In case you were wondering, the Turkish word for "snowball" is kartopu and "snowman" is karadam.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Snow Problem!
I woke up to the first snow in Uşak today!
In case you were wondering, the Turkish word for "snowball" is kartopu and "snowman" is karadam.
In case you were wondering, the Turkish word for "snowball" is kartopu and "snowman" is karadam.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Amasya: Fact or Fiction?
I think the Black Sea is my favorite region of Turkey so far. I have not been to the East yet, because I generally fear the snow and cold, but something about the hilly, misty, verdant Black Sea coast really appeals to me.
As that intro may have suggested, Amasya is more or less in the Black Sea region of Turkey. It is one of those places that has been inhabited for years and years, so its local ethnography museum has some great artifacts (and TERRIFYING mostly-exposed mummies of sultans in glass cases, shudder). It also has not one but TWO museums filled with historically informative wax mannequins in two Ottoman-style buildings along the river which are only mildly frightening but overall pretty awesome.
This is what Amasya looks like at night.
The below photo was taken from the bus stop outside of the Education Sciences faculty of Amasya University. Can you spot the reason that I took a picture of the side of a hill?
That's right, our favorite statesman's face is hewn into the living rock...of Amasya.
The below photo is of a statue on the side of the Yeşilırmak river. The river basically anchors the downtown area and makes Amasya seem larger than it really is. As an aside, one of the best breakfasts in recent memory was eaten along the banks of the Yeşilırmak river at a restaurant called Strabon, which I think deserves some kind of plaque for feeding as many Fulbright guests as it has, because if a Fulbrighter visits the Amasya ETA duo, they will probably eat at this restaurant. The gözleme (like a Turkish crepe, usually with cheese inside), which is available only on Sundays, is worth the trip.
So, the legend the statue is based on has uncertain origins, and obviously the Turks claimed it as their own. The nearby mountain Ferhat is named for the hero of the legend, who for love of the princess Şirin tried to win her father's favour and permission to marry her by tunneling through the mountain to bring spring water to his palace. While he was doing this, someone informed him that the princess had died and so he threw himself onto the rocks post-haste. It turns out the princess was not dead, but after hearing the news of her lover's death she also died. Turkish authorities put a fence and a sign by a small channel in the side of the mountain which basically reads "This is definitely the channel from that legend, although historians really don't know if the story is true or where it actually happened." That's how Turkey rolls.
As that intro may have suggested, Amasya is more or less in the Black Sea region of Turkey. It is one of those places that has been inhabited for years and years, so its local ethnography museum has some great artifacts (and TERRIFYING mostly-exposed mummies of sultans in glass cases, shudder). It also has not one but TWO museums filled with historically informative wax mannequins in two Ottoman-style buildings along the river which are only mildly frightening but overall pretty awesome.
This is what Amasya looks like at night.
The below photo was taken from the bus stop outside of the Education Sciences faculty of Amasya University. Can you spot the reason that I took a picture of the side of a hill?
That's right, our favorite statesman's face is hewn into the living rock...of Amasya.
The below photo is of a statue on the side of the Yeşilırmak river. The river basically anchors the downtown area and makes Amasya seem larger than it really is. As an aside, one of the best breakfasts in recent memory was eaten along the banks of the Yeşilırmak river at a restaurant called Strabon, which I think deserves some kind of plaque for feeding as many Fulbright guests as it has, because if a Fulbrighter visits the Amasya ETA duo, they will probably eat at this restaurant. The gözleme (like a Turkish crepe, usually with cheese inside), which is available only on Sundays, is worth the trip.
So, the legend the statue is based on has uncertain origins, and obviously the Turks claimed it as their own. The nearby mountain Ferhat is named for the hero of the legend, who for love of the princess Şirin tried to win her father's favour and permission to marry her by tunneling through the mountain to bring spring water to his palace. While he was doing this, someone informed him that the princess had died and so he threw himself onto the rocks post-haste. It turns out the princess was not dead, but after hearing the news of her lover's death she also died. Turkish authorities put a fence and a sign by a small channel in the side of the mountain which basically reads "This is definitely the channel from that legend, although historians really don't know if the story is true or where it actually happened." That's how Turkey rolls.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Musings
I have been here several months now. It's time for me to start generalizing about Turkey with more authority. There are lots of things to love about Turkey, and happily I have found more to like than dislike. Unfortunately I don't think I can ever truly share my reasons for loving Turkey with a Turkish person, because they will never understand the appeal.
Turkish hospitality does live up to the constant praise it receives in the guidebooks, but it also manifests itself in unexpected ways. Generally I would describe Turkish people as much more communal than Americans. Helping those around you is of the utmost social importance. There are the functional, practical aspects of life that have given rise to this attitude--for example, there are still town bread ovens in use (seriously--soon you will probably be able to get free wifi at the village oven while you wait for your food to cook). But there is also a tacit or explicit resistance to the American style (also known by Turks as the "European" style) of strict, "pulling-oneself-up-by-the-bootstraps" individuality that makes up such an important part of our culture. While individual drive is of course important, it is couched in the idea of putting everyone else before oneself. My interpretation of Turkish ambition is that in order to be able to provide for your friends and family, and in order to be a spectacular host, you need to earn money and have things. One improves one's position in life not just for personal gain, but in order to be that person who grabs the check at the end of the meal and says "It's on me," or to be able to afford a room with an extra bed in case anyone needs to stay the night. Of course, there are greedy, selfish people in Turkey, but just as a reminder I am dealing in generalizations and ideals in this blog post.
There are some other more lighthearted things I love about Turkey. PowerTurk, the Top 40 music channel that one can expect to see on TV's everywhere from the home of a friend to the trendiest restaurant (provided there is not a futbol match happening), is like a good friend who is always around and ready to have a good time. It's not quite as ubiquitous as teacups or likenesses of Atatürk, but it comes close. And I've come to love congregating with friends around coal-burning stoves (soba), the best example of which was that time one of my Turkish friends straight up set fire to an old pair of jeans in his soba, the flames of which we eventually used to roast chestnuts and make tea. ("Pants?!" I exclaimed in Turkish when seeing him do this. "They were old," he replied, matter of factly, with a shrug suggesting I was being some kind of pants-burning prude.) Sobalar are awesome, coal fumes notwithstanding.
Then there a things that I like about Turkey but will definitely never get used to seeing. Turkish men love their man-bags, for one. I think there is an unwritten but important rule that men over 30 must carry a small, square handbag which may or may not contain nothing but a wallet (shoulder strap optional). And speaking of men over 30, I will never be able to take them seriously when they drive around pumping Inna or other hot techno beats, sometimes with their families in tow. I also might not ever grow accustomed to men randomly singing to or at me. They break out a soulful folk tune at the most random times, and I am at a loss for what I should be doing during these impromptu concerts. (As an aside, I have been asked on several occasions to sing a song at a moment's notice, just by way of something to entertain a gathered group. This country really needs to warm up to karaoke, is all.) But what does one do when a man is singing in your direction? My Fulbright cohort posed it thusly: "Should I clap along? Nod? What facial expression should I assume?" You may think we could look to Turkish females for guidance, but they are typically already ignoring the men, and to be fair, they might be jealous that the Americans are receiving these attentions.
Turkish folk health wisdom is also a force to be reckoned with. Earlier today I was with a friend who was readying himself for a soccer game. He had donned an egregious monochrome tracksuit and was waiting for his friend to phone him. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his tracksuit pocket and said "It's good to smoke before a match." Another example- if one ever tires of drinking tea whilst in Turkey (I won't, but it's not unheard of), all you have to do is have a piece of fruit nearby. Turks are absolutely dumbfounded by my strange custom of occasionally enjoying a piece of fruit and a cup of tea in rapid succession. This is simply not done here. Turks also fear drafts (and a woman with wet hair is a prime target for EVERY KNOWN DISEASE), bare feet, and any dose of an antibiotic less than three times the amount an American doctor would hesitate before prescribing.
On the bright side, the fear of drafts means I almost never have to worry about being cold here. Quite the opposite in fact- I have been lucky enough to encounter much more warmth than anything else while in Uşak.
Turkish hospitality does live up to the constant praise it receives in the guidebooks, but it also manifests itself in unexpected ways. Generally I would describe Turkish people as much more communal than Americans. Helping those around you is of the utmost social importance. There are the functional, practical aspects of life that have given rise to this attitude--for example, there are still town bread ovens in use (seriously--soon you will probably be able to get free wifi at the village oven while you wait for your food to cook). But there is also a tacit or explicit resistance to the American style (also known by Turks as the "European" style) of strict, "pulling-oneself-up-by-the-bootstraps" individuality that makes up such an important part of our culture. While individual drive is of course important, it is couched in the idea of putting everyone else before oneself. My interpretation of Turkish ambition is that in order to be able to provide for your friends and family, and in order to be a spectacular host, you need to earn money and have things. One improves one's position in life not just for personal gain, but in order to be that person who grabs the check at the end of the meal and says "It's on me," or to be able to afford a room with an extra bed in case anyone needs to stay the night. Of course, there are greedy, selfish people in Turkey, but just as a reminder I am dealing in generalizations and ideals in this blog post.
There are some other more lighthearted things I love about Turkey. PowerTurk, the Top 40 music channel that one can expect to see on TV's everywhere from the home of a friend to the trendiest restaurant (provided there is not a futbol match happening), is like a good friend who is always around and ready to have a good time. It's not quite as ubiquitous as teacups or likenesses of Atatürk, but it comes close. And I've come to love congregating with friends around coal-burning stoves (soba), the best example of which was that time one of my Turkish friends straight up set fire to an old pair of jeans in his soba, the flames of which we eventually used to roast chestnuts and make tea. ("Pants?!" I exclaimed in Turkish when seeing him do this. "They were old," he replied, matter of factly, with a shrug suggesting I was being some kind of pants-burning prude.) Sobalar are awesome, coal fumes notwithstanding.
Then there a things that I like about Turkey but will definitely never get used to seeing. Turkish men love their man-bags, for one. I think there is an unwritten but important rule that men over 30 must carry a small, square handbag which may or may not contain nothing but a wallet (shoulder strap optional). And speaking of men over 30, I will never be able to take them seriously when they drive around pumping Inna or other hot techno beats, sometimes with their families in tow. I also might not ever grow accustomed to men randomly singing to or at me. They break out a soulful folk tune at the most random times, and I am at a loss for what I should be doing during these impromptu concerts. (As an aside, I have been asked on several occasions to sing a song at a moment's notice, just by way of something to entertain a gathered group. This country really needs to warm up to karaoke, is all.) But what does one do when a man is singing in your direction? My Fulbright cohort posed it thusly: "Should I clap along? Nod? What facial expression should I assume?" You may think we could look to Turkish females for guidance, but they are typically already ignoring the men, and to be fair, they might be jealous that the Americans are receiving these attentions.
Turkish folk health wisdom is also a force to be reckoned with. Earlier today I was with a friend who was readying himself for a soccer game. He had donned an egregious monochrome tracksuit and was waiting for his friend to phone him. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his tracksuit pocket and said "It's good to smoke before a match." Another example- if one ever tires of drinking tea whilst in Turkey (I won't, but it's not unheard of), all you have to do is have a piece of fruit nearby. Turks are absolutely dumbfounded by my strange custom of occasionally enjoying a piece of fruit and a cup of tea in rapid succession. This is simply not done here. Turks also fear drafts (and a woman with wet hair is a prime target for EVERY KNOWN DISEASE), bare feet, and any dose of an antibiotic less than three times the amount an American doctor would hesitate before prescribing.
On the bright side, the fear of drafts means I almost never have to worry about being cold here. Quite the opposite in fact- I have been lucky enough to encounter much more warmth than anything else while in Uşak.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Türk Kahvesi
You know what they say...you can take the barista out of the coffee shop, but you can't actually take the coffee out of the barista (for both health-related and legal reasons).
Due to my love for (some might call it an addiction to) coffee, I learned how to make it a la Turka. Here's what you'll need.
The metal pot is called a cezve. There are different sizes to make different amounts, and there are older and newer shapes and styles. Essentially it is a small stove-top pot with a handle and a spout. You also need incredibly finely ground coffee (I got mine fresh from Tuğba, the local kuruyemiş, or dried foods store), water, and sugar. Turkish fincanlar (coffee cups) and a spoon are part of the necessary equipment. The two pictured were a gift from a coworker's mother, who, upon learning that I was only two fincan away from learning this important skill, immediately went to a cupboard and chose those two to gift me. They are thus even more beautiful than they look.
First, measure the amount of water by filling your fincan with cold water and pouring it into the cezve. This means you will get exactly the right amount of coffee when you finish. It's important to use cold water because the longer it takes to boil, the better the coffee will taste. Then, use about one and a half heaping teaspoonfuls of coffee per fincan and just heap the grounds on top of the water (don't stir). Next sugar- there are four ways to order coffee in a cafe- az şekerli (a little sugar), çok şekerli (a lot of sugar), orta (middle), or sade (plain). These definitions of course functionally mean nothing, as every cafe you go to gives you a slightly different interpretation, so I used 3 sugar cubes for two fincan and called it "orta".
Next, the fun part. Put the cezve on a burner with the heat turned up moderately high but not so high as you burn yourself reaching for the handle. Wait until the coffee boils and foams up, taking the cezve off the heat just when the foam is about to overflow. Skim the foam off the top with your spoon and put equal amounts into each fincan. Put the cezve back on the flame until it foams again, take it off the heat and turn off the stove. Carefully pour the remaining coffee slowly into each fincan, trying not to disturb the foam so it rises to the top. And that's all!
The Ottoman way to enjoy this, I was told, is to have water with it, drinking a little first to cleanse and prepare your palette, and a little afterward, probably to clean the bit of grounds out of your teeth from your last sip.
ADDENDUM: Another method dictates that you put the sugar in first, stirring it into the water as it begins to heat up until the sugar dissolves, and then adding the coffee and not stirring anymore so the foam forms. I find this method produces slightly better foam, but if you're lazy or forget, the above-described no-stir method works perfectly fine.
Due to my love for (some might call it an addiction to) coffee, I learned how to make it a la Turka. Here's what you'll need.
The metal pot is called a cezve. There are different sizes to make different amounts, and there are older and newer shapes and styles. Essentially it is a small stove-top pot with a handle and a spout. You also need incredibly finely ground coffee (I got mine fresh from Tuğba, the local kuruyemiş, or dried foods store), water, and sugar. Turkish fincanlar (coffee cups) and a spoon are part of the necessary equipment. The two pictured were a gift from a coworker's mother, who, upon learning that I was only two fincan away from learning this important skill, immediately went to a cupboard and chose those two to gift me. They are thus even more beautiful than they look.
First, measure the amount of water by filling your fincan with cold water and pouring it into the cezve. This means you will get exactly the right amount of coffee when you finish. It's important to use cold water because the longer it takes to boil, the better the coffee will taste. Then, use about one and a half heaping teaspoonfuls of coffee per fincan and just heap the grounds on top of the water (don't stir). Next sugar- there are four ways to order coffee in a cafe- az şekerli (a little sugar), çok şekerli (a lot of sugar), orta (middle), or sade (plain). These definitions of course functionally mean nothing, as every cafe you go to gives you a slightly different interpretation, so I used 3 sugar cubes for two fincan and called it "orta".
Next, the fun part. Put the cezve on a burner with the heat turned up moderately high but not so high as you burn yourself reaching for the handle. Wait until the coffee boils and foams up, taking the cezve off the heat just when the foam is about to overflow. Skim the foam off the top with your spoon and put equal amounts into each fincan. Put the cezve back on the flame until it foams again, take it off the heat and turn off the stove. Carefully pour the remaining coffee slowly into each fincan, trying not to disturb the foam so it rises to the top. And that's all!
The Ottoman way to enjoy this, I was told, is to have water with it, drinking a little first to cleanse and prepare your palette, and a little afterward, probably to clean the bit of grounds out of your teeth from your last sip.
ADDENDUM: Another method dictates that you put the sugar in first, stirring it into the water as it begins to heat up until the sugar dissolves, and then adding the coffee and not stirring anymore so the foam forms. I find this method produces slightly better foam, but if you're lazy or forget, the above-described no-stir method works perfectly fine.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Tiptoeing in the Travertines
This weekend my ev arkadaş and I went to a coworker's family's house in a nearby town, Denizli. It is famous for its textiles and perhaps moreso, for Pamukkale. Pamukkale ("cotton castle/fortress") is a geological formation with natural hot springs and travertines, or terraces of carbonate minerals left by the flowing water. Our English pamphlet (yours for the "low" entry price of 20TL) gave us, helpfully, the chemical formula for the reaction that forms the carbonate travertines. ("The reaction is Ca(HCO3) + O2 --> CaCO+CO2+CO+H20, chemically".) In any case, Pamukkale is also the cite of a sizable ruined Roman city, and the ruins are well-reconstructed and mostly in situ.
There are many tombs like the below surrounding the ruined city, which I believe I read somewhere is due to the supposed healing properties of the mineral hot springs being a last-ditch effort for the near-dead, and thus when they were not cured by the waters they died and were buried outside. So it goes.
These are travertines that you are NOT allowed to walk in. The water is actually pumped in- the hot springs do not produce water continuously, but the travertines look most beautiful with water in them. Solution? Pipes.
However there are other ones that you are allowed to wade in to your heart's content, and most people do. There is also a bath or pool area, but it costs extra.
This is a picture of two of the four pomegranate trees in my host's backyard. Her family gave me many pomegranates during the course of my three day stay and a small sack of them before I went home. I was a happy house guest.
My coworker's family was, predictably, impressed with my roommate's and my Turkish skills (for knowing no Turkish, she has improved greatly, but also it only takes a "Merhaba" to get complimented on your Turkish skills in most situations). They also predictably commented on how I look foreign but she looks Turkish (I have had one family tell me, "I can tell you are foreign from your face. Like Hilary Clinton," which I hope was likening me in foreignness to Hilary Clinton and not in facial resemblance). I bought a jezve, or Turkish coffee pot, and practiced making Türk kahvesi in their mutfak (kitchen). My coworker's mother was quite happy with me after this (even though my coffee was not the best), and would ask me to pour tea and assess my ability (or lack thereof) to carry a tray of beverages without spilling. Clearly she was grooming me to be an excellent Turkish housewife.
There are many tombs like the below surrounding the ruined city, which I believe I read somewhere is due to the supposed healing properties of the mineral hot springs being a last-ditch effort for the near-dead, and thus when they were not cured by the waters they died and were buried outside. So it goes.
These are travertines that you are NOT allowed to walk in. The water is actually pumped in- the hot springs do not produce water continuously, but the travertines look most beautiful with water in them. Solution? Pipes.
However there are other ones that you are allowed to wade in to your heart's content, and most people do. There is also a bath or pool area, but it costs extra.
This is a picture of two of the four pomegranate trees in my host's backyard. Her family gave me many pomegranates during the course of my three day stay and a small sack of them before I went home. I was a happy house guest.
My coworker's family was, predictably, impressed with my roommate's and my Turkish skills (for knowing no Turkish, she has improved greatly, but also it only takes a "Merhaba" to get complimented on your Turkish skills in most situations). They also predictably commented on how I look foreign but she looks Turkish (I have had one family tell me, "I can tell you are foreign from your face. Like Hilary Clinton," which I hope was likening me in foreignness to Hilary Clinton and not in facial resemblance). I bought a jezve, or Turkish coffee pot, and practiced making Türk kahvesi in their mutfak (kitchen). My coworker's mother was quite happy with me after this (even though my coffee was not the best), and would ask me to pour tea and assess my ability (or lack thereof) to carry a tray of beverages without spilling. Clearly she was grooming me to be an excellent Turkish housewife.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Just like Whitney Houston sang....
Antalya, I will always love you. Antalya is kind of like the Florida Keys of Turkey, although there were no giant murals of undersea life painted on the sides of buildings, which is an important feature of the Keys. No, instead there where images of Ataturk and Turkish flags on almost every conceivable surface, because this weekend was Republic Day. Even though the town is incredibly touristy, one gets the sense of why-- it's also incredibly beautiful. The deep and incomparable blue of the Mediterranean is the foreground against a background of imposingly beautiful mountains.
To avoid sounding like a guidebook, I will just post some pictures. They are so postcard-like that they are almost boring.
A Fulbright friend made this awesome rock tower. Rock beaches are cool because you can lay on the rocks that have been warmed by the sun (like so many reptiles), but definitely bring some kind of sandals. The tower marked the site of my first swim in the Mediterranean, and an excellent afternoon picnic.
Right before I got on Antalya's tram system to leave town...
I stayed at the White Garden Pansiyon, which was totally reasonably priced (30TL a night) and was beautiful, "a good site for a harem", in my words, "beguilingly restored" in the words of the Lonely Planet.
Oh! We also managed to find an English-language bookstore, which was really kind of the front of the house with no back wall that opened into a garden, with shelf upon shelf of books that the owner, a man who resembled Beauregard the Muppet in speech and form, had read once upon a time. He offered to make us fish with fennel and white wine (sadly, we were leaving several hours later, so we could not accept) and then told us that next time we come to Antalya we should bring him English books, because he prefers trading to selling.
This is part of the parade for Republic Day. It featured a seemingly endless stream of high school and grammar school students, often in drum and bugle lines.
There was also a crazy rock concert thing that we did not get to on time in the main square in front of (what else) the statue of Atatürk, but we had the perfect vantage point for the Republic Day fireworks.
I personally am still a little unsure about what Turks think of Republic Day. Maybe the rock and roll and lazer light show in the main square would have helped me get a better sense of things (probably!). When I returned to Uşak, though, and asked about Republic Day, most people did not even acknowledge its passing, or so it seemed.
The Fulbrighters in Antalya thanked Atatürk during the fireworks for his many contributions to Turkish life that we have benefited from, such as an alphabet we can read. There was a surprise Republic Day gift awaiting us when we returned to our respective cities, as well - the ban of youtube was repealed that weekend! Now I can once again watch old Eurovision videos to my heart's content with no need to mask my IP address - truly, a Republic Day miracle.
To avoid sounding like a guidebook, I will just post some pictures. They are so postcard-like that they are almost boring.
A Fulbright friend made this awesome rock tower. Rock beaches are cool because you can lay on the rocks that have been warmed by the sun (like so many reptiles), but definitely bring some kind of sandals. The tower marked the site of my first swim in the Mediterranean, and an excellent afternoon picnic.
Right before I got on Antalya's tram system to leave town...
I stayed at the White Garden Pansiyon, which was totally reasonably priced (30TL a night) and was beautiful, "a good site for a harem", in my words, "beguilingly restored" in the words of the Lonely Planet.
Oh! We also managed to find an English-language bookstore, which was really kind of the front of the house with no back wall that opened into a garden, with shelf upon shelf of books that the owner, a man who resembled Beauregard the Muppet in speech and form, had read once upon a time. He offered to make us fish with fennel and white wine (sadly, we were leaving several hours later, so we could not accept) and then told us that next time we come to Antalya we should bring him English books, because he prefers trading to selling.
This is part of the parade for Republic Day. It featured a seemingly endless stream of high school and grammar school students, often in drum and bugle lines.
There was also a crazy rock concert thing that we did not get to on time in the main square in front of (what else) the statue of Atatürk, but we had the perfect vantage point for the Republic Day fireworks.
I personally am still a little unsure about what Turks think of Republic Day. Maybe the rock and roll and lazer light show in the main square would have helped me get a better sense of things (probably!). When I returned to Uşak, though, and asked about Republic Day, most people did not even acknowledge its passing, or so it seemed.
The Fulbrighters in Antalya thanked Atatürk during the fireworks for his many contributions to Turkish life that we have benefited from, such as an alphabet we can read. There was a surprise Republic Day gift awaiting us when we returned to our respective cities, as well - the ban of youtube was repealed that weekend! Now I can once again watch old Eurovision videos to my heart's content with no need to mask my IP address - truly, a Republic Day miracle.
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