Saturday was as hectic as the rest of the week was relaxed. I slumbered longer than usual, the slow Wednesday, Thursday and Friday taking their toll on me as I struggled to get out of bed at 6:00.
Inactivity is my kryptonite.
I ate my standard breakfast of fried egg, cheese, olives and tomato. I showered. I read. I reread the same paragraph over and over and over again, the shape burning into my brain like the hot glow imprinted by a bright light. I forgot to charge my phone and Seher slept through her alarm and was late to her appointment at the coiffeur.
I was glad because this gave me more time to wake up.
Phone barely charged, I kissed Princess goodbye and staggered to the elevator. Down, down, down went my eyelids with my body as I journeyed to level 0.
I need to find a way to not let this happen. Aimee is going to conquer her kryptonite. Right after she conquers her addiction to chocolate and coffee.
Seher's salon was only a block down the road, so I walked to meet her. She paid the Turkish hairdresser (who was sporting the "in" thick black mustache) the minimal fee for his straightening services and we caught the minibus bound for the metrobus.
"Normally, you can walk to Migros and take the metrobus from there. But since it is such a long day, we will take the minibus to Migros."
And so we hopped aboard a vehicle slightly larger than the Bourget seven seater luxury van, and people piled in behind us. I was lucky enough to get a seat up front next to the driver, but those two seconds too late were packed together so tightly that they no longer needed the bars to remain upright -- their neighbors were supporting them just fine. I was glad that it was still morning and most passengers still smelt relatively fresh.
Ten minutes later, we rolled into the metrobus station and erupted from our impossibly small vehicle.
I can't believe we all fit inside that. And emerged safely. Without crushed bones and collapsed lungs.
Seher and I mounted the escalator, swiped our cards and descended to the station. As it was only eleven and not the throes of rush hour, we were able to board the first bus and find seats.
The metrobus has its own lane between the lanes of traffic so it's entirely unaffected by how many people are on the road. It's a marvelous sense of schadenfreude to be zooming down the center-lane and see backed up traffic on either side.
baha... poor blokes. They'll be stuck forever.
"Our only traffic is people," Seher said as passengers kept clamoring in, stop after stop, bulldozing their way through the small and weak in search of a seat. However, sometimes this bulldozing technique backfired on the ambitious Turks and they merely end up carrying the small and weak directly to a seat. Which is what happened to Seher on our first transfer.
Sometimes it pays to be little.
After boarding the bus from Avcilar to Zincirlikuyu, we settled in for the long haul of about 40 minutes. We disembarked at the final stop and caught the next bus for Altunizade. Seher was attentive the whole trip and made sure I knew exactly where I was going, pointing out landmarks and reiterating stops. As we'd overestimated the time it would take to arrive, we stopped at a café for mocha and chestnut coffees. She wrote down all the stops for me, the directions to Migros, and a few lines that would help me communicate better with Ayse.
"Yardim edeblir miyim?"
can I help?
"Cotan yaptim."
already did.
"Bitti."
finished
"Nere de?"
where?
"Eline Saglik!"
health to your hands/thanks for cooking, the meal was f*cking delicious.
"Gel!"
come!
"Git!"
go!
13:00 rolled around and Seher paid for the coffees and we walked to meet Askin and his daughter, Dilara -- the girl with whom I will be working for the next two and a half months. Askin spoke brilliant English. Dilara spoke brilliant English.
I quickly discovered that the main purpose of my presence was simply to encourage her to speak more. We played Sorry!, talked about where to buy the best ice cream in Turkey, drank Turkish coffee (which she prepared in stellar fashion, serving us in the living room on a tray with tidbits of Turkish Delight and small glasses of water), and wrote a short story about a lion who hitchhikes across Africa and ends up keeping the driver awake by roaring songs by the Beatles (I've been reading too much Kerouac, shut-up).
I was delighted by her creativity hope we will be good friends.
I ate dolmas and they drank (you "drink" soup in Turkey) meatball soup.
We all drank pomegranate juice (nar) and then Seher and I waved goodbye to sweet, original Dilara and Askin drove us back to the metrobus.
This is my job. My JOB. Wow.
It was rush hour. The metrobus was packed more densely than the dolmas I ate for dinner and its occupants smelled like they'd been working all day and were desperate for home, dinner, and a shower.
Every job has a downside.
As soon as I arrived at the Beylikduzu apartment, I was whisked off to the bar/café to meet with Umit's airport students. I went prepared to speak slowly and to make sure they understood everything I said. We ended up having a rather interesting conversation about religion (a good deal of it was in Turkish) and they made a halfhearted attempt to convert me to Islam.
"I have read a hundred pages of the Koran, and I don't agree with it. If I don't agree with it, why would I follow it?"
"I have not read Koran. So I follow it."
I laughed. Isn't that the way?
"Why would Allah want me if he knew I disagreed with him?"
They had no answer. No English answer, anyway. They spent the next five minutes arguing away their befuddlement in Turkish.
"TURKISH, TURKISH, TURKISH, TURKISH!" I interrupted after letting them babble on for too long.
I taught them some English idioms. They laughed and took notes.
I taught them some verbal phrases. They frowned and took notes.
Then they drove me home.
I collapsed onto the lavender living room sofa. I'd been out of the house for twelve hours, and I was tired. But finally, I was a good kind of tired. The tired caused by a fulfilling day of adventure, and not a quiet day of lethargy.
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