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

it isn't today anymore,* but h/t to southpark all the same

* Today was yesterday.

I walk the most when I don't wear my walking shoes.

In retrospect, the fact that I left the apartment in my Birkenstocks was an omen. I love these shoes and will probably be buried in them,* but they don't work well for distance and briskness. (I love them because they're comfy for strolls and any extended sitting, as they allow me to control my foot temperature.) Leaving the house in Birks is tantamount to leaving without an umbrella.

* Just kidding. I won't be buried. I will donate my body to science, and any leftovers can be tossed into a pool of Dungeness crabs. Considering how much I love eating them, it seems only fair to give back to the community. I will will the Birks to the needy in Africa, where they can be passed on for generations. These things will never wear out.

If you think you understand the bus lines, be wary.

The bus line gods will punish your presumption. Most if not all buses here go back and forth on one section of their routes (and can thus be snagged on the opposite side of the street to go the opposite way) but they make a loop on another section (and thus can only be caught on one side of the street). Thou shalt know which side to (wo)man.

I was scheduled for a 12-hour midshift again yesterday. I managed to sleep almost 12 hours--until about 11:30am--that day, then showered, grabbed my bag (with clean uniform), and confidently strolled to a nearby bus stop on my side of the street. MMmmmmyeeeeaaaaah. after about 15 minutes, I did the math (having seen several of "my" buses stopping across the street), realized my mistake, sighed deeply, then strolled down the hill to pick up one of them at my usual stop.

Where not to wait for the shuttle.

The city bus got me to NATO in ªirinyer (ShirEENyer)--not "Buca," although it is in Buca, which turns out to be not just a section of Izmir but an entire province, which in turn explains the exasperation (and righteous anger, I suppose) of my cabbie last week--before seven. Having decided to take the American shuttle for a change, I walked past the Turkish shuttle, which left shortly thereafter.

Why walk past a sure ride? Good question. The American shuttle leaves 15 minutes later, so that's 15 more minutes of sunshine in my day (or "dusk" as the case may be), and because I thought it would be nice to have a conversation with an American.*

* That is, I thought it would be nice to have a conversation, period.

I'd been told to sit at the bus stop behind the dry cleaners (two people on two separate occasions had provided this intel), and when there was no bus or even a solitary soul by 7:17--the bus should have left at 7:15--I started making calls.

After my escapade last Friday, I'd been provided a BOB* of contact numbers including but not limited to several to my colleagues in the bunker and to cell phones (even my commander's Germany cell phone) outside of it. I ran through the list. Time wore on and no one knew why the bus didn't show or how I could get to work. I finally called my commander's Turkish cell phone. He was off duty and his wife was visiting, which I learned because he (they) drove out, picked me up, and took me to the official site of BFE,** where the bunker is. He'd first asked if there were two of us on shift, and I said, "No sir. I'm the only person on tonight which means I have to get there so day shift can go home."

* Big Ol' Buttload

** Which I bet you didn't know really existed.

When I got to work, I discovered that I had been waiting at the wrong bus stop (obviously, and by now even predictably, I suppose). It doesn't help that all of the bus stops at the garrison are labeled "D," either. They probably did that to avoid protracted conversations with people asking directions. "Bus stop for town? Go that way. It says D," or "Bus stop for BFE? Just wait at the D bus stop."

You are forbidden to walk the half mile from the gate up the mountain to the bunker.

Not that I really wanted to, but I bet my colleagues who have been here two years don't know this yet.

Col Lutz and his wife dropped me at the gate where I showed my badge and started walking. The gate guard yelled at me. I stopped. The NCO on shift informed me that I was forbidden to walk up the hill. He called the lieutenant on duty, who drove down and gave me a ride while making polite conversation which included the information that no one can walk up the mountain at night because they might get shot by a jungle sniper or one of the Turkish recruits trying to protect them from one. (Why there is no danger of sniper fire during the day is a mystery.)

In a bunker, you can work just about any hours and they all feel the same.

I got to work a bit after 9 (for an 8 to 8* shift) and the man I was relieving hung around another 30 minutes. He said my tardiness was no biggie, and I believed him.

* And by "8," I mean "9."

I got my turnover information then changed into uniform and settled into catching up on the happenings since my last shift. My counterpart in Strategy came over to visit. He is an Italian senior master sergeant who has remarkable English (most people speak a touch, but don't speak it fluently, as Massimilliano--or Max, as I call him--does). In the course of our conversations, I learned that his wife teaches English literature. :) Right now, she and his daughters are in Izmir with him* and she teaches schoolchildren.

* For all American personnel, this is an unaccompanied short tour, which means we stay one year without dependents. For all the Europeans, however, this is a three-year accompanied tour. For the Turks, this part of Turkey can be up to an 8 year tour.

I did a lot of useful things on my shift, including chatting with the combat communications team (two lower enlisted types who were on the night shift) who came down from Germany to install our Predator feed. I got to know more of the players and learned what other communications capabilities we have at our fingertips--if we just know the right people (and I do, or I'm getting there). Overall, I did my work and some of the work of the day shift (I wrote most of the daily SITREP), as night shift tends to be too slow and day shift tends to be too fast.

I yawned a couple of times around 4am, but otherwise, was impervious to the hour.

When a morning seems too good to be true, it is.

Max offered me a ride home, and I accepted. The problem was, by the time I changed and snuck back through the group who were getting their morning brief, I couldn't find him. Thus, I left the bag with my uniform in it in the ladies' changing room and boarded the bus to ªirinyer to wait. About ten minutes before the bus was scheduled to leave, a Frenchman stepped in and said, "Any French people on this bus? I have a car." He looked around, then stepped back off.

I was in the front seat, so I stuck my head out after him. I said, "I'll take a ride."

He was happy to oblige. His name is Jean-Francois, and he's a senior NCO. His English is also very good and seems like a terrific guy. He took me back to the garrison, where I stopped to feed my spider,* then I walked not to the bus stop, but in the opposite direction, where I had reason to believe there was a train station.

* Check my mailbox.

It was a breathtaking morning. I felt amazing (and certainly not like I'd already been awake for 18 hours). I'd been meaning to experiment with the train--which takes a KentKart (1.70TL for any ride and any connection with a ferry, bus, or train within 90 minutes of the first use)--to see if it might offer a nicer, more dependable route to work. Or at least a viable alternative.

The trains here went in around 2003, and they are being expanded. They all still feel very new. They're remarkable clean, they smell nice, and trains come exactly when they say they will because they don't have to deal with Turkish drivers. I took the train to Alsancak--the little peninsula that is the oldest part of town where all the action is and where most of the Americans live, then emerged onto a Saturday morning street.

I didn't know where I was exactly, but that didn't matter. I had a map in my purse, but I didn't bother with it, either. I was keen to explore and see what I could see. I walked through alleys where the restaurants had opened their doors and were setting out chairs. The sidewalks were clean, the restaurants shady, cool, and deserted. No crush of humanity yet. No cigarette smoke. Just the workers setting out backgammon boards in the tea shops and sweeping the sidewalks and radios playing. The weather was flawless, what we think Heaven will be like. The sun was warm but there was a delightful breeze. It was like being in a dream. I intentionally got loster.

There are some wonderful places in Alsancak. I walked through apartment areas with clean, quiet streets. I was quietly happy, at peace.

I passed a shop selling fresh produce and paused. Fresh produce is almost as common as sunshine here, and almost as cheap as water. This stand had fresh purple cabbages, eggplant, lettuce, tomatoes, and spinach. The proprietor came out and smiled at me. I pointed at the cabbages. He pointed at the eggplants. He said, "Patlecan."

ME: Hayir. Cabbages.

HIM, still with the eggplants: Patlecan.

ME, leaning closer to help his aim: Cabbages.

HIM: Lahana.

ME: La...?

HIM, slowly: La-ha-na.

ME: Lahana.

HIM, smiling: Lahana.

He fetched me one.

ME, pointing: Spinach.

HIM: Uspanak.

ME: ???

HIM: Uspanak. (Leaning closer) Uh-SPAHN-ahk.

ME: Uspanak.

He put a bunch in a bag for me.

ME: Tomatoes.

HIM: Domates.

ME: Tomates.

HIM: DOH-maht-tess.

ME: DOmates.

HIM: DoMAHtess.

ME: Domates. More. More. Tamam.

HIM, smiling hugely: Durt lira.

Four lira for that much produce? Yes. I'm in love.

Next, I got a bit loster (on purpose, or at least not being concerned), then eventually meandered into an area I knew. I dropped into the BX and picked up a couple of bottles of decent wine, then took a bus to Konak. I was growing a bit tired, but was ok. I was ready to cook some of the stuff I'd just bought and try to settle a bit, maybe sleep. I was about 20 stairs down the hill from home when I realized I didn't have my keys.

I stopped to root through my bag, but I knew they weren't there. I'd been in my bag looking for various things that morning already so I knew the well was dry. All the same, we root around in there to try to magic them back, don't we?

I came on up to the apartment then sat down outside the door. I tried to think of a workaround.

It's OK to ask for help. Several times, if need be--and sometimes, need be.

The view is amazing, even from the front stoop when I can't get into my apartment's main door. It was cool. The birds were singing. I listened to the birds and tried to find them in the holes and vines they were hiding in on the adjacent building. Then I watched a ship bobbing in the bay. I enjoyed the breeze. I thought about calling a locksmith.

Then I thought...Why?! And how would the locksmith get into my door? He'd have to drill through the locks. The lira would add up quick. And all because...why? So I wouldn't have to call work and admit I'd screwed up again. That's why.

So I called work. It was now almost noon. I got Roger. I said, "Hey. Diana. I have a new and interesting problem."

He said, "What's that?"

I said, "I left my keys at DISKO HIT."

He said, "Where?"

"In my black bag in the ladies' changing room. There's only one. They have to be there."

"I'll get Shannon to go look. Can you get to NATO?"

"Pretty easily."

"I'll see about finding someone who can explain to the Turkish driver of the shuttle to deliver them to you. I'll call you back."

"Thanks so much. At some point, Roger, I'll quit screwing up."

"Don't worry about it. Bye."

So there I sat, waiting for the call.

People are, for the most part, awesome.

After about ten minutes, my neighbor popped his head out of the door.

I'd met this man when I came over with my landlord to do my final walkthrough. She'd lived here 15 years, I think, and knows this man well. He'd brought her, her daughter, and me into his apartment then for kahve. We'd had awkward conversation then, but he's very sweet. He speaks about as much English as I do Turkish.

HIM: (Something in Turkish.)

ME (with turning key hand motion): I lost my keys.

HIM: Come in.

ME: You're leaving, though!

HIM, pointing to his slippers: (Something in Turkish)

So I followed him into his apartment where I put down my groceries. He made me kahve and told me a story, mostly in pantomime, about how his coffee is better than Greek coffee. He asked if I wanted ºeker (sugar). I said evet.

Then he sat and we made conversation.

I'm more willing than ever now to try speaking other's languages.

People around me give English a fair shot, as well as any other language they're called upon to fake, and without shame. What's my problem? Well...I was born into a monolinguistic household in a monolinguistic country, I guess. I'm not knocking this, but it does tend to make you afraid to try another's language when you only speak a couple of words, because you know you sound retarded.

Europeans and many Asians (and I won't pretend to know where Turkey should fall in this lineup; it's rather like Russia in its in-betweenness) don't get that handicap. They tend to be born into multilingual societies, and when they don't speak a language, they're used to doing whatever is necessary to communicate. They don't have the mental block we do.

Gucir (pronounced Guh-JEER) asked if I speak French, but I speak far more of it than he does, as it turns out. I felt downright fluent there for a minute. Then he asked in Greek if I speak Greek. Um no. German? No. So we lapsed back into pigeon English/Turkish/French.

At some point, like the grocer, he began to teach me words.

I've decided that one of the reasons adults have trouble learning a new language (besides the theorized "Language Acquisition Device" in the brain that shuts down around the age of six) is that adults can't normally get away with staring at people and studying their lips. Children do this all the time. It's one of the ways they learn new words and how to make sounds. The grocer and now Gucir were schooling me. And I was thankful.

It's OK to succumb to 2-year-old grammar, even in your own language.

It's rather freeing, actually. I catch myself listening to people around me and trying to repeat the sounds they make, wondering what they mean. Sometimes I realize I'm chanting something quietly to myself, something I heard and means nothing to me. I think of how toddlers will learn a new sound, make it incessantly for a couple of days, learning its flavor, and I think...yeah.

Also like a 2-year-old, I will learn a new phrase and use it on everything, regardless of meaning. I don't care. Thing'll come together if I just keep trying.

I choose odd ways of expressing myself in my own language, which has two implications in my current environment. First, it's okay to experiment with another language. Second, it's okay to use grade school words in my own.

I'm getting an American neighbor.

At one point, he fetched some paperwork to show me. None of it was in English, but I could make out that it was a rental agreement (since I just signed one). I studied it a while, and determined that he was about to rent out his apartment. (I'd asked him when I came in what happened to his living room furniture.) He pantomimed--he's good at this!--that he owned this place and the downstairs apartment, and was moving down. He showed me the garden below, where a black cat was luxuriating in the sunlight. He would rent this place--right next door to me--to an American.

I'm not sure how I feel about that, to be honest. It's nice when I have Americans to talk to, but frankly, I like the immersion I'm getting in the Turkish community. Yes, it gets lonely, but I'm prone to loneliness and boredom. I rather like being the only American around. I don't have to live down the often poor impressions Americans make, and this is my neighborhood, where I'm bonding with the shopkeepers and making friends, such as it is.

Then again, the next door American may turn out to be a godsend. So to speak.

I called Roger back who said he was about to call me. They'd found my keys, and the Turkish shuttle would be in front of the gym (no mistakes there) at 2:40pm. I said I'd be waiting at 2:30, and again thanked him profusely for his help.

Gucir, by the way, is a retired professional oud player. An oud is a traditional Turkish instrument. Here's a video of one being played. He has one student who is a mechanical engineer who speaks some English. He called the student to translate, even though I urged him not to. He did anyway. The student asked if he could help me. I asked him to explain my situation to his teacher. He did. He translated that his teacher would like to offer his assistance. I said it would be great if he could keep my groceries here while I went and got my key. The student translated, and Gucir said he'd be happy to.

Make the most of it.

Despite my sleeplessness and the stress I'd been through, starting with the night before when I'd had to call for a ride and impose upon my commander, who reassured me several times it was no problem, I felt good. I was happy. Better: I was happy to be me, to be where I was and when I was.

Yesterday turned out to be the shortest 36-hour day I've ever had.

d