Tag Archives: Turkey

Mamma Under The Shirley Valentine

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When I used to imagine my life in Turkey I likened it to a mixture of Under the Tuscan Sun and Shirley Valentine with maybe a bit of Mamma Mia thrown in.  I would have the provincial life of living in a small village in Turkey, interacting with the locals, learning the customs, massacring the language, singing Abba songs and all the while making passionate love in the Adriatic Sea with my very own Costas (The Turk).

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I realise that Turkey will never be Florence.  I am not walking through those lush fields of green or staring in awe at the beautiful buildings all the while eating delicious Italian food.  No I am wearing my gumboots while navigating muddy puddles while passing by dilapidated houses (old yes but not provincial).  I accept that Turkey will never be Italy nor with The Turk ever be Costas (and would be mortified if I suggested making love on the beach).  I do sing, especially after a few glasses of red, but I highly doubt I would sing an Abba song.

So instead of being Under the Shirley Valentine I need to make it my own story which is full of love, family and joy.  Years ago I attempted to write my autobiography for a writing course.  It was called “Memoirs of a Drama Queen” but that isn’t really who I am now.  I had excessive drama during my twenties, mainly caused by my Mr Mediocre although he is now a distant memory *cough cough*.  I am, however, enjoying the blogging.  It helps me analyse my thoughts and I appreciate the feedback that I have received over the past few months.  I often think my blabbing on about personal things to the world is oversharing to a completely unacceptable degree but then it becomes more of the case of “fuck it”.  I think I am humorous, sometimes, and I think I can be empathetic, sometimes.  I hope my stories are interesting and, on the occasion that I become opinionated, please take that opinion with a grain of salt.

I have a wonderful friend back home in Australia who rings me every couple of weeks and we chat about this and that.  She does, however, give me enough encouragement to continue to write.  She said that I should imagine that it is just her reading the blog – that I am writing just to her.  So to her I continue to write.  My daily happenings.  The silliness.  The sadness.  And the occasional rant.

I miss you my friend and hope that we chat again soon.

Forgotten Anniversary

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Lying in bed last night I was going over the day’s activities in my head when I realised the date.  2 February.  Crap!  The Turk and I were married 11 years ago today.  The fact that we are still married in itself is a miracle as I have wanted to divorce him or murder him or perhaps break one of his appendages at least once a week since 2 February 2003.  But the more important issue at hand is that both The Turk and I have forgotten our wedding anniversary yet again!

It really should not be that hard to remember an anniversary should it?  After all it happens yearly, that’s the point.  But without fail either I would forget (and am usually reminded by the Accountant at my office who is excellent with dates) or he would forget (maybe it is a cultural thing because anniversaries and birthdays do not seem to be particularly important to anyone in his family) but the fact of the matter is this time we both forgot.

I nudged The Turk a few times until he woke up, “It’s our wedding anniversary today.”

“Huh?”

“2 February.  It’s our wedding anniversary.”

He rolled over and looked at the time on his clock, “It’s after midnight.  Not 2 February anymore.”

And promptly fell back asleep.

A normal wife would probably have exploded or pulled out a voodoo doll with their husband’s DNA attached at this point but I am not a normal wife.  He’s right.  It’s not important.  I have never been one to remember anyway after all I always relied on Bez from the office to remind me (Bez why didn’t you remind me?!).

This morning I woke up and, remembering that I had forgotten my wedding anniversary (huh?), I set forth to make brunch for The Turk and Daughter.  The Turk had already left to go and help his brother deliver maydanoz (parsley) so I had plenty of time to prepare.  Daughter was happy – pancakes are always welcome for a breakfast treat.

10:00 am and my feast is ready to be consumed when there was a knock on the door.

“Kim o?” Who is it?

Unknown Turkish voice came from the other side of the door giving me a nonsensical Turkish reply.  Why do I bother asking?

I opened the door to discover a huge man standing in the doorway.  This man was seriously as large as the door itself wearing all black including a big, black, bushy beard.  He was no doubt a murderer or a terrorist or, well, I just did not have a clue but he scared the shit out of me!  I stepped backwards at the sight of him but then focused on what he was holding in his arms.  2 dozen perfect blue roses.  Blue roses!  I do not think I have ever seen a blue rose before!  The giant pushed the roses to me grunting some more nonsensical Turkish words at me and then disappeared down the stairs.  Daughter began squealing and jumping around and I was stood at the front door dumbfounded.

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By the time The Turk arrived home fifteen minutes later I had managed to regain my composure and locate/borrow enough vases to arrange my beautiful blue roses around our home.

“Darling.  Did you get my present?  Seni cok seviyorum.  And do you want to know the best part?”

“What?”

“They only cost 20 lira!”

Daughter threw the book that she was reading at The Turk, “Daddy!  Shhh!  How unromantic!  Jeeze!”

That’s my husband – always on the lookout for a bargain.  Happy (belated) Anniversary anyway.

Sex in the Stairwell

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Not me and The Turk – get your minds out of the gutters people.  It is mating season for cats in Turkey at the moment and the Village Kediler have been busy at it morning, noon and night.  My mother in law had what we fondly called “the whacking stick” to give a good tap to any cat who ventured too close to her Nanu or any of its offspring.  Of course since my mother in law passed away I (and My Hurley Dog) have taken on the job of protecting the strays from lusting he-cats.

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As you all know from my posts here and here My Hurley Dog is not a fan of Nanu and this revulsion is equally reciprocated by her however since the onslaught of two particularly nasty (and horny) he-cats My Hurley Dog and Nanu have maintained a relatively calm cease fire.  Nanu has been cornered on more than one occasion by the nasty he-cats and My Hurley Dog upon hearing it or seeing it races past Nanu straight for the culprit.  It seems that My Hurley Dog has accepted that he must share his domain with the Villager Kediler but dog damn it (typo but stays) he will not share with these two interlopers that have nothing but sex on the mind.

Last night it all came to a head when it seems I forgot to lock the downstairs door thereby allowing our stairwell to become, well, a bordello for the evening.  At around 3 am the sound of horny he-cats coupled with screeching she-cats woke us all up.  Daughter screamed thinking we were under attack, The Turk merely put a pillow over his head and went back to sleep which left me and My Hurley Dog to go and stop the onslaught.

Opening the front door I was confronted with the site of Nanu and two of her offspring screaming past me followed by big buff ginger and white he-cat spitting fire as he ran up the stairs in hot pursuit.  Well this was all My Hurley Dog would stand for and he slid past me and chased all 4 of them onto the roof.  I too gave chase (grabbing my whacking stick on the way) and arrived on the rooftop to witness he-cat on top of small ginger girl, Nanu attacking he-cat from behind and My Hurley Dog throwing himself into the mix.  I ran screaming, ninja style across the roof wielding my whacking stick and sent all 4 of them in different directions.  Just then the light came on from my niece’s window next door and My Hurley Dog and I came to a running halt, shocked by the light or perhaps embarrassment.  My niece stuck her head out the window “Ne yapiyorsun?” (What am you doing?).

I must have looked ridiculous standing there in my ugg boots, wielding my whacking stick at non-existent cats (as all of them scattered as soon as the light came on).  I sheepishly waved goodnight and ran back downstairs, locked the security door and returned to my bed.  Daughter informed me that it sounded like elephants were running across the roof (thank you!) and The Turk asked me to get him a glass of water!

Good night!!

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Weekly Photo Contest – Objects

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I took this photo on Wednesday morning.  A dreary day in Istanbul with the temperature sitting at 3 degrees Celsius.  Our time was limited though so despite the cold Daughter and I roamed the city exploring. The colour of the tram stood out to me and I quickly snapped this photo as we dodged the crowds down Istiklal Caddesi.

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http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/photo-challenge-object/

Failing Religion

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It is now school holidays in Turkey which means that Daughter has survived her first term in the Turkish village school.  She has survived classes where no one speaks her language.  She has navigated the social minefields of school life and made friends with kids and teachers alike.  She has gotten in trouble for talking in class, picked a fight to protect a friend and even got called into the principal’s office on one occasion.  She has also received her first Ilkogretim Orgenci Karnesi.  Her Elementary Student Report Card.

How did Daughter do?

You have probably already guessed that I am not only of those mother’s who brag about how wonderful and talented and amazing their child is.  I would rather call a spade a spade.  I will merely say that for a kid who four months ago was coasting along in a suburban school in Sydney she did pretty well.  She got a Certificate for passing the term (which is a good thing apparently).  She received 4’s and 5’s for most subjects (highest is a 5).  She got a 4 in Turkce which is pretty good considering it is not her first language.  The only subject she got a “2” in is Din Kulturu ve anlak bilgisi also known as “Religion”.

Long ago I made the decision to allow Daughter to choose her own religion when she was old enough to make an informed determination.  It is not to me as the parent to force something as important as spirituality on my child.  I always gave her the information when requested.  I took her to Sunday school classes at our local church, arranged for her to meet other Muslim families in our area and even enrolled her in Buddhism classes at Bondi.  We often attended the Hari Krishna Centre at North Sydney (best vegetarian samosa’s around) and I even explained the religion of Jedism (alright so perhaps I made her watch Star Wars with me).  I gave her the tools to learn about spirituality in her own way – and she has.  This is why a double lesson of Din must send her closer to the edge and also explains why she hates her Friday’s so much.

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I have, however, made one suggestion to her –

“Please do not argue with the Din Ogretmeni (Religion Teacher) again about Islam as this causes him to go red in the face and gesticulate in a manner that made your father laugh and made me flinch.  It also means that we do not need to make another trip up to the Principal’s Office on your behalf.  Thank you.”

Destination Anywhere . . .

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Daughter and I have been discussing where we want to visit over the coming months.  I have discussed the possibility of road trip in Turkey during the summer but have also given her the option of picking somewhere outside of Turkey to visit – after all we have 3 months of vacation to fill.

Having lived in Australia for, well, forever, I have often called it the ass end of the world.  Not because the people are asses (they are not) or does it in any way resemble an ass (it does not).  Australia is the most beautiful country in the world.  No 1.  Best place ever!  I merely refer to the globe and where Australia is located on said globe.  Living in the ass end of the world means it doesn’t matter where you want to go you have to get on a plane and travel for a bloody long time to go anywhere (except for New Zealand and once you’ve done that shit you do not want to do it again).*

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Now that we have the prospect of living on Europe’s doorstep the possibilities are endless.  London is on the list (to visit my one of my oldest friends that abandoned us some years ago to live with the Poms), Greece is right next door and Italy is a mere 2 hours away.  “Where do you want to go?”

“Port Stephens.”

Port Stephens!

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Please don’t get me wrong.  I have been to Port Stephens many times over the years.  It is a lovely spot.  There is whale and dolphin watching, some great restaurants and a nice little spot for a getaway from Sydney.  A great vacation spot – but we are living in Turkey!

I had to ask her why Port Stephens?

“I have never been.”

Kids!

I have suggested that we limit the flight time to 4 hours in any direction (which I think is more than generous) and told her to get on the internet and do some research (this is always the way we do things when preparing for a holiday).  It is Daughter’s job to pick a destination to be approved by us adults and, if approved, she then needs to provide us with 5 interesting things to do in that city (and 3 of these things must be free).

She’s been in her room for a couple of hours now but just popped her head out the door –

“Would you be prepared to sleep in a hotel made entirely of ice?”

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*with apologies to my sister in law and to any other kiwi’s out there.  Love New Zealand.  Trekked it many years ago.  Beautiful place.  Great sheep.  Little cold for my liking but I prefer it hot (as we all know).  Actually I should also apologise to the English as I called them poms.  I copped a backlash a couple of weeks back on the blogosphere for enjoying a giggle written by someone about English tourists.  I will not make that mistake again.

Quince, Quinces or Quinci?

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Those that know me know that I am no chef.  Never have been.  Never will be.  Sure I cook.  It is a necessity when you have a family or even when you do not have a family.  At some stage in your life everyone needs to cook.  I have lots of recipe books here, yes I brought them all over from Australia, but when I look at the photos and read the instructions in these books I scratch my head, get a very confused look on my face, throw my hands up in the air and yell “Feck it”.

Since we arrived in Mersin I relied heavily on my mother in law for our meals.  If not her then my sister in law would always have something that I could incorporate into whatever I was attempting to cook.  Now I find it is a necessity again and I need to learn and learn fast.

Each afternoon my father in law will knock on my door and hand me some fruit that he has bought at the market (or perhaps steals from a neighbouring tree).  Fresh, crisp elma (apple), uzum (grapes) straight off the vine, muz (banana) or whatever other fruit happens to be in season at the time.  A couple of days ago he dropped in and handed me some avya.  He kept repeating to me “Avya, avya.  Good, good.” I had no idea what they were and even less idea what I was to do with them.  He looked so impressed with himself that I searched my limited Turkish for the right response, “Ben avya seviyorum.”  Of course I love avya despite not knowing what it was.

After some sleuthing I find that these strange little fruit are quince.  I have a bag of quince, quinces or quini.  What would the plural of quince be? Not sure.  Searching the internet I found a relatively simple recipe for poaching quince, quinces or quinci –  Avya Tatlisi.

I will start by saying that quince, quinces or quini are hard to the touch.  Unpleasant.  Peeled the fruit is coarse.  Unpleasant.  And believe me do not eat it uncooked.  Blugh!

Here is my final product –

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To be honest it didn’t taste that bad.  Very sweet, in fact a little too sweet for my palate.  Although originally a white fruit they slowly went pembe (pink) while simmering on the stove.  The sugar caramelised nicely and I added a vanilla bean for taste (although I do not think it needed it on reflection) and I did not burn them on the bottom.  I must say they may not look as appetising as the professionally made quince, quinces or quini but they were pretty moreish.  Daughter was not a fan but her cousins tuckered in and even asked for more.

If you are interested in attempting the recipe (after all if I can do it anyone can) have a look here.

Hopefully my father in law brings me apples next time.  I know what to do with them.

Incidentally the correct term for more than one quince is in fact quinces.  Mystery solved.

Gunaydin

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I pretty much track the same steps every day when I leave the house in the morning.  First is a walk with My Hurley Dog.  I go wherever he chooses – he is in control of the walk.  The one certain on our early morning walk is that we stop for fresh bread.  One loaf for The Turk and I and the other for his father.  After I drop off the bread at home My Hurley Dog and I make our way down to the deniz (sea) for a pleasant stroll.

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I wave and call “Gunaydin” to those I know as we wander down towards the water.   I occasionally stop to have a chat (with my limited Turkish) if anyone calls me over.  As I walk down the main road I can see Daughter’s school in the distance.  She is no doubt daydreaming at her desk, pretending to learn but most likely thinking of Calum Hood or chatting with her friends.

I always stop by the vegetable market to have a quick look.  Always fresh and always delicious I might make a quick purchase before dodging may way through the fish markets.  Although the Village is predominantly a farming community it also has a large harbour and fishing industry and many of the restaurants in Mersin purchase their fish from these markets.  You need to be there early though – really early.  By the time I get there a little after 7:30 most of the best fish has already been sold leaving the lesser quality for us slowpokes.

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When I finally arrive at the waterfront I always pause for a moment.  With the early morning sun shining on the water it is a sight to behold.  No matter how crappy I feel or how down I am at the world in general looking at this scene always perks me right up.  Gorgeous water, gorgeous sunrise – unfortunately, however, the beachfront itself is not as attractive to the eye.  It is a garbage dump.

The Village is the closest beach area to the city of Mersin itself.  It’s potential as a destination for day visits by the “city dwellers”, particularly in summer.  I recently read that the Council is looking into rezoning the area for tourism but that is, I imagine, some years away.  It is disappointing that the locals do not realise the little gem that they have here under their noses and the literal goldmine that they are sitting on.

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In the meantime My Hurley Dog and I love our morning walks in the sunshine – I say sunshine as I am still waiting for rain.  The rain count since we arrived still stands at only 3 times.  Yes that’s right 3 times in 132 days although it is little a little overcast today so we might get something.  Finger’s crossed.  Maybe.

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The First Date (that wasn’t a date)

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When we started packing up all of our belongings for our move to Turkey it became quite clear that The Turk is a bit of a hoarder.  The most unnecessary crap was placed in boxes and sent by cargo to Turkey with the idea that it would be useful to us when we arrived.

Fast forward six months and The Turk who is hasta (sick) at the moment has become a general pain in my arse because he is sitting at home and “helping”.  On a good day The Turk cannot sit still.  He always needs to be active and doing things.  This is not a bad thing and over the years I have trained him to “do” the washing or “do” the cleaning but when he is hasta he can be a right royal pain in my arse.  This morning he decided that he was tired of the boxes (that are hidden from the naked eye under the bed) and they had to be cleared away immediately.  Now!  Right now!

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One of the boxes contained a heap of old photos.  Most of these were of my travels but one photo that he pulled out was in a dented old frame.  The glass was missing and the photo itself was damaged and, for some inexplicable reason, has been cut up and pasted back together.  So why is this photo important?  It is, in fact, the very first photo of The Turk (introduced to me as Al Pacino – his moniker) and I together along with his friends “Antonio Banderas” and “Maradona” as well as my girlfriend Ris.

This photo was taken back in September 2000 at Artemis Hotel in Bodrum.  It our first night out – not a date (well I knew it was not a date but perhaps he did not).  It was not a successful night.  In fact it was ghastly with The Turk becoming jealous of another man’s attentions towards me and Ris and I deciding that we were going to escape then and there.  I remember us running through the streets back to our hotel fearful that this strange Turk was going to follow us.  We never went back to visit The Turk after that less than stellar evening and left Turkey happy with the knowledge that I would never have to see “Al Pacino” again.

I returned to Australia and Ris returned to London but whenever we spoke we would laugh about that night.  Nine months later I returned to Bodrum with a group of friends to spend a month with Ris.  On our first night we hit the bars on the Bodrum beachfront ready for a huge night however jet lag got the better of me and, after a few cocktails, I decided to make my way back to the hotel to sleep it off.  I was tottering down the street when suddenly The Turk was standing in front of me.  Yikes!

“Hey I remember you,” I blabbed.  “It’s Al Pacino.”

“Yes I remember you too Janey.  You left me stranded on the street with a broken heart,” came his reply.  Whatever!

The rest, my friends, is history.

Picking up the photograph The Turk walked into the bedroom and placed it on his bedside table.  “I can now remember this night forever”.

Jeeze.

Rise and Shine

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School in Turkey is completely different to school in Australia.  In Australia school starts at the most civilised hour of 9 am and finishes at the very acceptable hour of 3 pm.  This allows you (and your brood) a decent sleep and leaving enough time for afternoon activities.  Here in Turkey Daughter starts school at the most uncivilised hour of 7 am and finishes at the completely unacceptable 12 noon.  This means I am dealing with a complete grump in the morning and, as for me, I can never get everything done in the few hours allocated as child free time.

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There are advantages to a Turkish education in Daughter’s mind.  Yes she loves the fact that she is at school for one hour less here in Turkey.  She now has a butt load of free time in the afternoon to run amok with her friends.  Another bonus in Daughter’s mind is the fact that each lesson seems to run for approximately 20 minutes with a 10 minute break for toilet or canteen visits (although the toilets are squat toilets and never seem to have any toilet paper which is more horrific to an 11 year old than anything she has gone through so far).

Returning to my point – Daughter has to get up at 5.40 am.  This ridiculously early start is required to give her enough time to get ready, whinge, drink a coffee(!), whinge, eat breakfast and whinge some more before her servis comes to collect her at 6.35 am.   The reality is that she whinges – a lot – in the morning.

I have tried lots of different tactics to make the morning starts a little easier on everyone.

Get her to bed early.  This is usually difficult as Turkey seems to be a country of night time frivolities.  Lots of visitors, loads of food, occasional dancing and music and Daughter being Daughter will not miss out on a party, even if she is the only one at the party.

Blackmail (also called Negotiation)

You’ve all done it – don’t lie.

Responsibility

I gave the responsibility to Daughter.  Brought her an alarm clock.  Set it and did not get out of bed to help her get ready for school.  This option failed dismally as she missed her servis three days in a row and in fact missed school twice!

H-e-e-l-l-l-p-p-p-p!

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I put it to you – how do you get your child up for school when it is pitch black outside.  How do you motivate them enough to get ready for school when they hate you or hate life or hate the world.  And finally, how do you get your child to stop hating you or hating life or hating the world!