teary

I'm a little ashamed to admit that I've become a weepy, teary-eyed sap as I've gotten older (I hate to be able to tag that onto the end of any sentence...gotten older. It sounds so foreboding). When I was a child, I prided myself on the fact that I rarely cried, unless I was really sad about something or  induced into a fitful rage, at which point tears were an inevitable result of not being able to lash out in the way I wanted to. My momma was tough and didn't cry; I was tough and didn't cry. That didn't mean I wasn't still very sensitive. I was. I just didn't like to show it.

My best friend Jay would cry during a Hallmark commercial, a sappy chick flick, in church, or during a good song. And she always did it so gracefully. Her eyes were never puffy and her nose never turned red. Maybe her mascara smeared a little, but it somehow managed to make her look more radiant. Jay could shed a tear with beauty and grace; sophistication, even.

But not I. Which, since I never cried, meant it wasn't much of an issue. But nowadays, I get choked up all the time...during movies, plays (like last night when we were at A Christmas Carol at Ford's Theater), books, when singing particular songs (let me just add that it is really hard to sing and cry at the same time. It usually comes out as a very unattractive sob, just hopefully not on a high note), and yes, even occasionally during a sentimental commercial. But this is new territory for me, this letting my emotions actually reach the surface, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. If nothing else, it seems I need to buy some waterproof mascara.

Gen Y

Before you read any of this post, please take this (possibly overly) simplistic quiz and find out in which generation you fit according to your beliefs, not age. My score was 70, making me a pretty solid Millennial; what's yours?

Last week one of the lectures in one of my textbooks covered the topic of Generation Y (Millennials). It was actually really interesting and I learned all sorts of things (which is one of the joys of being an ESL teacher- I get to study and teach science, history, culture, economics, sociology, etc, and language). For instance, the average Millennial spends at least $30 at the mall every time s/he visits (which is often).  They're very close to their families and usually get along pretty well with their parents; they value time with family and success in marriage far more than success in their career. They are less white than any generation before. They love to have fun. They consider themselves to be pretty tolerant of everything from interracial relationships to religion to sexual orientation. They're well educated, especially the girls. Anyway, you can read the full, and very long, report from the Pew Research Center here.

So I had my students take the quiz--most of them scored somewhere in the Millennial range of 60-80 with a few around 95 (not surprisingly, those are the students whose phones I'm constantly collecting for texting during class) and a few with the scores of Baby Boomers--and then we spent some time in class discussing what it meant to be a Millennial and the differences between us and previous generations.  They were extremely enthusiastic during our discussion, possibly because it meant they got to talk about themselves more, but they brought up some good points.

Most of them said that the one thing they felt was most unique about them compared to their parents' generation was the use of technology. One student agreed that Millennials like to have fun but was concerned that it meant that Millennials are lazy. He's not, he assured me (which is true), but maybe Millennials enjoy leisure so much to the point of making it detrimental to society. I think he's on to something. Millennials are lacking the work ethic that abounded during the time of the Baby Boomers. It may be better that we're not raising another generation of workaholics, but worrisome that we might be lazy entitled piles.

I was surprised that several of my non-Muslim students (from mostly Catholic countries) thought it was ok to date someone of another religion, but definitely not marry that person. I think most young Americans are fine with interracial/religious dating and marriage, and I actually think it's beneficial for society to mix and mingle...which is another thing that makes me a Millennial, I suppose.

Anyway. I was wondering what you thought.  Regardless of whether or not you are one, what do you think is good/bad about Millennials?

One more thing. As I was reading up on Gen X and Y and Baby Boomers, I kept wondering how we all turned out the way we did. What was it in the way our parents taught us or what teachers said at school or what we saw on Sesame Street that helped form our belief system? I was a little offended that I too, fit fairly nicely into a category along with everyone else. I hate that the little voice in my head that shouts "But I'm different!" is wrong.

PRISENCOLINENSINAINCIUSOL

I know I haven't posted anything worthwhile lately, and unfortunately today won't be any different (or maybe it's fortunate; what I'm about to show you is much cooler than anything I could say on my own). If you recall from last year, I posted a video with fake English, giving native English speakers the opportunity to "hear" what English sounds like to the rest of the world. This little gem below is a song written by an Italian pop star 40 years ago. Some say it was the world's first rap song; I say it's just fantastic.

Read more about the song on npr's article here.

debate debacle

I made the mistake of watching the debate last night, or rather part of it since I couldn't take it anymore after 40 minutes. The particular news site I was using to stream the debate also happened to have an opinion poll on the same page. It allowed you to indicate how strongly you agreed or disagreed with what was being said while showing the average responses as they were being sent in, which meant that you could really get the flavor of the mood of the audience. What really irked me was that when either candidate stood up, before he had even begun speaking, the tracker would drastically swing to agree or disagree depending on who was speaking, clearly revealing them as partisan hacks who didn't give a damn about the issues or the words that were coming out of the candidates' mouths. They had already made up their mind about what they theought about each candidate before either of them had even begun to answer a question.

I'm disappointed, but not surprised, by the American people. Don't they care about the issues? Can't they wait a few moments to hear out the arguments on the other side and think about things rationally?

And this is what I hate about politics. Too many people choose a candidate based solely on political party and then automatically discount what the other side says because they're the other side. When election time rolls around, a politician who works well with someone of the opposite party is suspected as being a turncoat- too liberal or too conservative. Romney has to appeal to conservative extremists to get a nomination and then fall back to moderate once it comes to national elections. Obama is expected to completely turn around the economy in 4 years...etc, etc, etc. It's all just silly. Asinine. Infuriating.

I wish Nader were running again.

the giggler

The concept of classroom cohesion in ESL classes is quite mind boggling when you really think about it. You're take 15+ students from different countries with as different backgrounds as you can imagine, stick them in the same room 4 hours a day, and tell them not only to work well together, but to be friends, ideally in and out of the classroom. And I, as the teacher and language expert, am the great friendship facilitator. Sometimes my job is easy--my students are actually interested in life outside of themselves, and I don't really have to do much to encourage them to expand their social circle to include each other. Their language skills improve rapidly because they're actually speaking English while living in the US. It gives my heart a warm glow when I see that they're actually voluntarily doing things with classmates, even the ones whose accents are seriously difficult to understand. It's so nice.

Alas, it doesn't always work out that way. I've had semesters where the students remained in isolated language cliques unless I force it out of them, only to slink back into their comfort zone the moment my back is turned. These students generally don't learn much English. I've thankfully only had a couple of (miserable) experiences where there's actual animosity between students. One was an issue of racism where the student quickly found himself kicked out into the hall. Another was chauvinistic bullying that was never fully resolved (too many deeply rooted cultural expectations) and continued a semester past mine. It makes going to class unpleasantly nerve racking for both me and the rest of the class.

But never until now have I had a giggler. Actually, that's not true. I had one really odd boy from some South American country who sat in the back and laughed or hummed or made other sounds on a regular basis. I think there may have been something wrong with him. But this kid isn't weird. He's just giddy. And he giggles like a 5 year old, so no one wants to work with him because he's too busy chuckling at...who knows what. I'm definitely a little hammy in class, but I'm not that funny.

So today he and I had a heart-to-heart where I told him that I expected him to respect his classmates and me by acting in a professional way and containing his laughter. He vowed to "refresh" himself (??) over the weekend and promised to return a new man boy (he's only 18). We'll see if it happens.

a simpler life

Sometimes T-rav and I think about leaving our lives behind for something like this:

With a view of nothing as far as the eye can see.

We could move somewhere like Ocracoke of the Outer Banks. We'd buy a little house on the beach and get some inconsequential job at a gift shop or a restaurant - I've also considered starting my own "destination" English school at the beach - or volunteer to patrol the shore for sea turtles during nesting season. And we'd finally get our chance to ride out a hurricane.

Wouldn't it be grand?

goodbye (kind of) DLS

Today is my very very last day at the company I've been working for the past year. Actually, it's my third "last" day since I was supposed to be done July 27, extended to August 2, extended to August 17 or whenever I happened to finish the Pashto grammar book we've been working on.

Having three last days is rather anti-climactic.

It's been a good year at DLS. There were times when I was bored out of my mind and times when I ranted at the laziness of some of my coworkers who didn't quite share my work ethic. I'm a teensy bit sad to leave, but knowing that I'm probably going to be back for some odds and ends on my textbooks (that I already know need further editing) makes it less sad. But for a little while at least, I'm done.

And what's next? Georgetown full time for the fall. Here's to a new semester of (hopefully) good students and good teaching.

friends

We've now lived here in the DC area for over a year, and with the exception of Ryry (whom we met back at BYU) I'm sad and a little ashamed to admit that we still have few people we'd really call "friends." Plenty of acquaintances, surely, but no besties in the making. There have been a few "trial" friends: that quirky, earthy couple who wanted to live in a van, the over eager super talkative wife with the silent husband, the cool girl with the big hair and cycler husband with the obnoxious friends, the really nice couple we think we'd really like but are always in high demand with everyone else. I thought it was just us, that we were somehow lacking in personality or social savviness, or that we were really really picky about who we choose as friends.

But then I read this article and I felt a little validated and a lot more discouraged. Apparently we've reached that period in life where making friends, real friends, is pretty damn hard. Not only do you have to try to match up a husband and a wife with another husband and wife (which is far harder than you might think between me and T-rav), but you also have to have 3 things: "proximity, repeated, unplanned interactions; and a setting that encourages people to let their guard down and confide in each other." A HA! So that's why we have no friends.

So what to do about it? I've considered having monthly house parties, with the secret motive of screening for bosom friends throughout the evening, but sometimes that sounds rather exhausting. . We go to work and church activities, but making friends in college wasn't hard (probably because we had those 3 points mentioned above), and I don't really want it to be hard now. I think I've become a little socially lazy...and I'm tired of superficial social interactions.

The end result of all this is T-rav and I have gotten even better at hanging out together, I've read a lot of books, and we've watched probably one too many television series on netflix. I miss my real friends more with every failed friend date. We're happy here, but sometimes we're a little lonely.

random Turkey thoughts

A few other random tidbits and then I promise to stop talking about Turkey. Unless you ask me about it, in which case, I'd love to prattle on. 

Turks are probably the friendliest people I've ever visited. They were helpful, warm, and inviting. I did get sick of seeing men everywhere and often found myself wondering where the women were...I'd never really thought about that until the women are missing and then I missed them. 

I hate being an obvious tourist even when I am. I'm usually loathe to reveal my camera and pose for pictures because I don't want the locals to so easily spot me as a foreigner. But since I obviously stuck out as not even a little bit Turkish, I decided to embrace my tourist status. And it was a rather refreshing...I'm not saying I'd do the same in Norway or Spain or elsewhere, but in Turkey it worked. 

We didn't encounter many Americans in our travels, and most Turks assumed we were Europeans (more specifically Germans for me and Zillah...Phin a Kiwi?). I think it was partially because they don't see as many Americans as Europeans, but I like to think that maybe we didn't stick out as anything in particular. I prefer anonymity when I travel. 

The public bathrooms in Turkey are plentiful and generally quite clean. Some charge, some don't, and I was only left without toilet paper once (luckily I carried some with me everywhere). However, there are often more "squatter" toilets than upright ones. I got really good at squatting and might have even perfected my technique. ;) 

If you want to buy a rug, don't even think about in Istanbul or Kusadasi. They're way way expnsive. Selcuk seemed like it had reasonable prices, and they were even cheaper in Bergama (though I think Bergama had more of the tribal-esque rugs rather than the Persian style, so it depends on what your preference is, I suppose). 

Never go to Turkey in June or any other month near the summer. I'm thinking January might be nice. 


The fantastic sites and scenery aside, it was marvelous to be with my bosom friends, 24/day for 13 days straight. After years and years of dreaming about taking a trip when we graduated, when we finished our grad degress, when we have money...we actually managed to pull it off. Phin, Zillah, M: You are the best and I love you! 

Would I go to Turkey again? Definitely. There's still an entire half of the country to explore. I'm thinking of starting on the eastern border and ending in Cappadocia or maybe Patara next time...

Turkey Part 3

Days 8-10: Patara
After a much longer ride than we expected in the crowded, under air-conditioned Dolmus (there were lots of people hopping on and off which made it take foreevvvver), we finally arrived in Patara. The owners of the hostel (St. Nicholas Pension- as the name might imply, Patara is the birthplace of our St. Nicholas) were eagerly waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs and quickly herded us in, offered us tea, and showed us to our lovely rooms. We freshened up a bit and then dragged ourselves back out the door to see some ruins before they closed for the day. The area around Patara was once a major Lycian port, but now it's mostly used as farm land-notice the cows grazing around the well in the midst of all the rubble- and provides the few tourists who go there charming scenery along the mile down to the beach. In typical un-American fashion, these ruins are not regulated even a little, so you can tromp around to your heart's content. It was great fun. 

Patara beach is 18 kilometers long and generally has only a handful of people scattered about. We paid a few lira to rent beach chairs and sit under an umbrella, and when it started to rain (of course the only time it rained was the one day we went to the beach), we climbed up the rock outcropping (bottom left) for a view of the cobalt blue water on one side and turquoise on the other. Naturally, we got quite sunburned (rotten non-waterproof sunscreen that I applied many times to no avail), which was especially sad because it prevented us from being able/having a desire to go to a Turkish bath for a scrub down and massage. Ah well. Next time.

Because of the bus schedule and because phin wasn't feeling well and really because we really loved Patara, we decided to stay an extra day here. This was fantastic especially because it gave us more time to go to a wonderful little restaurant that mostly served Gözleme, a kind of Turkish pastry/pancake deliciousness. Zillah and I had been on our first night for smoothies but couldn't resist the restaurateur's charm and agreed to try a gözleme- apricot, which really meant sweet heaven's nectar. We begged M and Phin to go there for dinner the next day for an assortment of savory and sweet (as soon as Phin has time to send us some pictures, I'll show you how the chef made the pancakes. Over an open flame). I wish I could eat one right now...one chocolate honey and one apricot. Oh the honey. I almost forgot to mention how amazing the honey was in Patara. I would have loved to have taken home a bucket of it, but it might have weighed down my bag a little too much, not to mention what the Customs people would have said...but it was so. dang. good.


Days 10/11: Selcuk (Ephesus)
Leaving Patara, we caught our next bus just like native Turks by standing at a hot dusty intersection. We arrived in Selcuk a bit late to gain entry into anything, but we bopped around town to see the lay of the land and peeked into an simple old mosque with a lovely courtyard. Although I was dressed inappropriately for a mosque visit--my legs were showing brazenly--there were several scarves at the entrance, so I wrapped myself up like a mummy and stepped inside. It was a much more intimate feeling mosque, the kind you actually might want to pray in rather than visit only for the beautiful interior. 

The next day we spent the morning in Ephesus. I was delighted to see a few areas I hadn't seen the year before when I came with my parents and it was nice to have the freedom to wander around without a guide. There were cats everywhere. Actually, there were cats all over Turkey. And most of them didn't look too mangy either.  

After Ephesus, we headed back to Selcuk for a few hours to see the ruins of the Basilica of St. John where, as you might guess, St. John is buried...IF he's actually dead, that is. Is he? Is he not? Then M went off to the Ephesus museum to see, I believe, the well-endowed Artemis, while Phin, Zillah, and I did some shopping for some odds and ends, and, of course, more food. Zillah ended the day with the purchase of a small but exquisite rug, and Phin finally found herself a dagger. 


Days 11/12: Bergama (Pergamon)
Bergama is a less visited town, evidenced first of all by the shopkeepers' excitement at seeing real live tourists. It was also a very manly town- maybe it was because we were there on a Saturday/Sunday, but we hardly saw a single Turkish woman the whole time. Men, men, everywhere, and not a woman to be seen. And the men stared. And stared. AND STARED to the point where I was ready to blurt something very rude  if they dared say a word to me. Luckily we left for Izmir before that happened. Anyway, the purpose of going to Bergama was to see the ruins of the ancient Greek city of Pergamum. What's left of it is located on top of a fairly steep hill, so the Turks built a nice little tram system to take you up and down. We thought about walking down rather than taking the tram, but a few hours in the beating sun changed our minds. M was in heaven when we finally found the remnants of the Altar of Zeus for her. 

On the evening we stayed in Bergama, Phin finally spotted some fantastic little ceramic balls that she had been looking for, and so we stopped into a little shop thinking we'd grab some and go...but we didn't leave for well over an hour. The shop keeper was exceedingly happy to have customers, and even more delighted that we were Americans. He offered us cup after cup of tea and we sat on his couch and chatted about his travels around Italy, his family living overseas (he called his son in North Carolina to see if it was close enough to DC that I could go visit), and how he met and married his wife. It was a lovely experience.


Before leaving Bergama, we visited the ruins of the Red Basilica, ate some baklava (which we did, to the point of nausea), and saw the Bergama Museum that houses bits of the ruins from Pergamom and has a fairly large (though not life-sized, to M's disappointment) replica of the Altar of Zeus. Then it was back to the bus station for a short ride to Izmir to catch a flight back to Istanbul and then back home. And that was it.

Turkey Part 2

Days 5-7: Cappadocia
Leaving Istanbul, we caught a very early flight to Kayseri, which is the closest city to the region known as Cappadocia. If you ever go to Turkey, you simply must take the time to go here. It's like nothing you've ever seen. Created by a volcano that erupted thousands of years ago, the landscape looks like little phallic blobs of rocks sploosomed out of a tube (kind of like when I try frosting a cake). And if that isn't reason enough to visit, Byzantine monks moved in and cut churches and homes into the rocks, which means you can have a hiking adventure while enjoying mosaics and frescoes. 

People used to live in the caves in Cappadocia until as recently as the 60s. The photo below was taken from a little village on a hillside that finally moved down to the valley after an earthquake in 1967 (I think). Nowadays, the Turks don't live in the caves, but they make a serious profit off the tourists who want a cave experience. We were a little too poor this trip to stay in a cave hotel, but our hostel more than made up for it. I would have stayed there a week just to stay at Kose Pension longer. Not only was it almost ridiculously cheap, but the rooms were spotless and well decorated-there are lovely murals scattered throughout the hostel-the food is delicious, and the roof-top dorm room is one of the coolest places I've ever slept. I highly highly recommend it. 

Our first day in Cappadocia was a little crazy, starting with the shuttle not arriving at the airport to take us the 45 minutes to Goreme, where we were sleeping. We got lucky and caught a ride with a guy who claimed to also be a tour guide...so we were suckered into paying a little more than we should have for a tour of the towns throughout Cappadocia (it's really difficult to get around Capp on public transportation, making either a guide or car/scooter rental almost imperative). His English was actually almost non-existent and it turned out that he didn't really know (or couldn't communicate) much of anything about the places we visited, which made him really irritating. Good thing we had Lonely Planet to help us out. I was really grumpy with the whole situation the longer we were stuck with him. Thankfully Zillah got rid of him while I was in the bathroom at the Goreme Open-Air Museum (thanks about it!). We nicknamed him "the Blemish" or better yet, "the Putrescence." But, as M reminded me, we would never have met Mehmet without the driving services of The Blemish. Mehmet is a local who lives in the town pictured above (I think). He owns a gift shop, hotel, restaurant, half the town, etc. When he saw us traipsing around on some old cave dwellings above his shop, he ran up the hill and offered to show us around, since, naturally, he grew up playing around those cliffs and caves. He was great and we were all delighted to have met him. 

From our day with the Blemsh, pictured below from left: a "castle" in Uchisar; the Hair Museum in Avanos with over 16,000 dusty, cobweb infested samples of women's hair. Definitely creepy, but Zillah and I both added our own locks to the nastiness; a detail from one of the many little churches in one of the caves...I can't recall which one; the exterior of one of the churches in the Goreme Open Air Museum.

The second full day we spent on an official tour of the area, which seemed a little pricey (90 TL but no better deals were to be found since the tour groups standardize their prices each new season), but was actually well worth it since it included transportation, entry fees, a knowledgeable tour guide, and a huge lunch. And we met a lovely retired Australian couple, a seriously extroverted American who told us his life story (complete with details I wouldn't tell some of my friends) within 3 hours, and an Italian family with an adorable 3-year-old.  We went to the underground city in Derinkuyu (too dark for my level of photo skills), which was at times a bit claustrophobic and unnerving as it was up to 100 meters below ground- all that rock pressing down on you- but really interesting to see how and where people lived hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Underground. They even had a baptistery! Then we headed to Ilhara Valley for a hike and lunch. The best part of the valley was all the little churches nestled up in the cliffs. After lunch, more cave cities, this time aboveground.

Day 7: Konya
I was loathe to leave Cappadocia, but we had other places to see, so we hopped on a bus and made our way south to Konya, known for little aside from Rumi (a famous Persian poet) and his Whirling Dervishes. Being the wrong time of year, we weren't able to see a dervish, but we did see Rumi's tomb, some beautiful Korans, and a case holding some of the Prophet Mohammed's beard hairs (I forgot to mention that at Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, we saw Moses' staff. Yes, the very one, so they say). It's a fairly sacred spot for many Muslims, so it was no surprise that we were surrounded by throngs of tourists mingled with Muslim pilgrims during the hour or so we had there. Pictured below: the Mevlana Museum (Rumi's shrine). The teal tower is right above where Rumi is buried. Please also note the Turk pants mentioned in my previous post. We wore them particularly because we knew that Konya was a pretty conservative place and our pants were long and shapeless versus tight jeans or shorts. But after being stared at incessantly and noting that none of the girls our age were wearing such attire (jeans and t-shirts for them), I started to wonder if our pants were too touristy? Then I saw the old ladies and came to the conclusion that maybe only tourists and old Turkish ladies wear our loose gypsy pants. Ah well. 

And then we were back on a bus and off to Antalya to sleep for the night and hopefully let Phin recover a bit from whatever it was that was making her ankles and feet swell up like balloons.


Day 7/8: Antalya
By the time we got to our hostel in Antalya, Phin was definitely not feeling well. After we dragged a confession out of her (she didn't complain at all), we teased her into submission, made her put up her feet, and decided it was time for a rest day. The only problem was that Antalya wasn't really our ideal place for a rest. Although a nice enough city, it's more of a resort town for the Europeans (and therefore on a resort type of budget) with a few things we wanted to see, but nothing major. So early in the morning, M, Zillah and I trekked out on the town for a peep at Hadrian's Gate and the Old Roman Harbor and then we were off again, this time on a minibus called a "Dolmus" to rest in the teeny beach town of Patara. 

Turkey Part 1

Hello friends! I'm warning you now that this is going to be a long long post followed by another really long post. So in case you're not interested in actually reading all I have to say (this is more for me to remember things we did/saw), it's quite alright for you to skim through the smattering of pictures. 

Day 1: Amsterdam

The journey to Turkey began with a planned 12-hour layover in Amsterdam. After going way too far on the train (the suburbs were lovely), we finally found our way to Amsterdam Central. We had time and strength for only two museums: Anne Frank's House and the Rijksmuseum. Although we didn't know it until we got there, it just so happened to be Anne Frank's birthday, making it 70 years since Anne received her diary. She would have been only 83. I always think of her as quite a bit older than my grandparents, but she really wasn't. Near the end of the museum they had some heart-wrenching interviews with her father. I think one of the hardest things for him was reading the diary and realizing that he didn't ever fully know or understand his daughter until after she was gone....something to think about when I have kids.

The Rijksmusem was fabulous, at least the parts that weren't under construction (can I just say that it's really irksome to pay full entry fee when half of the museum is closed down). I wanted to sit and stare at some of my favorite Vermeers and Rembrandts for hours, but alas, by about midway through, I was struggling to keep my eyes open. An art museum is not a good place to go when you haven't slept in 2 nights. So although we had a few more hours to kill, we went back to the airport early and stuffed our faces full of food until our next flight. 

Being in Amsterdam for only a few hours was a little like torture. They Dutch were so...so cool. And their bikes were all chic with their lack of gears and handle brakes. I'm desperate to go back and actually see things.

Days 2-5: Istanbul

Where to start with Istanbul....I'd heard it said that Istanbul is like no other city in the world, and it really isn't. It felt European and 3rd World and Middle Eastern and modern all at the same time. As I stepped off the plane, the air smelled like spices (and since it was 2 am, it also smelled a little like urine). It was packed full of people all the time, even at 3 am. From my short 2 weeks in Turkey, I have deduced that Turks never get up before 9 am, but also never go to sleep til way past midnight. 

The short list of things we did/saw in Istanbul: Haggia Sophia (on left above-note the haziness), Blue Mosque, the Hippodrome, Topkapi Palace (fireplace from the Harem, below, middle. I wish my whole house looked like this), Istanbul Archeology Museums, Galata Tower, Basilica Cistern (below, left), Suleymaniye Mosque (my favorite, on right above), the Bosphorus Straight by ferry, Cora Church (below, right), Fethiye Mosque, Ecumenical Patriarchate (the "headquarters" of the Greek Orthodox Church), the Grand Bazaar, the Spice Bazzar...and I think that's it. 

As you might imagine, I was in heaven in the Spice Bazaar. It took all my self-control not to spend all my money on spices and dried fruits and nuts and such. And even Turkish delight, which I always thought was kind of nasty (Edmund was willing to trade his soul for THIS!?), but fresh from the market is actually pretty dang good (Edmund I understand you a little better now). Especially the ones rolled in coconut. I think initially I limited myself to: 1 box of Turkish delight (to share), dried apricots, almonds, apple tea, orange tea, and, of course, 1 small jar of saffron. 

One of my favorite moments in Istanbul happened while we were walking along this lovely path back from the Ecumenical Patriarchate back to the Spice Bazaar (quite a long way). The call to prayer started and from where we were standing, we could hear the muezzin (the call to prayer singer) coming from four or five mosques and then echoing out over the water. It was absolutely lovely. 

Istanbul was hot hot hot and sticky. Wearing anything but the Turk pants we bought (which you will see later) was pretty much unbearable, but we soldiered on with shiny faces (yes, like mine below) and sweating backs. Pictured below: me in Haggia Sophia; a mosaic from Haggia Sophia; Haggia Sophia tombs where the five sultans and their families were buried; inside Fethiye Mosque.

Before Turkey, I had never been in a mosque before. I knew the appropriate protocol, of course, but I'd never had a chance or reason to visit one. In some ways our visits to them were rather disheartening: many of the tourists in the mosques put their shoes on the carpet or otherwise showed the bottoms of their feet = very offensive; some of the women were dressed inappropriately (shorts, tank tops, etc) or, once inside and away from the eyes of the officials, removed their head scarves. So. Rude. In the Blue Mosque, I was particularly saddened to see that the women's prayer area (at least they had one!) was in the back by all the tourists and behind the place where people could store their shoes. (Perhaps I was overly paranoid about the bottom of the foot thing...since I've been back, I've been reveling in being able to sit with my feet showing...but better to be overly culturally conscious, right?). Most people didn't notice them trying to pray. It's hard to be a woman in Islam, I think. But on the more positive side, it was touching to see the men and their sons doing their ablutions before entering. And although I felt a bit invasive staring at them while they prayed, it was still lovely to see. The mosques were all beautiful inside...and the carpet felt glorious on our tired feet.

More to come later.

on packing

Next week I shall be traveling in Turkey for two weeks. And although I'm usually pretty nonchalant about what I pack, it's generally done the night before my departure and in a very small bag, my subconscious self is apparently quite worried about what to bring. Case in point: last night I had a dream that T-rav, three friends and I were all going camping, but they wouldn't let me take any clothes with a medium level of grubbiness. Instead, I was forced to bring whatever I had managed to put on the top of the pile, which was actually the pile of clothes to not take (my very best and fanciest items, which isn't really saying much, but still) and didn't include any underwear. It was quite distressing to have to go hiking wearing heels and a blouse, especially when I looked around and saw everyone else in cut-off shorts and t-shirts. I hate being the odd-woman out. And then to top it all off, they wouldn't let me wear the one grubby shirt I had smuggled in the bag-a slightly oversize tie-dye shirt.

I know. Such a trial.

Anyway. This made me think about packing and what I really should bring with me for 2 weeks that will all fit in a small backpack and still leave a little space for any treasure that I simply must bring home. I may end up just wearing the same 3 shirts the whole time (M, phin, and Zillah, I promise to bring soap to wash my clothes). I'd just really rather have a small bag that's easy to transport around the country than have several options of outfits (though I'm sure I'll change my tune when it's time to get dressed in the morning. I usually do). What about the rest of you? What's something you simply can't travel without? (me: face wash and accompanying facial products). Are you a light packer, heavy packer, or somewhere in between? Do you plan ahead or throw it all in last-minute?

where is home?

When my little sister Kate was 7 or 8, she started calling me a hobo. It was unthinkable to her little child brain that someone would move around as much as I did...not that I really did, but being a college student always seems to warrant frequent moves. Since we were married, T-rav and I have lived in 8 places in 9 years in 5 different states (and 2 countries if you count the summer in Guatemala), and, as most of you know, much of that time has been spent in Utah. But Utah never really felt like home. It was always a place I was living temporarily until we moved to our "real" home. Wherever that was.

In truth, I've felt in-limbo for a long time. Although I don't really want to choose a place to settle down (ah, the dreaded word settle. It sends shivers through my spine), I sometimes think it might be nice to have a place that was my place. A place where I belong. Because if I can't spend all my time wandering around the globe, I'd like to have a little house with a grand yard and chickens and the best garden you've seen in a long time. And maybe a few goats. And fruit trees. 

This past week when I was back in Utah visiting my sister and her new baby and all the friends I left behind when I moved to DC, I thought that I might feel a little like I was returning home again. But I didn't. Not really. It was lovely to visit, and in many ways I felt like I had never left, but I didn't feel that sense of belonging that I was searching for. 

So did I feel like I was home when I returned to DC? Not particularly, though more so than in Utah. I'm starting to think that perhaps I have the wrong idea of what "home" means (and please don't tell me that "home is where the heart is" because my heart is generally in Italy or Ireland or the Falkland Islands). Usually I feel like my home is where I grew up, my parent's home, but my father usually tries to make it clear that it's not my home any more (particularly when I'm contemplating a house remodel without him). So where is home? What makes you feel like you're home?

Update: T-rav accidentally suggested that I might feel more at home if I had a dog (accidentally because he really doesn't want one). I think he's right. I need a dog.

proof I exist

After my cousin Molly passed away last year, I spent a lot of time going through all of the pictures she had amassed on facebook (my sister and I made a memory book of her photos and memories from family and friends). And my oh my did that girl have a lot of photos. Like many teenage girls, she vacillated between narcissism and self loathing, but still she took pictures of everything she did, everywhere she went, everyone she loved. Of course we will always carry our memories of Molly with us, but it's nice to have so many of them down on paper (or rather on the computer). It's easy to get more than a glimmer of her impish personality from those pictures. It's proof of how she lived, laughed, loved.

It made me start wondering what kind of memories I've left behind. I'm terribly bad about keeping a journal (this blog is about the closest thing to one I've ever had), and apparently I don't really take pictures either because as I went through many of the photos I'd taken since I left home 12 years ago (twelve years! I can't believe it), I was a little shocked to find how few there were. Of all my adventures, there were only a handful of  small folders of pictures, many of which did not include any people. And it made me a little sad. All those memories, lost to the past, evident only in what I can remember and may/may not write down at some point.

So I made a resolution, one that I've really not been that great about keeping thus far: to take more pictures. I want to be able to look back at my life and see how I lived. I want my children to know who my best friends were from more than just 1 or 2 pictures (and preferably know them in real life). I don't want to forget. And I don't want to be forgotten.

a note from my (grammar) student

Ms. Zirker,


Thank you for teaching me. My English grammar become much better than before. I learn a lot and have a happy life in Georgetown University. Thanks again!


Should I be pleased or shed a tear?

how good is your British?

You know I'm a bit of a language nerd, particularly when it comes to English. So please indulge me as I present to you this little quiz on some British English words that don't mean quite the same thing in American English.

Match the British words below with their American counterparts. Check the comments for the correct answers and tell me how many you got right/wrong. Please. A little entertainment will make this last week of school go by so much easier. 

Possible answers: 

cotton swab, mohawk, dark chocolate, trampoline, tic tac toe, crossing guard, bangs, electric blanket, cotton wool, slingshot,  large mugs, TV, beet, fanny pack, fender, coveralls, suspenders, candy salesman, tights, tube top, rutabaga, sponge bath, a lawn game, eggplant, zucchini, undershirt, spoiler, milk chocolate

1. aubergine
2. bowls
3. blanket bath
4. boob tube
5. braces
6. boiler suit
7. catapult
8. cotton bud
9. fringe (relating to hair)
10. lollipop man
11. noughts and crosses
12. plain chocolate
13. swede
14. vest
15. wing (on a car)

For a more complete list of differences (and the source for these words) check out this website.

moist

There are certain words that one should never say out loud. The kind of word that make your hair stand a little bit up on end or make you feel like you've just revealed something personal that you didn't mean to share with the group. Like moist, for example. The one good thing about it, however, is that when you're trying to take a family picture with several people who are typically not very photogenic (ahem. me), and your slightly, or maybe more than slightly, crass brother shouts the word "moist" at the top of his lungs, everyone doubles over into a belly laugh that cannot be contained, which actually doesn't result in the best pictures for some of us, but it's better than an uncomfortable grimace, right?

Other words on my "banned words" list include: panties, bulbous, gyrate, (which one of my professors managed to work into almost every lecture for a whole semester. Sometimes he even acted out the verb for us...) pimple, and several words that, while pure in and of themselves, connote various body parts or functions. I'll leave those to your imagination. 

While you think of words that make you squirm, please admire these pictures of my adorable nephew at his 1st birthday party. Please feel free to share any of your most hated words.

Meet B.O.B

T-rav has been saving every penny and scouring the internet for a reasonably priced bike trailer. To his delight (no really, delight. Or maybe giddiness) he finally found one on ebay at a price that led him to believe that something just had to be wrong with it (there wasn't), and soon B.O.B showed up on our doorstop in a jumbo cheese wedge-shaped box (T-rav wanted to keep the box for memories, but really, when would one ever need to pack something in a wedge box?). Once B.O.B was fully assembled, T-rav was itching to him for a spin...preferably farther than around the block. So Saturday we hitched B.O.B to T-rav's bike and pedaled our way to a nursery to buy some plants and soil for our garden. 

We went 25 miles. B.O.B did very well and never once tipped or bounced in an unseemly way. Our plants were happily protected in the back, and T-rav claims he hardly even noticed B.O.B's added weight (I thought I should have bought more and I was right. My garden still has plenty of space for some leafy greens or something...as long as it's not long and viney. Suggestions?)

Twenty-five miles isn't too far. But it's definitely farther than I've ridden maybe ever, and there were loads and loads of hills. Really steep ones. The kind that threaten to make you and your bike tip over because you can't pedal fast enough to keep yourself upright. I may have had to walk once or twice.

Two points to anyone who can guess what B.O.B's name stands for. And no cheating! 

are you proud to be a woman?

The past two weeks have been ridiculously busy at my office job, but the project in which I've been busily engaged has been less that mentally stimulating. More like dull as rocks. The good thing is that I've had plenty of time for self-reflection and philosophizing, mostly about the role of women in society and in the Mormon church and as human beings. I have more questions than answers, but I've been thinking about what I think about my identity as a women. Maybe you can help me sort out my thoughts.

When I was 18 or so, I remember proudly asserting that I had more guy friends than girls because girls could be so hard to get along with, that I preferred being friends with guys to girls. And there are several things wrong with that.

First of all, I changed my tune about preferring male friends a long time ago. I suppose it was around the time that I got married (and most of my male friends suddenly disappeared). But I realized that my girl friends understood things about me and about my life that most men never will. And more importantly, they understand things from a female perspective. Trivial things like the trial of finding jeans that fit one's bottom and having sore bosoms at that time of the month, or more important things like sexism and discrimination or childbirth (which I obviously can't completely empathize with at this point, but the fact that I could in the future I think gives me a leg up on any man). So why would I say something like I did? I've always considered myself a feminist, even back then. Equal rights for all, just don't make me hang out with women, please! There's something dreadfully wrong with that sentiment.

Maybe the root is in our patriarchal society, the media, and maybe even women themselves. Men dominate, they believe they're superior to women (consciously or subconsciously) and therefore men demean women, so women demean women to be accepted as "one of the guys" (which is totally what I was doing...trying to impress some guys, I'm sure). I'm not one of those annoying girls. I'm a guys' girl. I'm cool. I'm tough. I'm unemotional and strong. I don't need women. And this is such a damaging attitude. Damaging because it's built upon false pretenses: strong is only a manly attribute; women are overly emotional, women are annoying, women aren't cool. Damaging because it's a woman belittling womankind.

Have any of you ladies (or gentleman) noticed this or is it just me? How does one teach women (or teenage girls) to be proud of being a woman because they are women. Not because they're "nurturers" or beautiful or dainty or whatever. I think one's identity as a woman has to be something more than that. But what? Ladies, what makes you proud to be a woman? Or are you proud to be a woman? Thoughts?

I'm adding another question after the fact: how much of what makes you a woman is based on cultural constructs, and does that even matter?

My lovely cousins Sarah and Jane came to visit this weekend.
Happy Easter!

the kite festival and laryngitis

 I lost my voice yesterday somewhere between the kite festival and my third episode of Bones for the night. Or maybe it was during Much Ado About Nothing. Either way I've been whispering when I've found it absolutely necessary to speak, which is rather disconcerting since T-rav has been trained (by me) to respond when I squeak, shout, holler, or yelp, and a silent burst of air being expelled just doesn't have the same attention-getting qualities to it. Anyway, this has forced me to analyze the quality of what I'm thinking of saying before I actually say it. It goes something like this: Is this important? Is it going to engage me in a long conversation? How can I say this as concisely as possible? Is it worth heckling T-rav and possibly trying to goad him into an argument that I will have to whisper rather than rant? It's been interesting for a day at least. You might want to try it some time.

In other news, yesterday was the Kite Festival, part of the National Cherry Blossom Festival (no matter that the cherries are quite done). It highlighted handmade kites, had flight demonstrations and a showing of tricks, and culminated with a series of kite fights where the kite fliers try to cut the other kites out of the sky by strategically wrapping their string around the other strings and sawing until the other string breaks. It was very exciting. Although the weather wasn't quite as warm as I would have liked (especially since my nasty cold had moved from hot flashes to cold flashes), there were hundreds of people out flying their kites along with the pros. Us included. It only took us five, ok fine six tries to get our kite airborne (I don't remember it being so tricky to get a kite to stay up. I swear when I was a kid, I just ran and tossed it up and voila! Kite in the air).

Sadly, my cruddy camera does not capture the massive number of kites being flown. It almost looked like a plague of locusts buzzing around the Washington Monument (did I ever mention that the earthquake was nearly 9 months ago and construction on the small cracks that appeared at the top won't even start until this summer?! And then who knows how long it will take. Bah to bureaucracy!). Almost equally as sad is the picture of me and T-rav at the festival that is most definitely not pictured here. We're pale and sickly-looking and my hair is blowing everywhere and we're both squinting weirdly even though it wasn't really sunny. I do have standards, you know. Just enjoy the whale floating in the background and imagine yourself there with us. Visitors are always welcome!

It's Spring!

Team Molly

 March 18th marked the 1 year anniversary of my cousin Molly's passing. Molly being a crazy runner and all, running a race in her honor seemed like the right thing to do, so  last weekend T-rav and I trekked down to Virginia Beach with my dad and sister Kate, and Aunt, her family, and my cousins' boyfriends and family. Together we made up Team Molly.

T-rav and I ran the 8K (we had wanted to do the half marathon, but sadly registered after it was already full. I just need to make that clear because I felt like a big wimp only doing 5 miles). Aunt, uncle, boyfriends + family, and cousin Jane ran the half, cousin Sarah ran the marathon, and my dad and Kate cheered us on. We were kind of a ragtag bunch: I was still feeling rather ill and hadn't eaten in 3 days, uncle got a stomach bug the day before the race, Sarah had a seriously pained knee, and Jane's boyfriend had a torn ACL. And he ran anyway (with dr's permission). Now THAT is dedication.

Team Molly was a great success. Our t-shirts were quite a hit--Molly loved tie-dye and bright blue--and you could hear fellow runners (mostly teenage ones) whispering about our awesome shirts as we walked/ran around town. There was an exciting energy in the race that I haven't really felt since 9th grade track meets. And although the weather wasn't fantastic (I actually think it was warmer in Palmyra for once), being at the beach and enjoying what sun we had was exactly what Molly would have wanted. She was born with one toe in the sand and the other already running.

We love you, Molly!

saltines are my salvation

I have spent the past 48 hours in various states of stomach distress. I was bloated to the point that I looked pregnant (Yes, really. T-rav noticed while I was changing but was too polite to mention it until I did). I couldn't take a deep breath and for a while I thought my appendix might be rupturing. That was what finally inspired me to go to the doctor for some unpleasant poking, prodding, and x-rays. The results of which revealed insides that showed a belly full of too much food and bubbles and acid, getting in the way of my lungs and causing significant pain in my stomach and intestines. Apparently I ate too many raw vegetables and fibrous products at once? Weird. I was sent home with instructions for liquids only for 12 hours, and then a soft and bland food diet for 3 days (which may make running my 8K on Saturday at a respectable pace a little difficult). Of course the lack of any food in my stomach or sugar in my bloodstream was almost as upsetting as all of that undigested food, so I spent today in the fetal position on the couch watching reruns of Law & Order while trying to shove  jello and plain white rice in my mouth. Things were a little sketchy until T-rav came home on his lunch break armed with crackers and apple juice. It was at that point that I started to feel significantly better. Thank heavens for Saltines.

And Zillah, if this was a fraction of how you felt the majority of the time before your surgery, I have a new level of PROFOUND respect for you.

king of the house

He's the type you'd be wise to tip-toe around. You offend him and he'll hold a grudge forever. His name reflects his personality better than most. He's smelly and rude and lets loose a string of profanity at the drop of a hat.  He must be given treats. He must not be yelled at. He must be pampered. He's very clearly the king of the house.

And he's my mom's cat.

Rascal is his name. And he's the most curmudgeonly animal I've ever met. He has a history of urinating on whomever/whatever has offended him. Case in point: while home for a short visit, my sister once yelled at him, he crept in her room while she was out, and she returned to a suitcase full of rank-smelling clothes. We've learned that if you shut the curtains in the living room and block Rascal's view of the sun, he'll let loose on them. I dared to step around him with an armful of laundry (neglecting to pat him on my way) and was treated to the most savage sounding hissing I've ever heard. And today a few hours after a I politely asked him to go into the other room while I vacuumed (Really. I spoke as congenially as I could muster), I discovered that he had again relieved himself on the mirror on the door that houses the vacuum. And now I can't get the stench out of the hall.

He's completely psycho. How do I get through the next 4 days at home without my mom to pacify the beast?

The Old Post Office

Yesterday we had the dubious pleasure of visiting another one of DC's historic, and free, points of interest: the Old Post Office. It's really an impressive building. Built in the Romanesque style at a time when it was already fading out of style, the fact that the post office survived into the 20th century is quite a feat. They considered tearing it down soon after it was built, partly because of its old fashioned facade, and partly because the postal system had already outgrown the building. During the 1970s, it was again threatened with demolition, but some vocal citizens and the chairwoman for the National Endowment for the Arts convinced Congress to reverse its decision.

So the exterior of the building is pretty fantastic. Surrounded by the bleak FBI and EPA buildings, it's certainly an architectural breath of fresh air. There's a free tour guided by the typically peculiar park rangers up the grandiose clock tower, offering one of the highest views of the city. You can also take a gander at the official "Bells of Congress" (I bet you didn't know that Congress has their very own set of bells). On the 9th floor (the highest main floor of the building) you can see a few photos that make up the pitiful "exhibit" explaining the building's history. But the saddest part of the post office is the interior. Their website boasts "some of DC's mouth-watering international cuisine, diverse shopping, and musical events." But in reality, the main floor hosts a profoundly depressing food court complete with an arcade and kitchy souvenir shops.

The most ironic thing of all is that the building serves as overflow for several different government agencies, including the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation. HA! It's a perfect example of the worst kind of "preservation:" let's turn it into a mall! A shop! An arcade! The worst kind of American commercialism. It's such a tragedy that I find myself looking forward to the day when Donald Trump starts work remodeling the post office into a luxury hotel. Maybe he'll put some class back into the poor underappreciated Post Office.

peevish

Adjective: 1. Easily irritated, esp. by unimportant things.
Synonyms:
sullen - petulant - morose - testy - crabbed - pettish

And that pretty much describes my mood the past 24 hours.

Example 1:  BA comes to class unprepared (again) and then proceeds to ask me questions that I have literally just answered to the rest of the class. He doesn't "understand" what a noun phrase is and asks what the topic is for the Thursday presentation that we've been working on since last Thursday. I try not to explain things to him like he's a 4-year-old. I'm only moderately successful and it takes all my self control.

Example 2: T-rav was in charge of loading the dishes last night, but neglected to run the very full dishwasher before going to bed. It doesn't really affect me that much since he handwashed a spoon for my oatmeal this morning, but I have a compulsive need to lash out about it. I refrain...until on the way to work. (Sorry, tio!)

Example 3: AK, one of the most extravagantly wealthy students I've ever had (no really. This guy dropped a double digit grand to buy an imported chess table) comes to class unprepared (again) and somehow manages to turn every group discussion topic into an illustration of his wealth or high-level connections. I listen as politely as I can without rolling my eyes in front of him. Frankly, AK, I don't really give a damn that your clothes are from some Italian designer, your watch was purchased in a fancy shop in Switzerland, or that you've had personal tours of such and such famous factory. Your English isn't awesome and you never bother to do homework assignments, and that's really all I need to know about you at this point.

Example 4: I run for 40 minutes, drink far too much water, and promptly feel woozy. There's no one to blame but myself, so I send myself to bed so I don't say anything nasty to poor tio for no reason.

I have more examples, but even if you're fond enough of me to read this far, you probably aren't interested in a list of all the things irritating me today. So I'll stop. On the positive side, I finally remembered to bring my electric blanket to work (there is no heater in my office, and the building almost never turns on the main heating when the outside temperature reaches 52), so I am now snuggled up at my desk like a little kid. Hopefully it will bring some improvements to my testiness. Also it's Leap Day which seems important somehow. 

Gettysburg

This weekend I was itching to get out of town, and to be quite honest, I would have preferred somewhere a little warmer and a little farther (like Florida. Or Spain), but instead we settled for 80 miles north to the Gettysburg battlefield. And this way SS could come along, which made it a bit more worth it. ;) 

Gettysburg National Military Park has a rather ostentatious new museum and visitors center, and I'm sure the displays were very nice, but I wouldn't know. We were feeling a little cheap (surprised?), so we skipped the $36/person total package and opted to create our own tour using a brochure the lays out a 24 mile driving tour of the area and a printout of the Wikipedia article on Gettysburg. If I’d had the money, I might have paid the $65 to have a personal guide ride in our car with us and tell us all about the sites. We saw them at almost every stop, and they seemed to know everything—a true dream job for a Civil War nerd. 

My overall impression was just how huge the battlefield is (at one point the Confederate line was over 5 miles long) and in the 3 1/2 hours we were there we only saw the major highlights. Even though I’ve read about the battle and studied it in history class and seen the movie Gettysburg, I still imagined a nice mostly open field where the soldiers lined up to slaughter each other. Not so, however.  

The powers that be have constructed a road along the battlefield that mostly follows the battle lines. The big monuments you can see in the picture above mark the center of the line of each group of men so you can get an idea of what kind of area they were defending. They were all built by the state or group that they represent and show a little character of the home state. They usually say "Pennsylvania 5th Regiment," or something like that, and then list battle dates, casualties, and other campaigns they were involved in. Between each of the large monuments there are often small stone markers that show where the left and right flank of each group were. Some groups held a line that was only 50 or 100 feet long, while others held several hundred yards. 

On Big Round Top

This is the view from Little Round Top, looking down into the Devil's Den. The picture doesn't really do it justice, but from the top you can see most of the battlefield and you can see why it was such an important strategic position. 

Apparently the Pennsylvanians didn't want to feel left out, so they built this 110' tall monument in the middle of the battlefield. I think it looks more like a Hare Krishna temple, personally. Our driving tour ended, naturally, at the cemetery where Lincoln his legendary speech. For whatever reason, I didn't take any pictures there, but mostly it looks like a cemetery. I thought I would feel solemn and somber in such a location, but I didn't really. Maybe it's because all of Gettysburg seems like a cemetery, and the whole place seems somber. I also decided that with all of the soldiers that died there, there's no way it isn't haunted. If you believe in that sort of thing, of course. 

a gastronomic adventure

I've eaten my fair share of exotic food since I started teaching ESL. My general rule is that as long as it doesn't have multiple, still-wiggling legs, I'll try it. I've discovered that: I really really like (almost love but not quite) Korean food, yes, even kimchi. Chop Chei is my favorite. Kim chi pancakes (at left) are not awesome, but might be better warm than cold like the ones I ate. Japanese food made with ingredients found at the regular grocery store is not nearly as good as the "real" thing from the Asian market. Empanadas/samosas are pretty much awesome no matter where they come from. Eastern European food has a bit too much vinegar and cabbage for my taste. Chinese rice balls have the texture of eye balls (at least what I imagine eye balls would be) and should be avoided at all costs. Tongue tacos are the best. Tamales made by a student's mom who woke up in the middle of the night to finish cooking them so her daughter would have something to share with the class taste infinitely better than the ones you buy at a restaurant. Mongolians make killer dumplings. If I could spend a week lounging in the Middle East doing nothing but eating kunafa (see the picture-shredded phyllo dough on top of a layer of sweet cream cheese and soaked in rose water syrup), Lebanese pudding, and baklava, I might never leave. I might also collapse from a sugar overdose and then look down at my hips to see them double in size.

Today, however, I am bringing something home that I haven't yet tried, at least in this form. You see, today was they Gtown potluck lunch, and when the Saudis cook khabsa (rice and meat/chicken) they don't mess around with small pieces of meat. They roast the entire beast. And then they serve the entire beast...including the head. So today I am carrying the skull of a lamb in my bag in order to carve out the tongue because the tongue is the best meat, and I simply "must" try it. So I was blessed with the leftovers and the dubious privilege of digging out said tongue. And while this seemed like an excellent, adventurous idea while at school with my co-teachers rooting me on, it's suddenly feeling like a less good idea, especially considering that I'm only carnivorous these days when someone feeds me meat. And now I'm going to dissect a poor lamb?

Yes. I think I am. After all, I might as well try it, right? Wouldn't you?