Lately, when I am taking a break from my regular reading selections (which are typically trashy Victorian romance novels) I read spiritual self help books. So that I can get better at life.
This is what I imagine my goddess spirit guide to look like.
I'm not sure if this is working but it makes me feel like I am moving towards self improvement.
The other day I brought the self help book that I am currently reading to the office and I typed out a section during my break. Then I printed out multiple copies and distributed them to several colleagues. I thought they might like it.
As it turns out, not everyone is interested in changing their realities by accessing the Universal Principles via alchemy (aka magic). Who knew?
I assume everyone is always thinking the same thing that I am thinking.
Is that wrong?
So then I got to thinking, "Am I wasting my time?"
Despite my spiritual self help, I have yet to stop/change any of my negative behaviors. I regularly find myself doing things like eating candy while reading health articles, pressing my snooze at least seven to nine times in a row on most work mornings and binge watching trashy television shows like Project Runway-Australia for hours on end. A few weeks ago I invited over 15 people for dinner club and tried a new recipe which resulted in poor time management, panic, yelling at the guests at the door to go away, and a last minute "peanut butter washing in the sink" episode. I was at a really low point when I recently forced my boyfriend to try on my jeans and then lamented over the fact that he looks better in them than I do.
Why do I keep setting myself up for disaster?
I think I may be focusing my brain energy on the wrong areas in my life.
Take Elizabeth Babstein for instance. Who is Elizabeth Babstein? I'm not quite sure. But my students act like she is real. They regularly refer to her, sometimes in first person (like, they pretend to be her), sometimes in passing. Sometimes they call her a princess, sometimes a queen, but often just an everyday lady. After about a month of Elizabeth Babstein talk at school, I finally googled her. And you know what? Elizabeth Babstein isn't real.
Yet I am still thinking of her.
Then this week I've been plagued by sadistic snowmen. I know that children made them and that they probably are not actually infused with evil, but still. They scare me each and every day when I walk down the damn hall.
Here is one that wants to murder me.
Here is another one. It's mouth is like a black hole that wants to suck me in and crush me.
Et cetera.
How do YOU get the unnecessary junk out of your head? Let me know.
My birthday was on June 26. That was a while ago so I hope it's not too late to say that it was really good.
I'm the kind of person that has a panic attack each year before my birthday. Not because I fear getting older. I actually think I get a tad bit better with every passing year. (I liken myself to a fine bottle of wine...is that too much?) The problem is this: I'm afraid of being sad and alone on my actual birthday day. Does anyone else get like that? I have plenty of friends, I don't know why I have this phobia... I guess it's just another drawer in my bureau of mental illness.
Cabinet of Neuroses
To avoid this problem (I'm really good at avoidance, it's a skill) I usually skip town. I understand that if I leave town for my birthday then the result will be that I am completely without friends, but ultimately it's onpurpose so I do not allow myself to be sad.
I don't care if this doesn't make sense to you fair reader. I play games with my mind to survive.
However, this last year threw me for a loop for two major reasons.
#1 I was in school (I'm a teacher) all the way up until the day before my birthday and I had a big trip planned five days later so it felt tricky to plan a mini-escape-because-I'm-scared-of-my-birthday-trip in such a short window of time.
#2 Moving to Turkey was an attempt for me to stop letting fear run my life.
So I decided that I needed to be a big girl and take the plunge: I asked a few of my girlfriends if they wanted to join me for a birthday dinner the following week. They all promptly said no. This was discouraging seeing as how they were the people that graced me with their company most frequently.
However, all hope was not lost because a different dear friend invited me out to dinner specifically for my passing of age and I said yes. She asked politely if I wanted to invite any other folks -- I declined with the excuse that it was a busy time of year for everyone.
Fast forward to the night of our dinner date. As I arrived home that afternoon she popped over and said to me in a stream of high energy, "Hi cutie - are you ready to celebrate your birthday with me tonight? - I love that dress you're wearing - you always look so nice - what about changing though - we are celebrating you and you never know what might happen - wear something that makes you feel like a princess - (insert a kiss on each cheek) - Ok - I'll stop by in an hour and we can go - see you soon!" and out she fluttered into the corridor as I stood just inside my apartment door, looking down at my outfit. I shrugged my shoulders, chuckled for a moment when I recognized the good fortune of attracting people into my life as random as myself, and changed so that I could attain a more princess-like look.
This was approximately my final look.
An hour later, right on schedule, I heard a knock on my door and I was greeted with a fancy cocktail. Then I was whisked away to my favorite restaurant.
Have you figured it out yet? I hadn't.
When I walked upstairs to get seated for dinner I found a room full of practically every person I knew in Turkey. Everyone was wearing birthday hats and blowing noise makers. Upon my arrival they all yelled "SURPRISE!" (including several elderly Turkish men who just happened to be dining there that evening) and I nearly fainted. Long story short: It was one of the best moments in my life.
The evening went on in regular birthday fashion -- I just couldn't believe it was me in the birthday seat! Those sneaky friends of mine, god bless 'em.
As I sat down in the middle of a long table, my friends swapped seats around me and told me about how they lied and sneaked to keep the secret. What a bunch of sociopaths. They were so joyful about their web of lies. And as a laser light show began to flicker around me (side note: the show only happened on the half of the restaurant in which my friends sat - our own non-private light show if you will) a sultan hat was placed on my head.
My friend who placed the golden atrocity on my head said in confidentiality, "You have no idea how many circumcision shops I went into to find a legit one of these bad boys. No dice. Those motherf@c#ers are expensive. So this knock-off will have to do. Happy birthday."
I love my friends.
See? This is why lying is ok! A big old happy pile of lies.
Here is my take away: As I grow up I realize more and more that the things I am scared of are silly. It's exciting. It opens the world a little more each day. I can't wait to find out what I am not scared of next.
It has been a long time since I have written anything.
But it's not because life has stopped amusing me.
Nor have I been too busy.
I just got out of the habit of writing.
Now, I want to mention that I think dropping habits is a FABULOUS skill if you use it for the power of good: you know, healthful things such as quitting smoking or saying no to dessert after breakfast. Bressert.
But unfortunately, I often will put the kibosh on habits that actually make me a better person -- Stuff like daily showering. And perseverance.
And writing.
Luckily 2015 recently happened and I am SUPER into resolutions. In other words, I'm back to writing my blog - and I plan to be consistent y'all. So get ready to re-live some of my 2014 highlights with me!
***
Like many of you know, I enjoy music. Many of my happiest memories from the last two decades involve live shows and good friends. I've had a deficit of shows in my life since moving overseas. The result of this is that whenever an opportunity arises to check out a "new" band, I jump on it.
As you might imagine, when someone told me about a salsa band that was going to be in Izmir, I began to salivate (as did many of my friends). This was double exciting because it was not just a new band to check out, but one that would also inspire dancing. Yes please.
For a few days leading up to the show, my cute little boyfriend twirled me around the apartment in anticipation -- he blasted different Latin sounds of all cadences and flavors. (Side-note: I'm kind of a terrible dancer, but he is very patient with me) We were so excited to go check out a new venue and hear some live tunes that we forgot one very important thing:
Nothing is ever as it seems in Turkey.
For most aspects of life I have learned to abide by the resolute art of keeping my expectations low (teaching children aside) but sometimes I will have a lapse in good judgment and get carried away with grandiose notions of excellence for certain events and/or experiences. This typically ends disastrously.
So with a lot of built up anticipation, me and a crew of 10 or so people went to check out the Sunshine Band. There were six singers and a swing band behind them. One singer looked like Charlize Theron. One looked like a dominatrix. The rest looked pretty normal.
They all specialized in a certain "sound" ...none of which much resembled salsa. The really skinny girl enhanced each of her songs by singing them in languages in which she clearly did not speak while the cute chick with the fro simply chose songs entirely out of her vocal range.
We were confused.
And, like, so was everyone else...
Ain't nobody was dancin'.
But it was still really fun, because the Sunshine Band did some really fascinating work. For instance, they did a rendition of Bonnie Tyler's "I Need a Hero" in Turkish. Bet you didn't know that could happen. It did and it was AWESOME. I sang along in English.
And really, once I settled into the realization that the evening was going to be completely illogical, I began to fully enjoy myself.
Isn't that always the case?
It's like when you see a fake person hanging by a rope from an anchored ship on your evening stroll. IT'S JUST SO GOOD.
Keep your expectations low and then when you see a mannequin suspended from a boat on a Wednesday you will be surprised and delighted.
My friend in the United States of America sent me a link about a ghost town in Turkey that she wanted me to check out because she thought it looked awesome. I agreed.
So I decided to go to this ghost town, Kayaköy, during the Halloween season, the most haunting time of year. I wanted to find out if this town was legit. Everyone knows that I see ghosts in real life, so obviously if there were truly ghosts in this village then I would be the one to see them.
Truth be told, I haven't seen one single ghost since I have lived in Turkey, so my expectations were exceedingly low. But I went anyway because I believe in giving everyone a chance, even ghosts.
Here is my story.
It was a dark and stormy night. Literally, it was raining and lightning and thundering the ENTIRE way for my 6 hour bus ride. I liked it.
Anyway, it was a dark and stormy night. I was feeling bedraggled when I asked in broken Turkish for my bus driver to pull over on a deserted street to let me and my ghost-busting partner, Oscar, out. We scouted around the deserted beach town until we found a meager light at an Inn, a place in which we could rest our weary heads for the night.
Side note: I feel like I accidentally just morphed into telling a story resembling that of the night Jesus Christ was born. It wasn't quite that dramatic. Back to the ghosts.
The next morning, after a good night's rest and our bellies full of kahvaltı (breakfast), we caught the next bus to the village of spirits. When we told the dolmuş driver our specific destination, he looked at us quizzically and then shrugged. After twisting his vehicle skillfully through the mountains, we were once again dropped off in the middle of nowhere to fend for ourselves.
We started down this desolate, muddy road hoping to quickly find our accommodations that we had booked online the week before. I had to watch my step as we were walking due to all of the frog carcasses that littered the ground. It was weird.
Dead frogs after a great storm -- isn't that biblical too?
Fortunately, we found a sign for our lodging! Unfortunately, the sign was terrifying.
This designer should be fired.
In the meantime, I noticed that the dirt path that we were on was lined with barbed wire. I wondered: Was this feature put in place to protect the pedestrians from danger? Or to keep us boxed in so that the murders could happen more smoothly?
The excessive fencing seems unnecessary, but what do I know about country road regulations in rural Turkey?
Then I noticed the sprawling graveyard surrounding the creepy pathway on which we were lost. This made me nervous. Who were in all these graves? People dropped off by the previous dolmuş's? I didn't like what I saw one bit. Negative self talk began. It went like this: "I'm probably going to die. No one will know what happened." I repeated this over and over again.
Here is a view of the graves, just beyond the barbed wire.
Also, there was a sign asking us to pay attention when Satan's horses were passing by.
Does Satan travel this way often? Apparently often enough to elicit the need for a sign.
Additionally, I met several animals along the way that were obviously mocking me for continuing to venture down Bad-Choice Lane.
I know what this sheep was thinking. "This dumb bitch is about to die. And so is her foreign friend. The foreign guy always dies first. Well, maybe second if there is a blonde in the plot line."
After about fifteen minutes of wandering in quiet fear, Oscar suggested that he approach the haunted house on our left to ask for directions. I look at him incredulously and asked, "Have you learned nothing from horror films? You are seriously about to die." He thought about that for a second and then decided that I was correct. He said something along the lines of, "You're right. We should definitely not split up. That's exactly what the director of our film would want us to do and we are not that stupid."
So we continued on until we found our pension. We had a spooky feeling that we were in the right place when we found a dead baby in a tree.
Ok, it was a doll, not a real child. But dolls remind me of dead babies. I don't like them.
Once we checked in the owner of the pension led us to our room. It was not the room we had paid for online so we asked to check out some of the other rooms. After being led to a shed out back with a single mattress on the floor as option number two, we decided to accept the initial room offer. In all honesty, it was quite comfy.
This was our room key. Yes, it was attached to a mutilated teddy bear.
This was a photograph on the wall in our hotel room. It's weird. Am I right?
So after we got settled in, we took off for the ghostly village. The people who worked at our pension were very sweet and helpful -- they pointed us in the right direction and wished us good luck. By the time we got there it had turned into a beautiful day. Oscar and I climbed in, around and through the ruins, as one can only do in Turkey where there are absolutely no enforced regulations.
Sometimes there are signs that try to try -- but as you can see in the background, a large human size hole has been made in the wall protecting the church from intruders. Once you crawl through that hole, you will find a nicely stacked pile of rocks which you can climb upon to jump over another fence where you will land neatly into the church courtyard. Just sayin'.
Nothing terribly exciting happened in the village. I saw one ghost dog -- brown with black spots -- that was cool. But who knows when that dog died -- it could have been last year. And it didn't scare me. I was a bit disappointed because I was hoping for something more thrilling. All I saw were beautiful vistas and dreamy crumbling architecture. Sigh.
Perhaps the ghosts are tired of people (like me) using their yester-homes as backdrops for high-school-senior-like photos.
After a few hours of investigating, Oscar and I had gözleme and çay (deLIGHTful gözleme and çay I might add) at a little cafe and headed back to the Inn. On the trek back is where I got my most frightening, hair-raising scare.
Ostriches are my second greatest fear.
I was trying to overcome my overwhelming fear of ostriches by getting marginally close to this random one that was in a fenced in yard in the middle of nowhere. I thought to myself, "Perhaps I can take some awesome pics -- maybe this gi-normous atrocity can be tastefully artistic." But this guy was aggressively stalking around it's dinosaur sized eggs with it's head lowered and it's beady fist-sized bird eye sizing me up. After fearfully running back to the hotel and researching ostrich behavior I learned that a) I should have been more scared than I was and b) it's a good thing that ostriches can't jump because if they could then this one would have eviscerated me. So there's that.
The only other thing that happened was that I saw ghost hovering in the corner of my bedroom near the ceiling before I turned out the lights to go to sleep.
Overall rating of my Ghost Village experience: 9.5 out of 10 stars
Well well well, if it isn't my old blog. (Terrible way to start, I'm really out of practice)
I know it has been a few months since I have written anything. The truth is, I'm lazy. But I'm getting back into the swing of life again so I'm going to catch you up on some things that happened over the summer.
Today's blog is sponsored by the country of Spain.
Last fall, my friend Megan and I had this really brilliant idea for how we might spend our summer together -- we decided that we should walk El Camino de Santiago. If you've never heard of it, it's a pilgrimage across Spain. We knew we wouldn't have time to do the whole thing, so we chose a 300 mile long section to tackle.
Here is a view from El Camino. It's really long.
I don't know what comes to mind for you when you consider hiking 300 miles with all your supplies strapped to your back. I didn't really think much about it at all. Megan would send me links to blogs about the Camino (for mental preparation) and lists of quick-dry items that she planned to pack (because she's practical like that) and I was all, "Hey, could you buy me one of everything you're getting and I'll pay you back in Spain?" Like I said before, I'm lazy. Furthermore, I tend to plan for failure rather than for success. In my mind, I was thinking about how I would justify backing out of the trail three days in by turning my hiking adventure into a gloriously relaxing beach vacation on the shores of Spain, all by myself if need be. That's just how my brain works.
Anyway. The school year finally finished and I headed to Spain. I was fairly out of shape because I had recently been suffering from stress fractures in my feet, but I was really excited to give the Camino a go. My negative thoughts were at a minimum because our friend Sarah had also decided to join us for our Spanish adventure and she doubled as an on-staff doctor and a positive ray of sunshine. So worry I did not. For the first three days I flew through the miles, practically jogging with my backpack.
Meanwhile, everyone I met had a story to tell. Some of the stories were delightful anecdotes about life in different corners of the world. Some of the stories were about heartache and loss and figuring out how to deal. But most of the talk was about injuries. Specifically, Camino related injuries. It was totally common for every pilgrim on the Camino to rip off their shoes and socks at each and every public bar and restaurant and massage their bloodied and swollen feet. Everyone I met had battle wounds wrapped and covered, bandaids and compeed and thread hanging out of and off from blisters, swollen joints and angry red skin -- and all I could think was, "Man, I am lucky to not be hurting like all these people."
Amidst all the tales of pain and Camino woes came an onslaught of unsolicited advice. As it turns out, I really hate unsolicited advice.
As people would share their precautionary tips to prevent future hardships, I smiled and nodded and then inevitably ignored them. In my mind I sang, "Ain't nobody got time for that."
Fast forward. Here is a passage from my journal on Day 9:
"...both shins have swollen to insane proportions, I got heat rash in three new spots and it's not going away, we walked on a freeway for six hours and I was the slowest so I cried a little, I got on a scale and it said I gained five pounds since yesterday, I accidentally ordered three sandwiches for breakfast which cost 10 euros, made me feel fat and sluggish, and proved to me that my Spanish comprehension is sub-par. There are bedbugs in my albergue..."
I would be lying if I said that the Camino didn't break my spirit. It did. I have many joyous memories of life on the Camino but I also spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and wondering why the hell I would choose such an atrocious way to spend my summer. Sometimes after long bouts of silence on the trail Megan would ask me what I was thinking. If I responded truthfully by saying that I was "meditating on loneliness and pain" she would inform me that I was not meditating, but rather I was wallowing.
Sometimes I would sit down on a rock and say sullenly, "Just leave me here to die." Typically I followed this up with hysterical and/or irrational laughter.
One day as I was sitting with my swollen legs dangling in an icy cold river, an Irish fellow made an astute observation of me without even asking my name. He said, "It looks like you chose the wrong holiday." This man happened to be the winner of the Irish Voice. (I have included this random piece of information and one of his music videos not because it has any relevance to my story but because I think it's funny.)
Don't judge me Pat. I may have been lame but so is your video.
Take that.
So you might be asking yourself, "If the hike was so terrible, why didn't you just quit and escape to your magical beach vacation that you had elaborately planned in your mind?" Well, judgey reader, I will tell you. I didn't quit because everybody else kept going. And I didn't want to be the loser that couldn't hang. It became a principle of stubborn pride. That was truly the only thing that kept me going for a solid 15 days. That and the fact that I really liked all the people I met along the way and I suffer from a condition called FOMO - fear of missing out. We would do really fun things like drink wine and sing in Italian. Even if I was the weakest link, I wanted to be some link.
Luis posted his advertisements for failure everywhere.
I considered calling him each and every day.
From time to time I would find talismans on the trail.
Typically, I took these types of signs as harbingers for more pain and desolation to come.
Sometimes my friends would lure me through particularly tough spots by waving candy in front of my face. Literally. They would tell me that they would take a break with me and give me candy if I would keep up a human pace for a certain distance. Since I function like a small child, this worked.
Well, I'm happy to say that I made it all the way to Santiago and did not sustain any lasting injuries. In fact, by the last five days or so I felt fabulous. Apparently the old adage, "No pain, no gain," is correct. It felt super awesome to make it to the end despite all the troubles throughout.
My take away from this experience was this: There were times on this trip where my very worst self came out. However, even though I complained a lot, I feel like I laughed more. And at the end of the day I always felt blessed to be surrounded by friends -- new and old. I know that sounds cheesy and contrived, but it's true. It's really hard to ask for help and to slow down. It's even harder to keep on going once you've lost your original pace. But then you do it. And everything always ends up okay.
The children have had their last day. In between teaching and vacationing there is an ambiguous period of time that administrators all around the world call "Teacher Workdays." In my current school, these days span out for about a two week stretch.
Now listen, I've got as many loose ends to tie up as the next teacher. The thing is, I'm one of those people who likes to hurry up and get everything done at the close of school as fast as possible. I'm not really interested in dilly dallying. So after completing all of my tasks a full week earlier than the time I was allotted, I found myself with an exorbitant number of hours for thinkin'.
I tend to write down thoughts on little bits of paper and shove them into my purse as I cruise through life. Usually these small scraps (gum wrappers, ticket stubs, post its) get lost at the bottom of my gargantuan bag and if they resurface it is usually MUCH later and by that point the paper will be so dirty and torn up that the messages are nearly impossible to decipher.
Here are a few of my messages to self, coupled with some highlight photos:
1) Somebody in my office is trying to poison me. I know that this sounds extreme, but it's real. The water in the cooler tastes like poison. I guess, if I were to be completely accurate, I would say that someone is trying to poison the entire English staff.
I am extremely familiar with this kind of poisoning because I've been dealing with it for a lifetime. Between the rotten food in my childhood refrigerator and the sleeping pills my sister would try to drug me with, I'm a goddamn professional. A professional victim of poisoning. I should add that to my friendship resume.
2) I went to an orchestra at Ephesus and it was pretty rad. But I have a few questions:
#1 Why do Turkish people always sit so close? There is an entire amphitheater to spread out and someone is literally sitting on my feet. This person is a stranger. And they are touching me VERY unnecessarily.
#2 What's up with the fanatical clapping? Let me clarify something: I am all about clapping for performers. But there is no one performing right now and people are just randomly clapping in large groups. It's like group-clapping-turrets. Is someone performing a social experiment to see how many people they can get to clap?? I think it's a cultural thing. The other day when I came into class with my hair straightened, my students gave me a round of applause. My girls told me that I look like Katy Perry. They also told me that looking like Katy Perry is a very good thing.
3) Did you know that Katy Perry fans are called Katy Cats? True story.
4) Some of my friends are moving away and they have been selling off their belongings. I've been trying really hard to not be a hoarder but it's in my nature to hoard. (It's lingering "poor person mentality" and I'm afraid I'll never shake it. Buffets are really difficult for me to navigate as well.)
Anyhow, my friend Gina gave me some clothes and check this out: Since I have started wearing her things, random strangers have been approaching me on the street and calling me Gina. But here is the weird thing: The clothes that she gave me were not in her regular rotation -- they weren't "signature Gina clothes" or something like that. Additionally, we look nothing alike aside from the fact that we are both white women. So how are these strangers making this connection?!? The entire experience has been spooky, perhaps even borderline alarming.
5) Here is a picture of her with a picture of her. There is also another small picture of her that I glued into the corner of the picture of her.
Gina and I look nothing alike. But the drawing is really good.
6)
This is me. You probably think I'm at the beach. But I'm actually inside my hotel room posing in front of a photograph of the beach. I counted 14 of these photos (the exact same one mind you) around the hotel and I figured they were there as a backdrop for selfies in case someone who was visiting the beach didn't actually want to go outside.
What would you say if I told you that I had "borrowed" portions of Rocky Horror Picture Show for my 5th grade student production of Grace and the Time Machine this year?
Because I did. And it was very warmly received, thank you very much. I included music and coordinated dance moves. Rocky Horror is totally appropriate for ESL students in Turkey because they don't really know what is going on.
Sure the plot of this film is about a newly engaged couple exploring their sexuality,
but the nuances went unnoticed.
Details, details.
So many details are completely ignored here in my beloved Turkey, day in and day out.
Sometimes people will say ridiculous things to me in such an aloof manner, that I don't even register the extent of the absurdity until reflection on the matter much, much later.
"Oh, nobody told you about how the main streets occasionally flood with sewage? It happens a couple times a year. I mostly can't leave my apartment when it gets all sewage-y like that."
When my friend told me this, I just nodded in agreement. It probably was a bad idea to walk around in a sewage flood. But later I thought to myself, "Regular sewage floods...seems like something I should know about. I'm sure glad someone gave me a heads-up for that potential happening."
Other times I find that Turkish people are detail oriented to the EXTREME. For instance, if you walked into the apartments of many of my expat friends, you would see photographs of uteri on their refrigerators. Why? Because Turkish gynecologists love to photograph the uterus -- whether it is laden with child or not. It's like a little bonus gift at the end of your gynecological exam.
Why should pregnant ladies be the only ones who get photographs of their uteri?
Equal opportunities for non-pregnant women!
Also, doctors text all medical test results directly to your cellphone here in Turkey. Is that weird? I feel like that's weird.
In unrelated news, I've been really psychic lately.
But not psychic in the traditional sense.
What I mean is, I've been channeling Frida Kahlo.
She has been in my mind (and heart) for several hours each day for the last few weeks.
THEN, out of NOWHERE, my sister sent me a Frida print scarf.
Coincidence? I don't believe in those.
I think that Frida is trying to tell me to start a series of portraits that feature wild animals. And I don't plan to let her down. More to come on the self-portrait front soon.
This is what I have been thinking about. All the time.
My mind has been a kaleidoscope of Frida Kahlo portraits.
One last thing. I recently saw this guy.
I was the only person that seemed concerned that he was there. Then I got to thinking, "Hey, maybe I am ACTUALLY looking at the legit Grim Reaper right now and no one else can see him."
Pregnant pause in my mind.
"Perhaps I will die soon," I quietly murmured aloud in a slightly tragic tone.
But he never approached me with an offer for my soul, so I feel like I am in the clear for now.
