MARŞ!

SOL! SOL! SOL SAĞ SOL! SOL! SOL! SOL SAĞ SOL!

P.E. has begun at Işık Lisesi. The girls stand in stiff rows, one arm's length apart, every vertebrate rod straight. We face the hoca (teacher), and we march. Hoca barks the Turkish rendition of the classic military chant: LEFT, LEFT, LEFT RIGHT LEFT, and we obey. "Keep your arms straight! Knees UP! Swing the OPPOSITE arm!" hoca critiques in commanding Turkish. "Tuuuurn right!". Turn. Stomp. March. What happened to a simple game of dodgeball?

I must admit, I ended up somewhat enjoying it. At this point, with no sport to play, even walking up stairs feels fantastic to me, but I never before appreciated how much exercise a brief military march provides. Plus, I ended up being much better at marching in formation than I was in the brief game of volleyball I was playing with a few friends before the lesson started. (That was just humiliating.) I may never use my new skills in the Turkish army (as all of the boys in the class will be required to), but I do know that I will never forget the Turkish words for left and right again. Ever.

Something New Every Day

I just climbed a balcony.

Honestly. From the ground. In a skirt. Today, I got back from school and no one was home, and as I don’t have a key yet, I was left in something of a predicament. It was then that I remembered last night’s dinner conversation, in which my host parents had joked about how their son Alp (who is now on exchange in Colorado) would often forget his key and climb the balcony to get into the house. Well, I thought, I’ll just go have a look. Suffice it to say, I ended up doing more than that. I’ll admit I was feeling pretty accomplished, and it took all my self-restraint to keep from mimicking the salute to the judges gymnasts perform after completing a routine. I had gotten up without bumping, breaking or twisting anything and, most importantly, without flashing anyone. Until, mere seconds after my feat, my phone rang. It was my host mother, telling me she was in the apartment right above ours, and I can just go up there when I get home. “Don’t go trying to climb the balcony or anything, she joked.” About that…

The final result: my host parents made sure to get me a key as soon as possible.

Not in Kansas Anymore...

In Telluride, to go to school, I leave home 5 minutes before class begins, cross a little wooden plank bridging the creek by my house, stroll 3 blocks down and voila, I have arrived. I know the name to match every face I see, as well as all of the names of their parents, siblings, and all pets past and present. My classmates are my playmates from the diaper days. That’s all I’ve ever known. Somehow, I don't think Istanbul, a city of 15 million in a country where everything from the language to the flush on the toilets is completely alien to me, will be quite like that. Feyziye Mektepleri Vakfı Işık Lisesi Ayazağa Kampüsü, one of Istanbul's most prestigious high schools, does not really seem like the kind of place where teachers are called by their first names when you see them around town on the weekends. I don't think my new math teacher will pause the lesson to talk about how their kid tried to convince his kindergarten teacher that his scribbles were actually diligent note-taking in Chinese (which didn't work out very well for little Hunter Lambert). But I didn't come here because I wanted things to be the same. Here, to go to school I will have to exit the military housing area where my apartment is via the secured gate patrolled by several soldiers carrying massive machine guns. The special school delivery service bus will be thoroughly checked for car bombs by another soldier, this one bearing a long pole with an upside down mirror specifically for this purpose. My new uniform has everything from a wool sweater vest to honest-to-god panty-hose. I won’t know anyone, and none of the 1,500 or so students at my campus will know me. I don’t even know what grade I will be in. And I couldn’t be more excited.