Kebabcim

Words I know, I know in Turkish: 

Hello

Goodbye

Goodnight

Thank you

Yes (I can never remember how to say no but there is this thing that you can do with your lips to make a clicking noise—someone described it to me a clicking at a horse… apparently when I do it, it’s always perceived as provocative.  I need to try to remember to not wink while saying “no” with my lips…)

According to Americans

The American Embassy

Museum

Smoking

Prostitute (of course there is an inappropriate story behind this one…)

One

31 (it also means masturbation, don’t ask me why, I tried to figure one out)

Very cute

Very sexy (yup you know those Turkish men)

A little

Kebab

Black (I can’t remember any other color, so I’m very limited with what I can buy)

Okay

All the Turkish officials and names of newspapers in Turkey—does that count?

Okay here are a few sentences I can come up with so far with my Turkish:

According to American’s, smoking is very sexy.

Yes, Black Kebab.

Prostitution? A little…

Goodnight museum.  Hello American Embassy!

Beypazari- City along the Silk Road in Central Anatolia

known for it's mineral water- they bottle it and sell it, obviously!  They say it promotes good health if you drink it everyday (subtle advertising) and you can even get clear skin from washing your face with it.  I bought some in apple flavor.  Apparently their marketing skills worked!

factory where they bottle the mineral water

view of the city

The city was once under water so as you drive along the Silk Road, you can see the layers from the Sedimentary Rock.  (omg, that's the first time I've ever used anything I learned from geology!)

It's also known for carrots (weird) and silver and gold.  Guess who got their shop on??  This girl!

market- those green bottles on the bottom are grape leaves- delicious!  

So the "call to worship" (done 5x's a day) was much louder here than in Ankara because it is less congested so you really hear it.  I went to my first mosque in Turkey while in Beypazari.  I had to remove my shoes but didn't have to wear a head covering.  Very beautiful building.

I think this street pup is trained better than some of our American pets!  He's got the skill for begging down pat!

So the city was on route as part of the Silk Road used to transport goods across parts of Asia and was occupied by many different people and therefore has a lot of historic value. (Hittites, Phrygians, Byzantines, Seljuks, and Ottomans)  These were carvings in Arabic inscriptions uncovered in Beypazari.  

I learned that their wealth could be determined by the number of windows a house had- the more windows, the richer the family because it cost more to insulate.  

Shake it like a Donkey with Parkinson’s

Anyways, I’m still trying to learn how to adapt to a few things.  Found myself in what could have been a very “interesting” situation one evening because of my lack of knowledge on their cultural practices when going out…

I went out with a few people… 

We needed somewhere to sit and I thought I could score us these great seats that were closed off for a table upstairs which looked to be the VIP section.  So I walked up to someone who spoke English and asked for their boss… 

Let’s just say I worked my “magic” and we got our table upstairs…

We finally ended up at a dancing place were they were playing horrible techno music and these Turkish girls were all lined up against a mirrored wall watching themselves.  Omg… it was hilarious. If I had thought of it at the time, I would have taped it on my iPhone to share with all of you. 

So I get the brilliant idea to try to go dance with them. Hahaha.

Every time I would even walk up to the dance floor all the girls would leave.

But I’m an American. And I have no shame, especially after a few drinks.  So I just danced by myself.  Then my friends joined. 

But then I took a break and the Turkish would girls go back up to the dance floor… you would have thought I had herpes or something contagious…

I decided that the Techno SUCKED (which it does)… so I went to the DJ and asked him to play AKON?? Lmao.  At least he spoke English. 

So I started to “Shake it like a Donkey with Parkinson’s” with my friends on the dance floor like I would at any American club, which would usually get me a free round of drinks and a life supply of beef.

This, however, got the owners undesired attention awaiting our departure from the corner of his very expensive bar…. And a small riot of men waiting to throw stones…  No I’m only joking about the latter part, it was the women who were pissed that their men were starring. 

I wanted to explain to the owner that in America, this was seen as a ritual mating dance and that I was really sorry for any misunderstanding, I just had some junk in my trunk and I was trying to shake it out. 

I thought it best to just leave by saying thanks. 

Don’t worry Daddy. I was safe the whole time.  I was with guys twice my age. 

But my conclusion to this experience was that I was left confused about the cultural lines for women in their society…  Just after I thought I had it figured out… Some things were VERY clear.  No sexy dancing. Check.  (I still wish someone had friggin’ briefed me about this I wouldn’t have put myself out there like any 20 something American who goes dancing)  But that makes sense why the girls in the clubs looked like idiots dancing by themselves when we walked into the club…

But in this culture, they obviously react to some kinds of female interaction or I couldn’t have scored us that money table upstairs with the view overlooking the street… 

Distinctions still need to be made as to where the line is drawn in the sand.  Jury’s out.  More to report later.  Cheers.

Low point: I now have the world’s most famous nose ring.

When I write my tell-all book, my nose ring will be worth as much as Janet Jackson nipple rings, for the diplomatic society.

I was invited to the Ambassador’s estate on Friday evening to meet certain individuals who were in town and instructed very closely on what to wear: suit, very formal and look very conservative because their would be Turkish men at the event- oh and my nose… yes.  Could I take that out for the evening?  It probably isn’t ideal for the standard, conservative look… epic.

Oh yes.  My face was glowing, red with embarrassment.  Hot cheeks.  I could feel the blood rushing to them… humiliation and then… a bit of anger… just a smidge.  Okay, a little more than that.  I can’t say I wasn’t surprised because I’m working I’m a conservative circle of people, but perhaps these officials were not busy enough or you haven’t grasped the concept of “official diplomacy” since they had time to write it down in an official email.

In America we are fortunate enough to have the freedom to pierce, stab, tattoo, and penetrate and part of our body however we want.  And we take it that job serious!

Don’t believe me?  Walk into any homeroom in public schools across America.  Or just watch the kids lined up in at the cinema waiting for the newest Twilight saga.  My personal fav…  Little freaks.

I think there comes a time in every boring person’s life, when they have to let go of any self-identifying factors that make them unique and conform to societies cookie-cutter image of subservient blue-collared labor.  I however, have not said that would be today.  Or tomorrow.  And yes, I still plan on teaching four-year olds the f-bomb for fun.  (See earlier post for reference if you are finding yourself confused). 

And yet… I submit to my authorities requests and removed the nose ring (currently, the world’s most famous nose ring). 

But when I arrived at the dinner that was the first thing my boss checked- MY NOSE!  So naturally, I asked for a copy of his email…

I think it’s only fair.  I think I’m considering submitting this with the nose ring whenever it does go up for auction, because I think it will help to increase the value and verify the integrity of the item.  I plan on trying to sell it as a collector’s item if this incident ever repeats and then I will have more than one nose ring for the collection. 

I have nothing further to say about my nose.

Absolem's O's

I’ve decided to loosen up my office with a construction worker’s uniform tomorrow.  Not the sexy Halloween kinds you wear, but the site ones with big orange reflectors and hard helmets.  This is because here’s my favorite phrase, which is starting to require a hard helmet to hear: “Here’s some ‘constructive criticism’ for you…”

This has been making my workday harder to bear, which means down time becomes necessary to enjoy…

I wound up at a sketchy, hookah bar where they don’t talk and play board games like backgammon and rummi…  We were scooted into the basement where it was dimly lit and people were smoking and sitting around tables. 

My friend pointed out that we were the only girls, an observation I hadn’t made myself, but now it made sense.  Perhaps this was more of a “gentleman’s club.”  I didn’t really know.

We sat down and ordered tea and coffee and chai and hookahs and began to play. 

The boys in came around in basement and gave you hot coals with metal tongs when your coals went out. 

I felt like I was in a James Bond movie or some American Gangster movie where men in blue jackets with big white lettering where going to come pounding in the door on any moment and make arrests. 

 And yet… I had a blast playing the games but I did feel like everyone was starring at me—because they were…

Note to self: when hitting the hookah around new co-workers in the future, don’t blow perfect smoke “O’s” like Absolem in Alice in Wonderland… you might start to give yourself away.  I just got really excited, seeing as I was finally better at something than anyone else, I temporarily forgot its implications.

I quickly remembered when everyone in the room was starring at me like I had just thrown a baby in traffic.

Smoking hookah in sexist, dark, sketchy pub while playing backgammon? Check.  

iPhone Photos of Ankara Bazaar

Filet-O-Fish

Tonight was my first evening dining at a “fancy” restaurant in Ankara.  When my friend and I arrived at the restaurant we approached an enclosed, wooded series of gently sloping stone steps.  Super adorable and tucked away from the traffic on the main road.  It was located just a block from my apartment and was called Dafne (aka Daphne).  It was lit with little LED lights glowing from the little snow that hadn’t yet melted. The door was left friendlily open so we randomly wandered up a set of old wooden stair linking us to the dining room…

It had pale, green tinted walls, with thick architecturally wood accents.  It looked similar to a ski cabin, as my friend pointed out, with the fire roasting across the room. 

I ate the most delicious food of my life... 

The best olives and hummus and salad: comprised of sliced onions and lettuce and the richest olive oil tomatoes and cucumbers. 

Describing it won’t do it justice.  It was Baby Jesus’ salad in a bowl, served with olive oil.  Perhaps it was the same olive oil Mary used to anoint Jesus with, or at least a distant relative…   

Speaking of Baby Jesus... I also hear this region has lots of Biblical sites to see, being part of the Fertile Crescent and such…  My friend commented on a theory that I believe I may try to observe in nature and then adapt as my own because I absolute love it and find it brilliant: 

She noted that people use name of the god in vain to whom they believe—example:  I say GD!  People here swear by hula-hula-hula, in like a really low gargly voice.  I guess it’s short for Allah, ie: their god. 

Totally love this observation and what it may say for atheists or agnostics…  Who do they curse to???

And yet I digress, but it’s my blog, so what the hell!  (Haha! I guess hell is a universal truth, because everyone swears to that!)

Anyways: (Scene change) back at restaurant pre dinner… and scene…

We drank a bottle of red wine indigenous to Turkey called Yakut.  Apparently the story goes that the Sheraton hotel is architecturally modeled after a wine bottle because it used to be a vineyard.  Yakut is supposed to be the wine from the vines that grew on that vineyard... Or so the story goes. Lol. 

The Sheraton hotel does look like a wine bottle, but I don’t read Turkish (quickly becoming a common theme in my blogs) so I couldn’t confirm or deny if these where true statements by, say, reading the back of the wine label or asking my delightful server. 

It’s possible that this is one of those fables that people try to get the newbie’s to buy into like “Elevator Passes” for a one-floor school.  I bought one K-12, so naturally I’d have my reservations. 

For dinner I ordered the fish special since I was told that was the best thing on the menu.  Naturally I have caviar taste, so I agreed the fish would be a perfect choice.

My friend prepared me before hand that the fish would be served whole—or with head and tail still on it… which meant you would have to fillet the fish yourself.  Something I have never done before. 

When the fish arrived, it looked beautiful.  Grilled, steamed and dead, but damn gorgeous.  Totally get why American’s don’t want to do that much work to eat—because we’re effing lazy! 

Making sure I wasn’t too obvious that I had no clue what I was doing and was observing my gracious opposite table counterpart, step-by-step, with her knife and fork, I gently moved my knife along the fish “filleting” him like a pro! 

I was expecting the characteristic Pretty Woman moment when I sent the head of my fish flying across the room and my waiter caught it, or worse in my case, it would end up staring in someone’s lap… regrettably, I have no embarrassing moment to confess except my successful first filleted fish!  (Of which kind of fish I don’t know, because, again, I don’t speak Turkish… But it was delicious.)

Throughout the meal, the old “Filet-O-Fish” Superbowl commercial line from several years ago, kept finding it’s way into my less than subtle banter. 

We also a traditional Turkish drink, which is good luck when eaten with fish, called Raki.  It was served in small clear glasses and the drink was clear.  When you added water, it bubbled a bit and magically became opaque!  It tastes a bit like Sambuca but not as sweet or syrupy. 

I had great conversation and it was great to meet someone else in Turkey my age.  When we left, because my friend left such a generous “American” tip, they brought us a complimentary fruit platter with pomegranates, apples, kiwi, oranges, tangerines and more… The service was amazing—side note from an over critical, previous server, and worth the money. 

Uphill Both Ways

I’m sure everyone reading this blog wants to know how things are getting along in Ankara since my arrival.  Adapting to a country where you don’t speak the language is very difficult, to say the least.  But a warm smile goes a long way.  And the Turkish people are very friendly—when they’re not behind the wheel!

I did well learning some Turkish my first Friday night at the Marine Happy Hour.  Somehow I seem to have forgotten most of it by morning. 

I was afraid when leaving home that I was going to miss Franklyn, my adorable, recently adopted cat, who keeps me company.  But I instantly realized that there are a plethora of strays in Ankara (both dogs and cats-but the dogs kind of scare me because they travel in packs).  We happen to have a “house” cat called Osman, but you pronounce the ‘s’ with a ‘z.’ He’s a big fat black cat and I’ve seen him eating but I don’t know who feeds him.  And there’s a picture of him in our hallway.  He seems very sociable but I really hope my rabies shots are up to date!

But these cats are everywhere…  Some girl who lives upstairs from me took a kitten home from the Marine House to keep them from kicking it.  Normally I would say that’s animal cruelty but this cat had these big bat-like ears.  It was pretty ugly.  I’ll update you when I get word on how “Batman” is adjusting to his new home upstairs.

My apartment is very nice.  Furnished and such.  Bed unmade as usual.  The hallway is unusually long.  And the toilets don’t flush backwards, like the whole Australia joke.  They kind of just flush down.  Weird.

My adventures outside the Embassy by myself (ie: without a translator) for the first time were rough.  The navigation was sketchy only because it was so dark and I was unfamiliar with all the roads and with the onslaught of Turkish traffic, it made for an interesting experience.  Well aware of the insanity of Turkish driving, I approached walkways and sidewalks as timidly as possible and was not surprised by the lack of order on their roadways. 

I finally approached my destination, a tiny super market, where I had to randomly pick what I needed by pointing to it, politely.  It wasn’t until I got home that realized I might not have picked out exactly what I wanted. 

But first, I would like to punch in the ovaries, who ever told me that Ankara was on a plateau because that is total BS!  I had to carry my weight home in water on a steep incline, stopping three times for breaths.  There was no need for a winter jacket by the time I got home and needless to say, I don’t feel embarrassed about that jerk who harassed me about cancelling my gym membership before I left, because if I have to carry home everything I eat UPHILL I’m coming home as the Biggest Loser Champion, oh and with some serious calf muscles. 

When I made it home I realized I hadn’t got exactly what I thought I had…  feel free to laugh because I had to hold the phone away from my ear when I told my mom because she was laughing so loud…

1).  I thought I got some kind of milk.  I mean I just wanted something to eat with my cereal.  I wasn’t being prejudice—it could be skim, 1%, 2% or hell, I’d even use whole! Nope, definitely wrong.  I bought some kind of sour milk.  I’m actually not sure what it is because I don’t read Turkish, but I know it’s not milk.  Haha, I wonder what that storeowner thought when I was buying that?

(this is me drinking Ayran, mentioned above- I finally figured out what it was: it's like a chunky yogurt drink that everyone drinks around here... very, very lumpy.  It's like chewing your milk)

2).  I thought I pointed to toilet paper.  Instead, I got paper towels.  I think the next months wiping is gunna be a bit rough…

3).  This one I think I lucked out on—yay!  I bought one of each because I didn’t know what I was buying and I stood in front of them staring for about a solid 5 minutes.  I think I bought I bottle of concentrated laundry detergent & softener.

I probably already drank all the water I dragged home with me because I was so exhausted from carrying it.  Alas, I’m not road kill so I live to tell another day!

(I have pictures to upload but this site is being a pain, so will try another time)

Rabbits & Rats

So it’s been awhile since my last blog.  Due to the fact that I’ve had no internet in my apartment since my arrival here in Ankara.  Shoot me.

Work was rough my first few days and I’ve no shame admitting that I felt rather behind in the so called “Rat Race” of life after immersing myself around the other bright minds of our day. 

Yet somehow, I find myself listening to my mother’s voice inside my head from 5,000 miles away to keep my sanity.  She always told me, “You’ll never feel behind in the rat race of life if you never give them the satisfaction of joining.”

Yet somehow my competitive nature intuitively kicks in and I can’t seem to help it and somehow I feel driven by societal pressures once again, until my very sane mother has to ground me again.    

Nonetheless, I don’t mind acknowledging my weaknesses publicly-or semi-publicly on this little invention called the internet. 

So here goes…

I was never good at the game Rabbit in elementary school.  You know, the game where the teacher held up a flash card next to you and another student and who ever answered the flashcard correct faster got to move a seat ahead, where they would be asked another question?

Well, I sucked at Rabbit.  I dreaded Friday’s when teacher’s would “play” this alleged game.  I think I moved a total of one seat my whole elementary career.  See, my brain is just not wired to shout out answers, even if I know them.  Or maybe it goes back to my weak genetic pool.  But my palms are getting sweaty just thinking about it. 

And yet I admit all this, unabashedly, to preface the story of why my first week was so typically horrendous and yet true to self.

When asked at a rapid fire on my first day, er, second day (I can’t remember, or is that I’ve already intentionally begun to block out this shameful moment of my first hours) I was asked to name the countries correlated with obscure US Embassy’s and I utterly failed.  It was like a flashback to elementary school…  And saying I moved “one seat” like in elementary school, would be gracious.  I utterly failed. 

Side note to anyone reading this—you never want me on your team for any trivia game, wrong Milford.  FYI. 

Now you may have a mind like my sister, or similarly an encyclopedia, and if this happens to be you, then feel free to laugh and judge at my expense.  I would anyways.  But tell me, Minsk is the capital of what country?  And Praia?  And Dili?

Which has brought me to my most recent undertaking… to try to learn the international capitals and countries… (emphasizing the TRYING part & most definitely NOT on rapid fire command, but within reason)

I do feel that it is always important to follow one’s own personal stupidity with someone else’s stupidity so as to lessen the pain.  Therefore, I will share with you this “sage bit of wisdom” that I overheard at the watering hole after my death by firing squad… 

Smart Guy that I was just recently comparing myself with in the so-called “Rat Race” called life: “Do you know what I realized last night?  I had a gray hair on my leg.  So I had to pull it out.  But I was thinking, what if my whole leg turns gray?  That would be so weird.  What would I do then? I’d have a whole leg that was gray!”

My mom’s so right, why get caught up about joining a bunch of one-legged, gray-haired rats? Damn, I suck at any game that involves small furry mammals.    

Things I Learned While in the Airport

I was stuck in the Munich airport all day.  My Newark flight was delayed about an hour so I was going to miss my connecting flight from Munich to Ankara.  And obviously nobody travels to Ankara except me and one other person on this planet, so they only ever have two flights a day going there a day.  Since I missed the morning flight I was stuck waiting for the evening flight with the promise of a food voucher and a day of people watching—my two favorite things.

I’ve learned one thing about myself thus far: I can’t tell time.  My math sucks thanks to my weak genetic gene pool and the fact that my older sister hit the genetic jackpot, therefore leaving me with my parent’s leftovers.  Second child syndrome: you know exactly what it is if you’re not the first born.  Needless to say, I can’t tell military time or even regular time therefore I am suck constantly re-checking my iPhone time zone app because I think I am some warped Back-to-the-Future movie remake.

I’m also pretty sure my male flight attendant on Lufthansa was wearing a dickey as part of his uniform on my fight from Munich to Ankara.  I was going to ask him if he had a dickey but I thought there was a good chance something would be lost in translation.  So I just assumed he was. 

Another thing I know:  I think tasers should be allowed in airports.  First, they’re not guns.  And second, I found a lot of potential targets that needed a good jolt… all the satisfaction, none of the guilt. 

I checked my friendly TSA app, and apparently they qualify as a “firearms.” Bummer, so this will just have to be theoretical, like a game show for idiots.  

There were a few other people I wanted to tase that were above the age of five…

Some straight guy wearing Louis Vuitton patent-leather shoes on my flight to Munich.  He had a wedding ring on his hand, which means about 95% chance he’s straight.  Who wears patent-leather LV’s in an airport and doesn’t take a private jet? Way too ostentatious. Tase.

The over-adorning coupling making out in the seat in front of me the whole way to Munich.  I want to tase both of you every time that guy kisses your forehead.  PDA is never cute, no matter what country you’re from. Vomit and then tase. 

Asshole that brought his little daughter into the smoking lounge because he was hankering a cigarette.  Double tase. 

Conclusion: I made it safely back to sovereign US territory for my first day of work and only retained 1% of what I heard today thanks to jetlag- that the Marine’s are have happy hour on Friday- yup, I’m definitely back on US soil :)

ASK TSA

I had way too much fun with TSA’s recent smart page add: “Can I Bring ____ Through Security Checkpoint?” while packing…

I needed to double check if I could bring my “Pocket Constitution” or if they were planning on stripping me of all my rights, both figuratively and literally. 

Alas, it outsmarted my obvious security threats, which I probably can’t list here but it amused me for a solid ten minutes so I think it’s worth mentioning. 

I also learned that TSA has an iPhone app, so naturally I had to download it. 

And then somehow I got suckered into watching some MSNBC video clip by Brian Williams about US Air Marshalls and the “Underwear Bomber”… happy thoughts :) Apparently they are supposed to be very secretive when they fly, but didn’t Kim Kardashian tweet that she was sitting next to a US Air Marshall this past year??

Guess those rules of confidentiality don’t apply when you’re sitting next to hot chicks… sorry I forgot my Man-book.

But today’s the big day! I’m off to Ankara, Turkey! Yay!  Get to eat some really great food and have my fortune read from my Turkish coffee grounds. 

I’ll check back in once I’ve safely reached my destination and had my fill of sexy TSA pat-downs… don’t worry, I’ll let you know all about them. 

Censoring the Chicken

When I explained to my sister that I was thinking about doing a blog, her immediate concern was to censor me: “It needs to be PG,” she told me.  She’s no fun and way too practical.  She also knows me way too well. 

“PG-13,” I bantered back.

“Fine,” she compromised, “but that means no F-bombs and no S-H-bombs.”

“Boo.”  This was going to be worse than Google being restricted in China.

Swearing was like my like piece de resistance, my signature to any cynical sentence I retorted.  But like any addict I realized when I had a habit, and sometimes it had to come in the form of a little four year old telling you had a problem. 

I wouldn’t be in this predicament if I had been successful at my New Year’s resolution: Less swearing, especially around children.  Yes, I see this may seem like a strange resolution to have because “less” isn’t exactly an absolute.  But me giving up swearing is like Charlie Sheen giving up hookers:  it’s never happening in this lifetime no matter how many stunts to rehab are involved, but there’s always next year. 

I’m also quite sure some of you might be doing a bit of judging for the “swearing around children” part but that’s okay because I will never be asked to babysit for anyone again and I’m totally okay with that. 

I reached this conclusion that it was time to try censoring my speech a bit one recent wintery evening when I was cuddling with the four-year-old love of my life, my friend’s son, when I decided to ask him a very important question…

“Do you think Bekah should have a baby?” 

“Uh-No!” he replied almost immediately.

Choking back the laughter I asked, “Why?”

“Because you say bad words!”

“What?! No I don’t!”

“Yes you do!”  he argued.

“What do I say?”

Completely afraid of where this conversation was going, he responded eagerly with a Grinch-like smile.  “F*** Off!” he shouted.

“What! Don’t say that or I’ll spank your butt!” I seriously tried to stifle my laughter but this was borderlined epic. 

“I don’t say that.  You do!” he told me.  Smart kid.  And for the record, I don’t think I taught him that particular phrase.  But I won’t admit any accidently slippages during the course of my road rage, which everyone knows doesn’t count. 

But, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in this case probably a better influence.  So a few days later I was trying to remind my four-year-old friend that I was going to be leaving for a while and that he wasn’t going to be seeing me. 

So I asked him like an insecure soccer mom, “You’re going to miss me, right?” trying to feed him the answer that I wanted to hear. 

“No,” he replied way too easily.  Damn this kid was good.  Most straight up man in my life.  “You’ll be back after, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Only a few months and I will be back to see you.”  Then I asked the million-dollar question.  “Do you remember where I am going?”

He paused. “Chicken.” 

Close.  Turkey.  Chicken.  I mean they are in the same food group.  Why bother correcting him when he thinks I’m being roasted in a 375-degree oven with light rosemary marinate for the next three months? 

This is the grasp of a four year olds geography skills and thus the story of why I decided to blog as “The Wandering Chicken.” 

The Midnight Express

I recently had to venture to my doctors office to get shots for traveling overseas, which for most would be a normal experience.  Not me.  The story goes something like this:

Nurse comes in and gives me the shots & then the doctor starts to do the physical…

“Oh where are you going?” says my middle aged slightly tanned doctor.

“Ankara, Turkey.” I explain a bit about why I’m going and continue to awkwardly bullshit with him for a bit longer as I freeze half naked on the examining table. 

“Oh interesting…” I can see I’ve triggered some thought in his brain.  He pauses.  “Have you ever seen ‘A Midnight Express’?” he asks me. 

“Uh…no.” I say, a little unsure what this has to with our conversation I try to just listen because I start to feel a bit woozy from those shots.

“It’s a movie that takes place in Turkey when a guy is caught smuggling drugs into the country illegally and the movie is all about how horrible their prisons are in Turkey.”

My doctor decides to brief me on the detention facilities in Turkey, which is every travelers warmest thoughts before entering that country.  Geez… I wonder what their jails look like?  But he continues with his monologue on how terrible the conditions are just in case I was considering on doubling as a drug mule while being employed by the State Department.  And the best part about all this is, this guy thinks he’s funny! 

I wonder if he ever told this story during a prostate exam while prefacing, “turn your head and cough!” Now that joke would be a real winner.

“Don’t do drugs while you’re overseas in Turkey,” my doctor says chuckling to himself.  “Because those prisons are horrible… you should really watch the movie before you go; it’s a classic,” he adds. 

“Yeah, I’ve really got to kick those drug habits before I go overseas,” I say, throwing him a bone. 

I think he blinked twice but I couldn’t be sure.  His face was starting to look more like a Joan Rivers byproduct because he spent so much time at his new plastic surgery start-up practice and less and less time at his family practice and lets just say his face was starting to show the signs. 

The Doc didn’t know what to say.  He was hoping I was joking but he was trying to read my face to be sure. 

“Let’s go over your medical charts before you go,” says the Doc prevailing on the side on slight ambiguity as to whether I was a serious drug offender or not. 

I would have kept “stirring the pot” as my sister likes to phrase my shenanigans but at this point I was feeling quite uneasy from the shot and was more than satisfied with letting my family doctor of more than twenty years think that there was a possibility that I may be a drug mule, as long as I could go to Taco Bell after this ridiculous experience. 

But first, on my way out I had to do a quick fact check.  I pulled up IMDB on my iphone and apparently Joan was right, ‘The Midnight Express’ was a movie about detention facilities in Turkey… but it came out in 1978! How old did he think I was? 

Maybe next time I would see Doc at his other office…