I have for some time wanted to write out my average day, but it has been proving a very difficult task. I have decided to just write out parts, so I’m starting at the beginning.
6:45 – my cell phone alarm announces, none too subtly, that it’s time to get up. At first, when this meant awaking to the first beams of sunlight beginning to peak through my window, and the irresistible feel of morning all around, I actually embraced this. Now, however, when that same tune breaks into my dreams it signals the start of the hardest part of my day. I must wrench myself from the fantastic warmth of my bed before the sun has even risen, and that is just depressing. There is a definite chill in the air now. For the last couple days this has been impounded on by the dense humidity/rain, making my cold floor even less tempting to bare feet in the morning. I may have been born and raised in the dry, Rocky Mountain cold, but that seems to have given me no immunity to this new, wet chill. It has forced me to strategically place my alarm on the other side of the room.
Once I have passed this initial hurdle, however, things become much easier. I don my pleated gray skirt, white shirt (with optional black sweater), pull up my knee-high socks, and I’m ready to go. Breakfast is usually a motley mix of American and Turkish style food. I love fresh fruit in the morning, although the Turks tend to save that for after dinner. But every morning I also have a bit of beyaz peynir, a special cheese found on most every Turkish breakfast table. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant about the stuff at first, but now I don’t know what I’ll do without it when I return home. Whatever I end up eating, I supplement it with, of course, a cup of tea.
By 7:30 I am downstairs waiting for the bus. Every morning, the ‘housekeeper’, who looks after all of the apartments in this building, passes me while I wait, and I greet him with “Günaydın!” accompanied by a broad smile. Given my lack of language skills, I have found that the best, and sometimes only, way of forging relationships is with a hearty and sincere smile. In my first week at school, I think that is all I became known for. I am the redheaded, very cheerful foreign girl. Which is not a bad thing to be.
I greet the bus lady the same way as she opens the door for me. She has the classic ‘lunch lady’ look, and is referred to as “abla” (big sister) by all of the kids on the bus. She is one of the few people I see regularly who speaks absolutely no English, so she has had the misfortune of being the subject of several of my wilder attempts at Turkish. I can usually gauge my progress by the level of bewilderment she displays. I think I’m improving. She now sometimes replies to my no doubt strangely worded queries, instead of just staring at me in puzzlement. Baby steps.
I then head to the back of the bus, where I and the other 3 high school students sit. On my left is (spelling most likely wrong) Sinan, who never talks, and on my right are Sena and Barbaros, who never stop talking. I just try to follow along. About half and hour later we drive through the school gates (also manned by armed guards, though these much less threatening looking that those outside my housing area). We’re dropped in front of the school and, if it is a Monday, we enter and line up for the ‘ceremony’.
Performed every Monday morning and Friday afternoon, the ceremony is a testament to the intense national pride of Turks. We line up by class, by height (I am at the very front), and when given the command, stand at attention and sing. A full orchestra plays the tune of the İstiklal Marşı through the school speakers, and every person in the building, students, principles and janitors alike, sing along. We face the Turkish flag, which is held in a specific position by a different student every time. (The selected student is, I’ve noticed, always an older boy. Girls just don’t do that.) I stand silently facing the flag, wishing every time I had already learned all the words to be able to sing along as well. Actually, I’ve recently discovered that in the front of every textbook, in every subject, for every age, the first 3 pages feature the İstiklal Marşı (with Turkish flag illustration), a full-page portrait of Atatürk (looking suitably noble), and the Atatürk’ün Gençliğe Hitabesi (which I still don’t really understand), so I really need to start learning it. When the anthem finishes, all orderly lines break loose, and school begins.
