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…