HOT INTERN, or a Case of Internship Infidelity

Merhaba from the Koç University Library, the research center of the university where Trev and Dumi are such fine models of Master's candidacy. This building is conveniently located just up the street from our flat. More importantly, since the weather took a nosedive with an uninvited snow party today and the sole heating devices in our apartment include a stove, an electric blanket, a space heater that really only works if you straddle it, and my flatmates' body heat (get your minds out of the gutter-I'm talking about simple cuddling, people. sheesh.), the research center is also conveniently the only place I can sit for hours with central heating. First lesson of the day: -2° is cold, whether you're talking in terms of the big F or the big C.

I spent the day trying to figure out just how I can be all that I can be as an intern in this country. Let me tell you, it isn't as easy as you might expect to give your hard work out for free, especially when language barriers are very real, NGOs are so busy helping people that they hardly have a second to train you to take some of the work off of their hands, and, well, basically a big combination of problems I and II.

My wonderful co-workers are doing so much to help torture victims in Turkey, but alas it is only day 2 of my internship and I suspect/fear/feel pretty certain that they cannot yet (and may never) quite figure out how to let me join in the fight. Fast forward to the end of my work day when I interviewed at a different human rights non-profit organization focusing on refugee and asylum issues in Turkey. That's right, I am almost entering the dangerous territory of internship infidelity. Almost. Ideally, internship #2 accepts me just as internship #1 decides what to do with me and I can work at both places with tremendous enthusiasm, but I must admit that there is a distinct possibility that I will jump ships if #1 pans out after all. Shhh.

A picture of me in front of my current internship.

(Just kidding. This is a picture of the hilarious internet cafe two doors down from my workplace.)

**A brief note on why this post and blog is looking a little "tired around the eyes" (blogly as I'd like to think of it): I tried to get fancy (well, fanciER). On a Computer. This is never a good combination for me. The color is all wrong, I cannot figure out which background looks the least cheesy, and I just want to forewarn you that you may be in for some blog-design growing pains during the next few months. Bear with me. 

First or, Rather, Second Impressions

Food. My goodness, the food here is glorious. I am writing as a vegetarian turned omnivore as of the moment my plane touched down on Turkish soil. The last time I was in Turkey in 2011 I stubbornly tried to adhere to my strict vegetarian rules, but this time around I am decidedly, well, not. I can already tell that this is a prudent decision.

Turkish cuisine caters to my carbo-loving, cheese-admiring, fresh-produce-obsessed inclinations with little hesitation, but it also has a way of sprinkling a generous helping of meat into many of these dishes, often portraying meat as the star attraction of a given meal. Even so, the now closeted vegetarian inside me did a little victory dance upon tasting my latest discovery: çiğ köfte (pronounced Chee Koorf-teh), or vegetarian "meatballs." This savory street dish is made up of a bulgur, walnuts, cumin, and spicy pepper paste (which is then compressed into "balls" that have more of an obese squid shape than a circular one in my opinion), fresh tomatoes, lettuce, and a few sprigs of cilantro, drizzled with sweet pomegranate molasses, and sometimes wrapped with a thin layer of very thin pita bread or merely eaten as a lettuce wrap. Is your stomach growling yet?

I am also learning, without any difficulty, to appreciate the ability to have freshly squeezed portakal (orange) or nar (pomegranate) juice on almost any busy street corner. As the daughter of a woman who spent many an Autumnal evening meticulously shucking pomegranate seeds for me to pack in my school lunch (thanks Mom!), I look forward to drinking this magical elixir on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

As I sit and write this post, the busy sounds of the Sunday street bazaar in my neighborhood of Tarlabaşı (Tar-lah-bah-shuh) beckon me. Mountains of fruits and veggies, more lactose than you ever knew you needed, as well as discarded electronics and Angry Birds paraphernalia can all be had for criminally cheap prices. The bazaar opens in the morning, mere feet from my front door, and goes until the later hours of the evening. To anybody who says that this neighborhood is in disrepair (it's true that many apartment buildings around us are crumbling and this area is slated to be the site of the next round of government-endorsed gentrification) , I challenge him or her to walk the region's streets on Sunday and make that same claim. This neighborhood is bursting at the seams with life if you know where and when to look.

I feel like I should talk a bit more about my first impressions, since food can be a somewhat superficial way to measure a city's successes and faults. I suppose if I have to pick another element of Istanbul that differentiates it from other places I have lived in and traveled to, it is the tremendous V-O-I-C-E of the city and its inhabitants. The first sounds I hear each morning are the calls to prayer at sunrise each day, with competing and strangely soothing echoes that bounce with equal vigor off of new condos and decrepit ruins alike. It is such a comfort to be lightly stirred from sleep by these cries of worship, to appreciate the diligence of devout Muslims who spend such significant portions of their days praying to their god, and finally to remember that I still have a few more hours before I actually need to awaken.

Of course, the power of Istanbul's voice goes beyond the call to prayer, which rings five times a day. The greatness of its voice extends to the people who call this city home. Istanbul is indeed a diverse city with upwards of 15 million surprisingly diverse residents who do not always get along. I have taken to calling this city "The Reluctant Melting Pot." Turks, Kurds, Greeks, Armenians, Assyrians, Arabs, and plain old foreigners like me mingle together to create an unpredictable collage of cultures.

Every single weekend on Istiklal Caddesi (Ees-steek-loll jah-deh-see) there are at least one or two protests or simple demonstrations. Yesterday the Worker's Party was championing labor rights. Today a Kurdish demonstration was staggered against an enormous Turkish protest against a past conflict with the Armenians (probably not the one you're thinking of). The point I would leave you with is that while these groups do not often see eye-to-eye, they speak up when they are discontented, instead of resigning themselves to the apathy that is so prevalent in America today (Occupiers and Tea Partiers aside). I am all for peaceful demonstrations, even when the speech is disagreeable or downright hateful, because I truly believe that free speech and open dialogues make for more interesting, informed, and empowered societies.

A Turkish Adventure & a Blog is Revived

Well folks, I'm baaack. Probably. Hopefully. Perhaps we can keep it as a noncommittal maybe until my blogger sea legs fully return. Honestly, I feel like I should be entering a blogger confessional right now, seeking penance in a dark, oak-scented ancient computer room for the nearly two-year hiatus I have taken from this site. In fact, I think I will probably not tell anybody about the said revival until I've managed to eke out a post from across the pond.

A little more than 24 hours from now I will return to Istanbul to begin a 4-month Turkish adventure. My co-stars on this adventure will be the ever-impressive Trevor Layman, his witty Romanian flatmate Dumi, and the civil liberty rockstars at the Human Rights Foundation of Turkey, where I will be interning during my stay. They, along with countless other individuals, will become integral parts of my new, semi-permanent Istanbulian life.

My plan is to observe and participate in equal measure, master Turkish (or at least not butcher the language too badly), and gain some much needed perspective before I return to the U.S. in the summer to prepare for grad school in the fall. I cannot begin to imagine what the next few months have in store for me. There will surely be shrugs and hugs, definitely some plush Turkish rugs, possibly pugs, and definitely not drugs (hey, I've seen [the preview for] Midnight Express [which has been on my Netflix queue for an impossibly long time).

Stay tuned and stay in touch. Telepathy is my preferred method of communication, but, if your psychic powers are out of shape, e-mail should work just fine.