the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

the nato compound here is similar to maxwell afb

Buca (pronounced BOOja) is one of the older areas of the city, and it is the home of the NATO compound. And by "older," I mean it's Section 8 housing as far as the eye can see. And "compound" is the perfect word for the NATO complex, too. It is surrounded by high walls with barbed wire and is patrolled by disgruntled Turkish conscripts with big guns that they don't politely lower when pointed your general direction. NATO itself is an oasis, of course. It's green, manicured, painted, and would make any four-star soil his pants in bliss. What I mean is, if you can picture a Beverly Hills estate on the set of Slumdog Millionaire, you know what sort of neighborhood I mean.

My first house hunting excursion, escorted by a native driver* and a native from the housing office who speaks very good English indeed, was to Buca. I figured living near the complex would be nice, since I'm not shipping a car here. Walking distance is a good thing, right?

* Aggressive.

Not in this neighborhood. The buildings are old and run down, some are dirty and they stink inside. The rents are cheap...of course. Not that I care.

On that note: I'm authorized up to a sizeable amount of cash per month on my apartment or house. Anything above that, I pay out of pocket. Anything below, I don't get to pocket. This means I have no self-serving reason to live thriftily.

Anyway...I toured the three apartments that are available in that area right now. The first one looked really good in the pictures and video the housing referral office had made. It was a two-level place with a large kitchen (the better to cook you with, my dear), and decent toilet fixtures. The apartment itself was ok, but the building it was in had rubble and trash on the stairs, an unidentifiable aroma rising from the basement, and flaws that don't come through well on film. I toured it, said "Thank you" politely, and we moved on to the next apartment.

Which was so unnoteworthy that I can't remember a thing about it.

The third one, about 300 meters (so I'm told, as that means little to me--a bit more than a football field length, I guess) from the NATO gate looked a bit ratty from the street, but had well-kept landscaping and the apartment was very well kept up. I have it down as a tentative maybe, but probably a bit less than that. The more I think about it, the more living right on top of the NATO complex doesn't appeal deeply to me. I'm fine taking public buses and living away from the crush of people--particularly military.

I've never gone for living with or near military, to be honest. I like to leave my uniform and such behind when I go home. I want to be Diana, and only Diana. Also (it occurs to me), if we are prone to terrorist attacks, wouldn't a glut of military housing be an irresistible target? And (because I already said "also"), I just don't like the gossip and such that inevitably develops in those communities where everyone works and plays together.

When I got back to the housing office, I looked at "farther out" communities. Apparently, military folk don't like to commute. Much. At all.

When I taught at the Academy, my commute was 40-45 minutes one way. When I was going to Boulder, it was 2.5 to 3 hours, until I started staying with Lisa and Russell, at which point it was still about 30 minutes on public transport. But then, I grew up having to drive about 30 minutes to get to anywhere in town, so half an hour isn't a big deal to me and it's even less of a deal when I'm on public transport where I can read (or listen to my iPod).

So I'm now looking at properties in Konak, Mithatpasha, and Narlidere (she said, as though that meant squat to you). These are farther south, and a couple of them abut the Bay of Izmir. They're more upscale, newer, and in much nicer neighborhoods. So I think/hope. Their prices reflect as much, anyway.

There's a house that is within my price range--and I admit to leaning heavily toward a house, as I have learned to abhor shared walls--that would house a battalion. Ok...maybe not comfortably, but still. It has 3 levels, 5 bedrooms and 4 baths (!), and is 3766 square feet. As I was watching the video, I was thinking, I need that much space for WHAT?! Well...so I could have my own walls, for one. Judging from the video, I'd just live on the top floor.

There are a couple of apartments with breathtaking views of the bay, too. The one in Mithatpasha is more the proper size and offers a view that will keep me from getting to work on time. But it's an apartment. And so it goes....

I was burned out around 11:30, starting to get tired again, and was getting hungry. I scheduled a showing for tomorrow on the four selects (and perhaps a viewing of the next bunch on Monday), then popped over to the Airman and Family Readiness Center (AFRC). The lady who runs it was temporarily out, so I strolled down to the Medical Aid Station to ask what they do, exactly. They do Preventative Health Assessments, schedule doctors' appointments, and they will take my medical and dental records on appointment. Ah! I scheduled a record delivery (and probably briefing) for tomorrow afternoon, then moseyed down to the library.

Yep, there's a library in the Hilton, but it's only for those very special people who know which door to open and can give the password and secret handshake.*

* These are really special books.

Roger had thought I needed a NATO badge (which could take several days) to open an account in the library, but I thought I'd ask. Turns out, they just needed my ID and contact information. After 10 minutes, I had a new account and had learned that my first name--which is going on all the paperwork, of course--has a Turkish equivalent: Filiz. Cool. :)

I checked out the first Rosetta Stone volume on Turkish while I chatted with the kindly librarian dude. He said I look like a younger version of his sister, and he called me Binbaşi Filiz (Major Phylis).

Then I went back to the AFRC to meet the proprietor. She's a native lady, very friendly. I asked for a public transportation map to help me in my house search.* She scheduled me for the next newcomers' briefing**, then gave me a link to the city bus routes, a map of the city, a ferry schedule (in the event I choose to live on the other side of the bay), and a pocket Turkish-English dictionary. Wow. I will never again neglect my AFRC people. Ever.

* Someone will drive me around and translate for me, etc, while I search, but it's helpful to know how I will get to work and back every day. I don't want to be one of those foreign dummies who stands in the heat sweating like a stuck pig but only knowing one bus number to look for.

** On the 31st of March. Very helpful. I'll speak the language by then.

She was worried about how to get me a KentCard (public transport card) until I managed to interrupt her long enough to communicate that I already have one. My sponsor hooked me up yesterday.

I left there with scratchy eyes and loaded down with useful information I need to review. I wasn't sure what to have for lunch, but I paused at a street vender's stand and eyed his sandwiches. Another man came up and began jabbering* in Turkish. I watched him a minute, then said, "I'm sorry. I don't speak Turkish."

* They do this like they expect other people to understand them, too. Jesus.

He said, "Oh! You look Turkish. I think you speak Turkish. I say these buns fresh here"--and he points.

I pointed at the sandwiches, happy to have someone there who spoke English, whether he was about to swindle me or not. "Those look good. What kind of cheese?"

"Lamb cheese," he said.

My brain was a bit fagged from the house hunting morning, but in the back a tiny voice was trapped and trying to be heard: How do you get cheese from lambs? Aren't they a bit young to lactate? On the outside, I'm thinking,* That sounds desperately un-PC and delicious. Think I'll have one.

* I think on at least two levels at all times. I wish I could stop. On the other hand, I'm rarely bored.

He was continuing: "...with fresh tomato and pepperoni.* You may want add salt. Better."

* It looked like a jalapeno slice, which certainly livened my interest. As it turns out, it was more of a slice of pepperocini.

ME: How much?

HIM: One lira and 250 [somethings].

ME (fairly sure that the monetary system here is divided by 100 units in a civilized manner): Wot.

HIM: One lira and 250 (yadda yadda).

ME: 12 lira 25 shekals?

I don't remember what they call their cents here.

HIM: Yes yes. One lira twelve twenty five (blah blah). Less than one dollar.

ME: I'll have one.

HIM: How many?

ME: One.

While his brother (he said) got my sandwich, he told me about how he'd been reading the bible and thought Jesus was amazing, the lamb who died, and so forth.

Really. A native came up to me on the streets of Izmir talking about Jesus. I asked him if he was a Christian, then. He said, "I'm reading."

I see. Right. And yeah...he was selling something. He took me to a bunch of necklaces and such (beadwork) a bit down the way and explained that his kids hadn't eaten for two days, his wife makes these gaudy pieces of shit, and something about washing cars because his kids can't eat.

I said no thanks on the "jewelry." He said Jesus loves me anyway. I went on to the hotel to munch my sandwich, relax in the lap of luxury, and contemplate his starving family.

I've called off the activities that may have been scheduled for me for the rest of the day, and arranged only the appointments I've personally made for tomorrow. I have the weekend off. Tomorrow, I think I'll sample a kabob.

d