TURKISH BY OSMOSIS: A PRACTICAL DICTIONARY

 

Who needs a dictionary when life introduces you to so many new words...

Living abroad is perfect for someone like me who, despite great intentions and a strong desire to learn a language, seem to lack the time, consistency, and resolve to actually study said language much. Luckily for us, words do come slowly via a process that my non-scientific self has termed osmosis. Here are a few of the words that experience has added to my budding Turkish vocabulary thus far:

bal: honey

As in, “Balıkesir”

I live in the small city named Balıkesir, which, for the longest time, my fellow Fulbrighters and I thought meant “fish slave or fish captive.” What fish and POWs had in common, we had no idea, but our limited knowledge of Turkish definitely identified “balık” as fish and Google translate had no other definitions for “esir.” It wasn’t until we invited some of our Turkish colleagues over for dinner that someone explained that the city name is actually old Turkish for “place where honey flows” or something of that nature. Much more pleasant in my opinion.

buçuk: half or 0.5, used with numbers only

As in, “Bir buçuk”

A few days into orientation in Ankara I knew the Turkish number system and just about nothing else, so I was feeling pretty confident when I went to try out my money-handling skills at a little convenience store near our hotel. But then I went to checkout… and the attendant at the counter told me my purchase rang up to “bir buçuk”… and wracking my brain as I did I couldn’t remember for the life of me what the word ‘buçuk’ meant. So I handed him one lira (bir lira) and then proceeded absent-mindedly search through my change purse to buy thinking time, after a short while of which he simply took pity on me and gestured to the 50 kuruş piece in my hand.

fıstık: literally nut, specifically peanuts

As in, “tuzlu fıstık”

My roommate Lisa found these snacks one day when we stopped to pick up groceries in town. They were Cheetos brand, but labeled as “fıstık,” which our baklava buying experience told us was pistachio. Thus, when she opened the package and we found them to be brown and peanut-like we were confused. A colleague later explained that the word for pistachio in its entirety is actually “antep fıstık,” as the green nuts are primarily grown in Gaziantep. “Fıstık” alone means nut but is also the word for peanut.

tane: pieces

As in, “Üç tane şeftali, lütfen.”

An important word to know to avoid the confusion of produce-sellers who keep trying to give you three kilos of peaches, when you try to explain you only want three.

tava: literally skillet, but also deep fried.

As in, “Midye Tava”

When my roommates and I went to Ayvalık, we stopped at a seaside restaurant hoping to split a snack on the water before finding cheaper food elsewhere. Mussels were a local specialty so we decided to split an order. The meze menu listed two types of mussels “cold” and “hot” in the English translation, or “midye dolmas” and “midye tava” in Turkish. We had tried midye dolmas— mussels stuffed with rice, a delicious street food— before and it was a chilly night, so we opted to try the hot mussels hoping for something a bit lighter. Thus we were all shocked when they brought out a heaping plate of breaded and deep-fried mussels. Since then we have been much more skeptical of the accuracy and specificity of translated menus…

zina: adultery

As in, “Noooooo hoca! Not zzzzina…”

One of the more outspoken students in my class is a boy named Sina, who stopped in the middle of an activity we were doing one day to school me in pronunciation. Several students took turns explaining and re-explaining: “No, no, no, hoca! SSSsina, not zina… Sina!” I was convinced that was what I had called him in the first place, but they were so adamant that I looked up the definition of the word later at the gym with my roommates and nearly died with laughter and embarrassment. 

YOU MIGHT BE AN EXPAT IF... (or, the trials and joys of living abroad)

Ayvalık ruins and my friend Senem.

I have decided that, to a large extent, being an expat living in a country where you do not know the language is strangely similar to becoming a child again. Anyone who has been in this position will tell you that within the first few weeks you may find any of the following regressions part of everyday life:

1. You go throughout your day mumbling badly mispronounced words with caveman grammar.
2. You get used to people talking ‘at’ you rather than to you, gesturing extravagantly, and reacting with surprised enthusiasm when you do manage to say something recognizable.
3. You are frequently sport a doe-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights expression; have that “they’re talking about me, but I have no idea what’s going on” feeling; or laugh even when you don’t get the joke.
4. You need at least 15 people to help you do even the most menial tasks (and it still might not get done.)

Also like childhood, expat life is ridiculously sensitive to the ups and downs of life. Every little thing becomes laughably inflated, leaving you feeling either undefeatable-on-top-of-the-world or temper-tantrum-angsty.

For example, you might find yourself feeling like the most incompetent human on the planet after any number of deceptively common-place circumstances:

-    Like when you wake up early and put the kettle on the stove for tea, being extra careful not to wake your roommates, only to have a shrill alarm erupt from the gas line both inside and outside the apartment… leaving you to stand there helplessly in your pajamas as a stream of Turkish neighbors, then the landlady, come to point, gesture and cover their ears until it turns off… leaving you deaf and tealess, with three woken roommates.

-    Or that one time you attempt to exchange money, so after being directed to the giant bank in the middle of town, you get a number and sit in the waiting room for over an hour, next to a sweet Turkish grandma who cannot understand anything you say or vice versa, despite multiple attempts at making small talk on both sides… only to finally have your number called and find out, with the help of two random strangers’ limited knowledge of English, that you cannot exchange money there without a Turkish residency number, which you still do not have.

But then for every frustration, there is almost always an equally commonplace event that brings undue feelings of satisfaction and triumph that make you giddy as a child:

-    Like the time you bought a cloth closet and attempted to put it together in your living room floor… only to find that the pieces don’t fit together as they should, and the directions consist of tiny, pixilated diagrams with insightfully translated English captions like “Put bars like picture”... but after an hour of pounding, twisting, constructing and reconstructing in your air condition-less apartment you finally have something resembling a closet and officially stop living out of a suitcase for the first time since April.

-    Or the first time you and a roommate came back home, exhausted after a long day of running errands and attempted to open the two locks on the front door of your apartment… and after a good five or six minutes of struggling with both sets of your keys (at times even simultaneously) you are about to collapse in the hallway and give up, when it finally decides to work… and after another few minutes of experimenting with the open door you figure out the strange pattern and forever-afterward get a spark of triumph when you lock or unlock your door.

After a long first two weeks of ups and downs, I had started to get frustrated by the rollercoaster of this childlike existence. Then, two of my roommates and I took a weekend trip to Ayvalık, a beautiful coastal city on the Aegean Sea. There, wandering through the crumbling ruins of an unnamed old church, I came across Senem and her two sisters. Senem, fearlessly scampering over the stone walls with a white bandage covering her chin, was clearly the ringleader of the little trio, while the younger two bounced around in her wake. It turned out that my impossibly limited Turkish was a perfect match for their shy but eager banter, and so we exchanged smiles, laughs, and they served me leaves on stone platters at their cardboard restaurant. 

I suppose it takes meeting someone like Senem to remember the beauty of being open and vulnerable to life, of being able to see the potential of every hidden adventure in life, of being a little kid again.

SNAPSHOTS: becoming more turkish.

"The first thing you will learn about Turkey is to drink tea, and tea, and tea..."

-Fatih hocam (my boss, a boss)

***

Sophia and I were vicarious and serendipitous guests at our neighbor's wedding, which took place outside our apartment building for about 45 minutes...

***

We also discovered the Saturday pasar (the most gigantic farmer's market I've ever seen!), which is conveniently right across the street from our apartment...

After filling our refrigerator with fresh fruits, veggies, and cheese, we decided to make dinner together for the first time. 

Aww, happy domestic Balıkesir family... :)

AMBIGUITY

a gorgeous sunset in Balıkesir, near my apartment

 

"You need to help them learn to manage the ambiguity!"

The regional language officer from the U.S. branch in Ankara was an enthusiastic woman with a booming voice and commanding presence that lent an air of the dramatic to her insistence on an English-only classroom.

"There will always be a time in learning a language when it seems a bit overwhelming and incomprehensible. Your job as a teacher is to create space for students to dwell in that ambiguity and to be okay with it as they learn."

***

Turkey is by far one of the most fascinating countries I have ever been to. It is at once both European and Middle Eastern, secular and Muslim, modern and traditional. In fact, the more I learn about the country and its culture, the more I see this play out in the history (NATO alliances and the ongoing EU acceptance debate, for example), language (which draws on French, Arabic, and Farsi), and current events (relations with the Kurdish population, recent political riots and the ongoing Syria conversation).

At the end of our 10 day orientation— in which expert after expert, Turkish, Americans, historians, politicians, and government officials all endeavored to explain different facets of this complex country— I was only left with that strange feeling that I knew less than when I started. It seems that Turkey, in many ways, is a country full of incomprehensible paradoxes.

It is striking to me (all theories of L1 in language teaching aside), how many areas of life likewise dwell in ambiguity.

Turkey is not alone. I see similar themes in the U.S. as it struggles to reconcile its own schizophrenic identity in every aspect of policy, from immigration to abortion to foreign affairs.

I see this in my friends and I as we have graduated and struggle to move forward into the ambiguous void of the future. We have 50 interests and 500 options. We feel conflicting loyalties to 5 different hometowns and at the same time none at all. We have no choice but to navigate the unknown.

Likewise in faith I am forever struck by the beautiful and often frustrating mystery that shrouds the intersection between the knowable and the impossibility of ever fully knowing. Or even the ongoing struggle to walk the middle ground between what St. Augustine expressed as, “one soul which is torn between conflicting wills.”

Now, as I strive to quickly settle into my new host city, the word ambiguity has never been quite so apt. Preparation to start teaching on Monday has so far consisted of being told to stick to a textbook that I won't receive until hours before my first class, in a classroom I have never been to, at a time still unknown to me. It seems that managing ambiguity is more akin to a way of life in Turkey than it is any particular teaching model. Thus with all due respect to the RLO in Ankara, at this point I think my students will likely be better at it than I am. I will however gladly take her advice and learn to enjoy the ride. :)

ANKARA

The view from the citadel in Old Ankara.

MY POOR, LAUGHABLE TURKISH

"Merhhhhhaaabbbba."

For all my good intentions this summer, I have to admit this (hello) was one of two Turkish words I knew before leaving, and the only one I could somewhat confidently pronounce.

At the beginning of summer I bought a book entitled "Teach Yourself Turkish," optimistically packed it up alongside my sleeping bag and Keens, and hauled it up to camp. For the remainder of the summer it never left the trunk of my car.

During the the latter half of my time at camp, I discovered a delightful podcast called Turkish Tea Time, which proved to be somewhat better suited to my limited (read: nonexistent) free time. So I would walk up and down the hill from my cabin at Timberline listening and repeating after the nasally podcasted voice, speaking Turkish aloud to the trees (a conscious effort to alert the resident mountain lion my presence as much as to perfect my sorry pronunciation). These brief in between moments were the only practice in Turkish I got this summer.

Fast forward to the first day of orientation where the final hour and a half of the day is devoted to Turkish lessons from a professor at a local university...

Merhaba!
Merhaba, benim adim Kealy! Sizin adiniz ne?
Ben Emily. Momnun oldum!
Ben de memnun oldum.
Nasılsınız?
Iyiym siz, nasılsınız?
Ben de iyiym, teşekkür ederim.
Görüşürüz!
Görüşürüz!

Needless to say, I was more than a little lost as our instructor sped through our lesson, multiplying my nonexistent Turkish vocabulary by 50 fold, but completely overwhelming my jet lagged brain in the process.

Thankfully my fellow Fulbrighters (all incredibly interesting people who studied Middle Eastern History or Political Science or Feminist Literary Theory at Ivy Leagues; grew up in India, Germany or Dubai; studied Farsi in Azerbaijan or Arabic in Jordan; and helped advise political appointees at the White House or senators on Capitol Hill) were on the whole as overwhelmed and lost as I was.

Turkish lessons aside, orientation has been very helpful and interesting so far. Yesterday we were "briefed" on health, security, citizens services and current events by a number of ambassadors, political officers, and Turkish officials. Future sessions include, "The Turkish Educational System: Challenges and Solutions," "Political Structure and Dynamics in Contemporary Turkey," "The Turkish Way of Life," and "Current Approaches and Methods in Teaching English." Unfortunately, we end up listening to all of these interesting topics and speakers in a giant conference room at the very bottom of the hotel, sitting under the florescent lights from morning until evening. Thankfully, there are numerous coffee and tea breaks built in to keep all of us suffering jet lag from falling asleep on the table. Thank God for the Turks and their love of caffeinated beverages. :)

SWEET&SOUR

Packing my bags this weekend feels strangely like the tail end of a grand adventure as much as the start of one. The past two weeks have been a happy marathon of my favorite places, people, and activities— hiking through redwoods, riding the Big Dipper, drinking good coffee, kayaking with dolphins, beach worship, wedding celebrations, stargazing, and wine tasting, with friends and family, both old and new.

Nevertheless, in visiting all these places and people— each of which at one time or other encompassed in my idea of “home”— I had the strangest feeling of displacement.

It seems anything good is always somewhat bittersweet: catching up lost months with best friends from childhood, giving an old roommate a housewarming gift for her new apartment, getting a tour of my ‘baby’ brother’s new apartment for his sophomore year of college, watching a new class of freshmen take over the school that I felt so much ownership of over the past four years, sleeping in my room at my parents’ new house where the majority of my things remain stacked in cardboard boxes, happy reunions followed by goodbyes as we all drift into the amorphous void of the future.

I have a similar feeling every time I find myself at a loss for words trying to explain the dizzy, vague excitement of moving to a country I have never been to, where I know no one, and can speak next to none of the native language to the hundreds who ask “Are you excited? Are you nervous? How are you feeling?” The place that I will very soon call home.

And it is the same overwhelming sense of bittersweet that feel as I pack item after item into suitcases, envisioning myself finding a spot for each in my new apartment, and all too soon cramming everything back in to leave a place I love after the adventure of a lifetime.

Perhaps that is the beauty of life, which, as one of my favorite professors used to say, is like Chinese food: sweet and sour. I like to think that the bittersweet is a testimony to a life fully lived, a love fully given, and a community fully invested in— a feeling to be thankful for rather than mournful of.

It is a feeling I pray to have ten months from now, as I sit staring at these suitcases.