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.