Cold Turkey Preview
There’s a middle-aged woman rubbing slow circles on my decidedly un-six-packed stomach while her elderly, cane-assisted mother pats the butt I’ve been meaning to do more squats with. Pats repeatedly.
We three huddle close together, standing in the entrance of their tiny kitchen, and I might as well be a mannequin for all I’m contributing to the animated discussion they’re having about my body. My friend, Nil, the daughter/granddaughter of this dynamic and overly-tactile duo, participates in the conversation from just outside what my older brothers might have called a classic “Amanda Sandwich.”
In fact, mannequin is a good description as this three-generation Turkish outpost of the fashion police modified my outfit almost immediately upon greeting me at the door, right after expansive hugs and resounding kisses on both cheeks.
I thought I was coming for a cooking lesson, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to commence any time soon as the stomach-rubbing and butt-patting, with occasional full-body squeezes, has been going on for at least five minutes.
Nil hasn’t felt the need to translate much of her kinswomen’s remarks, other than letting me know the general argument consists of whether or not I’ve put on weight since moving into the neighborhood.
That’s right, I moved all the way across the world from Boise, Idaho, USA to Istanbul, Turkey, and the first home that welcomes me is full of women standing in the kitchen arguing about my weight.
You might be wondering how a 36-year-old, Jesus-following, single, Caucasian, second-grade teacher from the City of Trees managed to find herself in a massive concrete jungle generally, and inside a room so highly disregardive of personal space boundaries specifically—and I would respond by saying that that is an excellent question! It seems like we might be here awhile longer, so I’ll take a minute to catch you up.
So you know those stories that begin with a woman scorned and, more often than not, end with her sleeping her way across Tuscany or Appalachia or Vermont?
Well, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression within five minutes of meeting, but I feel like I should probably be up front and tell you that, barring divine intervention, the 80-ish-year-old woman currently patting my butt is the only patting of my butt that you’ll be forced to bear witness to for the duration of this, my tale of casting off the known and running into the wild. Oh wait, that title’s already taken.
Regardless, this is not going to be a grand operatic tale where you cheer from the sidelines as I walk through a giant life crisis that causes me to pack up my things and hike across Turkey whilst entertaining you with all the men with whom I’m sleeping.
That’s not to say I’m not susceptible to handsome men, because let me tell you, in my limited experience Turkish men are quite handsome and I might have to throw up a few personal boundaries so I don’t accidentally suscept to one of them.
It’s also not to say I wasn’t having a life crisis, double-negative notwithstanding, because obviously something was going on or I wouldn’t have made such a drastic choice—but the bottom line is that sleeping my way across any geographical region, foreign or domestic, is not really my cup of çay.
That’s tea in Turkish, by the way. That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Perhaps you’ll find my tale to be educational as well as entertaining!!
And in honor of surviving your first Turkish lesson, I’ll admit to you it was a sort of crisis that brought me here—but let’s call it a single-Christian-woman-of-a-certain-age-who-struggles-to-find-a-place-in-the-wedded-bliss-family-first-American-evangelicalism-subculture type of crisis. Or maybe the hip-College-&-Career-pastor-callously-suggesting-that-perhaps-you’ve-aged-out-of-the-group-at-church-and-should-try-to-see-if-you-can-somehow-insinuate-yourself-into-the-Young-Marrieds-group type of crisis.
Ergo, #firstworldproblems.
What happened was, after the College & Career pastor—yes, that was more of a true story than creatively-fictionalized hyperbole—suggested I was too old for his group, in somewhat stereotypical fashion I possibly (and slightly) overcorrected by skipping right over Young Marrieds to a “Women’s Night Out.” I’d always assumed, rightly or wrongly, that these evenings were geared toward the elder stateswomen in our congregation, and when I walked in the door my assumption seemed to be more or less correct.
Let’s see if I can paint the picture of that night accurately. Professionally speaking, I was exhausted from a week of mandatory teacher in-service training, the endless bureaucracy of which made me want to pull my hair out even though I loved my second graders. I’d been at the same school for fourteen years, and this was the latest I’d ever waited to sign my contract for the following year. I’d waited so long, in fact, that the principal’s last reminder email was a little testy, but I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to sign on the dotted line.
On the personal front, I was more than a little depressed at having celebrated the nuptials of my very last single girlfriend the weekend before. And I guess since I’ve decided to be honest with you here in these pages we’ve come together to share, I must also rip off the Band-Aid and admit the worst of it—I’d found my first gray hair that morning and went straight from plucking it to making an appointment to get my hair colored.
So perhaps you can imagine my surprise—or frankly, my horror—when I was escorted to a seat at a table containing seven very lovely, very grey-haired women who kindly started inviting me to middle-of-the-day, middle-of-the-work-week Bible studies suitable for the clearly and obviously retired.
It gave me the strangest sense of vertigo, like I’d somehow wormholed my way from swinging 20’s to creaking 60’s, with nary a stop in between. Being assigned to that particular table had me wondering if I’d missed some great big and divine detour sign offering me an off-ramp to somewhere more exciting, or at the very least wishing I could reach for an imaginary eject button to rocket myself out of the Dullsville trajectory of my life.
The next morning at church, two of those self-same grannies latched onto me and made me sit with them, which caused my attention to waver from paying attention in the strictest sense to a review of my options. And then a Mr. Darcy soundalike got up and started talking about belonging and calling and doing something meaningful with your short time on earth. In the state I was in, I doubt a dove descending onto his shoulder while a booming voice accompanied a ray of sunshine parting the clouds and blessing his brow could have made much more of an impression on me.
I didn’t even wait for the final amen before leaving those grannies in the dust as I made a desperate dash for the table in back.
And here it is, my first piece of advice and/or warning to you in this book which, in all other ways, would most definitely not be placed upon the sacred shelves of self-help—if you find yourself in the mood I was in, when someone gets up for the World in a Minute segment, or anything like it, and starts talking about heroism, self-sacrifice, and exotic locales upon which you can fling your temporal earthly bodies for the sake of the Kingdom that never ends—for heaven’s sake, plug your ears and start scrolling!
Trust me on this, my friend, or you might be liable to find yourself playing International Dress-Up Barbie with three generations of women arguing about your weight in a language you don’t understand, while the third plumber in as many months is installing a (hopefully) brand-new toilet in your apartment after leaving you without one for three days.
I mean, just as an example.
I had a weak moment one lonely Sunday morning and fell under the spell of a British accent and the promise of a place to use my gifts for the glory of God. Now I’m in a contract I can’t wiggle out of, teaching eighth graders—my least favorite demographic of humanity—at an international school catering mostly to expats called Istanbul International, sometimes referred to as I-Squared.
Eighth graders! I did not sign up for a course in how to most effectively martyr yourself in the pursuit of being a living sacrifice, but apparently I’m going to get it anyway.
By the way, the Mr. Darcy soundalike who, may or may not be the architect of my own personal destruction, is named Michael, and he’s the principal of said international school. I’m still trying to decide whether I’m mad at him or owe him big time, but either way, you can be assured I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
That’s probably enough to get you started, which is good because I might need to pull focus so as not to choke on the previously-bitten, partially-pre-owned pastry grandma just shoved in my mouth. At least she’s stopped patting my butt.
Chapter 1
I ask you—is anything more descriptive of the modern American experience than the cereal aisle? Or aisles, depending on where you shop. I usually buy the first box I see that has cinnamon in the title, but I’ll admit to you, at least twice in the past year when I was unable to find something cinnamony quickly enough, I abandoned my quest and grabbed a box of Pop Tarts instead. Although, in troubling news for the habitually indecisive, lately, new Pop Tarts flavors have been popping up like they have the reproductive cycle of a rabbit. PB&J? Pumpkin? Seriously?
But I’m procrastiplaining—procrastinating by way of complaining—a personality tic I’ve been working to improve for a while now. The cereal aisle currently in front of me consists of four options, and there is nothing immediately recognizable, nor is there anything that resembles the word cinnamon. I stare at my choices a moment longer before my stomach growls embarrassingly loud and spurs me to action. Aha! My gaze falls upon the word Nestle, I’ve heard of that one! Granted, I thought they were a chocolate company, but I think you’ll understand me when I say that steers me more toward them than away.
The milk is easier to choose; there’s only one glass bottle of the white stuff. This might be the place I was born for! I promised myself I’d only buy cereal, but oh, let me just grab that Pepsi on the way by. And that bag of Doritos. Please don’t judge just yet, my body still thinks it’s evening, and more to the point, that I’ve drug it along with me on some kind of cataclysmic, possibly extinction-level event, the kind for which our ancestors were known to anticipatorily pack on the pounds.
There are four short aisles in this grocery store, which is kind of refreshing. I head toward the front and see a lovely young woman with a smile on her face who greets me with something unintelligible. Or rather, Turkish. Same diff.
I exchanged some money at the airport two nights ago when I landed, so I hold out a 20 lira bill in my open palm, in hopes that that’s enough. She smiles, takes it out of my hand, and makes change. Something else unintelligible, smile, smile, and I make my exit.
Jet lag has had me upright more or less since 4 a.m., but I didn’t leave my apartment until it got light around 7 a.m. Even so, as I wandered, I didn’t see another human being until around 8:00, nor did I find anything open until 8:30. That left me plenty of time to find a cute little park around the corner from my place, a few restaurants to try later, and what appears to be the bus stop I was told will take me to school.
With breakfast and second breakfast in hand, I turn back toward my apartment—officially mine for all of about 10 hours—and start climbing. Eight minutes, one hill, and four flights of stairs later, it takes me a couple minutes of jiggling the key around to get my door open. It might be the lock, or it might be that my vision is a little blurry from lack of oxygen. Either way, I’ll have to work on that.
I think it takes about five minutes for my heart rate to return to normal, which is just about the time I hear it begin to rain.
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Email to Maria: > JET LAG! I woke up several times in the night, and then had just fallen back to sleep when the call to prayer woke me up. It seemed like the middle of the night, but I guess it was right before dawn because, according to Mr. Google, that’s when the first one goes off. I have to say, it’s kind of an eery sound. I got up and opened my window and stood for a minute or two trying to figure out what direction it was coming from. I was able to pinpoint three different versions, on slightly different timing. Speaking of timing, you’re just putting the kids down. This is going to take some getting used to.
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It wasn’t rain. And if you’ve never had to Google-translate your way through a phone conversation about the cascading waterfall flowing copiously down from your bathroom ceiling into an ever-expanding pool you’re standing in even though simultaneously worried about death by electrocution—well, one might question whether you’ve even truly lived.
My own cascading-waterfall-Google-translation-possible-death-by-electrocution-telephone experience has begun, a mere 36 hours after having my freshly minted blue passport stamped for the first time at the International Grand Airport in Istanbul, Turkey.
Just to help you keep track, the drips begin approximately 11 hours after signing a rental contract during an evening I’d thought would involve maybe about a five-minute, hello-how-are-you-sign-here kind of thing with the landlord, but ended up being a three-hour marathon of smiling and nodding whilst not understanding a single word, compounded by jet lag so profound it caused the incomprehensible conversation swirling around me to sound a little like the wah-wah-wah teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons of my childhood.
Almost as soon as Michael nee Mr. Darcy had me sign on the dotted line, I’d started corresponding with another teacher, Francine, with whom he’d arranged for me to live. She was really helpful, telling me what to pack and what I could and couldn’t find here. In exchange for said helpfulness, and in pursuit of trying to bond with the complete stranger with whom I’d agreed to cohabitate for the next year, I even wasted three precious pounds of space in one of my suitcases to bring her the maple syrup she opined about for a good, long paragraph in one of her emails.
Wasted, I say, because Francine was really helpful right up to the point when she sent me an email a week before my departure informing me in glowing and hyper-enthusiastic terms I won’t bother repeating that her boyfriend had proposed and she was planning to move with him to Yemen where, together, they could better serve the Lord.
She said I could still have the apartment and a friend of hers named Sarah had agreed to help me with the rental contract and anything else I might need. I arrived in the evening and stumbled my way into an airport hotel, then bright and early the next morning caught a taxi to my new neighborhood by showing the driver a written address.
Sarah endeared herself to me immediately by the fact that she was already standing on the busy sidewalk where the driver stopped, and I didn’t have to have a moment’s worry that I was in the wrong place. She helped wrangle three heavy bags out of the trunk of the taxi and trundle them up to the apartment via a very steep hill and a very narrow road, and then told me to suck it up as we hauled the bags up four flights of stairs in the blazing, wet-blanket heat of mid-August.
I was in such a stupor I fell asleep on the couch in the middle of my bags, only awakening when Sarah pounded on the door after returning to take me to the landlord’s house. When I told her I was nauseated, she popped into a store and grabbed me a Coke that was surprisingly effective to the task. I sipped it during our journey, which included two bus transfers and a brisk walk, and felt fine by the time we arrived, which was good because I desperately needed all my faculties.
The entire confusing evening, Sarah chatted and yucked it up with the landlords, and very occasionally translated for me in quick asides. I mostly drank çay, which I didn’t mind although I’m not a huge black tea fan, because I was able to add three cubes of sugar with each refill. The refills kept coming because I had no idea how to say, “No thank you, I’ve had enough.”
The landlord’s sweet, grey-haired wife brought plate after plate of unrecognizable items, carefully and slowly explaining to me what each thing was, which was about as useful as you might imagine given she was speaking Turkish and I hadn’t had the pleasure of even hearing a foreign tongue until 8th grade foreign-language-requirement Spanish where I was forced to try to spackle hola’s and como estases on top of my unwilling, mono-lingual tongue.
When she wasn’t stuffing me with food and refilling my glass of çay, the landlord’s wife sat on one of the extremely uncomfortable gold and brown couches watching TV, hordes of people attired in white walking around that big black box thing that’s—I think—in Saudi Arabia?
I can just hear Maria, my best friend’s, voice, needling me, You’ve moved to a country that’s 99.9 percent Muslim, perhaps you should have prepared a little more!
Yeah, yeah, I reply to her voice in my head, It’s on my list! But the mental list of research questions I’ve been compiling is already surprisingly long given my passport stamp is practically still wet.
While Sarah and the landlord continued to chat and I tried to make my way through the dizzying array of food, the landlord’s wife, whom I would name for you if the name I’d been given when we were introduced hadn’t been so foreign that my brain immediately chucked it out the back gate, spent most of the evening watching footage of people marching around the soon-to-be-properly-named black box as she sat with her arms raised about an inch above and kind of parallel to her lap. I think she was praying. Although I guess the mumbling of lips could have been her way of trying to reassure herself about renting to someone so clearly unsuitable. I wouldn’t blame her.
After maybe an hour and a half of chit chat, Sarah leaned over and told me she’d dropped what she clearly considered her piece de resistance to seal the deal, “Amanda’s an American, they always pay their bills.”
That seemed to do the trick because the landlord slid the contract in my direction and I signed on the dotted line in total faith this woman I’d just met had not just arranged for me to sell my birthright for a piece of baklava.
I then proceeded to make my first-of-no-doubt-many cultural faux pas by trying to shake hands with the landlord. He pretended not to see my outstretched hand, so I ended up sort of bowing at him and meekly followed Sarah out the door. We caught a taxi back to the neighborhood and parted ways with Sarah saying, “Call anytime if you have a problem.”
I went back to my new apartment, so excited I could hardly believe it, and despite all the cups of çay, fell asleep pretty soon after downing a couple Tums I silently thanked my mother for insisting I pack since the unrecognizable items I’d feasted upon were tangling uncomfortably with the jet lag nausea that returned with a vengeance.
This morning after hunting and gathering for cereal, I came home and found the source of the rain sound originated in the bathroom. While I watched in disbelief, the gentle rain coming from the ceiling transformed quickly from a steady drip into the aforementioned waterfall. To say I was stunned is an understatement. I don’t even know how long I stood there staring, watching the pool on the tile floor growing wider and wider by the minute.
I was severely jet-lagged, but even if I’d woken fresh as a daisy, I would have had literally no idea what to do in the situation. Finally seeing the water reaching toward the burnt orange bathroom rug set me in motion, and I went running to the kitchen to find something to set at the bottom of my new water feature.
I found a big pan in one of the giant overhead cupboards and put it in place, then dialed the number Sarah gave me yesterday. I didn’t begrudge even one cent of the $3.99-a-minute robbery my American cell phone company was charging for international calls. No answer. I went looking for towels and packed them around the pan, called again, no answer.
I made myself a second, very large cup of coffee to match the one I’d had at 5:00am, then with a brain newly renewed, devised a scheme whereby the water fell onto the moldy shower curtain I strategically propped in such a way that the water drained into the bathtub. Mental note: replace moldy curtain as soon as possible. Also find some bleach for the tub.
My engineering father would be proud of my invention. I was proud! But I was also a little alarmed at how long this could go on before the ceiling became waterlogged and the already suspect-looking tiles started raining down on my head. I fruitlessly called Sarah again, then decided to see if I could get a neighbor to help. I figured I could pantomime my way through getting them to come down and look, but no one answered the door on the floors above or below. Do they sleep late around here or does everybody go to work before dawn? More questions without answers.
So I think that about brings you up to speed. It’s 11:00am now and I’ve decided there’s nothing else to do but call the landlord whose number is helpfully listed on my new rental agreement, right beside all the things in the apartment he agreed to fix within the next month.
I dial and my landlord (presumably) answers. I don’t understand a word, I just carefully sound out the words I Google-translated before the call, “I’m Amanda. The American. Water. Ceiling. Leak. Bad.”
He says a few words and then hangs up. Did he say, “I’m coming?” Did he say, “Wrong number?” Did he say, “Fix it yourself!”
All plausible responses, all equally incomprehensible, and a giggle sneaks out as I wipe the sweat caused by that simple interaction off my hands and onto my sweatpants, which reminds me I should probably change. I can’t stop the giggles as I walk toward the living room where I dig through my already open suitcases looking for a more reasonable pair of pants. Although again, how am I supposed to know what’s reasonable?
I entertain myself for awhile poking around the apartment, coffee mug in hand. Sarah didn’t give me much of a tour and I’ve been asleep approximately 95 percent of the time I’ve been here, so I walk over to one of the windows and am surprised to find I have a balcony! It takes a few moments to figure out I have to pull out a couple nails, kind of like a double hinge, before I can open the door and step out, but it’s worth it! I’m immediately charmed.
There’s a small chair and table and when I sit down I’m quite comfortable. I can see blue sky in several directions in and around the buildings that surround me, and even spot a tree when I crane my neck around to the right. “Just the spot,” I announce to two black crows watching me from a power line about ten feet away. I used to read my Bible in the mornings on my postage stamp balcony back in Boise, and love that I’ll be able to continue the tradition. “In fact,” I say to the crows, who no longer look interested, “there’s no time like the present!” I go back inside and grab my Bible.
About an hour later, I hear the surprisingly loud ring of the doorbell and see through the peep hole it’s the landlord. I turn the lock three times, like Sarah showed me, and open the door.
“Hello,” I say with a smile. If I was being charitable, I’d say he sort of grimaces, then gestures like he wants to come in. I point to the bathroom, wait as he takes his shoes off, then follow him through the hall.
He looks the situation over for a few moments, grimaces again, grunts a little, then heads back to the door without saying another word. I watch him trudge upstairs and hear him pound on the door. Wouldn’t you know, the neighbors answer for him, and I hear some brief Turkish and what sounds like him going into their apartment.
I guess I’ll wait here?
A few minutes later he stomps back down the stairs, sees me at the open door and says, “Okay,” then keeps on going down the stairs.
“Okay, what?” I say, but he’s already gone.
I barely get the door closed before bursting into laughter. I hope it’s not offensive, or that if it is he can’t hear me—but, really, what kind of ludicrousity is this?
Only last night, Sarah said she’d help me with whatever, but she’s not answering her phone. And Michael, the only other person I know in Turkey—the one who got me into this mess in the first place—had an email waiting for me when I landed that he’d had a problem with his flight and wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow.
I guess there’s no choice but to wait here and see what “okay” means. I pour myself a bowl of cereal and walk back toward the balcony. With a happy sigh I slouch down and prop my legs up on the railing and take a bite, which I’m immediately forced to spit back into the bowl.
Either this milk is a month expired, or it’s not milk at all. It’s thick and sour and pretty salty, all taste sensations which do not belong to the realm of my expectations. I stand up and walk back to the kitchen, open the fridge door and take out the glass jar of what I didn’t even think twice about purchasing because it looked like milk!
I take a minuscule sip directly from the jar on the off-chance that it’s the cereal that’s done me wrong, and another offensive blast rolls over my tongue. Nope, I was right the first time—gross!
“Down the drain with you!” I pronounce, turning the bottle upside down and feeling a sense of control for the first time since leaving Boise. Sadly, watching it disappear down the kitchen sink, I regretfully add slow drain to my ever-growing list of home improvements.
Continuing on the theme of exercising control over my life, I brew and pour myself a third giant cup of coffee with the French press I was thrilled to find made it intact, using the beans I brought with me. It’s my preferred blend from a small shop in Portland, and the bag will most definitely not last long at this rate, but I’m not going to worry about that right now.
I take my cup to the living room and rustle through the sprawl of two 50-pound suitcases, one overweight carryon and one obscenely overweight backpack until I find a granola bar I packed but didn’t eat on the plane. Armed with sustenance, I head back to the balcony and plop down. If I scootch my chair just a little—ah yes, my bare feet propped on the wall are receiving a little sunbath!
My coffee is half-done and I’ve just decided the green bird who replaced the crows is a parrot when there’s a bang on the door. I hop up quickly and run back inside to peek through the peephole again. It appears the landlord has drug some sort of handyman along with him this time. When I let them in, they go through the same pantomime—looking for a few moments at the waterfall, then grunting and trudging upstairs, whereupon after only a few short minutes a tremendous racket begins echoing down. I finish my coffee, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, and watch in fascination as the waterfall slows to a drip, then stops altogether.
A few minutes later the landlord comes down and hands me his cellphone. “Hello?” I ask tentatively.
“Hello,” a voice responds in a thick accent, “Your leak will be fixed next week. We told the neighbor not to use his toilet. Okay, thank you.”
Before I can respond, the mysterious voice hangs up, so I hand the landlord back his phone. He waves and leaves without another word.
I close the door, walk to the living room, and sit down on the couch. I should go to the store and make another attempt at breakfast, but I think I’ll just sit here for a minute first.
I mean, really! To think I could be in my snug Boise apartment right now with an apartment manager on speed dial for the slightest thing going wrong. And not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m pretty sure his solution to the problem would not be don’t use the toilet!
“You wanted adventure,” I say to myself, and start laughing until tears run down my face.
Here I sit in a tiny, three-table cafe, sipping an iced latte and watching through the window about an inch from my face as people walk by on one of the several narrow streets near my apartment. Why? Because I really needed to go the bathroom.
That is to say, since we last spoke, four days have passed and my bathroom has been torn to bits. Yes, contrary to what the landlord’s mysterious English speaker intimated on the phone, they did not come “next week” but yesterday. The floor has been peeled back to the concrete—the centerpiece of all building here. Tiles are scattered and broken in a corner, and the toilet sits in the hallway, mocking me with its unuseability.
Although I remain hopeful the plumber will show up for his day’s labor, he has yet to appear, and I couldn't wait any longer.
How can I say this delicately? When he left last night, although we didn’t share a word in common, it seemed to me the plumber was able to understand the mute wildness in my eyes when I realized I now had no toilet, because he took me by the arm and directed me to a small door I had previously and falsely assumed was for storage. Sure enough, after moving around a couple boxes he uncovered an honest to goodness squatty—I actually live in an apartment with a squatty!
But maybe before we continue I should ask quickly, do any of you know what a squatty is? Don’t be embarrassed, the only reason I know is because of a National Geographic TV series I used to share with my second graders. In one of the episodes, our rugged and charming host—also of British descent, in case you’re still on the fence about whether or not I have a type—explained the process of relieving oneself in a hole in the ground with nary a seat in sight for the propping of pertinent assets, a process to which I am highly unaccustomed by right of birth. My second graders loved that episode, but let me tell you, even with appropriate instructions, this morning I was not in the mood to be un-propped.
Yes, I did have other plans for this, my first Saturday in a foreign country—maybe a little celebration because, so far I’ve survived—but the desperate need for caffeine, regrouping and, above all, a bathroom where I could sit down, meant I threw on a ball cap about twenty minutes ago and stumbled down the street to the first open cafe I could find.
It’s pretty funny when you think about it. Back home in Boise, I went to the same coffee shop for so many years the barista and I started exchanging Christmas cards. Years ago, my best friend Maria nicknamed me the Queen of the Rut and occasionally curtsies whenever I suggest doing the same old thing on a free Friday night. I always try to tell her I just like what I like, and it’s more about being a fan of efficiency and not having to waste time thinking about where to go, but that’s an old argument between us.
“How do you like me now?” I want to ask her. There’s certainly no rut here!
I wish there’d been a camera recording the several minute interaction between me and the lovely Turkish gal which finally ended with the delivery of a very decent cup of coffee and cheese omelet.
I almost ordered the menu's “quasidella” for the fun of it—I think they might have meant quesadilla—but I stuck with the boring omelet. Maria would roll her eyes, but I say knowing what you like can be a superpower, too. And furthermore, if I was still the Queen of the Rut I’d be eating a pancake combo at IHOP instead of sitting next to two young Turks who seem to be in a passionate argument between almost non-stop puffs of cigarette smoke, so there!
I imagine only time will tell if I’m at the beginning of a wild adventure that will be told around the virtual campfires of future progeny, or whether my story will turn into a cautionary tale of what happens when you overcorrect.
I know I was bored in Boise. Unaccountably, increasingly, suffocatingly bored. I was tired of my life, or rather, tired of knowing everything that was going to happen, each and every day. I started teaching second grade right after graduation from Boise State, and though I continued to enjoy it, the thrill of discovery had definitely evaporated after several years.
I wanted something new, and maybe if I’m honest I was beginning to be a little worried about what kind of control freak I was turning into having to stage manage every interaction and activity. Again, I told myself, because I was trying to be efficient—but maybe efficiency wasn’t the end all, be all I’d made it out to be. I’d been running so fast and so efficiently the last decade I’d barely stopped to smell any roses along the way.
Thirty came and went in a blur, forty was bearing down hard, and I was a little dismayed at how seamlessly my weekends had morphed from being filled with trying to win toilet-paper-wedding dress contests to guessing what kind of melted chocolate bar was defiling the diaper.
In spite of the previously mentioned unsatisfactory interaction with our College & Career pastor, I was reading my Bible, going to church, talking to God, and keeping my eyes and ears propped open in case He wanted to give me some new directions. All the things we’re supposed to do, but each day there was an increasing discontent that made the words I exchanged with God seem stale.
I don’t know, maybe it’s something that happens at every stage of life when you’re weighed down with the cons and too tired to see the pros.
I’d been thinking more and more often that maybe I should be doing something bigger with my life, making some kind of difference, changing the world outside of my little comfortable bubble—like I was having an existential, albeit early, mid-life crisis. Oh wait, in hindsight, maybe I was!
Regardless of the clinical diagnosis we may or may not land on, it was most certainly an unrest and discontent I wasn’t prepared to deal with it because it wasn’t really like me. I’ve always been a glass-half-full, optimistic, lighthearted kind of gal—I’ve wanted to be a second-grade teacher since I met mine, for heaven’s sake!
I don’t mean to drag this out or be maudlin, but do you know what I mean? Like when you read the pages of the Bible and feel like they describe a life you just can’t attain? Or when you’re grateful to Jesus for what He’s done in your life, but you can’t figure out how to live out what He commands in the middle of the slug and slog?
Whatever the real problem(s), I think you’ll agree with me that I was looking for something, and since I’m not really used to dealing with black clouds of emotion, I think it might have maybe made me ripe for the picking—because all it took to do something crazy was a handsome man waltzing in and offering me a chance to share the grand and glorious love of God with some poor, unfortunate youngsters while at the same time seeing the world and having a little adventure.
You should have heard Michael going on and on about those third-culture kids, caught between worlds, just trying to find their place. He was so earnest, so passionate, so British. Someone at my new workplace is clearly a marketing genius.
The demographics at my home church are about the same as anywhere in America, with one single man in his 40’s who, though he’s obviously a bit off, is having no trouble slowly making his way through the congregation’s hundred-or-so single women of a certain age who are willing to take a chance they’re the one who can finally complete him.
This makes Michael’s sales pitch a sure bet in just about any congregation he pitches. The school apparently sends Michael on a tour of five or ten churches every summer, and that’s all it takes to keep them fully staffed. He hits play on his video, says a few heartfelt words in his dreamy accent, and waits for the swarm. Because even though he looks more handsome at a distance than up close and personal, we all know a British accent on a man covers over a multitude of sins.
Even though I’d made a quick exit during the final prayer, his table was already inundated by the time I got there. I managed to arrive right before Man-Grabber Samantha and secure the last flyer. I nicknamed her “Man-Grabber Samantha,” a couple years ago because she likes to keep her options open even though she always has a couple guys on the hook. Sorry Lord, again.
Very uncharacteristically, I dumped my standing Sunday afternoon plans with Maria when Michael asked me to coffee, and he’d emailed me a contract before we said goodbye. To be fair, when I sent back the signed contract that evening, he did shoot back a quick reply asking if I wanted to think about it a little longer. I remember thinking, What’s there to think about? This is the divine, neon sign I’ve been looking for! You should have seen Maria’s expression when I waived the contract in her face!
And so here I am, without power or water or a usable bathroom, getting ready to teach loathsome teenagers come Monday—I mean, what was I thinking? I didn’t like teenagers when I was one!
Oh, you thought I’d be teaching second graders like my experience, preference and signed contract said I would be? That’s what I thought as well, and wasn’t that just precious and naive and oh so American of us. I’m going to finish my coffee before I tell you that part.
You may now feel free to wander about the story analyzing and/or criticizing my overcorrection, but since that’s all the introspection I’m capable of doing this morning, I’m going to move on to the positives for a minute. That’s one of the assignments Maria gave me, to email her three moments of gratitude every week. She’s homeschooling her five (count them, five) kids and is used to both giving out assignments and having them completed.
We’ve been friends for almost 20 years, meeting at a freshman mixer the first week of college, and sometimes I feel like her oldest child, the one she tries out new things on.
So, the first positive is definitely Istanbul itself. Even though the first several days are a complete blur, it’s hard to believe I’ve been here almost a week. I participated in a day and a half of head-spinning work meetings, but also had some time to wander and find out what milk really looks like—it comes in an unrefrigerated box in case that information might one day be useful to you.
I like cities well enough, but a city of 15-20 million is a whole other animal. It’s loud, people are pushy and bump into you all the time because they don’t look up from their phones. And the traffic!
It seems to me you take your life into your hands anytime you leave your apartment. Delivery scooters weave in and out of cars and maniac taxi drivers, and three-year-olds are bouncing along the sidewalk yanking the arms of their harried mothers out of their sockets, while grannies totter up the street pulling grocery carts behind them. Street dogs lie in the middle of the sporadically available sidewalks, or even the doorway of a store you might be trying to enter, so you just have to walk around or step over them. Cats have to be shooed away so you can sit down and order your coffee or meal. And though I’ve only ridden public transportation a handful of times, it seems clear to me that bus drivers have an ongoing contest about how many people they can knock to the ground by the abrupt and propitious slamming of brakes.
It’s fabulous!
That’s right, it’s me, the so-called Queen of the Rut, living right smack in the middle of a chaotic, ever-changing zoo! Who would have thought it possible? Not Maria or my other friends, and certainly not my parents, who wanted me to buy an open-ended plane ticket so I could come home, “Just on the very teeny tiny, small, off-chance it doesn’t work out and you realize you’ve made a horrific, pig-headed mistake.”
I mean, more or less that’s what they said, in not quite as many words, but the subtext was definitely there. They also, without consulting me, bought a fantastically expensive travel insurance plan that, my father was sure to point out, includes a proviso for the “repatriation of remains.”
I thanked them very much for their love and support and then, without telling them, bought the roundtrip ticket Michael told me was school policy. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.
And besides, there’s no way I’m going home early. For once in my life I’m going to drink from the firehose! Batten down the hatches and dang the consequences, full speed ahead! I’m serving God, it’s gonna be great!
After riding the bus to work for Thursday and Friday meetings, after school Friday Michael drove me home, all the while apologizing for how he hadn’t been back from the States early enough to help me move in or deal with my leak. He told me about the time his water heater exploded with such force it knocked over the shelf holding all his plates and glasses and he didn’t have heat for a month during the coldest January in the past one hundred years. I don’t know him well enough yet to know if he was trying to make me feel better by commiserating or subtly telling me to can it on my complaining.
Then he apologized for also not being able to help me this weekend because he had so many meetings, but that he’d do anything he could to help starting next week, so I decided his story was maybe commiseration after all.
“No problem,” I’d said, projecting all the confidence in the world as I stepped out of the car, “I’m sure I’ll be fine! See you Monday!”
A little laugh bubbles up at the memory and I smother it into my iced latte. I don’t want to start my time here with a reputation for being the crazy American who laughs to herself, but yeah, fine wasn’t maybe the best word to use.
After waving goodbye to Michael, I walked down my street, tired but happy, admiring everything that was new and different and thinking of how much fun it would be to start exploring. But first, a long, hot soak in the massive ceramic tub that, after the balcony, is my second favorite part of the new apartment.
When I opened the door to the building I could hear a hammer of some kind, banging away. I trudged up four flights of stairs pondering just how long it might take me to raise my fitness level enough so I won’t always be gasping by the time I get to my floor, when, to my surprise, I came upon an open door. My own.
I walked in and there was a man on his hands and knees in my bathroom, breaking up the concrete that apparently lived under the tiles. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he started talking.
Although I’ve already asked God a couple times, my request to speak in tongues has not yet been granted, so I didn’t understand a word. I got out my phone, called Michael, briefly related my situation in what I hoped was a not too high voice of anxiety, and passed the phone over.
When I got the phone back a few fraught moments later, Michael explained that right after I left for school that morning the waterfall had started up again, but this time the problem expanded to include the apartment below.
The landlord said I gave him the wrong number and he had no choice but to come in and start fixing. It’ll take a few days for the bathroom to be put back together because the plumber has to completely fix some piping in all three apartments.
For a moment I was frozen, not sure which alarm bell to pay attention to—the fact I might not have a bathroom or running water for “several” days, or finding out my landlord not only has a key, but feels free to enter at any time. I’m sure the second one falls under the rubric of cultural norms, but as a single woman living alone, I’m not a fan.
And so here I am, bright and early Saturday morning at my new favorite coffee shop. Not only do they have a decent cup of coffee, but they were open, which seems to not be exactly guaranteed at 8:30am since the ten or so restaurants I passed along the way were still shuttered.
It’s also 8:30am, and already so hot I had to order an iced latte. It’s so hot, how can I explain this—I mean, I’m from Idaho so I know hot, but this is about 900 percent humidity—a kind of heat that makes you feel like your internal organs are roasting on a spit inside a steaming hot shower.
My Portland beans ran out last night, as expected, so I’ve begun on my tour-de-iced-latte. In the spirit of the scientific method, since my beans ran out, I've sampled from nearly each restaurant I come across, trying to cool off and find a new favorite hangout.
Katy Perry’s “Kissed a Girl” starts playing loudly over the cafe’s speakers, and I don’t want to have to admit to the level of naiveté from which I moved here, but I’m a bit surprised. As Maria rightly accused me of, I didn’t do much research before coming, and I didn’t think I had that many preconceived ideas since I’d never talked face-to-face with a follower of Islam, but as it turns out, I was expecting Turkey to be some kind of Muslim stronghold. And by Muslim stronghold, I mean the one foisted on me by Hollywood and the news, involving lots of head-to-toe, black drapery on women and crowds of vaguely, terrorist-looking, scruffy, ne’er-do-well men lurking about.
I’m sorry, Turkey, I apologize. If it helps at all, only a week in to my stay and I already feel myself in danger of falling madly in love with almost everything about you. So far I’ve only noticed one woman dressed in all black, and the main thing I’ve noticed about Turkish men is not so much their political leanings as their overall level of hotness.
Michael told me I didn’t need to worry about leaving the plumber at my house alone, so I’ve decided to change up my plans of working at home and continue preparing for the coming Plague (of eighth graders) right here at this table since all my comprehensive second-grade preparation is now void.
That’s right, my coffee’s finished, so I’ll tell you that I came to Turkey to teach second graders. I agreed to teach second graders. But upon arrival at school Thursday afternoon for a measly day and a half of teacher conferences, team building, and bureaucracy that included nary a whiff of the general orientation and survival skills I would have preferred, Michael asked me to teach middle school. In front of the rest of the staff.
Teenagers, the age of my very worst nightmares. You might as well have asked me to teach to the Undead.
And, still flush from jet lag, which I’m pretty sure makes you 100 IQ points stupider, I agreed. Team player and all that. I didn’t hear anything Michael said for the next hour after that, and just barely stopped myself from going to the bathroom to barf.
Merhaba
mare-ha-baa
Hello
“Last year the Sultan of Oman brought his second wife here for their honeymoon. While they were on a little cruise like ours, that mansion over there caught her fancy and he bought it for her. Two hundred million dollars. You don’t need to expect the same treatment.”
The crowd of mostly women titters at Michael’s joke. I imagine many of them, like myself, could sit and listen to him talk all day. That is, as long as I don’t think about how he threw me under the bus and how school starts bright and early tomorrow morning.
No matter how much I try to work up my enthusiasm, the thought of walking through those doors and facing the grubby grimaces eighth graders have patented makes my stomach clench every time I think about it.
I don’t really know how long this three-hour Bosphorus tour will end up taking—it’s Turkey after all—but I doubt Michael will talk very much longer. He’s got a microphone and a captive audience of staff members as we drift along on this horrifically romantic afternoon yacht tour. He doesn’t strike me as a blowhard, but even if he did blow on, it couldn’t possibly bother me because I’m comfortably ensconced in a luxurious deck chair on what is by all definitions most definitely a yacht.
A yacht! Did you hear that part? Who gets to do things like this? I was almost giddy when we took off, not just from nearly missing the boat because I misunderstood the directions, but because I was thinking of what I could be doing in Boise—probably suffering through another curtsy from Maria just because I had the nerve to suggest going for another walk along the Greenbelt. Not that the Greenbelt isn’t lovely—because it is—but it has become sort of an old standby outing in my life. But this outing? Well, this is amazing!
I did a little research on the Bosphorus when I was on the bus so I wouldn’t out myself as a total bumpkin. It’s officially a strait, not a sea like I’ve been telling everyone back home, and runs right through the middle of Istanbul, connecting the Black Sea to the Marmara. The other thing it does is physically separate the city into two continents—half of Istanbul is in Europe, the other half is in Asia. And right now, lounging in my deck chair on this yacht in the middle of the Bosphorus, that right over there is the continent of Asia! I can’t wait to pop over for a visit.
There are currently three big bridges crossing over the Bosphorus, and approximately one jillion ferries, cargo ships and tiny fishing boats puttering around in a semi-coordinated dance. Those latter facts are from field research, by the way, not Google, as I’m sure they’d use something more scientific than “jillion.”
I should have known Michael would cover all the information I’d been able to quickly glean in his first few minutes of lecture mode. After sitting through a few of his meetings, I realize he’s nothing if not thorough, but at least I felt a little bit better about myself armed with my own five minutes of research.
Most of the teachers at our school are women and, judging by the dazed look on more than one face I see as I glance around, I think I can safely say I’m not the only one who seems to find Michael and his accent desperately charming. I wonder if this is because many of them were weaned, as I was, on a steady churn of Austen movies?
It’s aggravating to be such a cliché, but I can’t help it. The school rented this (did I mention it already) yacht for the teacher’s welcome cruise, and Michael is our extremely easy-on-the-ears cruise director.
But even with his mesmerizing accent I find myself tuning him out occasionally simply because of the stunning views. It doesn’t help my concentration that this is the first time I’ve been cool all week, and the refreshing feeling is nearly enough to make me swoon.
Coming in September was the worst decision I could have made in the weather category. It is so hot, and the humidity! It reminds me of one time my family went to Florida—I clearly remember stepping off the plane into a sauna. But unlike Florida, there’s not much AC to be found here, and certainly none in the buses chock-full of people and questionable smells.
Oh shoot, I realize I mentioned the weather to you once before. I’ll try to keep that to myself in the future, I don’t appreciate whiners—but let me just say that the breeze coming off the water is intoxicating. I lose all track of time while I close my eyes and let it cool me.
We launched from the neighborhood of Beşiktaş, pronounced besh-ick-tosh with that weird ş with a tail. Like every other neighborhood so far, I found it crowded and confusing and, therefore, nearly missed the boat, but now that we’re slowly making our way north up toward the Black Sea, I don’t even remember the crowds.
I don’t know how far we’re going to go, but I’m going to enjoy it! The PG-rated bar is free and I’m already on my second ice-cold Pepsi.
I tune back in just in time to hear Michael say, “…and that house over there was rammed last month by a cargo ship that lost its navigation system. You can see the giant sheet of red canvas covering up the hole. There are a couple hundred accidents a year on the Bosphorus, even though Turkey is very careful about regulating traffic.”
I turn to look, imagining what it would be like to be sitting in your living room minding your own business watching TV or something and then suddenly see a cargo ship coming right at you. Wasn’t there a rather regrettable Sandra Bullock sequel that ended with her cargo ship smashing into a building? I’ll have to ask Siri about that later when I figure out how to get Siri working again, that is. I’m still on my $3.99-a-minute international plan so Siri’s been on vacation.
When Michael finishes, we all clap as enthusiastically as his accent warrants, then scatter. I belly up to the bar for another refill—they’re mini-Pepsis, I feel I should point out—and then climb the stairs to the second level.
Finding an open seat, I sit and stare. After a moment I close my mouth when I realize it’s gone slightly agape. Several times growing up my family took boat rides in McCall, Idaho, a resort town a couple hours from Boise. We used to love tooling around the lake, stopping at Ice Cream Alley, and admiring all the beautiful homes.
But this? Sorry McCall, but this is a whole new tax bracket. We’re riding quite close to the Asian side now, and I’m flabbergasted. The homes on the water are stunning, but so too are the wild proliferation of buildings, almost wild-flowerish-looking, that are clinging to the side of the hills. And I don’t know about you, but a multi-million population was a little hard to picture at first. Now I’m getting a little better understanding of where everybody is, as there are rolling hills covered in buildings as far as I can see in every direction.
Istanbul is the only city that spans two continents and even I, profoundly anti-running I, briefly considered training for the Istanbul marathon when I found out that's the only way you can cross one of the bridges on foot—briefly, as in, for about thirty seconds before I set the phone down and picked up the warm Nutella gözleme I’d purchased on my way home from school Thursday.
Gözleme is translated as Turkish pancakes, and normally they are filled with cheese or spinach or something salty, but the Nutella variety was fantastically gooey and something I put on my mental list to definitely order again.
So for now, no marathons for me. But what I did commit to this morning while watching an online sermon from back home seems even more challenging. Our pastor talked about loving our enemies, in my case, the eighth graders I’m going to meet tomorrow. Feeling convinced, I committed to trying to pry open my mind by tomorrow morning. I’m convinced that’ll be enough exercise for awhile.
“Those are called yalılar,” Michael says from beside me, startling me enough that I spill some of my Pepsi. I look up and he continues, “that just means a house on the Bosphorus.”
I look down again and start to dab at my shirt, and he quickly apologizes and kneels down to wipe up the small puddle at my feet with a napkin pulled from his pocket.
Without looking up, he hands me what turns out to be a wet wipe, and I’m half-disappointed to find it’s not a monogrammed handkerchief I could strategically pull out of the pocket of my apron and dab my eyes with in case I need to put off any rivals.
“How has the first week gone for you, Amanda?” he asks with a smile, interrupting my fantasies. “Other than the leak, I mean.” He straightens up again, looks at the crumpled napkin and stuffs it in his pants pocket. His weirdly crisp pants, by the way, that match his unlined, apparently un-sweat-stained, button-up shirt, both of which make me feel decidedly crumpled and assuredly sweaty as I slump next to him.
“It’s been an adventure!” I answer, with a cheerleader voice most definitely influenced by the scenery, “I hope to have a toilet again when I get home.”
He laughs and I notice how green his eyes are. I was about to mention I don’t have either a shower or tub, but that seems a little too intimate. Better to switch to food.
“Also, I had my first simit this morning, that’s going to be a favorite.” I found the bagel-esque, sesame-covered wonder at the bakery and, because I couldn’t find anything in the cream cheese variety, slathered it with butter and jam.
“Yes,” he chuckles, “I love those. I have one a couple times a week.”
We both look out at the view, then he says, “Next time you go to a restaurant, try to order sütlaç. That’s my favorite dessert.”
“I’ll do that,” I answer with a smile, then look back toward the view.
“Have you been able to explore a little?”
“Yeah,” I enthuse, looking back. “I stumbled across three malls right in a row not too far from my house that are full of semi-recognizable stores. And I just discovered I don’t live too far from Sofia and her husband.”
Sofia is the school's Spanish teacher and I like her tremendously already, unlike Bernice, the school’s administrator. Contrary to what you might think from her name, she is not old and spinsterish, she’s just German. I’m sorry to have to admit it, but I took an instant dislike to her when Michael introduced her and her spiked high heels and immaculate pencil skirt before his tour guide speech. Unlike his, her speech was blowhardy.
You might wonder why I’m bringing up Bernice? It’s because I see her march up the stairs behind Michael’s back, her eyes roving around with the same look I’m quite familiar with from Man-Grabber Samantha. Sure enough, her eyes lock onto Michael and she starts our way.
“How are you finding Turkey?” he continues, oblivious to being stalked. Bernice gets waylaid by someone else, so I probably have a few more minutes of his time.
Is he checking in on me, I wonder? Is he feeling bad—as he should—about pulling the old switcheroo? Or is he actually curious? I don’t know him well enough yet to figure out his motives and am a little dismayed to find out I want to know him better. It’s one thing to joke to myself and you about Mr. Darcy. It’s quite another to get a little crush this early on in the story. So cliché, ick!
On the other hand, I haven’t had much chance to debrief since I’ve been here. Maria, in a very inconsiderate and ill-timed move, is camping with her children in the Wi-Fi-less sticks right at the time I desperately need to talk to someone. I have yet to come across anyone in my neighborhood who can speak English well enough to have a deep conversation, and work hours have been too full of wild preparation to waste any time on get-to-know-you small talk.
“Honestly, I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I get to do this!” I fling my arm out to encompass the wonder. Maybe I’m gushing, but at least it’s not about him, and he’s smiling warmly as he listens. “It’s thrilling to be on such an adventure. I’m so glad you came through our church and gave that recruiting speech.”
“It was my pleasure, I enjoy the annual recruiting trip. I get to fill up on hamburgers and all the pork I can eat.”
He looks away again for a minute, although I’m sure it’s not to give me a chance to admire his strong profile, then turns back with eyes lit up, “Oh, you know what you should really try…”
“Michael, there you are!” Bernice buttinskies loudly as she extricates herself from the unwanted conversation and charges toward us, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Michael stops and turns, regretfully it seems to me.
“Hello Bernice, I’m just talking with Amanda, our new eighth grade teacher. I don’t think you've met.”
Bernice possessively grabs onto his arm, then looks down at me from what seems like more than just her position atop the highest heels I’ve so far seen in what I’ve already discovered to be a fashion-obsessed Turkey. She’s dressed to the nines, even though the staff message specifically said this was a casual tour, and no—I give her a quick once-over—there’s not a wrinkle in sight, neither outfit nor face.
She looks like she’s in a commercial with a wind machine blowing her hair perfectly, whereas I’m playing the role of the proverbial third assistant standing opposite the fans so that I’m pulling hair out of my mouth every few moments.
“Hello Amanda, I’m Bernice, the Administrator.” She accompanies this statement with a huge, chemically-whitened smile and an accent I would find charming and exotic if I wasn’t already feeling so wrinkled and petty.
I swallow a sarcastic remark and put my hand out, “Bernice, it’s so nice to finally meet you!”
I’d thought it was strange to not have the administrator at our all-school meetings, but someone had mentioned she was having issues with her Turkish work visa. Apparently visa issues are pretty common, even if you’ve lived here awhile. Thankfully that was something the school took care of for me.
“I look forward to getting to know you better, Amanda. I’m sorry we weren’t able to meet until now, but I trust Michael completely when it comes to hiring new staff.”
Somehow, the way she says “staff” makes me feel like I’m downstairs at Downton, which then causes me to wonder if I’m the only one whose internal dialogues are so populated with British period pieces?
“Let’s have a chat next week,” Bernice coos, squeezing extra tight to Michael’s arm. He looks down and grimaces, but I don’t know if it’s because of the squeeze or the sweaty wrinkle she’s now put in his formerly pristine shirt.
“I’ll have my secretary send you a message. Now if you’ll excuse us, I need to talk to Michael,” and she starts to pull him away.
He smiles kindly as he leaves, “If you ever need any help, I hope you’ll let me know.” And then he’s gone.
I look at the water for a minute, wondering how working for Bernice is going to go, and then a feeling of wetness on my shirt reminds me of the Pepsi I probably need to try to wash out. But lucky me—when I look down, I find it’s not Pepsi as I thought, but a fresh plop of seagull poop! Wonderful.