, a rather bigger car than the little Yaris. It'll be a while before I'm confident enough to drive on my own without the Handyman's guidance but that's a matter of time and experience.

New and Improved!!

2009-11-16T09:36:00.004+02:00

Several years ago I wrote a piece that was published in the anthology 'Tales from the Expat Harem-Foreign Women in Modern Turkey' edited by Anastasia M. Ashman and Jennifer Eaton Gökmen. The anthology was published around the world and touched a lot of people globally. Anastasia and Jennifer got a huge feedback through the website that accompanied it.

Now Anastasia has redesigned the website as expat+HAREM, a niche for global citizens, identity adventurers, Turkophiles, intentional travellers and culturati. So far we've had posters writing from Turkey, Dubai and the Hague about writing, domestic/artistic life and bringing children home to the land of their fathers. My first post has just gone up 'It takes a Virtual Village', about the importance of virtual friends in raising my children.

So pop over and join the conversation!

Opportunity knocks

2009-11-12T13:36:00.001+02:00

It is a time of opportunities. They peek out, shyly, then tap you on the shoulder and whisper in your ear. They make tremendous promises, paint a future of terrific brightness in your mind and leave you smiling in a wonderful dream. For a while you stay in the dream, seeing the possibilities, the positivity of life.

Then reality comes calling. It exposes some opportunities for the sham that they are, reveals their promises to be empty and their future to be bleak. It’s hard to let go of that bright dream, hard to admit you were fooled by the pretty pictures. Reality sternly points to the obstacles along the road, the many tasks that must be completed before even setting foot on the road. Slowly the dream recedes.

The trick is not to wait for opportunities to come and find you but instead to go and create them yourself. Why wait for them to arrive with a heap of other peoples conditions attached. Create the opportunities and give them shape and meaning, knowing the obstacles and overcoming them on your own terms.

Have I succeeded in this? Not yet. But I will…

One opportunity has arisen and is turning out to be a very good one indeed. I’m not going to say anything yet, all will be revealed next week. So check back on Monday for more.

Similar celebrations...

2009-10-30T15:23:00.004+02:00

One of the things World Blog Surf Day does is show how cultures have lots of things in common holidays are no different. First there is the cooking and baking that must be done. Some things prepared in advance, others closer to the time but all according to secrets passed through the generations. Second is the cleaning. Everything must be cleaned, dusted, polished; ready for the next step. This is the visiting. Aunts, uncles, grandparents or parents must be visited and visitors must be welcomed into shining houses smelling of baking and delicious food.

In Ireland Christmas is the biggest celebration. Pudding, cake, trifle and mince pies prepared in advance; turkey, ham and roast potatoes on the day. My mother washing the kitchen floor at 1am when everyone else is in bed waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. Visiting my aunt and then on St Stephen’s Day the whole of my mother’s family coming for dinner. My mother spent both days in a panic of cooking and only rested by leaving my father to do the washing up!

In Turkey there are two celebrations that require similar preparation; Ramazan Bayram and Kurban Bayram. Ramazan Bayram marks the end of Ramazan, the Muslim month of fasting and is an orgy of food and sweets. Children must kiss the hands of their elders to celebrate the day and receive their allotment of sweets. Family visits are mandatory and can take up all three days of the holiday. My daughter was born on the first morning of Ramazan and as I struggled to keep some dignity the hospital board visited the ward giving chocolates to all the new mothers. I think it was the only time I ever turned down chocolate. There is Turkish delight, lokum, chocolate, boiled sweets, and of course baklava, layers of paper-thin pastry brushed with butter, sprinkled with nuts and drenched in syrup. The days beforehand involve terrific cleaning and preparing stuffed grape or cabbage leaves, borek a savoury pastry, and lots of dishes that can be served with tea.

Kurban Bayram is the sacrifice festival when animals are slaughtered and the meat divided between family, neighbours and poor people. Accompanying the sweets neighbours drop in with plates of fresh meat. While the councils set up special slaughter houses, some people prefer to do it themselves, killing animals on roadside verges, roundabouts and any other common ground. Inevitably some animal makes a break for it, causing havoc as it runs through crowded city streets.

Now on to Martin at Bulgarian Silvatree for the next stop on the World Blog Surf Day.

Thanks to Karen, an American expat blogger last seen in Prague, for being the World Blog Surf Day reporter. The Wall Street Journal said, "Her blog, Empty Nest Expat, makes a fun read for anyone looking for reassurance that change can be a wonderful thing--and also for anyone interested in visiting the Czech Republic.

And of course a big, big thank you to Sher at Czech Off the Beaten Path for arranging the World Blog Surf Day.

And Now the Good News!

2009-10-19T14:28:00.002+03:00

Sharon and Hilda have been freed!

Yesterday in the early hours of the morning they were finally released. They have been given medical attention, but are in good health, and Sharon will be flown home today on the government jet arriving in Dublin tonight.

It is such a tremendous relief for everyone. In an interview with the Irish Times Sharon is calm and eloquent as ever.

So happy for Sharon, Hilda and their families!!

A Friend in Need...

2009-10-15T13:49:00.003+03:00

A few months back we went on holidays and other than checking Facebook and Twitter occasionally I didn't keep up with any news at all. It was nice to be ignorant for a while. I did notice my friend Claire kept refering to 'Sharon' and hoping she was well. For some unknown reason I figured that Sharon must be a cousin of Claire's and must be sick. A few weeks went by and still there was the odd referral to Sharon and hoping for good news. Oh dear, I thought, Sharon must be pretty unwell. And that was it, the full extent of my concern.

Back at home I spent a bit more time online and through some random surfing ended up at Random Irish News about to read an article about an Irish charity worker kidnapped in Darfur. I nearly fell off the chair before I got through the headline as I knew the girl in the picture. She'd been in school with me and her name is Sharon. Suddenly all of Claire's references to Sharon made sense. It was three weeks after the kidnapping.

Sharon was working for GOAL, a development agency set up by a former sports journalist, John O'Shea. Sharon had been in Darfur for eighteen months when the GOAL compound was raided and she and co-worker Hilda Kawuki from Uganda were kidnapped at gunpoint on the 3rd of July.

Since then over a hundred days have passed and Sharon has celebrated her birthday in captivity. The kidnappers demanded a ransom and the Sudanese government have refused to pay as it would endanger the lives of other aid workers in the region. There were rumours that Sharon and Hilda would be released at the end of Ramadan but they were false. The Minister of Foreign Affairs has travelled to Sudan and there is an Irish delegation in the region trying to secure the release of the two women. Sharon has been allowed to phone her family a few times. School friends have set up the Facebook page Freedom for Sharon.

This week a mass was celebrated in Sharon's parish church of St Gabriel's in Clontarf and an ecumenical service was held in the ProCathedral in Dublin. But there is still no sign of the women being released. And as time goes on, it becomes easier for people to forget.

I think about Sharon a lot these days, far more than in the intervening ten years since school finished I'll be honest. I keep wondering what I can do and I can't come up with any answers. But that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to find something more I can do.

A Break in Service...

2009-10-06T16:40:00.002+03:00

It's been a while I know but life has been busy lately. I've been going to driving school in the mornings and have had several school meetings in the afternoons. We had Ramadan and the holiday at the end of it too. My written driving exam is coming up toward the end of the month and my parents are coming for a visit after that. I'm also participating in another World Blog Surf Day on the 31 October.

Anyway I'll be posting more regularly from now on so keep tuning in!

Housekeeping

2009-09-11T13:59:00.002+03:00

This has been a momentous week; Little Boy Blue started in preschool! Day One was fine, very happy to be there, no tears at drop off or pick up. Day Two we had tears at drop off, and Day Three was the same. Day Four and Five were grand. You see, Baba aka the Handyman dropped him to school the last two days so there was no traumatic 'my Mammy's leaving me' moments. Little Boy Blue seems to be enjoying it so far, though he is not eating his lunch. Also his bedtime routine is a little out, but that will adjust. The Brown-Eyed Girl is being a great big sister, checking up on him from her classroom and giving him lots of helpful advice!

This means I'm home alone for the day now! And that would be wonderful except I haven't really had a chance to enjoy it and won't for a while either. I start driving school on Monday and will spend a few hours each weekday for the next four weeks learning all I need to know for a written test at the end of October. If I pass that there's a practical test at the end of November. This week has been spent running around trying to get all the paperwork required which included health report, criminal record (or rather proof of not having one), translation of degree and proof of address. Now the Handyman must take some wonderful, flattering photos of me over the weekend and I'll be ready to start.

In other news I've just started another blog! This time it's a wordpress one and will be an effort to stretch my writing muscles before getting started on my daily novel-writing stint. My only guideline is that it should be fiction. So pop over for A Little Diversion.

Making Progress

2009-08-26T13:46:00.002+03:00

I've been a little stuck for inspiration lately. Or maybe there's actually too much, and it's focus that I really lack. Or maybe it's just procrastination leading me to wander the web at the expense of getting anything done. Or maybe there are too many decisions to make. Or maybe those decisions could be expensive and risky. Or maybe they won't lead me where I want to go. Or maybe I don't know what I want. Or maybe I do know but don't know how to achieve it.

Does every parent face this kind of dilemma when their children reach that terrifying point of entering full-time education? Within the next two weeks both the Brown-eyed Girl and Little Boy Blue will set out every morning and won't be back until dinnertime. What an expanse of time to fill! And it would be very easy to fill it with pointless procrastination, temptingly so.

I do have a plan, I'm going to join a driving school and work to finally get a driving license. So that will fill mornings. But that will last a month and then what? What do I want to do? What do I want to be when I grow up?

I do have the answer to those questions but I lack a method to achieve them, hence all the wavering indecision. And of course there is the fear of the unknown, the worry about the risks, the courage I need to gather to progress.

One thing is certain, the spinning in circles really has to stop. It's time to take a step in any direction. I can always turn back if it's not the direction I want to be going in, can't I, can't I?

Budding Artists

2009-08-11T14:58:00.004+03:00

When I wrote a month or so ago about visiting the sculpture exhibition in Cimenlik Castle I really didn't imagine the next exhibition there would be my daughters! We got a phone call last week to invite us to the opening of the Cocuklar Evi Troy Project in the Muavenet-i Milliye Exhibition Hall in the castle grounds. The mayor strolled around a walking tour of Canakkale opening exhibitions as he went.The Troy Festival in Canakkale this year is mainly centred on several exhibitions like this in various locations around town. Previous years involved a lot of folk dancing from Eastern Europe but a reduction in funding meant that there isn't so much dancing at the crossroads this year.

For the last year the whole preschool has been involved in this project, learning about Troy and its myths. The story was watered down a little, the gods were sidelined, the violence reduced and the sex left out completely. We had to read a book where the site as it is was explained from the point of view of two hedgehogs. Then we visited Troy with the author. The trip mainly involved a huge queue to get into the reconstructed horse by the gate and some of the outspoken kids told the story from the stage of the theatre. Then we sat, ate our lunch and the kids drew pictures. Back at the school they constructed a horse from their artwork and drew or constructed lots of little projects to do with Troy. The end-of-year show was a play of the story by the 5/6 year olds, with the 4/5 year olds on darbuka and the 3/4 year olds with bells on their wrists, held in the Korfmann Library downtown.

That which we call a rose...

2009-07-30T13:39:00.002+03:00

There’s a few things about living in Turkey that I don’t like; the habit of ‘turkifying’ names being one of them. So Catherine is sometimes changed to Kadriye, a completely different name. I don’t understand why anyone would want to change a perfectly good name to another one, isn’t changing countries/cultures/languages enough?

Plus there was more than enough name-changing when I was growing up. In school for Irish class all our names were translated into Irish. I became Caitriona, a very nice name; it just wasn’t mine. Calling into my Dad’s office was nerve-wracking.

Dad’s office was right outside the wall of the university in the centre of Dublin, but I’d never had any reason to visit. I have a vague recollection of going to a Christmas party there many years before but it’s very hazy. On this particular day I had some good news to share. I knew my Mam wouldn’t be home so I couldn’t ring her and this was before mobile phones were so widespread. So I thought I’d pop in to Dad and share it with him.

I walked in through the revolving door and was confronted by two security guards behind a desk. One looked at me expectantly as I muttered something about my Dad working there.“Alright, what’s his name?”

A perfectly reasonable question in the circumstances.

I gave the name my mother called him, the one most of his close friends use.The security guard looked at the computer screen in front of him “Sorry, nobody of that name works here.”

I probably stared at the man for about thirty seconds. Then I remembered that Dad’s brother and sisters translate his first name to Irish. It’s a hangover from a time when an English name on a birth cert was an advantage if someone emigrated, but a family would use the Irish version in daily life. I tried that.

Another glance at the computer screen. “Sorry. No one of that name here.” By now the second security guard was taking a keen interest.

Stumped again, I had visions of being frogmarched out of the building for wasting time. It would be embarrassing to be tossed out by the Revenue Commissioners before I’d even had a chance to defraud them. The penny dropped. Dad joined the Irish civil service at a time when all names were translated completely into Irish. Our surname jumped from the very end to the beginning of the alphabet. I tried both first and surname in Irish.
“Ah we have one of them, he’s on the second floor.”

I climbed the stairs a little shakily. I may have just gotten a scholarship but I didn’t even know my own father’s name!

The whole truth

2009-07-27T15:02:00.003+03:00

I took some photos recently and was criticised for it. An example: a man sits on a tree stump in front of a cobbled wall. Beside him on another tree stump is a glass of tea. He has grey hair, a weathered face and is dressed in well-used work clothes. The knees of his trousers are dirty and his rolled-up sleeves are grubby. His expression is a little bemused, there may even be a hint of mischief in his eye. The criticism: 'That doesn't reflect his social status.'

You see he looked like a villager. He didn't look like an apartment owner and landlord, or a shopkeeper, or father to teachers and other educated children.

Being seen as a villager in Turkey is the highest of praise according to Ataturk but more likely it's a dismissal in modern Turkey. It could mean someone hardworking or lazy, crafty or slow, noble or not. It can refer to a mindset that is superstitious, introverted and traditionalist. As Turkey has urbanised so quickly this divide is seen more in the cities than in the villages themselves. Virtual ghettos form, where people from neighbouring villages live close to each other and bring the village with them to the city. Any patch of land is used to grow vegetables, clothes are shaken over balconies without regard for the fancy cafe below and the village network takes over shops and businesses. This may clash with the established order in the city, an order created by people only a generation or so from the village themselves.

To judge a person based on a single photo may indicate there are self-esteem issues linked to this divide that Turkey will have to face.

A visitor

2009-06-24T11:25:00.005+03:00

Having not heard footsteps the voice surprised me with it's closeness. 'Komşu?' Neighbour.
When I appeared at the top of the steps the stooped old lady asked if I accepted visitors. She used her walking stick to climb the steps, leaning heavily on my arm, plastic bag swinging as she lurched upward. I guided her into the house, sat her on the couch and supported her with multiple cushions. Her stooped back was emphasised by a towel and several scarves around her neck, to protect from the breeze.

I offered coffee and biscuits and we chatted. She admired the house, congratulated us on the garden and explained that she was staying with her daughter in the houses behind us. She asked my name and tried to come up with a Turkish alternative. Mishearing my nationality she thought I was Dutch and launched into a story about her 17 years in Germany. She had to have a kidney operation and the nurses were kind, gentle and allowed her to pray before the operation. She ended with the moral that the heart counts, not religion, not nationality.
With her tight white curls and black-dyed eyebrows she looked a little strange, but her eyes were sharp and bright behind her bifocals. As I made more coffee she observed the room. When the children came in from playing she admired them both, but warned them against knocking the table.

She talked about being born in Erzincan, moving to Istanbul at four years of age and living in sight of the Jewish Graveyard, of her love for Edirnekapı. She nearly shed tears at her father's death at 48 years old, describing her parents loving marriage and her mother widowed at 32 years old. She talked and talked and all stories ended with the importance of the heart and of character. By now drinking sugary boiled water she proclaimed the greatness of Ataturk, his love for Turkey and its people, and of the civility of his divorce from Latife Hanim.
She asked me to fill her water bottle, put the remaining biscuits into her plastic carrier bag. She was polite, encouraged me to make the dinner while she sat there 'Don't think of me as a stranger'. Her daughter hadn't married and she asked if I could find a suitable husband for her. She told a story of a doctor who had been a suitor many years before.

Then she mentioned her husband, the tall man I would have seen him. 'Köpek, hayvan, şerefsiz.' Dog, animal, dishonourable. A triade of abuse followed; she didn't want to marry, her father gave her away. Her husband beat her father, still fights with her daughter; lazy, useless moron. May Allah curse him, may Allah punish him. He is older and healthier than she is, he doesn't have kidney, heart and back problems, he is waiting for her to die.

When the Handyman arrived home she recovered somewhat, echoing her desire to find a husband for her daughter 'Don't tell her though.' She rose awkwardly and I helped her as far as the gate, feeling her to be far older than her 68 years.

Troy and Hittites

2009-06-19T12:24:00.006+03:00

I decided to take the kids downtown to Cimenlik Kalesi yesterday. The castle is at the narrowest point of the Dardanelles and has a lovely park outside with various remnants from WWI dotted about the grass. We went because there was an exhibition of sculptures by Erdinc Bakla on show. The Hittite portion was out on the grass. The pieces were mainly marble and bronze. I liked the one above most of all, but it seemed very familiar somehow.The fertility goddess seemed a little vulnerable standing in the centre of a military establishment without a stitch on her. The castle is run by the navy and even the tours are conducted with proper military precision.So that was the Hittites where were the Trojans hiding? They were in the exhibition hall and didn't make the impression they should have as pale marble against white walls didn't stand out.

This was the nicest piece, I really like the way he thinned the marble to make the soldiers inside the horse. The mane was made of stone, and made it all a little top heavy.Helen, the face that launched a thousand ships, possibly trying to escape her hair! The Brown-eyed Girl got a great kick out of recognising the characters, having spent the last year doing a project on Troy in preschool. She took over the camera too.Homer, the man behind the legend. All the pieces compliment Bakla's piece on the Kordon next to the Trojan Horse (the one from the movie!). It shows the walls of Troy with the horse inside being stormed by the Greeks all contained in a glass pyramid. The opposing soldiers are all blocks of white marble against black/green serpentinite.

This was the most spectacular piece, the head and mane of the horse is glass (sorry the photo's not better). Little Boy Blue was wandering around having gotten a little bored. And as the Brown-eyed Girl and I were looking at this he made a run for me, missed my legs which is what he was grabbing for, slipped, knocked over the guide rope and slid to the base of the sculpture. Thankfully he didn't hit it but I had flashes of it falling and smashing into thousands of pieces over his head for the rest of the afternoon. Took icecreams for all of us on the seafront before I was calm again.

A scone, a goat and the Conor Pass

2009-06-12T22:30:00.002+03:00

Food has memory. Each mouthful transfers those memories directly to the sense centres in the brain, allowing the entire body to engage with the taste. As an expat I started to build these memories of Turkish food later in life, and initially looked on in amazement as my friends went wild for a dish that may not be appetizing to look at or eat. It happens in the opposite direction too.

Now there should be a picture of a scone here, but it being a hectic week I didn't have time to make any. So use your imagination and picture a golden brown bun studded with raisins, the firm crust masks a butter-yellow, springy inside. It smells of warmth and tastes of comfort. The mouths of anyone from Ireland or the British Isles should be watering.

Handing a plate of these to a Turk, smiling proudly at how close they resemble my mother's scones, there is a moment of anticipation before they take one. It's obviously not like baklava, the layers of buttered filo pastry and nuts, so soaked in syrup it melts in the mouth. It's not like simit, the teatime standard, a ring of twisted bread covered in sesame seeds. Perhaps it's a little more like poğaca, soft pastry enclosing cheese or olives. The closest would be kuru pasta; sweet or salty bite-size pastries. So they bite the dry scone and nod faint approval, though it's hard to know do they approve of the scone or the fact that I baked them myself.

I cut my scone in two, lather on butter generously, spread strawberry jam and then, to amazed stares, I top it all with a dollop of sugary whipped cream. As the butter melts I bite and am eleven or twelve years old again. We are in a hotel, sitting down to afternoon tea by a large bay window overlooking Dingle Bay in the southwest of Ireland.

We have been driving past corry lakes and green cliffs on a steep mountain road. In spite of the remoteness of the area there is traffic, slowed further by the narrowness of the road. We have made our way from Tralee, I think, past Castlegregory and Mount Brandon to climb over the Conor Pass. We stopped cautiously at the top of the pass looking south towards Dingle Bay and north to Mount Brandon. Our caution had nothing to do with the many cars and caravans constantly pulling over without regard for pedestrians. It was to do with goats. Years before we stopped here just as a herd of goats was roaming by. My mother decided to take a photo of myself and my sister beside one of the goats. We posed, two skinny-legged kids in shorts. And as the camera shutter clicked our goat friend turned and butted my little sister squarely on her hip. The scene is re-enacted with my little brother as the goat, much to my sister's disgust.

And finally my father asks are we hungry. He has been talking about these scones all day; it will be a big treat, the hotel is famous for them. And in spite of our pre-teen skepticism, he is right: they are the most delicious scones, served at just the right temperature with homemade strawberry jam and magnificent whipped cream. We devour the lot and possibly even order more.

I look up to find my Turkish guests with quizzical looks on their faces. I choose not to tell them my recollections, let them make their own memory of scones - eaten with cream by the foreigner with a wistful grin.

********

Here's Corinne, the next post in the World Blog Surf Day list. And the WBSD link list, just in case.

Thanks to Sher for arranging World Blog Surf Day and to Anastasia as offical Twitterer for WBSD. Anastasia Ashman (Thandelike) is an American cultural producer based in Instanbul, and is a creator of Expat Harem, the anthology by foreign women about modern Turkey. Her Tweetstream focuses on women, travel and history, and she shares resources for writers/travelers, expats, Turkophiles and culturati of all stripes.
Twitter Home Page: Thandelike

Attention, please..

2009-06-09T12:39:00.004+03:00

I had great plans to write a wonderful post today but after a night of interrupted sleep and a child with a rash to think about my mind is not fully focused. Instead I'll just get to the point!

Photo credit: NASA, public domain

I'll be participating in World Blog Surf Day on Saturday. Thirty-one expat bloggers will blog about 'Food', linking to each other in a chain. All organised by Sher. Thank you very much. Anastasia Ashman will be tweeting about the posts.

So check in here and you can travel around the world from your armchair!

Decisions, decisions...

2009-06-03T15:26:00.003+03:00

I didn't plan my kids to match school timing so the Brown-eyed Girl and Little Boy Blue miss out. The Brown-eyed Girl misses starting primary school proper by being born in November. That's not a definite rule, if we met the teacher and the principal I'm sure they'd agree that she's ready to start (no, I'm not biased, she really is a smart girl!). In order to do that we have to choose a school though, and fast, as registration has already started.

When we moved here I was delighted to find there was a school on the doorstep. Alas it is a private school and the most expensive one in Canakkale at that! Looking up the Private Education General Directorate (Özel Öğretim Kurumları Genel Müdürlüğü) under the Raports (Raporlar) tab I found the list of private primary schools for the whole country. By going to the Primary Education General Directorate (İlköğretim Genel Müdürlüğü) I searched by state and county to get a list of primary schools for the county. So narrowing down the list by location leaves me still with a long list. And the best way to judge each school is by visiting them one by one.

This could be avoided as a new system has just come into effect where based on address, a school will be assigned for your child. However we live outside town, and don't intend to send the kids to the village school. There could be debate about which village school would count as local as we don't live within village limits, so our post goes to one village, we vote in another, and the local public health clinic is in yet another village.

In the face of so many choices we'll probably just put off making a decision! Currently she's in the Children's House (Cocuklar Evi), the creche/preschool in the university. The facilities are good, she loves her teachers, and gets on well with her classmates (see if you can spot her in the pictures on the website). Next year they'll work on reading and writing, and Little Boy Blue will join the 3/4 class. With the two of them occupied, it will leave me time to traipse around every school in the area...

Tweet, tweet!

2009-05-28T11:29:00.003+03:00

I joined Twitter the other day out of curiosity. I don't really understand the concept, why limit yourself to 140 characters while trying to have a conversation. But it's not really about talking, it's about texting on a computer, and I have to admit I only ever manage short texted conversations, time delays and other things always seem to get in the way.

The Twitter website is a little obtuse to use. Setting up the account was easy enough, though living in the 'Rest of the World' meant I could sign up to send tweets from my phone, but couldn't receive any updates so I skipped that step. It's not easy to find people and it won't allow me to import any contacts from Outlook, though it will from web-based email providers. I started following Maryb without realising I had. And was pleasantly surprised to find that I gained a follower (thanks, Deborah!) without ever having tweeted.

Having browsed a bit it seems that most people use another application, either web-based or downloaded to your computer, to keep track of Twitter such as TweetDeck or TweetChat. Some make it easier to follow chats, where everyone puts a hashtag in their tweets so they are grouped together (as in #xxxchat); and replies, where you address your tweet to a particular person (as in @username). Perhaps it all becomes second nature but I'm not convinced. Still I'll take a gander at #litchat tomorrow as Anastasia is hosting a discussion about expat literature.

So between forums and email and Facebook and now Twitter I spend my time rattling around cyberspace trying to communicate, yet I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people. I miss face-to-face interaction in English and find all the substitutes lacking in some way. Skype or MSN should be better but unfortunately in this house they result in an authority vacuum, so as I try to have a serious conversation, my mother watches as the children cut their doll's hair, raid the kitchen presses and finally climb on my head. It's a little distracting to say the least.

Perhaps I should admit I'm looking for the impossible and accept the substitutes with their failings or maybe I should just get out more....

Season change

2009-05-15T14:28:00.002+03:00

We were away last week for a mere five days and in that time we missed the change from spring to summer. We left with a northerly wind and chilly rain, and arrived to 24 degrees heat at six in the evening. Our peas had fallen over with the weight of pods, the ground was cracked and the blossom on the apple trees was gone.

In the last week the lawn (euphemism for all the weeds we cut weekly) is looking parched, the poppies are out and the grass in the field is over the top of our wall. Daily the maximum temperature is about 28 degrees. Yesterday the shiny new fire helicopter was doing practice runs overhead. Passing by the beach in the bus, the water looked inviting (not the beach; too much litter).

I haven't adapted to the change and feel the need to grab a jacket when I leave the house. And I scan for rain clouds when there isn't a cloud in the sky. Old habits die hard...

The Simple Things

2009-04-28T15:35:00.004+03:00

Sometimes it's the simple things about living away from Ireland that trip me up. I just filled in an application form to be sent to Ireland and the last thing on the list of necessary items was a self-addressed stamped envelope. This presented a slight problem but being busy with the more important items to arrange I didn't think much about it.

I can't send an envelope with Turkish stamps on it, so I looked for an alternative.

Could I order stamps from An Post, the Irish post office? It can't be done online, but I could print a form, post it over with the credit card details, and wait patiently for them to send my stamps over. Apart from the fact that I'd have to order a large batch of stamps, it sounded good. Except the closing date for my application may have come and gone by the time they arrived. Postage time to and from Ireland is good (most of the time) but it would too much of a risk.

International Reply Coupons sounded like they'd fit the bill. Issued by the Universal Postal Union since 1906, they can be exchanged in any member country for stamps. Perfect. I checked with An Post, and each one can be exchanged for 82 c of stamps (interestingly you can't buy IRC's in Ireland). I checked the PTT, the Turkish post office, online and they were listed for sale for about 2 tl. I asked my Mam, who has access to a franking machine, what the postage would be and worked out how many IRC's I'd need. Great I was all set.

Until I went to my local post office, who looked at me with wonder and bewilderment as I explained what an IRC was. There was an exchange of glances among the staff before they said they'd never heard of them and didn't sell them. Typical....

Foreign Festivities

2009-04-13T13:34:00.000+03:00

Take any holiday of whatever persuasion;
Turkish, Irish, religious or not,
Even birthdays or weddings inclusive,
Consider all as available.

First is the food; there are norms,
Unmissable treats for each day,
Turkey or trifle, helva or sarma,
Make each with whatever’s available.

Second is tradition; what should be done,
Each holiday has its demands.
Parades or prayers, family visits or rituals,
Each observed with whatever’s available.

Third is enjoyment: these are celebrations!
And each has a special appeal.
Decorations or dances, playacting or music,
Each played with whatever’s available.

Fourth is the atmosphere; that elusive goal.
It grows best with numbers of revelers.
Solemn or silly, formal or fun,
It relies not on whatever’s available.

The result is soon over, with little regard
For the effort of all those involved.
Tradition true, or hollow pretense?
That depends on whoever’s available.

From the Ashes

2009-04-07T14:18:00.005+03:00

Last week we visited the scene of last July's forest fire. Here's the view from Karanlik Limani at the southern end of Guzelyali. The slope used to be covered with pines.

Here's the view from above Turgutreis Tabyasi, the WWI cannons that used to be hidden in forest. The road is the Izmir road as it rises on the way to Intepe and used to be hidden among the trees as the whole area was forested.

Here's the lower cannon, looking exposed.

A wider view shows the edge of the fire damage.

Looking up to the wind turbines at the top of the ridge.

Logs stacked for transport.

The newly exposed view over Guzelyali, across the Dardanelles to the Abide monument at the tip of the Gallipolli Peninsula.

And a newly-planted sapling...

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

2009-03-17T13:40:00.002+02:00

I had plans to dress up as a cheerleader or perhaps a bagpiper and march down the main street, around the roundabout at the pier and back up to the main square where I'd get atrociously drunk on green Guinness and throw up. Alas it's not to be, the trials of celebrating Patrick's Day as an expat.

There are several flaws in this almost-perfect plan; no bagpipes or short skirt, no Guinness (makes me wish I'd bought those out-of-date cans I found in the local supermarket at Christmas), no green food colouring, no other paraders and a three-year old likely to be none to happy with the whole process. But I could perhaps have worked around these minor problems.

It's the thunder clouds, rising wind and steady rain that transformed a wonderful spring morning into a dull afternoon and killed the perfect plan dead. It must be all these years of living in a warm climate that's made me a Paddy's Day wimp...

"Son, be a de-entist..."

2009-03-12T14:36:00.004+02:00

Many, many years ago I spent a summer visiting my dentist, having made an initial appointment about a month in advance. Every Wednesday, my day off, I would bus or walk into Fairview and usually walk home afterwards. His waiting room would have maybe one other person there, usually waiting for the patient he was with rather than the dentist. I'd be brought into the room quickly and then the ordeal began.

He was a severe, older man, probably nearing retirement and he did everything slowly, deliberately. The anasthetic would take an age to work and then he'd prod, push and drill into my poor teeth. At times I thought he was drilling directly into my brain. One root canal took about four weeks and three temporary fills. I don't know how long each session was but it felt like about three years.

On Tuesday I rang the dentist to make an appointment for myself and the Handyman. It took three repeats for the girl to catch either name. Somehow when people hear 'Catherine' it throws them, and they lose it completely when it's followed by a Turkish surname. Anyway eventually she says 'We're very busy. Come whenever you like.' This time I had to ask her to repeat what she said. It may sound like an oxymoron but it neatly sums up the Turkish Way of Doing Things.

So we arrived that afternoon to a cramped waiting room, filled completely. You could tell by the blank stares directed at the Chinese historical soap opera on the television that they'd been waiting for a long time. Again the girl took several repeats to figure out that I had called and what our names were.

After waiting about an hour we were called in. When we first went to this dentist many years ago he'd newly set up the practice and was young, enthusiastic and chatty. Now his eyes were sunken in great grey hollows, his hair had receded to his collar and his feeble attempt at welcoming us was grim. You would swear he had spent years only exposed to misery, pain and strife, forced to witness the most horrific sights, the most gruesome rot and terrible decay.

Within two minutes of sitting in the chair he'd X-ray'ed and numbed my jaw. What followed was a quick succession of drilling and cleaning with a variety of implements. He began filling the cavity at once, filling, moulding and hardening with a neat UV light several times before declaring that I could now chew with abandon. It was all over in about ten minutes and the most painful part was that the suction stuck to the inside of my cheek for the length of it.

Sometimes the Turkish Way is the way to go!

Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative...

2009-03-03T15:03:00.001+02:00

Coming across a discussion about positive thinking, I thought it was exactly what I needed (you don’t say!). I really believe positive thinking can be very powerful and that changing our attitude can create real effects in our lives so when ‘The Secret’ by Rhonda Byrne was recommended, I managed to get my hands on a copy and thought I’d increase my positivity by reading it.

How wrong I was!

The Secret is the Law of Attraction that like attracts like. The idea is that if you think good thoughts, good things come to you. So far so good. And to be fair the book does mention things like becoming aware of your thoughts and feelings, gratitude for what you have, loving yourself, visualization of goals, all standard ways to change your attitude; the problem is that they are hidden deep in a web of pseudo-science and tenuous logic.

You see the reason good things come to you is that your thoughts are send out into the ‘Universe’ which very kindly reflects you positive things back. If you think negative thoughts, you will get negative things back. You may think your feelings are your own but they’re not, that’s the ‘Universe’ affirming whether your thoughts are positive or negative. If you feel good, the ‘Universe’ is confirming that you’re sending out good thoughts and vice versa.

The Secret is the reason for success. If you are successful you must know the Secret. Therefore Plato, Galileo, Beethoven, Edison, Carnegie, Einstein and Henry Ford all knew the Secret. QED.

Here are a few choice quotes:

The explanation:
“You are a human transmission tower, and you are more powerful than any television tower created on earth. You are the most powerful transmission tower in the Universe. Your transmission creates your life and it creates the world. The frequency you transmit reaches beyond cities, beyond countries, beyond the world. It reverberates throughout the entire Universe. And you are transmitting that frequency with your thoughts!”

The ‘scientific’:
“The law of attraction is the law of creation. Quantum physicists tell us that the entire Universe emerged from thought!”

“I never studied science or physics at school, and yet when I read complex books on quantum physics I understood them perfectly because I wanted to understand them.”

The obvious:
“If you're not sure how you're feeling, just ask yourself, "How am I feeling?"”

The bizarre:
“So when you think a sustained thought it is immediately sent out into the Universe. That thought magnetically attaches itself to the like frequency and then within seconds sends the reading of that frequency back to you through your feelings. Put another way, your feelings are communication back to you from the Universe, telling you what frequency you are currently on.”

The downright wishful:
“Illness cannot exist in a body that has harmonious thoughts.”

“The only reason any person does not have enough money is because they are blocking money from coming to them with their thoughts.”

I would have hurled ‘The Secret’ across the room several times if I wasn’t reading it on my phone. Positive thinking surely shouldn’t mean that I should lie to myself! Another thing that’s repeated is that you can’t think positive things and feel bad at the same time. So what about me? I’m writing a negative review and feeling very good about it! I guess the ‘Universe’ will come and get me for it at some stage.

They never revealed the real secret. I should probably write it as an e-book and sell it for a packet but I’ll let you in on it.

The real secret is……

Are you ready?…..

WORK!

You can think all the positive thoughts you want, but if you’re not prepared to get off your behind and work to make them reality, those thoughts are in vain. But I guess it’s easier to just imagine large cheques arriving in the mail…

Paradox

2009-02-26T13:11:00.003+02:00

A window on the tv; dark wood panelling, tall, Georgian;
A background row of semi-d's with neat gardens;
Familiarity a dagger, sending me slicing back,
On a blank-eyed trip to youth and freedom.

Creeping silent and subversive, sowing resentment and discontent,
The everyday moans screech like nails on a blackboard.
Housework - a curse; cooking - a torture;
Children - wild; no matter how well-behaved.

Spare me the daily effort of understanding.
Spare me the loneliness of a second culture.
Let me home to no need for translation.
Let me home to a break from being different.

Olive trees and hot sunshine, stuffed vine leaves and baklava,
Exotic to the girl I used to be,
The norm for the woman I have become.
Hard to renounce even for a brief hiatus.

It's arrived!

2009-02-18T13:41:00.002+02:00

I've spent the last few months in a swelter of Rudalls, Roses, Prattens, Cotters, Doyles, Cronnollys, McGees, Burns, and a list of other names. These are not in fact a list of pubs I frequented in my youth, but flutemakers.

Sometime in the last six months or so, I realised how much I miss music. I don't listen to much, or rather don't pay attention to the music that's played around me. Himself generally listens to Turkish folk music, Turkish pop is played as background music everywhere and the occasional English pop song pops up now and again.

As a kid I played piano, not very well, but I enjoyed it. Actually I enjoyed it more once I gave up lessons and began to play from sheet music I bought myself. I had a tin whistle too, bought after hearing a concert given in the Old Head Hotel in Louisburgh, Co Mayo (unless my memory is playing tricks, always a possibility). I'm not sure who the player was but I was fascinated. In school I learned recorder.

When the idea of playing again came up, the instrument had to be portable. It would be preferable to be something I could play Irish music on, remembering sessions in Falcarragh and also thinking of introducing the kids to Irish music. The Irish flute seemed to fit the bill. The sound is terrific, haunting or lively as you wish. I could use it for trad, or for songs, or even possibly for Turkish folk music.

So after researching for months I finally bought an anonymous flute off ebay. It's not made in Pakistan which is a plus. And I have to wait a little longer. It has arrived...in my parents house, so I'll wait and research until they visit in a month's time.

Something to do in your spare time

2009-02-09T15:11:00.001+02:00

Hobbies have always been important in my family. They’ve always been something worth the effort. So Dad played tennis, and now plays golf too. He also volunteered in the tennis club as a barman for years. He gave up Sunday mornings for league matches, played in the evenings with friends and took part in table quizzes in the club. Apart from helping keep him fit, he also amassed a range of Waterford Crystal, pewter mugs, tennis balls, golf balls, sport socks and the odd bottle of wine from various competitions and raffles. Mam didn’t do much when we were young but then started playing tennis again, took up golf and bridge, and joined two choirs. As kids we played tennis, then took up hockey in secondary school, were in the brigeens and guides, and also played the piano and tin whistle. The whole family also went swimming once a week. Being social and active was something encouraged.

But while my sister and brother took up kayaking and climbing in college, I gave up hockey after my second year. And since then I haven’t had any hobbies. It’s not to say I haven’t been busy but between moving to Turkey, learning the language, being pregnant and raising young kids I haven’t had much time to devote to myself. I did start yoga when I was pregnant and have continued it to an extent, but it’s all self-taught with books and DVD’s (much like my Turkish actually!). And now I’m going to learn to play the Irish flute (more on that soon).

There’s another factor at play here though. My in-laws don’t have hobbies either, unless you count crocheting trousseau for themselves or their daughters. Any hobby would have to be done in the slivers of time allowed by the hazelnut farm and running the shop. Some of them are hunt occasionally, my nieces and nephews did some sports in school and some learned instruments but I don’t think any have continued past school. There is a sense that in general hobbies are for kids, not for adults, which could be generalized to Turkey in general. Hobbies require money and time, both of which have been in scarce supply for a lot of the population in the past. When every hour must be worked to put food on the table, when you don't have any spare time, hobbies tend to be neglected. That is slowly changing now, but the proportion of adults with hobbies is still lower than Ireland by a long shot.

This all leads to a slightly skewed view of hobbies and their value. A hobby which produces something useful is valued far higher than one that ‘just’ makes an individual happy. The end product has a definite value which makes it easier to justify spending money and time on doing it. A set of shelves is more worth than a flute in that regard.

I have slipped into this mindset sometimes, even though I don’t agree with it. Any activity that increases a person’s peace of mind is worth it. Whether that’s meditation, playing music, skiing, tennis, golf, hunting, blogging or building something, doesn’t matter.

A hobby’s greatest value is the fact that it helps us cope with stress and that is definitely worth the effort.

New Year Blues

2009-01-06T13:50:00.004+02:00

Well, the New Year is nearly a week old and it seems like a century! I've been struck by the sense of anticlimax that comes with the New Year. It leaves me feeling bored in spite of all the work to do, overwhelmed by the incredible distance between effort and reward. That distance may be as much as the ten minutes between putting on the kettle and drinking the cup of coffee, an unspeakably long time.

It hasn't been helped by the antics in Israel. I seem to find myself stuck on Al Jazeera watching rockets and explosions against the night sky, hypnotized by the pointlessness of it all.

The fact that we have all been hit by a persistent cold doesn't improve my frame of mind. The ache in my head and pain in my face cast a negative filter on everything. The weather is cold and damp, which makes me alternately homesick or SAD. And the bare house, stripped of it's cheerful tree, is just the icing on the cake.

Rereading the above makes me seem like a miserable old grouch. Perhaps I am...

The Heart of the House

2008-12-29T13:05:00.005+02:00

When we bought this house there was no heating system installed. We considered lots of options from central heating to air conditioning with a heat pump. Then Himself came up with a terrific idea. I laughed at it - not possible I said how are you going to install a chimney!

But Himself has a stubborn streak which combined with the ability to research anything inside and out allowed him to find someone in the next county who could provide an enclosed fireplace, stainless steel chimney and build whatever surround you want. They arrived for a quote, measured, bargained and set a delivery date. So in spite of the usual delays, our fireplace was installed in the centre of the house, and provides heat in three directions; to the living room, bedroom and hall.

It does a terrific job of heating the whole house (I think our maximum record is 32 degrees). Himself regularly reminds me of my initial skepticisim, to which I praise his wonderful idea and give thanks for his stubborn perseverance.

And of course our chimney provides access for Santa Claus. The Brown-eyed Girl dismissed the idea of him being able to get past a locked door but was very taken with the image of him unhooking the fireplace door from the inside and climbing out to deposit the presents under the tree. It's an advantage I admit we overlooked in our research into fireplaces...

Christmas is coming....

2008-12-16T11:55:00.004+02:00

Christmas arrived in our local supermarkets half way through Kurban Bayram last week. They cleared away the chocolates and butchers knives for the Sacrifice Festival and out came the Christmas trees, decorations and children's toys. As said supermarket is British-owned it may not seem that surprising that Christmas arrives but all of the shops do the same. (We know this, because alas there it little indoor amusement here so our week's holiday was spent doing a tour of retail establishments in between brisk walks on the seafront.)

Some very smart retailer had the bright idea at some point in the last twenty years or so, that if Turkey hijacked all the trimmings of Christmas, held them captive for a week and forced them to do overtime for New Year, he might make a fortune. So we have Christmas trees, gift-giving, house decorating, turkey-eating and even Santa Claus himself, in the guise of Noel Baba, all in aid of the New Year. This 'tradition' being relatively new it's not always upheld by everyone, so Noel Baba comes to some children, trees may go up but gifts aren't exchanged and so on. It was a cunning plan and is working terrifically.

It works great for me too, I get all the Christmas cheer, minus carol singing and nativity scenes, from the local shops. My mother, bless, sends the pudding and mince meat and this year I'm attempting a Christmas cake in addition to the usual turkey dinner and trifle.

There is only one small snag, it has created a tremendous mix up in the minds of many Turks, they don't know that Christmas is not New Year. This is aided by dodgy translation of movies and sitcoms where Yeni Yil is substituted for Christmas, causing me to jump up and down and rant at the television. (At which point the Brown-eyed Girl informs me that the television can't hear. Smart girl, a little too smart perhaps.)

So there will be a debate at some point about whether good Muslims should celebrate a Christian feast, regardless of the fact that New Year isn't a Christian feast and that the said Christian feast happened a week earlier. I wonder how they'd feel if they knew that celebrating the New Year has its roots in paganism before being fixed on January 1 by the Romans?

The Skaian Gates

2008-12-05T15:13:00.006+02:00

Well here it is at last - The Skaian Gate

The Southern gate to Troy VI, also called the Dardanos Gate, is believed by some to be the Skaian gate mentioned in the Iliad. The remains of a tower are seen to the left with standing stones at its base. You can also see a drain running down the middle of the road capped by a single flagstone. The white tent in the background covers the partially reconstruction of some of the oldest remains found on the site and represents the level of the hilltop before excavations began.

The model of the Wooden Horse of Troy at the entrance to the site.

A Trojan Oak (Quercus Troias).

I'm Back!

2008-10-30T11:56:00.002+02:00

Well the ban on Blogger in Turkey has been lifted. Turns out some blogs were being used to broadcast league football matches illegally. Digiturk the owner of the league broadcast rights, complained to Blogger, didn't get the response they wanted so went to court. The ban was lifted after a tremendous outcry.

However there are lots more websites still blocked, the most well known of which is YouTube.

KEWDA

2008-10-27T11:07:00.001+02:00

It doesn't happen very often but this weekend I was watching Blogger. I was waiting for a piece I wrote to be published on the Kingdom of the Expat Wives Detective Agency. I checked in a Friday afternoon but couldn't get through to Blogger. Didn't think much about it and checked again on Saturday to find that Blogger has been blocked by Diyarbakir Criminal Court. The whole website and all the blogs it hosts including my own. Why it has been blocked has been rumoured to be illegal activities, slander against creationists and even broadcasting live football matches, but nothing is definite.

I've managed to get around the block. It's a DNS ban enforced by TTNet, the main internet provider here in Turkey. Blogger joins RichardDawkins.net, Youtube, and over a thousand other websites. Wordpress was blocked last year thoug it has been reopened now, so moving the blog is not a solution.

Anyway here's the link to the first part of the mystery I wrote Rear Window - Turkish Style

Curious Girl

2008-10-16T14:23:00.004+03:00

The Brown-eyed Girl asked a question the other evening after her bedtime story. Asking questions is a routine event, most being merely 'Why?' But this one got me thinking.
"How do you know the story's over?" she looked at the picture of the Little Wooden Horse in the book. "How do you know without turning the page?"

'Because it is', was the first response in my mind but I controlled myself.
'Because the baddy's been killed/eaten/banished', didn't seem a positive message.
'Because everyone's happy', only applies to some stories; even fairy tales ended badly for someone.
'Because the crisis has been resolved', seemed a little advanced for a four-year old.
'Because the loose ends are all tied up', would have led to a discussion of what a loose end was.
'Because it can't go on without introducing something else' didn't quite explain what I meant.

"Because the book is called 'Five Minute Stories' and five minutes are up" did quite nicely.

Creepy Crawlies

2008-10-07T14:33:00.004+03:00

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled, and lashed the rain against the siding of the little blue house. The heavy black clouds pressed ominously low, illuminated by the flashes of distant lightening. The rumbles of thunder came closer, leaving the children crouching, fingers shoved into their ears.

DH paced the veranda, torch in hand, looking for early signs of a deluge. Occasionally walking to the gate and back he monitored the flow from the drainpipes, the sheetflow across the path and the windblown trees. Inside a semblance of normality was upheld, the dinner eaten and the dishes stacked for washing. And then they noticed it, long, black, many-legged and most probably poisonous, it lay on the floor, still and menacing.

Hastened by the high-pitched calls from the house DH entered the kitchen and followed the pointed fingers to the black creature lurking by the sink. Quickly he put on slippers, an action followed by all members of the family.

"He'll be fast" he said, approaching with caution.

"No, I think he's hurt, he looks squashed" said I.

DH grabbed a rolled newspaper, and slapped it down, catching the tail of the speeding monster. It disappeared under the fridge as a roll of thunder roared closer.

DH pulled the fridge forward, out from under the counter, as I held the children back. Nothing moved, nothing disturbed the thin layer of dust. He pulled the freezer forward, again nothing save the scatter of dropped coffee granules.

"Look under the fridge"

Torch in hand I got on my knees and looked under, dust, plastic and nothing moving any moment expecting a flurry of movement as the creature would launch itself at my eyes from halfway across the room.

DH moved the fridge, again and again until the hideous creature sprang out, moving back under the counter. Newspaper forgotten, DH stamped and stamped, destroying the creature, leaving scattered body parts in his wake. Gingerly he gathered up the bits and took it outside dumping it unceremoniously over the wall.

The open road

2008-09-16T10:34:00.001+03:00

The other weekend I did something unusual, for me anyway. It had lodged in my brain as a possibility over a month ago and refused to budge in spite of the guilt, the recriminations and the arguments. These before I even told the family. So having spent the previous week in a state of nervous indecision I finally told the children I was abandoning them, for one whole night.

There were tears, of course, from the Brown-eyed Girl. "But I want you and Baba" she pleaded. A few minutes of uncertainty ensued as she gauged how serious my threat to leave was. Then the major question arose: "Who will put me to sleep?" Baba wouldn't do. She thought a few moments "I'll put myself to sleep". I sighed with relief and got ready to go. Little Boy Blue seemed unfazed, even watching me board the bus he was fine.

On the bus I admit to suppressing the urge to soothe the crying baby before being distracted by the young woman beside me. Apart from fiddling with the air conditioning at irregular intervals, she rang at least ten people to tell them she was moving 100km south of where she had been. She ignored the signs warning passengers to turn off their mobile phones. One wasn't enough either, she had to have two phones.

I missed the children, though not as they are now; confident, articulate, ambulant. I missed my babies, their cuddly helplessness and easy smiles. They are not so big that I've forgotten everything though. Neither slept through the night until during their third year; the frustration of not knowing what was wrong as they cried; the need to keep them constantly entertaine; and the eating cold dinners after catering for everyone else first. Actually the last still applies, it's a rule to ask for something just as Mammy sits down, first one, then the next and so on. Then when they've got everything they want, they demand to be fed. Maybe one night away isn't enough.

After three hours and countless local bus stations, we arrived at our rest stop to be greeted by bare-chested beer-bellied Bulgarians drinking beer. It was a shock to my delicate sensibilities to be confronted by bare chests on the street. So I hurried downtown to make my virtual friends real.

Autumn colours

2008-09-08T13:42:00.003+03:00

The ridge is a wash of russets, reds and browns. The few pale glimpses of green are slowly overtaken by the darker colours.

But these are evergreen trees, dying in the wake of the fire.

Already a lot have been logged, standing stacked by the roadside, shorn of their burnt bark. The village workers are shrouded head to foot in black soot, pale eyes standing out against the burned earth.

Here and there the growth begins, hints of green sprout from the ashes. Our gozlemeci has reopened in the petrol station a few km's down the road.

Life goes on.

Aftermath...

2008-08-01T12:08:00.006+03:00

By the early hours of 31 July the fire was under control. The helicopters and planes started flying at 6.15 am, after sunrise, and just before the winds began to pick up again. They worked alternate hours through the day, three helicopters cooling the smouldering embers. A walk to Guzelyali brought us right alongside where they were refilling their buckets sequentially.

Bulldozers are used to clear the firebreaks and limit the fire's spread. Here's one being transported over the pass to Intepe.

We drove to Intepe along the main Izmir road shocked to find trees that appeared healthy through binoculars from home were thoroughly burnt at their bases, all undergrowth gone. The entire ridge and pass had burnt.

Deeper in the forest the devastation was complete, especially in the valleys.

Looking north from the pass at Intepe the whole area is burnt.

On the south of the pass the view was much the same. The fire swept down to the sea here. The valley below the road still smoking yesterday evening.

The village of Intepe had a lucky escape as the fire passed below it. Behind the village there were rumours of fields burning as far south as Dumrek.

All that remains of Bag Evi and the restaurant beside it are the frames. Bag Evi was a small wooden chalet that served great gozleme and traditional breakfasts. The restaurant closest to the pass was unharmed by the fire. Similarly a house nestled in the valley below the pass survived though the fire passed around it.

Looking east from Guzelyali the fire smokes. The lower ridge channeled the fire south, saving the centre and the complexes to the north of the village. The fire came within a few hundred yards of the wind turbines in the top left of the photo.

At the southern end of Guzelyali the fire passed very close to these houses before being limited by the coast at Karanlik Limani past the Youth Camp. The ridge is burnt and shows outcrops of rock that were hidden before.

At Karanlik Limani a pile of ashes smoulder. The fire moved along the coast here and yesterday evening a single helicopter was still working near some new houses being built near a tree plantation on the coast road to Kumkale.

Apparently started by farmers burning stubble the fire was called in quickly. It started within sight of the Fire Post in Dardanos. Still within a very short time it was out of control and required six helicopters, five planes, multiple fire brigades from as far away as Istanbul, Izmir, Mugla and Bursa, army backup for ground crews, bulldozers and road graders. In spite of all this effort 500 hectares burned.

Fire!!

2008-07-31T14:14:00.007+03:00

Hanging the washing yesterday at 11.30 am I noticed the planes circling overhead. It wasn't the fighter jets as usual but small propeller planes that look like they were left over after the WWII. I expect the propellers to be wooden looking at their flimsy structure. They belong to the Turkish Aviation Foundation and spend the summer in Canakkale, waiting to be called up if a forest fire starts. They fly over occasionally but this time all four of them are circling behind the house. Must be a drill I thought and shout to the kids to take a look.

Then I see the helicopter. It is Ukranian rented by the Forest Fire Brigade, we see it on the ground at the Forest Fire Post as we pass on the bus into town. Must be a drill. But even as I repeat this the helicopter drops beneath the treeline beyond the Jandarma camp. It fills its bucket from the Dardanelles. It rises again from behind the trees, flys above the house and up towards the ridge behind us. A few minutes later it returns and repeats the procedure. This is no drill.

Looking behind the house the smoke billows slowly, blown by the strong wind. We walk up to the corner of the complex but see very little through the trees and olive groves. The smoke is rising from below the ridge that the wind turbines are on. From then on it grows continuously. A few of the neighbours arrive, curious about the aerial activity and worried by the smoke. One prays, pacing and muttering under her breath.

By lunchtime, the ridge is barely visible beneath the smoke cloud. Fire brigades and bulldozers pass on the main road from Canakkale, Lapseki, Eceabat and Mahmudiye.

By 2.00pm, the ridge is hidden in smoke as the fire moves south through the valley. The number of helicopters is increasing from the original two to four and eventually six. Our electricity is cut off sometime after this.

By 3.30pm the main Izmir road is closed. A seaplane owned by Istanbul Buyuksehir Belediyesi has joined the other planes, drenching the valley below the ridge in seawater, circling, filling up and repeating.

On the way home from work my husband is stopped twice by roadblocks. He is allowed to continue given the warning that he should evacuate his house. Shocked by the fire on the ridge behind he is surprised at how little we can see from the house. Around 6pm all the planes and helicopters focus behind the house, towards Cinarli. The seaplane and helicopters all refill in front of the Jandarma camp and fly straight over the house. If the wind changes there is a chance the fire could come towards us. The noise is intense from the low flying planes and the double-rotar helicopters. All the neighbours gather, looking for news, exchanging ideas of where was burning, how the fire started and whether they would control it or not. Some of them I know, mostly to see. Without fail they all know which house I live in and that I am Irish. Neighbours who quarrel gossip together, bound by fear.

By 7pm the fire moves south of Guzelyali, towards Karanlik Limani beyond the Scout camp. The ridge is visible through the smoke, lined with matchstick trees. There are rumours that the restaurants on the road below Intepe, including our favourite gozlemeci, have burned.

By 9pm the area south of Guzelyali, Karanlik Limani, is burning. The Izmir road is reopened in a controlled manner and our electricity is restored. The planes and helicopters aren't flying in the dark and it is eerily quiet after the noise of the day. Having been bumped from the news headlines by the Constitutional Court decision we go to bed with no idea of whether the fire is under control or not.

Turkey is No 1!

2008-07-15T15:29:00.003+03:00

Turkey is on average the highest producer of fig, quince, pomegranate, hazelnut, apricot and cherry in the world according to the Vegetable-Fruit report (Sebze-Meyve Raporu) released by the Agriculterers Association of Turkey (Türkiye Ziraatcilar Derneği) at the weekend. Turkey is second highest producer of cucumber and watermelon and third highest producer of tomatos, aubergine and green peppers. The country produced 14.4 million tonnes of fruit in 2007 though apple, apricot, pear, sour (morello) cherry and cherry production was down from 2006. Other fruits produced include plum, peach, orange, mandarin orange, olive, melon, kiwi, banana, grape and lemon. Nuts include pistacio nut, walnut and peanut. Vegetable production was 25.6 million tonnes with increasing yields of onions and carrots. Red pepper, potato, beans, peas, spinach, lettuce, cabbage, chickpea and sesame are also produced in Turkey.

So how come when I visit my local (albeit British-owned) supermarket, the garlic comes from China?

Conserving Evolution

2008-07-11T11:57:00.003+03:00

A lot of people don't seem to realise that evolution involves extinction just as much as it does the development of new species. The niches that species evolve to fill were not empty before they came along. Rather the newcomers out-competed the existing species and took over. In the process they affect the whole ecosystem from the creatures they eat to the ones who eat them and so on up the line.

So I find it very difficult to feel sorry for the Adelie penguins or the soft-bodied benthic invertebrates mentioned in this article about the Antarctic Peninsula in American Scientist. The sea ice is retreating and in doing so favours Gentoo and Chinstrap penguins over the Adelie. The influx of predators such as the King Crab as the waters warm threatens the soft-bodied invertebrates. The invertebrates are soft-bodied because they evolved in an area where shell-cracking predators could not and so lost their shells. The population of Adelie penguins is falling while the invertebrates are under pressure.

Whatever the reasons for the retreating ice sheet (that's another days post!) the natural progression is that as the ecosystem changes the dominant species must adapt or move over. Here we have an example of a changing ecosystem and it's effect on the fauna. These changes cannot be described as being for the worst or for the best. They simply are.

Some will shout immediately for to make it a conservation area, to help the Adelie and protect the invertebrates. But that is preventing or skewing the natural progression of evolution. Because the ecosystem is unique, it's special; the hand of man should not set foot. But whether we like it or not humankind has already affected these creatures, Antarctica may seem remote but whaling in Japan or the North Sea still affects it. And has been affecting it for centuries.

Perhaps we should leave well enough alone and allow evolution to proceed. At least then the creatures that evolve may be able to cope with humankind and their effect on the environment.

On Planning

2008-07-04T09:32:00.001+03:00

Stephen King's 'On Writing' is a wonderful little book. Starting with
his earliest memories, King explains how he writes before describing
the horrific car accident that he survived while writing the book. The
description of the accident is classic King, underplayed and all the
more terrifying for it. I started to tell Himself about it but was
pulled up ''Another book about writing! Why don't you just write your
own?" It's exactly what every writer needs to hear and guaranteed to
piss one off too. It could have turned nasty except that he was just
repeating what King was saying "Read a lot; write a lot".

King advocates writing while the story is fresh, extracting it as
carefully as a fossil from the ground with as little plotting as
possible. It's an attractive idea. Excavate the fossil and then flesh
it out on the later drafts instead of blasting it out with a
sledgehammer plot. It seems a more sensible way than planning every
single step only to find that the actual writing is slowed to a crawl
by constant reference to notes and research. My novel is in the
planning stage and doesn't show much progress. (I'm finding it
difficult to shut the door while I write, so much for our open plan
living room.) The problem is that the story keeps changing; the fossil
has life and metamorphoses every day. If I'd excavated sooner then
perhaps it wouldn't be the monster it's become.

At the moment it's called 'Ground Down'; the story of one woman's run
in with a rogue belt sander which kills her friends and family. As she
faces the renegade machine, she finds perspective on her pettiness and
immaturity. Has the King influence gone too far?

Impersonating free speech

2008-05-07T12:43:00.000+03:00

Watching Bill Maher's standup act a few weeks ago it suddenly struck me that there is no equivalent in Turkey. (Ok so perhaps I'm a little slow to catch on but anyhow...) It was refreshing to watch him, he didn't give a damn about political correctness and just pointed out what he saw as wrongs. There is no Turkish comedian who gets up and slags off the prime minister, government policy and religion with a decent helping of curse words thrown in. The majority stick to safer topics of family relationships, dealing with the boss and so on.

Over six years ago when I first arrived here we had 'Reyting Hamdi' and 'Olacak O Kadar' which were skit shows that would gently parody politicians among other things. But they've disappeared now, replaced by endless soap operas and game shows. A quick read of comments on various news sites indicates that political satire is still alive and well albeit sheltered behind anonymity.

Why did it disappear? Well after the prime minister sued a comic book for publishing caricatures of his head attached to various zoo animals the mainstream media has kept its toes well behind the party line. There are very few television channels who oppose that, one recently had its founder arrested. One national newspaper claims to be objective and also had a senior journalist arrested at the same time.

Censorship is becoming the norm. Individuals who bring a case to court can persuade a judge to block access to websites. In the past year YouTube has been blocked multiple times, reinstated after they deleted the insulting material, WordPress ISP is blocked completely and last week Google groups were blocked.

It's not a healthy atmosphere. The only political comedy is provided by two lads on a Turkish Cypriot channel who annoyingly break off the comedy to talk directly a lot of the time. Rory Bremner and the two John's, if the UK doesn't provide enough material there's rich pickings over here.

The Story of Stuff

2008-04-16T12:15:00.008+03:00

A few weeks ago my friend Nassim sent a link around to The Story of Stuff. It's a twenty minute animated video about stuff, from extraction to production to market to home to disposal. It's well made and fun to watch but I'll be honest I thought 'doesn't everyone know this?", followed quickly by the discouraging thought that life ain't that simple.

But perhaps people don't know or rather don't think about it at all. Maybe if we did we wouldn't be so easily taken in by advertising and campaigns. There's an ad on Turkish television at the moment featuring an annoying girl in a stripy top posing as a doctor. Her patient sits in a gown looking worried while she looks at his x-ray. He has 10 ytl worth of points lodged in his chest, a situation brought about by buying lots of petrol from a particular petrol station on a particular credit card. So how can he be cured? 'Spend it and it'll pass' says the chirpy girl.

So having bought the most expensive petrol in the world (3.30 ytl/1.56 Euro/2.48 USD per litre!) the poor lad now has to go and spend even more money! It's all feeding back into the golden arrow. Perhaps he can spend his 10 ytl buying rice before the shortage hits in.

Gender stereotyping

2008-02-11T14:55:00.000+02:00

I witnessed a very disturbing scene last week when I spent an afternoon with the Brown-eyed Girl in her preschool. After attempting to teach twelve four year olds 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes' in English and determining that the average attention span is nine minutes, I was treated to a mini concert. The Brown-eyed Girl performed a solo of the 'Walnut Man' complete with actions, then the choir chimed in with a lovely rhyme about a dog who wanted to fly. Starting with his aeronautical ambitions and ending with splat after he launched himself from the balcony, it stirred the heart and made me glad to see my little girl in such an educationally stimulating class.

But by far the most excitement was generated when the teacher began the song 'Little soldier, little Ayse'. First the boys jumped to attention, marched about and saluted as they sang their chant about protecting their loved ones, then the girls leapt up, rocking imaginary babies and singing about staying home and making babies. It was all I could do to pick my chin up off the floor at such a blatant display of gender stereotyping being taught to impressionable four-year olds. I resisted the temptation to launch into a rant at the teacher about equality, feminism and suffrage. A disgrace in a society that can demean women and lock them into traditional roles. Surely they should be teaching that a girl can do anything she puts her mind to, and that a boy does not have to fight if he doesn't want to.

But the mothers of most of the children in the preschool work outside the home, they are teachers or university lecturers. I am the exception there: I am a stay-at-home mother, I made my babies and rocked them. I do the cooking and the cleaning and keep house. You could place me in the 1950's and I wouldn't stand out. I never had a career exactly and hope to carve one out by working from home. So my example to my children, so far, upholds the stereotypes.

And in a country with compulsory military service, all the boys do have to fight.

Spring in the air

2008-02-04T13:45:00.000+02:00

The mundane task of hanging out the clothes was a joy today. A slight tingle of warmth on my back and the chorus of birds trilling their hearts out brought spring to mind. There are buds on every tree in the garden and we even did some digging over the weekend.

I was back to my grandmother's kitchen in Dublin, a self-conscious eleven-year old, trying hard to put on a teenage air of disaffection. My grandmother would always break this down with a cup of milky coffee and a few slices of half-stale fruitcake. On this particular day she held a leaflet in her hand, a newsletter from the local supermarket. She shared this hilarious piece with everyone who came into the house...

'Spring is sprung, the grass is riz,

I wonder where the birdies is.

Oh look a bird upon the wing.

Ain't that a funny thing,

I thought the wing was on the bird!"

I picture her there surrounded by clutter, reading it out in her Roscommon accent, slow and deliberate, while my sister and I exchange bewildered glances. She never threw anything out, margarine cartons, letters, envelopes. I wonder if that leaflet was among the papers my mother threw out after she died many years later.

Traditional Christmas

2007-12-26T15:00:00.000+02:00

We started a tradition bound to continue yesterday; we bought a battery-operated toy that broke within five minutes!
In hindsight there were omens, the cheap yellow plastic, the suspiciously delicate appendages, and worst of all 'Quality Toy - Made in China' in font size 4 on the back of the package. It came out of the box intact, survived putting in the batteries, climbed 4x4 style over the cushions and then lost its treads. Replacing them several times in the following five minutes became tedious and we discussed how we could permanently fix the problem; put the rubber treads in the fridge to shorten them; put them in hot water; glue them to the wheels. Alas while these talks were underway Little Boy Blue tore the treads apart in his curiosity.
Not to worry there was another vehicle to play with. Attaching a trailer to it was fiddly and ultimately pointless as the attachment broke. Still the Brown-eyed Girl played with it, pausing briefly to scream at Little Boy Blue when he wandered close with a 'gimme' look in his eye. She retrieved the box and polystyrene packaging from within the piles of wrapping paper and has played happily ever since, leaving a stream of white confetti in her wake.
Terrible to be so stereotypical...

In the Tranquil Garden

2007-11-23T13:26:00.000+02:00

Peace reigned in the garden of the little blue house. The toddler sat on the swing hands holding firmly on the ropes, his woolly hat and winter coat at odds with the bright sunshine. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, a mere breath compared to the usual gale. I pushed the swing several times giving it enough height for me to do my chores. Behind the house I disturbed two chaffinches sitting on the woodpile, they chirped and fluttered wildly as they made for the safety of the trees. Having gathered the wood and kindling I pushed the toddler again, reaching him before he called for me.

After months of drought, the rains of October had brought life back to the grass which sprouted an uneven carpet of green. Outside the garden wall the olive trees were laden with fruit, glistening in the sunshine. This time I left to hang the clothes, returning when the toddler’s shout disturbed the birdsong. Finches, bluetits and great tits all clamoured to be heard as flocks of sparrows glided by. Even the hum of cars on the main road below the field seemed to harmonise, giving a bass note to the high shrills of the birds.

It came as I pushed the swing with the empty clothes basin under my arm. From the south, from out of the sun’s glare it came between the olive trees along the ridge. I shielded my eyes and saw its pointed nose and wingtips. The wingtips were lighter green then its smooth underbody. Silently it flew above us, probably no more than 20 metres up. As I turned to watch it fly beyond me the noise hit. It seemed to reverberate in my chest before roaring in my ears, loud and inescapable. The toddler screamed as the neighbour’s dogs howled in unison. Dropping the basin I held him where he sat on the swing watching the jet as it lifted its nose and rose vertically above the houses. It climbed and climbed until, just as it was about to flip over, its wing dipped and it began a graceful curving dive. The sound died away to a deep roar that echoed along the horizon as the jet disappeared behind the houses.

Beneath his coat my son’s heart beat a staccato rhythm as his shaking subsided.

Out of Date

2007-11-22T15:10:00.001+02:00

I don't get downtown that regularly but when I do, I inevitably call into the newsagents near the clock tower. He stocks a few English-language newspapers and a small selection of English books. So pausing briefly in the chill wind yesterday I made the snap decision to choose Turkish Daily News over Today's Zaman. TDN is the oldest English language daily in Turkey with 46 years of publishing behind it. They recently published 'Gold Fever in Turkey', my article about the hypocrisy between gold consumption and mining in Turkey.

Once inside I browsed the books, while trying to keep my toddler from pulling everything off the shelves. He took a great liking to 'Galatasaray Destani' and insisted on trying to read three of them at once. I grabbed a book and headed to the counter where I paid, but only after having bought Newsweek too. With them under your hand at the counter, it's impossible to leave without picking one up, especially as you wait while the newsagent carefully puts a bookmark into the book you buy.

So after picking up the preschooler, waiting for DH to finish work, getting home, bringing in the laundry, lighting the fire, fixing the dinner, eating the dinner and making the tea, I finally got to look at the newspaper.

First thing that struck me was the top left corner 'Flat transition from page to big screen', a review of 'Love in the Time of Cholera'; I'm sure I read about that recently. Skimmed the main headline, 'Childhood not Child's Play'; they're always putting headlines about the social make up of the country, only last week there was a poll about the middle-class. Anyway I continued through the paper, skimming here, reading there until I got to David Judson's editorial about the paper's success since they moved their base to Istanbul last year. Half way down the first column I realise he's talking about Nov 20 being the day of their big move. Now very briefly the thought crosses my mind that they've published the editorial on the wrong day; Judson in the paragraph previous admits to publishing a photo of Imran Khan, who turned out not to be. But no, they couldn't make a mistake that big, could they?

No, they couldn't. It took me until page 14 but I finally figured out that I'm reading Tuesday's paper having bought it on Wednesday! Not only that but I had read Tuesday's paper online, hence why that review seemed so familiar. And when I looked at the bookmark the newsagent had given me, it had a calender from 2006 on the back! Talk about feeling the eejit!

So I may stick to reading the paper online from now on, though I can't resist the smell of newspaper ink and cannot quell the hope that one day I'll find a paper like the Irish Times in my local newsagent.

Expats in cyberspace

2007-11-08T14:59:00.001+02:00

A few years ago I read an article asking for submissions for 'Tales from the Expat Harem'. It had been written directly to me, regardless of it being published in a national newspaper. Within a week I wrote a piece and sent it in. It was rejected, but Anastasia Ashman suggested I come up with something different.

After several rounds of editing and several months of delays, the book was published in Turkey in September 2005. 'Tales from the Expat Harem - Foreign Women in Modern Turkey' edited by Anastasia Ashman and Jennifer Eaton Gokmen was simultaneously published in Turkish by Dogan Kitap. In February 2006 Seal Press published the American edition.

Through the whole process I never met either of the editors or any of the other contributors. I couldn't make it to Istanbul for the book launch or any of the signings for personal reasons. But we still produced a book together!