Sun, Sea, and decaying nuclear power plants!

While it may be an uncomfortably cold day here in Istanbul (as I'm sure it is for the rest of you in your respective Northern European and American locations), I have as of late found my attentions turning once again to the inevitable changing of the seasons and the oncoming spring. If inductive logic once again fails to disappoint us, we will, within a matter of a few short months, be ushered into a gloriously balmy summer. That illustrious season is not one in which I intend to spend in the sweltering streets and muggy merkezler of Istanbul. Rather, my plan is to head a bit north, through the long, flat stretches of Bulgarian countryside, and into the pearl of the Black Sea, Varna.

This Varna, or BAPHA as it is comically spelled (no less amusing than Batman, Turkey. Or Centre of the World, Ohio, for that matter), is a small town in the North-East of Bulgaria, scant few scores of kilometers from the Romanian border (Here there be Tygers). BAPHA, however, is no wild, scavenger-ridden wasteland, as is so much of its neighbor to the North. No, friends, BAPHA is practically paradise. The city itself is relaxing, yet not boring by any means. The seaside is full of clubs and restaurants. The architecture in the city center is old and grand. There are many parks, churches, mosques, and monuments to feast your eyes upon (as well as some old Roman Ruins and Monestaries nearby). Cobblestone roads and wide open promenades about, only a respectable walk (or short Taxi ride) from huge shopping malls and supermarkets.

The city is only half the draw, however. Just 8 km (around 4 miles) north of our Varna lies St. Konstantin, a sleepy little resort area, full of boutique hotels, rich British people, and kilometers of undeveloped beach. Perfect for relaxing, or burying your friends in the sand (better leave the head out though, eh?). Paths weave down from the highway all the way to the sea, crisscrossing through this silent, shady hideaway.

However, just another 8 km north (that's 4 miles yet again, Americans!) sits GOLDEN SANDS, whose majesty can barely be expressed in the capital letters with which I have emblazoned its good name. This is a Beach Resort that simply blows away any resort that I have ever seen. Miami? Heh. Varna taught Miami how to swim. Ft. Lauderdale? Right. Varna gave Ft. Lauderdale its first shot of whiskey. The Greek Islands? Not a chance. Varna simultaneously pleasured Greece's mother, put its father into a headlock, and taught it how to roll a cigarette with one hand. (At least Varna said it was a cigarette).

We're talking massive 5 star hotels, clubs on the water, water parks, tiki bars, water sports, casinos. BAPHA's got it all. You know those movies where there's a huge party on the beach, and everyone's laughing and drinking beer and having fun? Well, I assume that's not Varna. But Varna is still cool. And cheap!

See, Bulgaria is a really poor country where all the extra money gets poured into entertainment. Yeah, communism fed them, but they've got decades of disco dancing and skimpy clothes to make up for. Of course, if they tried to charge five dollars for a martini, they wouldn't sell any martinis, would they? So... They charge one dollar. (They still don't sell very many. You could eat a full meal for that much). Of course, the beach resort is more expensive than that, but for the price of a dinner and a drink at TGI Fridays, you could eat a feast, and drink all night long. But, why am I telling you all of this? Am I just spouting on, yet again, about all the fun I'm going to have this summer? Well, yes.

Privet, Komrades,

AAPOH

Lights? Camera?

My friends and friendlishes, I extend to you a reasonably jovial salutation. I expect that a few of you extend the same to me. How's your 2007 going? Chock full of the same 2006 lovin'? I sincerely hope that this year is the King Size version of the last, with 33% more nougat, caramel, and chocolatey goodness.

I can hear the skeptics among you now, asking, "why is that good-for-nothing, estranged, coward of an American bothering posting again? That's twice in a month! Doesn't he have anything better to do with himself, the lousy git?" Well, to that I can only reply, "There is nothing more satisfying than engaging in a light-hearted, albeit one-way, conversation with my fellow and fallen comrades (not that the two are the same, mind you)." And speaking of the onewayedness, well, it exists. If you're not dead, let me know. (My sincerest apologies to those of you who are, and may have been offended by my insensitivity).

And to those dear friends of my whom I've passed over in the last few months, I'm truly sorry. My intention was never to lose touch with all of you. Just a select few. (And, no, Ron, you're not one of them). Please accept my apologies. I have been lazy this year, and as I begin stirring in my hibernation, I'm starting to feel guilty about the poor, wee cubs I left in the freezing cold. If you're so inclined, ring me up. You can harass me as much as your sadistic hearts desire, and I'll not bat an eyelash - to this I swear. Conversely, you may send me your phone number accompanied by the rudest expletives you can muster, and if I find myself significantly scandalized, I'll be forced to ring you and give you a piece of my mind.

And I'm afraid I must unleash yet another apology upon the masses. You see, fate has bestowed upon me a wealth of free time this year - I work about as much as a one-legged prostitute, and make just slightly more (assuming she's working a decent beat). And having had a burst of creative energy semi-recently, I rather mistakenly thought that I could devote these free hours to writing a book. However, it was not meant to be. Having opened up my head, and chased down, stabbed, and taxidermized 40 pages of perfectly preserved prose, I found that there was naught behind it but a brick wall. So it goes. Like every other attempt before, this one has been filed away for posterity. Josh, it looks like your good name will not yet be tarnished by my pen. At least not in public.

So, for the last couple of weeks, I've been moping around the house, making everyone around me more miserable than usual by muttering "What to do, what to do," not only by being a general pain in the ass, but also by reminding them that I'm working a fraction of what they are. More out of desperation than any desire to do any real work, I placed an ad on the forums of mymerhaba.com, advertising private lessons. While perusing the various other advertisements, I happened across one seeking an American to play the part of the American President in an upcoming Turkish movie. "What an opportunity!" I exclaimed to no one in particular, as I began typing up a hasty application forthwith. They say that imitation is the highest form of flattery, but it's also a great way to take the piss out of someone.

Unsurprisingly, the director thought that 26 might be a bit young to play an American president. However, the nice young woman that I spoke to mentioned a new comedy that the company is producing - Amerikan Damat - the American Groom. She informed me that they were looking for an American man my age to play the main role - a young New Yorker who met a Turkish girl in college, and has come to Istanbul to get married.

She asked if I spoke Turkish, to which I replied "Bir az, evet." She asked me to send some photos, to which the writers replied, "Sexy!" (or at least, they weren't frightened away). Finally, she's asked me if I could come in the next day at 2:00 to meet the director. They are, as it were, "really interested." The fact that I have no acting experience matters little, I've been told, as it is terribly difficult to find an American in Istanbul willing to be made a monkey of in front of a camera for months (probably with little to no pay).

However, after growing more and more curious about such a unique opportunity, I asked some of my students about this company, Platofilm. Imagine my surprise when they had not only heard of the company, but immediately told me that the director, Sinan Cetin, is arguably one of the most important filmmakers in Turkey. Go figure. A quick search on Imdb.com has revealed not unimpressive credentials (Darryl Hanna was in one of his earlier movies - I didn't have time to peruse the page in its entirety). So, my friends, I hope to join the ranks, along with Cuneyt Arkin and Cem Yilmaz, of the ultra-famous, super-cool, blockbuster movie stars that neither you, nor the rest of the world have ever heard of. Exciting, innit? Thus, you naysayers and yaysayers, although I have shopped at Ikea, and although I occasionally pop into Starbucks on my way to work, and although there is now cable in my apartment (gak!), I'm not yet ready to sleep all my lunch breaks away until I jump in the extended cab of the great minivan in the sky. Wish me luck, comrades!

And to all you disgruntled youth - I've got space in the living room (our sofa is a king size bed), and there's more work here than we know what to do with. Come be a part of one of the last countries in Europe that hasn't sold its soul to the EU! We'll show you where to stick your health inspectors!

Hayata!

(Shit, now that bloody Turkcell song's stuck in my head)

Aaron

Floating Onions

A good morning to those of you who have indoor heating,

And a bad one to those who don't, I reckon. I hear there's a nasty cold spreading across many of your homelands - people dying, schools closing (the importance seems to fall in that order on the international news). Funny that. If I could, I still wouldn't share any of my warmth with you. I've fought for what I've got tooth and nail.

Oh, my bed here in Sofia was quite warm last night, but as I sit in the living room of my little private apartment here in Bulgaria's majestic, masticated capital, I'm having to type by jamming one finger down in the general location of each key - it's too cold for my fingers to bend, and they're too numb to predict exactly where they'll land. Sitll, the space heater in the bedroom surprisingly didn't catch fire and kill Thomas and I in our sleep, and I managed to find a kiosk selling Nescafe this morning, so I'd put this day in the "GOOD" column so far.

Why am I here in Sofia? Well, I came here a year and a half ago, but didn't really give the place a fair shake. As you may know, the last year of my life has centered around a passionate love affair with this forsaken country (Oh, you knew. You always knew.), and I've decided that if cities like Varna, Plovdiv, Stara Zagora, and Veliko Turnovo keep me grinning from ear to ear for the duration of my stay, I shouldn't base my impressions of the fine Bulgarians' capital on a mad, exhausted dash through the Balkans before I fell so deeply in love.

And, I am pleased to admit, this is not the Sofia I remember from 2005. Imagine, for those of you who can, the boredom that descends over Plovdiv at approximately 7:00. Well, it's still there. Imagine the beauty of rows of blocks of communist flats in Central Europe. It's got that too. And imagine the dour faces of Slavic peoples from any nation. That is, of course, quite observable here as well. But, that wee magic that permeates the rest of Bulgaria is sprinkled throughout its capital as well. There are cozy little restaurants, suprisingly chic for a country whose average wage is less that 200 USD a month, tucked in underneath battered old concrete buildings. There are magestic churches, government buildings, and mosques (ahem... archaeological museums, as it were) rising up above the squat, practical streets. Most importantly, a hunk of pork stuffed with cheese and a shot of vodka will still only cost you about 5 dollars (as opposed to the 4 in other Bulgarian cities). There's a lot to like here, and a little to ignore.

Sorry for the short update, but my life is quite unremarkable these days. Still working at the university, and still not working very much. I'm going to try to expand my clientele (and therefore my wallet) by picking up privates on the side. It's winter - finally, really, truly - and there's little else to do other than work. Ah, but it's time now for more coffee, more pork, and a shivering stroll down Ulista Vitosha.

Not yet broken, and still smiling all the way,

Your comrade,

Aaron

The... Err... Alive Life...

Sum quod numquam eris, friends, Europeans, and countrymen,

Today, against all belief and expectation, it is snowing in Istanbul, assuming I can trust the view my windows afford me, because, of course, I haven’t left the house in days. O, dear readers, Hell, or the closest thing to it outside of a fantasy book (besides Bucharest), has frozen over!

And I’m happy that it’s snowing. I hope the flurries flutter, fall, and freeze, until the all the residents of Istanbul are frozen in place, so they’ve nothing to do but stare at each other and contemplate how silly they actually look. Why? Why?

Cause it ain’t my problem.

This weekend is mine, and aside from a couple of social obligations (some welcome and some not), and a dinner date that doesn’t involve me, the next few days are blissfully relaxing and stress-free. And it doesn’t end there.

There will be no more staring at walls, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and no more drowning my sorrows in Nescafe. The blade has dropped, O sons and daughters of Adam, and can you feel the force of my wresting the head of Isik University from the guillotine and thrusting it triumphantly towards the heavens through these 0s and 1s? Imagine, if you will, the droplets of sweat flying from my unkempt locks crashing to the earth as my body, pulsing with the primal energy of emancipation, grows, smashing through the hallowed halls of my office, my building, and the entire campus, and my hands and arms, now the size of skyscrapers fling themselves outwards, smashing service buses and sending whimpering students scurrying to perceived safety?

Well, that was fun for me, at least.

In reality, it wasn’t quite as glorious. It went more like this:

Aaron, seated at desk, tossing apple up and down in hand, staring at wall. Office door opens. Sheepish American man walks in trepidatiously.

Ted: Aaron, uh, are you still interested in teaching in Erenkoy?
Aaron: Uh, yeah.
Ted: Great. You start tomorrow. See you.

Aaron waits for door to close. Dances around office. Zeynep looks annoyed. Aaron scoffs, skips outside, and begins smoking merrily.

You see, my confused companions-in-angst, Isik University has decided to expand its services. To make up for the lack of students at the main campus, they’ve begun to offer night classes at a couple of (hideously expensive) high schools in Istanbul. This particular high school in Erenkoy, is located about a fifteen minute taxi ride from my house, perfectly situated within the city, in a quite nice, upscale, and interesting part of town (of which there are about 3 in all of Istanbul). So, on Wednesday morning, I woke up at 5:50, forgoing the snooze button, took my time getting ready, humming all the while, gave my cats a quick pat on the head, and skipped to the bus stop, knowing full well that this was (O hope of hopes!) the last time that I would have to suffer that life-destroying commute.

This is what they told me: “Aaron,” they said, “you’ll be teaching 5 days a week, from 6 PM to 9 PM in Erenkoy. They’ll be high school students, hoping to pass the English University Exam the first time around. You might not have access to many supplies there, but we’ll try to give you what help we can.” Doesn’t sound too bad, eh?

Here’s the reality:

They didn’t get as many students as they expected there, either, so I actually only teach 1 hour on Tuesday and Thursday, and 2 hours on Wednesday. That’s 4 hours a week, with a 4 day weekend. I go when I have a lesson, and I leave when I’ve finished. They’re not high school students; they’re adults. Highly motivated, and highly educated adults, including a doctor and a psychologist. I’ve got an office there, in the most posh private high school I’ve ever seen, and I teach in a fully-technologically fitted conference room, right next to the tea room and the billiard room. The classes are informal, the students are cheerful, happy, and helpful, and my teaching partner, Ece, is a wonderfully spastic Turkish woman, who spits wonderfully sarcastic remarks as we chain smoke together during breaks. I could take a bus there, but the taxi only costs 10 YTL, and since I’m still receiving a full salary for 4 hours of teaching a week, I feel totally justified in going to work in style. I still have to go to Sile once a month, but those beige walls will scarcely suffer a glance from me, as I go there, report on my progress, and immediately head back home (after eating a free lunch, of course).

So, what am I going to do with all this free time? Well, there’ll be a little bit of extra work at home, no doubt, making worksheets and what-not. In the meantime, I’m going to do part-time work at English Time, making a bit more cash, and increasing my teaching load to the unbelievably astronomical number of 12 hours per week. The rest of my time will be spent alternating between doing nice, relaxing things for myself, like playing video games and studying languages, and preparing nice, healthy, nutritious meals for my girlfriend, whom I realize now does a disproportionate share of the labor in this relationship (more likely, I’ll put more effort into timing my ordering of nasty, greasy food, so that it arrives within seconds of her returning home from work).

Alas, I must away. All of this writing has felt a bit too much like work, and I must retire for a spell so as to not offend my delicate sensibilities. But, O, spare not a tear for Aaron, my dears, who was once handsome and tall as you.

With a final shuffle of his boots,
Aaron Rotsinger,
Wanders off into the sunset

The Undead Life

Greetings, O ye fortunate fodder,

If you’ve ever had a pleasant thought directed in my vicinity, I’d kindly ask you to forgive any errors of wit, logic, or spelling that might be contained within this epistle. I’m certain that I’ve slept somewhat more than 20 minutes in the last 3 weeks, but at the moment, I wouldn’t bet my paycheck on it.

Things are going reasonably well here. Classes have started at Isik, and I’ve got scarcely a moment to myself. Of course, I’m only teaching 7 ½ hours a week, but somehow I find myself uncharacteristically busy. How’s that, you ask? Booming social life? Jet-set cocktail nights, 5-star dinners in hotel ballrooms, and a circuit of academic lectures around the intellectual capital of the old Ottoman Empire (those hats weren’t just for show, you know). Ah, no.

And, just to satisfy your curiosity, I’m also not spending my time feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless, or seducing a score of women behind my girlfriend's back. However, I can, without the slightest doubt in my mind, tell you that my office walls are beige. A very light beige, as it were, which nicely matches the wooden desks and white ceiling. How can I be so sure? How can I so explicitly remember the color of my office walls?

I stare at them. All day long.

Look at my works, ye mighty, and despair!

Yes, O my good friends and bitter enemies, my day begins at 5:50 AM, minus a snooze or two, whereupon I rush madly around my apartment getting dressed, making coffee, showering, shaving (if I’m lucky), ironing, smoking, and enviously watching my girlfriend sleep. At 6:50, I emerge into the foggy Istanbul morning and have a brisk stroll down a series of streets, passages, parking lots, and underpasses, until, 20 minutes later, I arrive at the spot where my service bus collects me.

The bus ride isn’t so bad, really. Yes, it’s a hour and a half, and yes, the coffee that I MUST drink before I can leave the house prevents me from falling into anything but the most superficial sleep, but at least I can study my Turkish book, or stare out the window at the rain-soaked, fog-ridden, accident-prone highway to Sile, my little slice of the Black Sea.

Two short hours after boarding the bus, my day officially begins. Most days, I find myself in front of a class at 9:00 AM, which is (sarcasm aside), really the perfect way to begin the day. And that class fills the next 2 ½ hours of my life, until suddenly, as if no time had passed at all, it’s lunchtime, and my colleagues and I amble off down to the cafeteria to wait in line for half an hour, amidst the screaming, cursing, blubbering, oooof-ya-ing, intellectual paragons of the new generation of Turks.

The food is the highlight of my day. It’s fresh, it’s delicious, it’s plentiful, and it’s free. And I’m getting fat… But, I really need to stuff myself with calories because of the long day ahead of me. See, when I finish my lunch at 12:30, I always head straight back to my office so that I can prepare myself for the afternoon.

Which consists of staring at the wall, and not a damn thing else.

Oh, well, actually, I drink coffee and smoke cigarettes too. Sometimes I chat with my office mates, who apparently have a lot more practice dealing with being absolutely useless. See, Isik University anticipated an enrollment of 500 this year for the EFL department, and therefore created 15 new jobs, giving us over 50 teachers. In reality, there were 163 new students enrolled, meaning that about 50 people are doing the work of approximately 15. And, O O O O that Ottoman rag, it’s so myopic, so completely idiotic! Viddy this, my assuredly appalled Anglo-Saxons (et al.), no matter my actual teaching schedule, no matter the actual amount of work assigned to me, the director (whose job appears to be to study the field across the street through his panopticonic window, squeezing out little rumbling snorts of laughter and derision) would have his senses extremely offended if I were to think about actually leaving before 4:30.

Ah, but when 4:30 comes, what fun to be had! I, along with a handful of colleagues, fasten our bags, don our coats, and erupt out of the EFL building’s front door, only to face the throng of half-evolved (but they’re trying so hard!) simian students, chortling, shouting, and chain-smoking, as they wait for the ONE BUS (30 seats, give or take) that will carry them into the City, Istanbul, where they can fulfill their young, burgeoning, fleshy appetites by engaging in such carnal activities as drinking tea, and ambling about aimlessly through the dusty streets of a forgotten capital. Oh, Discordia!

Sometimes, I get lucky, and I can “accidentally” step on a few toes, creating a big enough wedge to actually enter the gelatinous mass, and building up enough momentum to carry me into the bus, whereupon the second part of my trial begins. Over the last few weeks, their frontal lobes have clearly developed enough that they now carry their friend’s bags onto the bus with them, throw them onto the seat next to them, and stare at the ground, as we teachers scour the bus for an empty seat; however, if I fail at the much more difficult task of wresting a knapsack out of a reasonably inviting seat, as I often do, I must leave the bus, and patiently wait another 45 minutes, until the personnel buses come, upon which I’m almost guaranteed a seat.

The aforementioned personnel bus should drop me off only a convenient 20 minute walk away from my house at approximately 6:30. But, assuming that the sun has risen that morning, and that hell is still a HOT fairy tale, traffic will be gridlocked by the time I make it back to Istanbul. Usually, however, the traffic only adds about an extra half an hour to my commute time, for which I suppose I should be thankful.

Thus, at about 7:20, I put my key in the door, trudge up three flights of stairs, emerge into my apartment, and flop into my bed or onto the floor, depending how far I get. With a heroic effort, I often manage to stay awake for a few hours, battling the headache from all the coffee, the hours in a bus, and the gasoline fumes from waiting in traffic, although I’m pretty much useless to do anything besides ordering food off the internet and staring blankly at my roomates while they amuse themselves. By approximately 11:00, I am sprawled across my bed, rumpled sheets haphazardly draped across my fully clothed body, occasionally throwing open one eye and muttering nonsensical phrases like, “have you got any more sauce? I’d like to see the garden hose…”

Yes, yes, yes, I know, I only work 4 days a week, so it can’t be too bad, right? My evenings are (useless) free, and I can do whatever I want all weekend long (sit at home and giggle naughtily). Still… You spend 20 hours a week in a bus, and then let’s talk about job satisfaction.

Respectfully, though exasperatedly yours,
Aaron Bey