What I'm eating and drinking at home

My version of the Turkish breakfast plate: eggs, cheese, olives, tomato paste and toast.
My first attempt at Turkish coffee wasn't perfect. There aren't enough bubbles.

Second attempt at Turkish coffee--much better. Look at that foam! YUM.

Turkish Coffee on a Monday

Turkish hot drinks come in small cups. The coffee in tiny porcelain mugs; tea in curvy glass cups. It's not exactly the Starbucks' trente size, but who really needs that much of anything anyway?

Alan and I are finally working on somewhat normal sleep schedule, and we are both feeling better. 

We took a jog (for me a walk-n-jog) along the harbor this morning before breakfast. It felt good to stretch my legs and sweat on purpose for the first time in a while. My left leg wasn't so thrilled, as my Achilles' tendon started tensing about 15 minutes in, probably due to a week of serious lack of activity followed by jogging.

In any case, I'm seated outside a Turkish bakery with a little cup of coffee which Alan ordered for me in Turkish. Good job, Burrito! The gritty coffee tastes good, though incredibly strong and foreign.

I finally ventured out in something that bares my legs and arms, after surveying no clothing scene here in liberal Izmir. In Kayseri I didn't see any legs, and only a few arms, so I followed suite. Izmir is known for being less conservative than other parts of Turkey, and now during Ramadan, it is very clear that this is the case, at least in our neighborhood. We are surrounded by Turks who are eating and drinking during the time when most Muslims are fasting. Actually, I'm grateful that restaurants are open and serving food, as Alan and I don't plan to fast. I'm also glad that I don't have to sweat it out in jeans and my poly-blend blouse. I sweat. A lot.

I'm thinking back to yesterday, when Alan and I tackled the laundry. We did our best to translate the different buttons on our machine, and then fiddled with the dials until it started. We pretty much have to live at half speed or less because of the intense language barrier. It's refreshing in a way, because our jobs are so much about translating for others. I don't mind having a little more ambiguity in my life, and a little less rush.

Yesterday we also went on a neighborhood adventure to the Izmir fair. There were some similarities to the Park county Wyoming fairs that I used to attend as a kid, but alas, no demolition derby. I convinced Alan to go on huge Ferris wheel with me. It cost about 5 buck for the two of us, but spinning high above the city of Izmir was worth every kuruş. The fair itself was surrounded by a fantastic walk path, shaded by carefully grown and groomed trees. About halfway around the loop, we came across at least a dozen stray cats and a handful of dogs. As my camera shutter clicked the little, undernourished cats peeped and stretched, but didn't really get up. I'm a cat lover to the core, and it broke me heart a little to see all of these kitties without homes. We did see what appeared to be some kind of shelter or vet on the fairgrounds, and plenty of little tubs of water sitting out as kitty refreshment, but still. Where are your homes, little ones?

We also saw a black lab who only had two useable legs. Somehow he manged to walk around on just his front two legs, holding the unusable third (no fourth existed) up near his belly. The abdominal strength! True to his lab nature, this dog was happy and eager to please humans. He did his circus walk over to us, sat down, and started panting and smiling at us with soft and beautiful eyes. Alan dubbed this guy his "hero," which I thought was the cutest part. Even more than the mini-kitties.

I've drank my coffee down to the grit paste that remains in Turkish coffee. I wish Özge, my former roommate were here to read my fortune in the grounds. Alan has finished his tea, and is diligently working on Turkish grammar from a book published in the 1950s. I admire his dedication, but I'm going to save my language learner brain for this afternoon when our Turkish classes begin.

Until then, my regards to you, dear reader.

Alan, his tea, and his grammar book

My beverages, from left: lemonade, water, Turkish coffee. YUM.

Khmer-style and a durian tangent

Breakfast in Kratie Town was two of the most pleasant hours I've had in Cambodia. I nabbed a bamboo-wrapped roasted sticky rice for a little over 60 cents and crossed the the street to peel out the delicious mixture while overlooking the Mekong. Rice, beans and coconut milk make nearly the ideal breakfast food as the combination is sweet, but not-too-sweet, and appropriately filling. Satisfied and thirsty, I also decided that such a magnificent morning deserved an iced coffee. A little overwhelmed by the market, I enlisted the help of the cheekiest of CWF staff members. Soon, I was holding a tiny plastic bag full of ice, sugar and espresso. Yes, a bag with a straw—that's to-go Khmer style (pronounced “Ka-MY Style”).

It seems (and appropriately so) that everything in Cambodia is Khmer style. The mini-bus ride from Kratie to the boats at Sambo District was certainly Khmer style. Though lacking the roof-riders of traditional Khmer transport, we were packed like Khmers, fitting five large butts where normally three sit—thank goodness for a/c. The roads were true to Khmer style as we bounced, swerved and honked our way through the 45-minute journey. The ever-blasting Khmer radio hypnotized us into a new state of mind where things that seem essential at home suddenly aren't, and where the broken wall clocks reflect the easy pace of life.

Our meals in the village were served, how else, Khmer style. On the floor of the home, two parallel lines of place settings—enough to serve nearly 20. Several vats of rice, a few bowls of fish soups, stir-fry, and fried bananas (mmm!!) were ready to fill our hungry bellies. In the intense heat (upwards of 38 C or 100 F) of Cambodia, one trick is to douse the food with chilies to force your body to cool off. Even though it's a bit torturous going down, a few minutes later, the cooling effect is wonderful. The meals were excellent considering the circumstances, and the rest/nap periods on either side of the meal were much needed. If you have never experienced Cambodian heat, it's something to behold. Every day, it's the hottest summer day you can remember, plus humidity and no air-conditioned retreat. The knees of my cargo pants had white marks from the all the salt I had sweated out. Normally, I would have been very turned off by the intense climate, but the weather is an integral part of life here. The people move at a slower pace, they take life one nap at a time, because it's just too hot. In the words of another volunteer as he shut his eyes for a nap, “Now I know why it takes three months to dig a hole...”

During the absolute hottest part of the day, we visited the island school. I thought of my brother as we crossed the dusty school yard to the classrooms. We added our monstrous shoes to the pile of teeny flip flops before we filed into the sauna-esque classroom. Each volunteer had contributed a few dollars to buy school supplies for the kids, so after the children sang welcome songs, we gathered them outside to present them with a notebook and pencil each. What a great feeling to see so many children smiling and enjoying a new notebook. I was starting to understand the importance of my work at CWF, and the impact that even a small amount of time or money can have on someone's life. I have taken education for granted for so long that I have a hard time unpacking the idea that not all children go to school, and that schools are not the same everywhere. Time to wake up and smell the durian Jena.

Okay, durian tangent—It is only food too strong for wacky food expert Andrew Zimmern of the Travel Channel's Bizarre Foods. The durian is a soft fleshy Asian fruit renowned for its revolting odor. It took me nearly two months to realize that the durian was the main culprit of the nauseating stench at all markets. Many believe it to be an aphrodisiac, but after having several unfortunate spoonfuls in my dessert in Kratie, the only thing I wanted to do was brush my teeth and avoid ever, ever, ever eating it again.

A Conversation Worth Having

That darn coffee maker. I bought it last year because I thought it would be a nice upgrade. It was, but recently, the snail's pace brewing and thick black coffee have been too much for me. I'm an instant gratification, quick-fix kind of gal who likes to drink many cups of coffee, not just one super strength.

...frighteningly similar to how I feel about relationships. Maybe. I'm still working on that one.

This morning with my semi-solid coffee, I thought seriously about the previous night's viscous conversation with Takeshi. I'm a stubborn lady with a pension for the darker side of things. We flung open the big questions about our current standing, Cambodia, and the possibility of losing each other in the shuffle. It sounds awful, and it was, but we needed to go there.

By the way, I'm in dire need of a kick in the pants to adjust this sad, sad attitude. I'm on the edge of the adventure of a lifetime, I have the best family (biological or otherwise), and the most supportive friends I could ask for.

Mid-Morning: New WC

Collin and I christened the new Writing Center space today with a pot of coffee and a continuation of our major-life-decision talk. It turns out that both of us are unsatisfied with our respective chosen majors, but that we both eventually want to pursue higher education. As I often do, I immediately suggested that Collin study abroad to take a break from the dismal world of academia, and he countered with his customary, "but I'm a castle-builder" explanation. He is indeed a castle-builder—that is, one who prefers to create a web of relationships, commitments, and aspirations that center on a single geographic location. He wants to build his castle and enjoy the kingdom. I, on the other hand, am an exemplary wanderer. I'm never satisfied with my current location, and I am inclined to circumnavigate the globe in search of some higher meaning (or at least stories worth telling).

Surprisingly, Collin and I face a very similar dilemma, except I am one year further in the process. I have no advice for Collin, because my solution to the question of graduate school and beyond was about as pigheaded as they come: To heck with it all, I'm going to Cambodia. I need more time, a new space and deep-fried tarantulas to help me figure out my future (although if deep-fried tarantulas are in my future, I might need to rethink this…). I hope Collin doesn't have to go through the misery that was my lamentable fourth year at UNK. Attempting to be an überstudent, I took on far too many extra projects that left me exhausted, not to mention medicated. Sure, academia can be a very rewarding place, but the intense self-pressure to publish material or to create a project that will be satisfying may recklessly eat away at relationships, motivation, and stomachs. I have the holes to prove it!

On second thought, maybe To heck with it all, I'm going to Cambodia isn't such bad advice.

Barista's 10:15 am

We planned this coffee date last night--long before we had to wake up and stagger in this morning. This was to be a celebratory coffee of the temporary return of two good friends, and the send-off of another to Eastern Europe.

Instead, small groups of us file slowly into the Sunday morning coffee line. We are five strong in the line, but then another finds her way to us. She's twenty minutes late and in the clothes from last night. We all smile in anticipation of the sure-to-be entertaining story. This is almost too college: a group of well-traveled, bright young women, who are always sarcastic, and always, always, always talking about sex.

You can tell a lot about a woman by the coffee drink she orders. After an intense wait in the line, we are gathered around the table drinks in hand. I have a small soy latte and bran muffin, making me the youngest 78-year-old in the world. To my right, a large vanilla latte marks an indulgent choice for a health-nut; next to her sits a small peppermint mocha, the ultimate rebellious drink in the summertime. On the other side of the table, one sits without a drink, she's too hung-over for a sugary, lactose-filled beverage. Next to her, a tame medium vanilla chai compliments the boldness of its drinker. Across from me sits a caramel latte that I gifted because of her perpetual bad luck with stupid men. To my left, the one with the pending story holds a large raspberry hot tea.

We all look at raspberry tea, waiting.

She doesn't disappoint us.

9:45 am UNK Writing Center

Amidst the piles of packed boxes, carts of writing handbooks and general dishevelry, I sip coffee with Collin. Our director, a superwoman of sorts, though wonderfully disorganized, stews in the other room over her own cup of coffee, cursing the company in Wisconsin responsible for our current snarl of an online appointment book. She is the one who brewed this coffee--Shurfine brand from last semester if I'm not mistaken. I've doused mine with off-brand hazelnut creamer until tolerable, and I now turn my attention to the conversation with Collin, my brilliant co-worker.

He drinks the coffee black, an admirable and self-sacrificial task. The way he drinks it fits him: straightforward and untainted by the hazelnuts that have overthrown so many of us. We talk about the pieces of paper that have been thrust onto our desk in a whirl of confusion as our director paces back and forth trying to figure out how to make this writing center functional in its half-way-moved-across-the-library state. She's asked us to write a little blurb about the Writing Center for a University newsletter, but the directions were hazy at best. We sit, cups in hand, staring at a blank screen and several seemingly arbitrary sheets of paper from her desk.

Collin and I are the yin and yang of writing, the decadent and the trim, the functional and the superfluous. Neither of us embodies any of these characteristics consistently, but we are always in opposition. We spew quips and sarcasm, adjectives that would make any English teacher jealous. Our Writing Center is provocative...yes, that's the perfect description.

Our coffee cups are empty, and neither of us dare to enter the director's office, for fear of the next strange and ambiguous busy-work assignment. It's the end of the shift. We leave the cups on an empty shelf.