Tag Archives: Flunking Family

My Favourite Things

Posted on by

I came across a blog by an expat recently who talked about bringing enough personal items to your new homeland to make yourself feel really comfortable in your surrounds and it struck me as I looked around my home just how many of my favourite things I was lucky enough to have with me.  I have made these walls mine with photos or paintings purchased throughout the years.  Each room has a little something, a knick-knack that says this is Janey’s or this is The Turk’s or even Daughter’s.  Seriously you should see her room.  It is a plethora of colour, sound and motion.  A little of everything but very much screams her name as soon as you walk through the door.  So what are my favourite things?

“Juicy” by Cel Pallas-Hones.

juicy

I loved this piece of art the first time I laid eyes on it while at a gallery opening in Sydney.  I watched people circle around it knowing that I could not afford it at that time but wishing that it was mine.  When my circumstances changed the one luxury item I allowed myself was this piece of art and it is one of my prized possessions.  It is funny to watch the reaction of Turkish people when they enter my home.  They notice the piece.  It’s hard not to.  The best reaction was by my teyzer (aunt) who examined it closer, tilted her head to the side and turned to me and whispered, “All female parts are sweet like portakal (orange)”.  I nearly fell of my chair!

“Mum and Dad”

DSC01041

I love this photograph which was given to me by my sister in law a couple of years ago.  I am not sure but I think this is the night that Mum and Dad got engaged or maybe at their engagement party.  Young love.  Happy.  Dreaming.  Ready to start a life together.  Looking at this photograph I do it with a tinge of sadness.  Of course it is because I have lost them both but also because this was before the health issues, before the miscarriages, the news that my mum could not have children and before my mum’s diagnosis of Muscular Dystrophy.  This photo shows their pure happiness and I love it.  This photo has always sat on my dressing table in my bedroom and this is where it is today along with a very special photo of my father with Daughter on her first day of school.

“Le Restaurant La Colombe”

DSC01038

This print was originally owned by my favourite Aunt Joyce.  As a child I would revere in her stories as she travelled the world visiting all its four corners from Paris and New York (where she lived for many years), to Cairo, Russia, the South Pacific and all over Asia.  She had the most romantic and exciting life and I wanted desperately to be just like her.  This print lived on my Aunt’s kitchen wall for many years, and then it moved to my Dad’s kitchen wall.  Now it resides on my kitchen wall where I hope it for many years before being passed onto Daughter to brighten up her kitchen wall and to remind her of her family.

“Buddha”

DSC01040

I brought this dusty old Buddha when I was backpacking around India in 1999.  I was unbelievably sick in India and all I wanted to do was to go home and die in the comfort of my own home but before I left Varanasi I tramped down to the gnats through some markets and I saw this little Buddha.  Not too big that it was burdensome to a backpacker (even if I was a backpacker who was desperate to go home) he was purchased from a little shop in Varanasi by a man who swears he carved it himself.  I tended to believe him too as he was missing a finger on his left hand.  After some bartering (and discussions about his family, his business and his life) I walked away with my Buddha and he was left with a smile.  No doubt I should have bartered some more.

“My Mum’s Pavlova Plate”

DSC01039

Who doesn’t love Pavlova?  Well actually Daughter does not love Pavolva but every other true blue, dinky di Aussie in existence loves the famous Pav.  Named after Russian Ballet Dancer Anna Pavolva the Pav was standard fare on Christmas Day in our household.  I know we do not celebrate Christmas over here in Turkey but I made a big ass Pav on Christmas Day for the family to enjoy.  To be honest they didn’t love it.  Perhaps like Vegemite, it is an acquired taste but damn it I love a Pav and I love my Mum’s Pav Plate (and its terribly handy with the instructions on it).

So these five items are only small but each holds a special meaning to me.  Each item reminds me of someone or something, a special time or moment in my life, and without them my home would merely be a house but with them they are my home.

What’s Mine is now Yours

Posted on by

Now I don’t know what the correct etiquette is in this situation but let me tell you a story and perhaps you, my dear and favoured readers, can give me some advice.

Over the past six months I have been photographing my zeytin ağaci (olive tree) in my garden with the intent of showing my olives growth, change of colour, harvest and finally the curing of my olives.

The past few weeks I have been keeping a close eye on the olives as they were looking pretty good and, in fact, I asked The Turk prior to him leaving for Oz as to when I should harvest.  “Give it two weeks,” was his reply.

Done.

So today I went out to my olive tree, my big beautiful olive tree and … my olives have been pilfered!  How is this possible?  How did I not notice that the olives were gone?  I mean I must be pretty oblivious sitting here typing away on the computer and not hearing or seeing what is no doubt going on right under my nose.

collage 15

I feel violated.  Robbed of what could potentially be my best blog post.  I had researched the best way to cure olives and also researched some quick solutions for curing (including fast curing in the oven).  I was going to bring you some amazing pieces about my olives but now I have hiçbir şey (nothing at all).

After some nosing around I found out that my sister in law harvested the olives last weekend and has already begun the curing process.  Next year then.

But let’s just look at my olive tree over the months shall we?  April – little tiny buds.  Spring has sprung and the olives are just starting to push through to reach that precious, precious sunshine.  May – I can see it, there will be olives.  They will no doubt be delicious because I am going to cure them and make them my own.  June – yep, keep it coming little olives.  I see you are trying your hardest to be the biggest, juiciest olives ever seen in the Village.  July – I think you WILL be the biggest, juiciest olives ever seen not just in the Village but in all of Turkiye.  Champion olives!  And finally August – you will soon be in my tummy!  Or not!

Don’t fret though gentle readers I still have my biber salçası (pepper sauce) that is currently drying out in the sunshine upstairs.  I will give you a blow by blow account of that soon enough (assuming someone doesn’t swipe my sauce under the cover of night).

So what do you think I should do?  Let it go?  Say something?  I am at an impasse.  I know, I know I will have many opportunities to cure my olives and I appreciate that my sister in law was trying to help but I really wanted to try and do this myself.  Bilmiyorum.

A Smile

Posted on by

Each morning at a little after 7, whether it is rain, or hail, or shine, I watch a little old lady passes by my front door.  I do not know her name, I do not know where she lives, all I know is that our front door forms part of her morning constitutional.

When I see her I always smile and call out, “Gunaydin”.  She has never acknowledged me.  She has never wished me a good morning or even glanced in my direction, she merely makes her way past my front door as part of her usual morning routine.  She walks slowly but with purpose. Some mornings I see she is walking with difficulty but today I noticed she has a new appendage to help her on her constitution – a cane.  She seemed a little more sure of her step this morning but she still did not wish me a good morning when I waved at her from my terrace.

It is difficult to win over the old ladies in the village.  After their initial curiosity of the yabanci amongst them I have generally been ignored.  A few teyzer will say good morning and one or two of them will even ask me to join them for çay but on a whole I am left alone these days.  That suits me fine.  I am happy in my solitude and it gives me more time to write.

I do wonder, however, what I have to do to win this little lady over.  A smile, that is all I am asking for.  Maybe tomorrow.

DSC03407

_________________________________________________________________________

Loving this blog? Please help me build my audience and share with like minded people who, like you only need a smile to make your day and love Turkey. You can also subscribe or like me on Facebook for all updates.

Raise your Glass

Posted on by

Happy Anniversary.  No.  Not my wedding anniversary.  That was back in February which, of course, both The Turk and I forgot.  No this celebration marks the first year of the rest of my life.  My new life.  In Turkey.  To be honest, I didn’t think we would make it, I mean just buying toilet paper can be difficult at times.  But we have survived unscathed to tell the tale.  Mostly.

collage 1 year

Today is also the day that The Turk leaves for Australia.  Yes one year ago today we arrived in Turkey and now one year later The Turk is leaving.  Just for a short time.  We hope.  I think.  He is tying up some loose ends over there but I suspect he will enjoy the First World lifestyle and I will probably have to go and bring him back (or not).

It has been a year of growth, not just for me but for Daughter too.  Immersing herself in a new language, a new school and new friends.  She has grown too.  She is so tall now.  Those long legs will never quit.  She is more beautiful now if that is at all possible.  The Turk wants to keep a cricket bat at the front door to swat at the boys that will no doubt soon come to call.  I had to remind him that it is doubtful that we will even find a cricket bat here in Mersin (or in Turkey for that matter).  And now she can swear in two languages (actually three as she can swear in Italian too – a proud parent am I).

The challenges of living in Mersin have been real and raw and exhausting.  Dealing with homesickness, Turkish bureaucracy (read that as Turkish bullshit), school struggles, family loss, culture shock and everything else that comes along with moving to the other side of the world has brought me closer to the edge of insanity than I thought I would ever reach.  My first trip by myself to the supermarket is a memory best forgotten.  Or a spider bite that resulted in my needing 12 shots to survive (what the??) and my numerous, read that as hundreds, of trips to the Emniyet and Nufus to try and get visa’s, a kimlik and citizenship.  Holy crap!  Turkey will knock you for a six!

I must say I thank goodness for blogging.  I can get my crazy out here, with you, rather than taking it out on others.  You can either read it or, if you are sick of my rant, you simply close the page (after you “like” it of course).  Easy.

Thank you to each of you who have supported us in our journey so far.  I have made some great friends on here in the blogging world, people that I would never had had the opportunity to get to know unless I did write my blog.  I have also found some real friends here in Mersin, expats like myself thrown into the deep end of hell trying to survive each day.

So let’s raise your glass – Şerefe!

 

_________________________________________________________________________

Loving this blog? Please help me build my audience and share with like minded people who, like you, feel that culture shock is a way of life and you love Turkey. You can also subscribe or like me on Facebook for all updates.

Turkish Housewife Failure

Posted on by

I had nothing but good intentions when we first moved here.  I was going to amaze with my cracking culinary skills, real food too not all this Turkish stuff day in and day out.  I was going to make lemon meringue pies, electrify the family tastebuds with my beef wellington and delight them with my knockout gnocchi.  I brought at least 10 cook books with me including a Turkish cookbook – how could I go wrong?  I also intended to keep the house spick and span.  I was going to iron my sheets (my mum used to do that).  I was going to dust away the dust bunnies and my home was going to look like it had come out of a Better Homes and Gardens catalogue – after all I did have a lot of free time.

 Housewife 1

Good intentions mean shit when you realise that you can’t cook and you hate cleaning.  I was not designed to be a housewife but even more troubling is I was definitely not designed to be a Turkish Housewife!  They put the super size into every meal and super freak into their cleaning.  Who needs to be like that anyway?

The other morning my teyzer (aunt) arrived as I was making breakfast and she gave me a lesson in boiling eggs.  Truly.  It’s a feking egg for Christ’s sake, “how hard can it be?”  Well it seems I have been doing it wrong for all these years so I sat back and let her boil my eggs (that sounds a lot dirtier than it should).  “Ello darlin’, come here and I’ll boil ya eggs for ya!”  After she boiled my eggs she showed me how to cut up a cucumber.  Yes really.

And it is not just my cooking skill that requires lessons on how to be a better Turkish housewife.  More than once I have had my sister in law turns up uninvited to clean my windows because she could see the hand prints from her home.  Really?  I have also had my neighbour come knocking on my door to show me how to do my laundry as my washing drying in the sunshine did not look clean enough from her garden.  Um, thanks.

Well it seems that I will never make any of the ladies in the village happy with my housewife skills.  Frankly I am surprised that they haven’t taken The Turk aside and given him a speech about how bad of a wife I really am. 

“Maybe they have?” questions my inner demons.

Well maybe I don’t care!

_________________________________________________________________________

Loving this blog? Please help me build my audience and share with like minded people who, like you, hate cleaning and love Turkey. You can also subscribe or like me on Facebook for all updates.

I have feet issues

Posted on by

Not in a “I have a foot fetish and they get me hot” way more in a “ewww get those nasty things away from me” way.  It’s not a hate.  Hate is a strong word.  I just really don’t like naked feet touching my stuff.  Worse than naked feet touching my stuff is other people’s naked feet touching my stuff. 

feet

In Turkey it is customary that you remove your shoes before entering someone’s home.  I get it, I really do.  There is a lot of dust and germs outside and you want to keep your pristine home as pristine as possible.  When you visit someone’s home you are welcomed with a hearty hoş geldiniz and your host will place a pair of slippers at your feet.  This. Makes. Me. Shudder!  I look at those slippers at my naked feet and I wonder what awaits me.  I mean how many other feet have been in these slippers?  How many other dirty, sweaty, smelly tootsies have been subjected to sharing their dirty, sweaty, smelly selves with my feet.  It’s a foot gang-bang.

Hygienically I am pretty sure you should not share shoes, when I was a kid my mum drilled it into me a hundred times!  “You never know where their foot has been!” was her catchcry.  It’s true though, you do never know where their foot has been.

We have all seen those ads on television, you know the ones with the festy toe and then miraculously the toe (with the help of some wonderous cream) becomes beautiful and no longer something that previously could have been found on Golan’s foot!  They have these ads on all the time here in Turkey, even the advertisers know that you shouldn’t share your slippers.

Daughter had some friends over the other day and in order to escape I took My Hurley Dog for a walk.  Upon my return I went to put my slippers on.  MY slippers.  My slippers do not live in the slipper box.  My slippers are segregated from all other slippers so that they are not violated by unknown feet.  My slippers are not to be passed around like a . . .  well you get my drift.  My slippers are wholesome and untarnished and for my dirty, sweaty, smelly feet alone.  But upon my return from walking with My Hurley Dog my slippers were not in their usual segregated spot.  I stealthy scanned the feet of the tweens in my living room.  Aarrghhhh!  

Someone is wearing my virgin slippers.  I tried to bring it to Daughter’s attention that one of her friends were wearing my slippers but she was oblivious to my plight or perhaps she was ignoring me, well aware of her friend’s infraction.  I looked in my slipper basket at all the other pairs that were available.  Yes we have an abundance of slippers available.  Do I put on a pair?  No.  I can’t do it!  Ewww.  

I am aware that I am sounding slightly unhinged at this point and I know I cannot say anything to the little 12 year old girl sitting on the floor, eating popcorn and singing along to some Turkish pop song with Daughter and her friends.  I did watch her swanning around in my slippers for a long time though.  I probably frightened her a little with my glare.  I am obviously going to have to keep an eye on this one.  I wonder if I could encourage Daughter to un-friend her.  She is obviously devious, I mean after all who goes searching for slippers where there is a box of slippers right in front of her?

Yes she definitely needs to be unfriended.  Pronto!

Dog Tired

Posted on by

Growing up in a very small family we did not have the social interaction that I have now in Turkey.  There was just me, my brother, my Mum and Dad.  Just the four of us.  On occasion we socialised with our neighbours or with a few close family friends but the constant of social activity just did not exist in my world.  Even as an adult I still lived by that creed.  I would socialise with my family, my neighbours or a few close family friends.  

Now I find myself in what could possibly be described as a nightmare.  A never ending party.  Do not get me wrong – I love a good party.  I love a night out.  I love going to my friend’s house or to a neighbour’s house for dinner but I also need time for me.  Oh and I need to sleep too.

tired

No one ever seems to sleep here.  They are up at the crack of dawn (which suits me as I am usually up very early too – residual from my time working in a law firm) but as I get up early I like to retire early.  I like to watch a show, read a good book and then lights out by 10.  Some would call me “dull”.  I call myself “sensible”.  Your body needs a good 8 hours sleep after all.

With Seker Bayrami in full swing the last few days has been filled with social activity.  I have been to parties, visiting family, visiting friends, visiting cemeteries.  I have been to BBQ’s.  I have been to the beach.  Two restaurants and even a club.  I find myself going out for ice cream each night (but not before midnight) and I have not gone to bed before 3 or 4 am.  

This is not me.  I don’t know who this is but it is definitely not me.  I am shattered.  Dog tired.  I need some quiet time and I look around me at these happy, smiling faces and ask myself, “How on earth do these people keep doing this day after day after day?”  In particular the kids.  None of them go to bed before midnight.  Young or old they all stay up until whenever and run around in the darkness.  Daughter looks like hell.  Honestly.  Her and her cousins stay up all night watching movies, giggling and gossiping.  She just left now on her bike to go to a friend’s house.  She was in tears.  She was Miss Cranky Pants.  She will not admit to being tired but she is.  She stubbornly won’t listen to me or to The Turk and she pushes herself to keep up with everyone but I can see the outcome.  She is going to crash and burn.  Probably soon and I don’t think I want to be around when Daughter has her meltdown.  

I can hear The Turk talking with his sister downstairs.  They want to walk to their Aunt’s house for cay.  Yes!  Go.  Take your time.  Stay all afternoon if you like for I am going to sleep.

Goodnight.

_________________________________________________________________________

Loving this blog? Please help me build my audience and share with like minded people who, like you need their 8 hours sleep and love Turkey. You can also subscribe or like me on Facebook for all updates.

Two Years Ago

Posted on by

Two years ago today I sat in a doctor’s office with my father, his wife and my brother.  I sat there listening to a doctor tell my father that he had no time left, that the cancer was winning and to make arrangements for palliative care.

I had no idea.  I had no idea that he was sick.  I knew he had had surgery in January but he and his wife still travelled overseas in February.  They were even making plans to go away in July.  He was not sick.  He was fine. 

I had been in Mersin in April when I received an email from my brother telling me to come home, telling me that our Dad was ill.  No one told me.  Dad didn’t tell me.  His wife didn’t tell me.  I then got an email from my boss telling me to come home.  I was scared.  I tried to telephone my Dad and my brother but I could not get onto any of them as there had been a big storm in Mersin and it had knocked out all telephone and internet.  I finally got onto my Dad and he said he was fine.  His voice was cheerful, he was telling jokes.  My Dad always told jokes, legendary jokes.  He said that my brother was being overly concerned. 

It took days but I finally got onto my brother who told me to come home – now.

My next problem was getting a flight.  This is not always easy.  We had flights arranged for the next week.  I tried to change it.  It was difficult.

I finally got home.  I spoke to my brother.  I still remember it.  I arrived home at 11 pm and I rang my brother first thing the next morning.

“Jane, there is nothing they can do.”  I was at the shopping centre buying milk and bread for breakfast.  I collapsed on the floor and wept.  People walked around me, embarrassed by my outburst.  I did not care.

Two years ago today I sat in a doctor’s office with my dad, his wife and my brother.  Two years ago today I was told that my first love, my dad, was being taken from me forever.  Little did I know that it would be a mere 3 weeks before he left me.

Two years ago.

Lots of Love

Posted on by

Yesterday morning I woke to the most fantastic news.  My amazing friend Mich and her partner P ran away together and got married.  Congratulations to my beautiful friend.  It was at this moment I realised just how far away I am from her.  I cannot give her a hug and a kiss.  I cannot raise my glass to her and her new husband.  I cannot blubber like a baby (I always blubber like a baby at weddings).  I miss her very much.

Image

I have known Mich for well over a quarter of a century but this does not make me feel old.  This means that I have laughed with her, loved with her, fought with her, lived with her and travelled with her for over half of my life.  Today I miss her more than ever.

All of my friends are a long way from here.  They are all busy with their lives, family, job, commitments.  I know how lucky I am to have this experience but how I want to be in Sydney right now.  I write this blog, mostly for me but also for my friends and family who are so far away but are still with me in my heart.  It is difficult today being here.

To Mich and P, you were meant to be.  A lifetime of happiness together.

(And yes I am blubbering right now).

Toilet Humor

Posted on by

I had to laugh when I saw the recent memes doing the rounds regarding the toilet situation in Sochi.  I wonder if any of the journalists who have spent the last few days complaining about the less than stellar facilities have ever been to a country where the pressure in the pipes is not really sufficient to handle your squares.  I mean that wipes (hehe) out at least half of the world so are these journalists on their first overseas assignment?  Have they never been south of the border before?

Image

When The Turk and I first discussed building a home in the Village I questioned the plumbing situation.  It is not like I fill the bowl or anything but I need the necessities here people – “will I be able to flush my toilet paper down the toilet?”  Yes that is all I want and anyone who has holidayed in Turkey or Greece or, well, many eastern European countries, Asian countries, South American countries (again at least half the world) know “DON’T PUT THE TOILET PAPER DOWN THE TOILET!”.

What I have never understood about the technicalities of Turkish plumbing is the fact that you can drop a rather large kaka in your toilet and it will disappear down the s-bend with no difficulties but god help you if you even placed one square of toilet paper in that same toilet.  The little fucker will block up your toilet from now until judgment day.

The Turk tells me I should be thankful that at least my toilet is of the sit down variety because originally the plumber was going to install squat toilets in both the ensuite and main bathroom.  Seriously?  To quote Roger Murtaugh “I’m getting too old for this shit”.  I mean literally my knees would have given out on me by now.

The first night Daughter and I slept in our new home I will tell you I did a kaka and yes I put that toilet paper in the toilet.  It was an exciting moment – not the kaka the flushing of the paper.  A week or so later I had a telephone call from The Turk back home in Australia, “Jane we have a problem.”

“Huh?”  Picture the total confusion in my voice and on my face.  Thankfully we were not circling the moon at the time.

“You blocked up the toilet!”

“Me?  No!  It works fine.”  And it did because I had been flushing paper down it all week.

“Darling no paper down the toilet!”

“But . . . but . . . you said it would be fine.  I don’t understand.”

I really didn’t understand but what I subsequently found out that my brother in law (who had been parking his car in our basement at the time) had to call the plumber practically on a daily basis to have our pipes cleaned out as there was an overflow of excrement in the basement that was flowing towards his precious car.  He was too scared (read that as too embarrassed) to tell us so kept paying for the plumber himself!

Five months down the track and I have been conditioned to placing my toilet paper in the bin provided.  I hate it of course.  It is so unhygienic.  I have to scrub my hands like Meredith Grey going into lifesaving surgery after I clean that bin out and then there is the walk of shame to contend with.  What is the walk of shame you wonder?  It is not enough that you have to take your garbage down the street and around the corner to the large industrial bins for collection but when you know you are walking down the street carrying your used toilet paper or other sanitary items and then are stopped by a random on the street with a merry “Gunaydin”, honestly, I just want to die!