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I have to be honest: I wasn't expecting it. At all. Well that's not completely true because I knew that there are inequalities here, specifically in the realm of literacy and education. And had my Turkish students not already told me (on several occasions) that women should never ever ever be compelled to do compulsory military service here (all men without a psychological or physical impediment - such as homosexuality [seriously] - must accept the honour of serving his country for a period of time)? They had. The reason? - Turkish men are by nature so romantic and chivalrous, that having a woman in the line of fire - and in their proximity - would distract them (i.e. men) from their jobs. Should that happen, I have been told, the country would be overrun by its not insignificant number of enemies. How I manage to keep a straight face in class is an act of God.And yes, although the city I live in is a tad conservative (she writes, gazing out of her living room window at the three headscarf shops directly across the street), this is nonetheless not southeastern Turkey - that boogeyman-inhabited place where only the most backward live (according to my students) and where honour killings are not unknown.So, to recap: I hadn't anticipated such blinkered underdeveloped backward Neanderthal opinions here. Not in Turkey. But I had dealt with it in Morocco. In Morocco I was told that a woman couldn't be a pilot because she wasn't physically strong enough - to which I responded is there any part of a pilot's job description which includes carrying the plane? Do pilots actually lift a 747 and lob it into the air during the take-off process? But Morocco is ... and Turkey isn't ... and Morocco isn't .... and Turkey is ... well, no matter. Isn't it fun to be wrong from time to time?So, when I was assigned the onerous task of conducting a 1-hour "conversation" class - a Dante-esque punishment for teachers as Turkish students normally refuse to speak during conversation classes - I didn't cringe as I usually do at the topic: gender issues. This could be interesting, and at least I wasn't in Morocco.The so-called upper-level students who attended the class were a mixed bag of students and professionals; all men, save one working single mother. The demographic could have been worse. And this is what I learned:1) A woman cannot be a soldier (well, I knew that one already and I was tired of highlighting Israel, with its female conscription, as an example of gender equality. Given that my students frequently advise me to stay clear of Starbucks as it is owned by Jews, I saw little point in flogging that particular and very dead horse any longer.)2) A woman cannot be a taxi, bus, or tram driver. Especially not the driver of a dolmuş - a veritable stuffed grape leaf on wheels - that farts about the city. And definitely not a subway driver. The reason?
a) a woman cannot drive.
b) a woman is too easily distracted and would cause an accident.
c) a woman cannot handle stress.
3) A woman cannot be a mechanic. Being a mechanic requires strength (does Turkey not have hydraulic lifts in its repair shops?) and women simply aren't strong enough.
4) A woman cannot be a repairperson - as in telephone or washing machine. See point number 3.
5) A woman cannot be a surgeon (see point 2 C).
6) A woman, however, can be (although it's still not advisable) a pilot. Since there is no traffic in the air, therefore she will (probably) not crash the plane (the world's air traffic controllers will be relieved to know that there is no such thing as traffic in the air).
7) A woman should be not be paid the same wage as a man.
... after which I wrote on the board, in big bold red letters 2009. And then walked out of the room.
It is known by many names: the squat toilet, the Eastern, Iranian, Turkish toilet - even the Natural-Position toilet. Here in Turkey, it is alaturka (from the Italian alla turca) - it's arch nemesis, the alafranga (alla franca), flush toilet. Remarkably, since we've been in Turkey, I have had occasion to avail myself of the alaturka at only two establishments: at a bus stop on the way to a dried shithole Turkish border town, and at the bar which Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I frequent. Not so remarkably, the more I drink the better my aim gets. Or perhaps worse, and I just don't notice how my my shoes are getting wetter and wetter
Last week, when we were in Thessaloníki, we felt behoved to pay homage a call to The Blessed Birth House of the Founder of the Republic of Turkey. How fitting! Had we not already visited - been ushered by in reverent silence - the very room in which he died? We had. Had the hands of his bedside clock not been stopped at 9:05 to mark the fateful moment of his passing? They had. This visit then would bookend, bring us full-circle, on our Atatürk World Tour 2009.
It seems somewhat ironic that Mr. Atatürk's city of birth is no longer part of the Ottoman Empire - or for that matter, that there no longer exists an Ottoman Empire except in the minds of my students. For all intents and purposes, the Founder of the Republic of Turkey was born in Greece - and I enjoy saying that to my students who, admittedly, are not so receptive to my theory and take great pains to disabuse me of this notion. But yes, I know, back in 1881, Thessaloníki was as Ottoman as that foot rest in our living room (which admittedly is Moroccan and therefore a bad analogy).
The Blessed Birth House is now on the grounds of the Turkish Consolate (or vice versa) and if you present your passport, are not deemed security threats, and walk through the metal detector without setting off all sorts of bells and whistles, your unworthy feet will step upon anointed ground. Of course, in full Turkish fashion - why should a visit to Atatürk's Blessed Birth House be any different from shopping at Zara or the Gap? - the visitor is followed oh-so-closely from room to room by an attendant, who draws our attention to the exhibits. This is the kitchen. Uh-huh. This is the living room. His presence effectively quashes a veritable legion of somewhat snarky comments sitting precariously on my lips. Would I get my passport back, if I observe - quite accurately - that the Ata-sqüirt looked like a stone giant penis? Probably not.
We pass by the cabinets of tuxedos and walking canes, and make hushed and banal comments that will ensure us receipt of our passports. Look at the piping along the seam of his trousers, I remark. And the stitching! We are about to leave The Blessed Birth House via the garden entrance - in whose foyer looms a humungous larger-than-life bust of Atatürk - when another group of devotees - a Turkish family no less - enters. Our Stuck-Like Glue Attendant lights up. He abandons us. Why waste time with these recreant poseurs (that would be us) when there is a raptured audience of Worshippers chomping at the bit to see the Atatürk family's china pattern? Click click! Flash flash! they take photos of everything.
Everything? Hmmmmm ...
Camera in hand, I nip up the stairs to the second floor. Click click my ass, I think as I snap the Ata-sqüirt. I slip back down the stairs where Mr. This Cat is waiting for me, where the Worshippers are posing for photos in front of the humungous larger-than-life bust of Atatürk.
What, they've never seen an Atatürk bust before? I ask.
There are probably more Atatürk statues in Turkey than döner kebab shops - and that's no small feat.Mr. This Cat shrugs.Let's get a drink, he suggests.Wise man. Quite fittingly, there is a bar directly across the street from The Blessed Birth House. Atatürk would have approved. In any case, we leave happy. We have been privy to The Privy. I have a fitting momento of our visit to The Birth House and, more importantly, I will - without question - blow my students' socks off when I tell them. Of course, they will assume that this pilgrimage - for what else can you call it? - was the raison d'être for our trip to Thessaloníki. Why else would you visit, they will ask. After all, as one of our most educated and erudite students (a judge, no less) recently said to me, Thessaloníki (also known as Salonika or Saloniki) is a 3rd World City in a 3rd World Country not worthy of being in the EU (= sour grapes).
But I ask you: how can a city which is still home to the Ata-sqüirt be a 3rd World City in a 3rd World Country not worthy of being in the EU (= sour grapes)? In fact, perhaps The Birth House - it's already technically on Turkish soil what with its proximity to the Turkish Consolate - should have its own unique sovereign-city state status like Monaco or, better yet, like the Vatican. I mean, at least it already has a throne.
(for a recap of last week's events, the writer kindly directs the reader here)To continue ...You, The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners barks, pointing his finger at me, off the bus.Balls. Fucking balls.I look forlornly at Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad who - swell husband that he is - gets up and begins to walk down the aisle of the bus. I won't have to face this alone - huzzah! But not knowing what to expect, I suggest we take all of our stuff with us.
I think we should take all of our stuff with us, I say.
Fifty-six pairs of eyes are riveted on us and not terribly discreet whispers follow us down the aisle of the bus. The seated throng of like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces watch us intently. Baaa baaa, they bleat. The largest and closest of the three gypsy women leans forward on her pudgy elbows to get a better view. We have effectively become the in-flight entertainment. Through the black inkiness and pea-soupiness of the night, we can just see The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners and The Nice Old Police Officer disappear around the corner of Erdine's - the dried shithole Turkish border town's - ramshackle train station. We follow but quickly lose sight of them. Where do we go? I wonder.
Where do we go? I ask Mr. This Cat.
We see, besides the station waiting room, a light coming from a door to an office befitting a ramshackle train station in a dried shithole Turkish border town - but an office nonetheless. We enter hesitantly, not knowing if this is where we are supposed to go because - contrary to common courtesy - neither of the police officers have seen fit to wait for us by the bus or direct us to our destination. There is an Idle Officer sitting behind a desk with a stack of passports (doing absolutely nothing with them) and, what doesn't even bear pointing out, a very large and faded print of Atatürk (which I just pointed out). A moment later The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners appears. He is, to say the least, quite flustered. It would appear that my possessing an expired-by-four-days residence booklet has caused him no end of grief. I just want to give him money and go back on the bus.
Speak Turkish? he asks.
No, I respond.
Speak Turkish? he asks Mr. This Cat.
No, Mr. This Cat responds.No speak English, he says.
Yes, we know, we say.
Problem, he says.Yes, we know, we say.
He continues to thumb through our residence booklets. At this point, as if the purpose of his job had suddenly been made clear to him, the Idle Officer behind the desk jumps up with a start and bolts into another room, returning moments later with the exit stamp. Apparently, the fact that a train bound for Greece stops at this station every night of the week is no reason/motive/inducement for the Idle Officer to make himself ready with the proper stamp to process the dozens of passports which inevitably - and almost like clockwork - pass his desk. He sets himself to work.
Stamp! stamp!
The Nice Old Police Officer enters the room. In his presence - perhaps to impress upon his supervisor the magnitude of his English - The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners turns his attention to us again.
Speak Turkish? he asks - again.
No, I respond - again.
Speak Turkish? he asks Mr. This Cat - again.
No, Mr. This Cat responds - again.I no speak English, he says - again.
Yes, we know, we say - again.
Problem, he says - again.Stamp! stamp!He is flummoxed. He looks at Mr. This Cat:
You should speak Turkish, he says.
The Republic of Turkey should have at least one English-speaking police officer manning its international borders, I chide him inside my head I mean, what would Atatürk say?The Nice Old Police Officer and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners confer with each other, attended by much head-shaking, not-very-subtle sighs of exasperation, and continuous thumbing through our residence booklets.Stamp! stamp!
How much money do you want? I scream inside my head. It goes without saying that I will have to pay a "fine" of some sort - whether I am issued an official receipt for it or my lira find their way into The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners' insalubrious pockets, is completely immaterial to me. I just want to go to Greece. The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners turns to Mr. This Cat.
You, he says pointing to Mr. This Cat, no problem.
You, he says pointing to me, problem.O sweet mother of God! This little piece of street theatre has taken fifteen minutes and we are no further ahead now than when we were on the bus.The Nice Old Police Officer and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners confer with each other again, attended by head-shaking, not-very-subtle sighs of exasperation, and continuous thumbing through our residence booklets.
Stamp! stamp!As I am about to take my wallet of my purse - perhaps a visual aid is in order here - when the Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners turns to me and barks:
You. On bus.
God, when will Turks learn to use definite articles? And where was the verb in that sentence? I briefly consider telling him that the correct sentence is: Would you please get back on the bus, but an anxious side look from Mr. This Cat curbs my tongue. We scamper back to the bus and try not to let the visibly disappointed looks of our co-passengers unnerve us.
No, we are not drug mules. No, I have not been violated, I scream inside my head. Stop staring and get the fuck over it.
We retake our seats.The largest and closest of the three gypsy women looks so crushed, if not put out, that I want to plunge my Swiss Army Knife again and again into her snore-producing soft palate.
I am not convinced that I have been let off the hook.
I am not convinced that I have been let off the hook, I say to Mr. This Cat.
You wouldn't be on the bus otherwise, he wisely points out. Just relax.
I try - quite vainly, I might add - to relax. About twenty minutes later, The Nice Old Police Officer and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners reboard the bus and distribute the stamped passports. Canada! barks The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners. We wave feebily - has he forgotten us already? - and hands over our markedly well-thumbed and now dog-eared passports. They both bear exit stamps.
As if on cue, everyone begins to gather their belongings and rushes the bus' two doors en masse, which I find singularly odd since we all have assigned compartments on the blacked-out train, but maybe our co-passengers are privy to some arcane knowledge - like the fact that the police officers of this dried shithole Turkish border town are capricious, and may revoke passports at will. We approach the train and a conductor asks to see our tickets. He directs us to our train car and tells us our compartment number. He should offer seminar courses to the police officers of this dried shithole Turkish border town - How to Politely Direct People to their Destinations jumps to mind.
We board the train and quickly find our compartment. We heave our knapsacks onto the floor, regard our home for the next nine hours with surprisingly (for us) appreciative and grateful eyes, and plunk ourselves onto the bottom bunk. We hear a commotion - the bleating of sheep and animated verbiage of an unknown tongue - emanating from the hallway, and peer out. It seems that two of the gypsy women have appropriated the compartment of a pair of the like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces. Baaa baaaa, they bleat in vain.
Because we are vastly superior human beings in both thought and deed to our co-passengers on the bus, we do not crane our heads and watch. We do not seek entertainment in the scene unfolding just a few feet away. Nor do we delight in their distress. No, we sit back and, with the door open, we listen politely and unobtrusively. We are Canadians. We are nothing if not polite.
Eventually a conductor arrives and sorts out the problem - problem being defined as two of the gypsy women having appropriated the compartment of a pair of the like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces. Everyone's compartments are sorted out - the show is over - and we close our door. We pretend that we are not disappointed.
Mr. Cat and I decide that we are quite ready to get a move-on and wonder why the train hasn't left the station.
Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...
Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada!
... an angry fist smacks each compartment door and the voice grows louder.
Balls. Fucking balls.
Mr. This Cat fumbles with the door lock which has taken this opportunity to avail us of the fact that it sticks. He struggles with the lock. And then he fumbles with it some more.
Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada!Mr. This Cat's battle with the lock somehow infuriates the man on the other side of the door, who raises the level of knocking and shouting. Finally, Mr. Cat manages to open the door. The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners is standing in the hallway. He points to me, turns away from me, and rushes away. I look at Mr. This Cat.
Follow him! he cries and I do.
I tear off down the corridor, passing through one car after another with The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners just in my sight. He turns sharply and deboards the train and I do likewise. Standing to the side of the tracks is a group of train personnel and The Nice Old Police Officer. Not knowing what to do, I join them. I confess that this lack of direction is really beginning to get on my nerves. The pea-soupiness of the evening has turned to rain, or what my mother would euphemistically call a "Scotch mist" but what is in fact rain, and I stood there wet and shivering. Would the train leave without me? Should I have brought my purse? A coat might have been a clever idea. Should I have told Mr. Cat to come look for me if I didn't return within fifteen minutes? Will I finally be violated? I wondered how many eyes were watching me from the warmth and safety of the waiting train.
Wankers, I thought.
As we mill about in the Scotch mist rain, The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners appears with a member of the train crew in tow.
Speak Turkish? he asks - again.
O sweet mother of God!
No, I respond - again.
I no speak English, he says - again.
Yes, I know, I say - again.
Talk problem, he says, and points to his companion.
Ahhh, a translator. So our situation hasn't been resolved. Isn't that just great?
So I tell the translator that:
1) my husband is a teacher in Turkey,
2) that I am his wife and I do not work (I do not mention in fact I do work and that my work visa application is buried under a stack of other applications on some pencil pusher's desk in Ankara),
3) that my visa expired 4 whole days ago but that we had to wait until Islam's Festival of Death (when my husband had time off from work) in order to leave the country as I could not possibly travel alone - being a woman and all.My bowels turn to water. Right there on the tracks. Water. In order to save the $2 to have our marriage certificate translated, Our Place of Questionably Gainful Employment processed our visas as those of single (i.e., not married) individuals. If The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners were to open my residence booklet again (although he has probably memorized it by now), he would see that in the eyes of the Republic of Turkey, I have no husband. Why the fuck didn't I bring my marriage certificate with me?
My Translator imparts my explanation to The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners. They converse. It seems that My Translator, who is Greek, speaks several languages. The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners responds in a rather unsympathetic tone and gesticulates. My Translator turns to me and says,
If you want to return to Turkey in the future, you must come back through this border - and then stops.
My Translator and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners begin a heated exchange which I suspect goes something like this:
MT: what difference does it make how she comes back?
TYPOCUIM: she must come back through Erdine.
MT: but what possible difference does it make if she comes back into Turkey through this dried shithole Turkish border town or if she flies into Istanbul?
TYPOCUIM: she must come back through Erdine.My Translator sighs deeply, looks up at the inky-black sky - which is still Scotch-misting raining down upon us - and repeats:
If you want to return to Turkey in the future, you must come back through this border. You cannot come any other way. This town.I nod compliantly, electing not to tell anyone that if I ever want to return to Turkey in the future is sitting in my purse as a return ticket 3 days hence. I thank My Translator profusely and return to the train. Mr. This Cat looks suitably relieved that I am safely back which he expresses to me in the warmest of terms between the grunts and shouting from the two gypsy women who have been assigned the compartment right next to us.
Did you go to the duty free? he asks.
Duty free? Seriously? I ask.
I'm sure I saw a Duty Free, he insists.
I was otherwise occupied, I insist.
We close our door. Mr. Cat and I decide that we are quite ready to get a move-on and wonder why the train hasn't left the station. Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...
Tickets! (yes, in English!)
... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.
Soon there is a knock at the door and Mr. This Cat struggles with the lock which somehow does not infuriate the man on the other side of the door, who does not raise the level of knocking and shouting. Our tickets are validated by a Very Pleasant Conductor. We close the door, relax, and wait for the train to leave.
Around 1:30 in the morning, the train lurches backwards, jerks forward, the whistle blows, and then we leave our dried shithole Turkish border town in a far too tentative fashion. We look at each other and breathe the Mother-of-All Sighs of Relief - accompanied by the cracking and sputtery-hiss of two cans of Efes beer. Cheers!
Two hours later the train lurches backwards, jerks forward, and we stop. We have no clue where we are - although we suspect Greece - because we have just managed to fall asleep during the last twenty minutes or so. Mr. This Cat raises the blind and peers out.
We're in Greece, he says.
Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...
Customs! (yes, in English!)... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.A Very Friendly Customs Agent enters our compartment and asks Mr. This Cat to open one of our knapsacks. He looks at its contents in a perfunctory manner - for which we are grateful - and bids us good night. We doze off.
Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...
Passports! (yes, in English!)... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.An Equally Friendly Greek Police Officer enters our compartment, wishes us good evening, and asks for our passports. It would seem that all of the train personnel and police and custom agents manning the Hellenic Republic's international borders speak English. How forward-thinking of them! We sit and wait and fall back asleep.Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...
Passports! (yes, in English!)... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.The Equally Friendly Greek Police Officer enters our compartment, wishes us good evening, and returns our passports to us. It is just after 4 a.m.. Mr. This Cat and I wrestle - unsuccessfully - with sleep. Nonetheless we set our alarm for 9:30 - our train's estimated time of arrival - and stare at the ceiling and possibly doze. Our alarm eventually sounds and we get up. We dutifully convert our bunks into couches, dutifully fold our sheets and blankets, and dutifully recoil in horror when we see our reflections in the mirror over the sink. My, but we look repulsive this morning.Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet.
Knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder. Soon there is a knock at the door and Mr. This Cat struggles with the lock which somehow does not infuriate the man on the other side of the door, who does not raise the level of knocking and shouting. The Very Pleasant Conductor is patiently waiting outside.
Good morning! We will arrive in Thessaloníki in 15 minutes! (yes, in English! And so polite and cheerful!)
We arrive in Thessaloníki 30 minutes later. There is nothing to do now but pass our time agreeably for three days until we retrace our steps back to Erdine, the dried shithole Turkish border town. Which we do. Which we do without incident. Our train leaves Thessaloníki punctually and we are only woken up once at the border. I am advised by The Nice Old Police Officer- for indeed it is he - that I must buy a new visa. Really?
I join the queue of non-Turks forming in the hallway, deboard the train, and find myself once again in an office befitting a ramshackle train station in a dried shithole Turkish border town. The Nice Old Police Officer hands my passport to The Idle Officer and I hand him 45 euros. Euros mind you, not lira - i.e., the legal and official currency of the Republic of Turkey. It seems that lira - i.e., the legal and official currency of the Republic of Turkey - are not accepted at the Republic of Turkey's borders.The Idle Officer affixes new stamps to my passport and I am advised to return to the train. Thirty minutes later, The Nice Old Police Officer returns with our passports, prettily stamped, in hand. We thank him. The train lurches backwards, jerks forward, the whistle blows, and then we leave our dried shithole Turkish border town in a far too tentative fashion and return to sleep. The train continues on into what is quickly becoming a racehorse-pissing deluge and arrives, in Istanbul, on time. Islam's Festival of Death is still in full force - although we were mercifully saved from witnessing the Great Slaughter - and so the streets are empty. We dodge what few cars are braving the racehorse-pissing deluge and run to the ferry terminal where, soaked to the bone, we sit and stare blankly out at the water which oddly bears no moving ferry. We haven't seen a tram or a bus pass us by either. The ferries aren't moving. Are we weather-delayed? Is there still a strike? Is everything on a holiday schedule?
Are we weather-delayed? Is there still a strike? Is everything on a holiday schedule? I ask Mr. This Cat.Before he can answer, we are approached by a gaggle of young men, whose ages might be guesstimated from anywhere between 17 and 45. The only one who speaks English - and I am being both generous and charitable by using that work (i.e. speak) - points at our general soddenness and asks whether or not we heard the weather report that morning. Ha ha, he laughs. (The actual phraseology was you see radio? sky rain water. Ha ha.) Mr. This Cat smiles. I choose to look the other way and glower - besides, as a naturally submissive and conservative wife, I don't talk to men who are not my immediate family members. My ostensible rudeness goes by unnoticed.Mr. This Cat and The Possibly Young or Middle-Aged Man exchange a few pleasantries. The Possibly Young or Middle-Aged Man coyly admits that his English is not very good - he is sorely wrong on this point for it is very bad. He offers to ask the ticket seller the cause of the ferry delay and returns a few moments later, only to tell us that he doesn't know. Apparently his language issues aren't confined to just English. A few moments of awkward silence pass.
Please, The Possibly Young or Middle-Aged Man asks Mr. This Cat. What is your religion?
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Turkey.
Finis.
First of all, let me just say that I know full well that it was I who invited the gods to rain their celestial crap down upon my head with those fateful hateful words: We are excited. What can go wrong. Yes it was me. I have no one to blame but myself.So, to recap: the overnight train tickets have been purchased to our Plan D destination and we are set to leave Istanbul for Thessaloníki (Greece) at 9:00 on Wednesday night. It was right around here that I made the boneheaded comment (see above) about all being right in the world.
Tuesday arrives and Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad is thumbing languidly through the English-language Turkish newspaper which I had bought during our ticket-purchasing debacle - and which I admittedly hadn't read (or have yet to read) - and announces,
Holy shit. There's a transportation strike tomorrow ... no buses and trains will be running!
And thus it begins ...
We spend the greater part of that afternoon e-mailing people, tweeting ex-pats in Istanbul and scouring online editions of newspapers. This is what we learn:
a) there is indeed a general transportation strike set for the next day. Its intention is to 'send the government a message' - because any other reason to strike would just be asinine. Might I add that the strike date is set for the "Christmas Eve-Eve" of the Islamic world when everyone and their dog are travelling.b) private bus companies - for example the bus line for which we have tickets to take us into Istanbul - would probably not walk off in sympathy.
c) the ferries which offer travellers a multitude of services (e.g. connecting the bus station to the city of Istanbul) would be striking.
d) there was general doubt if an internationally-bound train would be halted - but really, no one seemed to know.
on top of this, this is what we suspect:
a) if our private bus company - for example the bus line for which we have tickets to take us into Istanbul - is in fact running the next day, we will be unable to get to the train station because local transportation (i.e., ferries, buses and trams) will be not be working.
and this is what we decide:
a) since the strike is set for the next day, we will go into Istanbul after work that night and stay in a hotel
b) we will exchange our bus tickets for a bus which goes to the main bus station rather than the ferry terminal in case the ferries are grounded due to fog.So, we reserve a room at a cheap hotel near the Blue Mosque, furiously pack our bags, and hie ourselves to the bus station to exchange our tickets. We are able to get seats on an 8:55 bus which is a slight inconvenience since I work until 10:00. No matter, it's exam night and if I have to give my students the answers to expedite the process, I will. And I do.
Fortunately, I don't have to, and Mr. This Cat and I barrel off into a pea soupy night. We pat each other on the back. How proactive we are! we say to each other (pat-pat). Ferry service will have definitely been suspended on a night like this. We eventually pass the ferry terminal - and indeed the ferries aren't running (pat-pat) -
arrive at the station, hop on a subway, transfer onto a tram - and poof! we are in Sultanahmet. What a shame that the map I printed with directions to the hotel is completely illegible - really, what's the point of printing personal documents at work if they can't be bothered to change the toner cartridge regularly? I probably should have checked that more closely. We wander through empty dark pea soupy alleyways, looking for our hotel, trying hard not to think about the wads of euros stuffed into my socks and the giant bullseyes painted on our foreheads and the rob us! rob us! signs affixed to our backs.
Nonetheless, we arrive safely and spend a joyous evening, indulging in a sybaritic repast of corn nuts and beer. The next day we store our luggage with the concierge - our train doesn't leave until 9 p.m. - and float from one café to the next, one bar to the next, in search of inexpensive time-killing activities (i.e., free wifi) and light refreshment (i.e., beer).
Time passes.
Knowing that we can board our compartment at 8:00, we head back to the hotel, grab our knapsacks, pause to snicker at the Canadian Tire money on display (right next to the Indian rupees) under the glass of the front desk, and make our way to the train station. We approach the International Ticket Counter and see a throng of like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces milling about. This does not bode well. I look at Mr. This Cat and ask him to reconnoitre.
Reconnoitre, I ask.He approaches the throng of like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces and asks what the problem is. Baaa baaaa, they bleat. It would seem that no one has had the resourcefulness to make enquiries. The always enterprising Mr. This Cat goes to the ticket window to find our friend, Mr. No. who somehow is able to communicate that our train has been cancelled because of the strike.
Balls. Fucking balls.
Lest a considerable number of its clients as well as a neighbouring country be really miffed at them, TCDD (the train company) has judiciously engaged a private coach to take us to Erdine, the dried shithole Turkish border town with Greece. Mr. This Cat is told to return at 9:00. He imparts this not insignificant travel update to the throng of like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces, and we leave in search of light refreshment.
We kill the next hour in a tavern near the train station where not only am I the only female in attendance, but its sole washroom is equipped with a urinal only - not even a toilet à la Turca. I choose not to consider what one does if a Number Two is in order.
Time passes.
We return to the train station and we are greeted by a Frantic Man who, with much gesticulating, tries to usher us directly onto the bus. We still have fifteen minutes, and because of the lack of female-friendly facilities at the tavern, I now have to pee. I pay my lira and pee (sitting down) at the train's w.c. and then we board the waiting bus. It would seem that we are the last to board the bus and there are no seats left together.
The bus driver, who has accompanied me down the aisle - for what purpose I have no clue - calls to the three gypsy women who are sitting separately in three pairs of seats, and asks if they would double up to free one of the deuces. They refuse in an animated fashion and with verbiage I suspect is quite foul. Mr. This Cat and I take separate seats. The bus lurches and shivers and staggers off into the (still) pea soupy night. The man next to me realizes what has happened and stands up, offering his seat to Mr. This Cat. I have unfounded hope that he will be one of the few Turks tomorrow who will not take part in Islam's Festival of Death.
Time passes. I read. Mr This Cat nods off. The largest and closest of the three gypsy women spends the next few hours:
a) shouting to her co-travellers at a volume which belies the fact that they are 6 inches away from her,
b) shouting at herself at a volume which belies the fact that she is no great distance from herself,c)
snoring at a volume which belies the fact that she is a female of her species.
Time passes. I read. Mr This Cat nods off. Because we have been on the road for less than 90 minutes, the bus driver decides that we all need a pee break - which of course is code that he needs a cigarette. We stop, we pee. The bus lurches and shivers and staggers off into the (still) pea soupy night.Time passes. I read. At around midnight, we are jolted from our respect reveries by the absence of movement. Through the inkiness of the night we can make out:
a) a dried shithole Turkish border town
b) a train station
c) a blacked-out train
d) two Turkish police officers who are approaching the bus.
Two Turkish police officers approach the bus and board. They divide and conquer: one starts at the front of the bus while the other goes to the rear, thumbing through and collecting passports. The younger of the two takes Mr. This Cat's passport and residence booklet and eyes it suspiciously. He fingers it thoroughly until he finds the page with Mr. This Cat's valid dates of residency and then holds his hand out for mine. He takes my passport and residence booklet and eyes it suspiciously. He fingers it thoroughly until he finds the page with my now invalid dates of residency and looks at me. The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners mutters something in Turkish. I reply that I am aware that I have overstayed my welcome in his fine country by four days in as polite a manner as possible. Being that the language I choose to communicate this fact to him is English, he doesn't respond.
The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners calls over the Nice Old Police Officer. They deliberate while never taking their eyes off of me. Perhaps they consider me to be a flight risk. Perhaps they think that several bricks of hashish are taped to my body. Perhaps they forget that I am trying to leave their country.
You, the Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners barks, pointing his finger at me, off the bus.
End of Part the First.
First let me say that since I've been in Turkey, I have never seen a car - or rather a car driver - stop for a pedestrian at a crosswalk. In fact, I could expand upon that theme and state that since I've been in Turkey, I have never seen a car - or rather a car driver - stop for a pedestrian (period. full stop) ... but that's not terribly relevant to what I want to relate (but I did want to say it).Today, however, on the way back from (the italics demand that you pay attention to the preposition) Carrefour, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I actually saw two real live traffic police officers not sitting idly in their cars stationed along a very busy stretch of road - at crosswalks. At crosswalks. And what were they doing? you ask. They were stopping traffic to allow passengers, descending from the gazillion dolmuşes - the veritable stuffed grape leaves on wheels - which pull over willy-nilly to the sides of the road, to safely cross at the crosswalks. Without the traffic police officers, the cars, buses & trucks which careen perilously along these roads would never have stopped. Even with the traffic police officers, many of the cars, buses & trucks which careen perilously along these roads didn't stop.
Nonetheless, this is a mighty step forward.
But why were the traffic police there in the first place rather than sitting idly in their cars? An hour earlier, on the way to Carrefour, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I saw a woman enter a crosswalk and get beaned by an oncoming truck. Although to be accurate, Mr. This Cat's saw a woman enter a crosswalk and get beaned by an oncoming truck - I didn't. As soon as Mr. This Cat yelled omigodthattruckisgoingtohitthatwoman! I closed my eyes and turned my head (just for good measure). And although she wasn't killed, she was nonetheless hit. By a truck. By a truck who completely disregarded the crosswalk sign - like every other driver in Izmit.And the moral of the story? Well, there is none. But whenever I bring up the issue of Turkish drivers and their wanton disregard for human - i.e., pedestrian - life, my students snigger. Sometimes that snigger is accompanied by a what-can-you-do shrug which I think is supposed to pass as acknowledgement but without any accountability. Frankly, it makes my blood boil. And although I know that the government says that it's taking the fact that drivers routinely plough through crosswalks seriously, it's a little hard to believe whena) you've never seen a driver stop at a crosswalk, orb) you've never seen a police officer ticket a car who failed to stop at a crosswalkOf course, one might observe that the truck in question did stop at the crosswalk, but only to extricate the pedestrian from his front right wheel well. The good news - if there is any - was that it took less than 5 minutes for the ambulance to arrive.Theoretically Turkey still wants in to the EU, although popular support is waning. Many many people believe that the EU is either putting up insurmountable roadblocks to Turkey's accession because it either hates Islam or just hates Turkey. For Turkey to join the EU, it must first successfully complete negotiations with the European Commission on all 35 chapters of the so-called acquis communautaire - the corpus of EU law. Once this has happened, all other EU members vote and, if they are unanimous, Turkey will become a member state. Turkey has performed miserably on many of the chapters - notably, on issues concerning the environment, justice, and freedom. But I'd like to add one more: crosswalks. Until drivers here are fined or trained or enlightened to the point where they stop for pedestrians, they don't belong in the EU.End of rant ...Oooops, I almost forgot: and why did the turkey cross the road? Because it had a death wish.
Bayramı begins on Thursday - a black day on the calendar if you are a cow or a sheep in the Muslim world. Or a vegetarian. Or by caring human beings. And what now seems a long time ago, with the prospect of these five days of merriment and death a scant 106 days away (and counting), Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I came up with the rather brilliant idea of spending Islam's Festival of Death in the Greek city of Thessaloníki (also known as Salonika or Saloniki) in Macedonia. The city, it seems, has much to recommend it:
a) it's in Greece where the chances of watching cows running down the street in a futile attempt to escape their executioners would be minimal, if not nonexistent
b) it was reachable by a groovy overnight train
c) it's touted as "Greek's Hippest City" by no less than the city itself
d) it's a UNESCO World Heritage city with 3000 years of history, with relics from its Roman, Byzantine, Jewish and Ottoman past.
e) it's the birthplace of Atatürk and therefore, a worthy place of pilgrimage.
And in spite of the fact that one of our most educated and erudite students (a judge, no less) told us that Thessaloníki (also known as Salonika or Saloniki) was a 3rd World City in a 3rd World Country not worthy of being in the EU (= sour grapes), we made further enquiries. We booked a hotel. We were excited.
But because this is Byzantium Turkey after all - the cradle of red tape bureaucracy - all of our best-laid plans inevitably went circling around the bowl when, after five dozen or so nagging reminders to my Place of Questionably Gainful Employment about my work visa (i.e., where is my work visa?) finally bore spoiled, rancid fruit (i.e., we don't know). This, two weeks before my residence permit was set to expire. This, three months after Mr. This Cat received his work visa. So, to recap:
a) After 9 months of waiting, I still had no work visa and the likelihood of it ever surfacing was finally recognized as, well, unlikely,
b) I would be here illegally in two weeks,
c) I would have to do a border run.
Although my Place of Questionably Gainful Employment suggested that I do my border run before the residence visa expired (i.e., losing several days of work), we decided to do it during Islam's Festival of Death and pay the hopefully minimal fee for overstaying my welcome by 4 days. Our decision then was to scrap Thessaloníki (also known as Salonika or Saloniki) and head to Bulgaria, the border run favoured by most Illegals in Turkey. We made the decision to accept this Plan B with more grace than we usually do and actually got a little excited at the prospect. We chose the city of Plovdiv - the country's 2nd largest city and home to ancient Roman ruins and craploads of casinos.
Huzzah!
And because we would be travelling at the beginning of Islam's Festival of Death - not unlike travelling on Christmas Eve - we decided to take the (soon-to-be-dead) bull by the horns and go into Istanbul and buy our tickets in advance. We patted each other on the back. How proactive we are! we said to each other (pat-pat). Even though our buying tickets early is truly unnecessary (pat-pat). I mean, who goes to Plovdiv? Who goes to a city which sounds like the plop-plop sound human excrement makes when it hits the water? We even prepared a note with our travelling dates and our destination to facilitate the ticket-buying process (pat-pat).
So Saturday afternoon, we take the bus to Istanbul. Our spirits are high. We would pick up our tickets to Plovdiv (plop-plop) and then do some shopping. Such fun we will have! we said (pat-pat). Along the highway into the city we pass cramped corral after cramped corral, packed pen after packed pen of Doomed Sheep, and not too surprisingly, our spirits fall.
I made a vow, I said to Mr. This Cat. (Specifically: I will never be present for another Eid)I did too, he said.
Fuck, we said.
We pass the last of the Doomed Sheep - fruitlessly wishing them a speedy and painless death - and get off the bus. Soon we are at the train station which houses The Most Unhelpful Tourist Bureau in the World. Fortunately, we don't have to avail ourselves of its stellar services today, and we approach a wicket.
Do you speak English? we ask what looks to be a Nice Woman.
A little, she replies - which in Turkey means a fair amount, while in Italy it means absolutely none at all.
We show her the note we have prepared and Mr. Cat starts his spiel and shows her our prepared note. She lets Mr. Cat finish his spiel and then points around the corner.
International tickets, she says.
We round the corner where there is a sign for international tickets, as well as several ticket windows for international tickets, several desks - presumably to accommodate those agents who sell international tickets, but no agents. And no lights on.
We wait. Eventually a man appears. Eventually a man appears who does not seem to be as nice as the Nice Woman. We choose to not enquire into his ability to speak English as he works at the international ticket counter, so he undoubtedly does. In a very short time we would learn that his repertoire of English is limited to the word no.
No, as in, we'd like tickets to Plovdiv for the 26th of November.
No.
We hand him the note. Perhaps this will help.
No.
It's full? Sold out? we ask.
He nods.
Mr. This Cat and I look at each other rather desperately. A Plan C? Do we have a Plan C?
What about the 25th?
He nods.
And a train back on the 28th?
No.
And a train back on the 29th?No.Fuck, we say.
Mr. This Cat and I look at each other rather desperately. A Plan D? Do we have a plan D? We don't have a Plan D. We feverishly send each other telepathic thoughts: How are these trains sold out? Who goes to Plovdiv? Who goes to a city which sounds like the plop-plop sound human excrement makes when it hits the water? I look at the hand-painted sign on the wall with its international (this is, after all, the international ticket counter) destinations.How about Thessaloníki (also known as Salonika or Saloniki) on the 26th?
No.
The 25th?
He nods.
Returning on the 28th?
He nods.
Huzzah!
So there you have it. Mr. No takes out his pen and a ream of carbon paper (!) and, considerately assuming that we want first-class compartments, writes out our tickets - tickets which we cannot for the life of us read - but which we sincerely hope are for the 12 1/2 hour overnight train Thessaloníki (also known as Salonika or Saloniki) ... for my border run - an escapade whose tickets cost three times the price of tickets to Plovdiv, the city which sounds like the plop-plop sound human excrement makes when it hits the water. Yes, in three days, we will be hurtling through a countryside ankle-deep in the blood of sacrificed (killed) animals on our way to a 3rd World City in a 3rd World Country not worthy of being in the EU. We are excited. What can go wrong?
We are excited. What can go wrong? ... did I just write that? Really, we should know better.
Wherein the reader will condescend to allow the author a relatively brief (for her), politically incorrect and religiously intolerant rant ...
Back in January of 2006, I promised myself that It would be my last. In December 2006, I kept my word. Ditto for December of '07. December of last year comes and I stay true to my word. I am awesome and oh so very very principled.Welcome to November 2009 and I am here. And they are out there: millions and millions of sheep and cows awaiting the butcher's knife and millions and millions of Muslims are standing by, kebab skewers in hand. It's not like this has come as any surprise: for weeks now, grocery stores have been sending out flyers to finance your sacrificial (soon to be killed) animal (in 12 easy instalments); for your viewing displeasure, promotional meet-your-meat-sacrifice videos can be seen in shopping malls. Mr. This Cat and I joined the crowd this afternoon in front of one such monitor. We saw:
a) unhappy-looking cows,
b) the cramped conditions of (soon to be killed) unhappy-looking cows,
c) a (soon to be killed) unhappy-looking cow being led into a rotating box while a vigilant vet (man in a white lab coat & holding a clipboard) watches nearby,
d) Unhappy-looking This Cat's Abroad and Mr. This Cat walking away to avoid splattering the floor with partially digested bits of their granola bars.
A Brief Digression: Muslim - like Jewish - regulations for slaughtering animals typically run along religious lines. Many so-called religious slaughterhouses have been reproached by caring human beings for using shackles & hoists (to suspend a leg or legs), trip floor boxes (boxes with a slanted floor which cause the animal to fall down), as well as leg clamping rotating boxes in an effort to control the (scared shitless) animal. For more, read me in a previous rant incarnation.
Muslim slaughtering practices were recently defended - if not extoled - by an acquaintance of ours who said that (soon to be killed) animals are individually hugged by their butchers (killers) just before they are killed. Let me very plain about this:a) no, there was no hugging during the promotional video
b) yes, this acquaintance of ours isn't 7-years old but believes what he says.
End of Brief Digression
To resume ... in 13 days, Muslims around the world will celebrate Eid al-Adha - what is known in Turkey as Kurban Bayramı - the Festival of the Sacrifice. Coming 70 days after Ramadan, it is a time of joy and celebration (unless you are a cow or a sheep) and for me, a time of mourning.
The ritual slaughter (it's not killing, my students continually correct me, it's sacrificing - small consolation to the sheep and the cows) is drawn from that pluckiest of feel-good books, the Old Testament, where Abraham's gobsmacking willingness (what OT fans call "faith") to sacrifice (see, I didn't say kill) his son Ismael to Yahweh was rewarded by a ram being sent in to pinch hit at the last minute.
Unfortunately, there was no last minute reprieve for the ram.
So now, in just less than 2 weeks, the country will be awash in the blood of sacrificial (i.e. freshly killed) quadrupeds. In January 2006, after watching my Moroccan neighbours kill their sheep (plural) in the parking lot below my bedroom window, and hang their (i.e., the sheep's) carcasses (plural) on nearby palm trees, I did in fact swear that I would never be present for another Eid.
I will never be present for another Eid, I said.In Morocco's capital city, it was common to hear the sheep destined for the hibachi bleating from the city's balconies, underground car parks and roof tops during the days (and nights) running up to the Eid. Then, of course, it would be deathly silent by 10:30 that morning. O the horror!
And so far I've managed to keep my word. But I can't get out of Death Valley Dodge fast enough. Our train to Bulgaria (that's for another blog ...) doesn't leave until nightfall.
And here? I ask. Will I hear bleating? Pitiful pitiful bleating? Pitiful pitiful bleating followed by the Silence of the Lambs?
We do not kill lambs, my students admonish me. Sheep must be at least 1-year old.
Fuck you. It was a literary allusion.
And usually we sacrifice (kill) cows - not sheep, my students tell me. It takes 7 or so men to restrain and sacrifice (kill) a cow.
(translation = real men don't kill sheep. Sheep are for wussies.)
How manly you all are! I gush (inside my head).
And the actual killing? I ask out loud, abjuring the s-word.
It's illegal to sacrifice (kill) your animal at home, they assure me. It must be done at a certified abattoir (killing place), by a certified butcher (killer).
But ... they concede. It depends on the municipality. And if you have a garden ...
Swell.
There's a huge parking lot below our bedroom window. I swear to God th
at I'm going to have the biggest breakfast known to humankind (I have a much coveted and slightly dented tube of Pillsbury Crescent rolls bought in Athens, just waiting for the right occasion) and if any animal dies below that window, I'm going to hurl a whole lot of lovin' from the oven onto my neighbours' heads.
Either way you slice it, it's not going to be pretty.
In a desperate attempt to introduce a topic which might just possibly, sort of, perhaps appeal to my weekend class of under 22-year olds (having judged the 5-page biography of Helen Keller as a sure-fire egg bomber), I wrote "tattoo" on the board. Love them or hate them, at the very least everyone has an opinion about tats. I inwardly giggled in glee at the hours and hours I could milk out of this topic - for surely this is every teacher's dream - the passing of time without exerting any effort. In my case, it was 4 very long hours to kill on a very long Sunday morning.
Yes, we would talk about everything from Maori face tattoos to nautical themes to hula girls to tribal designs to prison tats. I am so freaking brilliant. And I am (under normal circumstances), but not, as it turns out, in my weekend class of under 22-year olds.
Does anyone have a tattoo? Silence
What do you think about tattoos? SilenceIs there a tattoo parlour here in Izmit? SilenceHave you ever seen a really interesting tattoo? Silence.
O sweet mother of god. Don't they watch Prison Break?!!
This did not bode well. It turns out that, for the most part, Turks are not big tattoo people. One student went so far as to say that it is anti-Islam to sport an "I heart Mom" tattoo because, since it is permanent, it cannot be washed away in pre-prayer ablutions and therefore its very presence would nullify one's prayers to Allah. Yeesh.Yes, The Prophet (pbuh) is said to have said "May Allah curse the women who do tattoos and those for whom tattoos are done." In the same breath he vilified women who plucked their eyebrows, but that doesn't seem to have made much of an impact in Turkey - the land of the stencil-perfect eyebrows.
As I watched my particularly clever topic circle 'round the bowl, I mentioned the spiffy tattoos of North Africa's indigenous people: the dots and crosshatches and geometric designs which can be found on the faces of Berber women. And yes, I know that these are pre-Islamic in origin but I really don't care at this point. Yes, one girl conceded, there *are* tribes in the east of Turkey who tattoo scimitars on their faces, but .... Are they Muslim? I asked. Yes, she admitted, but they're barbarians. Barbarians. Great.
Do you know anyone who has a tattoo? One student raised her hand. Hallelujah! I cried (inside my head). My friend has a tattoo, she said. What of? His arm. No, not where, what? (yeesh). His name. His name? Yes, his name. Where? On his arm, she said, pointing to her forearm. Why did he tattoo his name? I asked. Is he prone to forgetting his name? He likes his name, she replied.
In one last charitable effort to save my class from having to plough through 5 pages of Helen bumping into furniture, I asked each student, would you like to get a tattoo some day? Of course, everyone said no. But then one added, our parents wouldn't allow it. Unless .... Unless? I asked perhaps a little too hopefully. Unless we get a tattoo of Atatürk. Seriously? She nodded, most parents won't get too upset if we come home with an Atatürk tattoo.Of course, at the risk of sounding sacrilegious, Atatürk is about as close to being a god as you can in these parts. And what God-fearing Atatürk-loving Turkish parent would (or could) raise an eyebrow to the Father of Modern Turkey appearing on their child's body? Now that would be sacrilege. After all, so revered is he that you can buy fridge magnets and cigarette lighters which bear his hallowed image.So it turns out that getting a tat of Atatürk's signature - normally on the forearm - is not totally uncommon in Turkey. The heavily slanted, very masculine I'm-going-to-found-the-Republic-of-Turkey signature is de rigueur; his face is optional. His bottle of raki is, presumably, optional as well. Really, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me. When, in another class, I asked a young girl what one thing she would change about the world if she could (I'm anticipating obliterating world hunger & disease) she replied, I would like to give my life up for Atatürk, so he would be alive now. Fuck almighty. You know he'd be 128 years old if he were alive? I asked. Silence.But back to Sunday morning. So an Atatürk tattoo, I resumed, would any of you consider getting one? Several heads nodded. That, ladies and gentlemen, is youthful rebellion at its finest. Now let's turn our books to page 163 where Helen campaigns for women's suffrage ...
I have to be honest: I wasn't expecting it. At all. Well that's not completely true because I knew that there are inequalities here, specifically in the realm of literacy and education. And had my Turkish students not already told me (on several occasions) that women should never ever ever be compelled to do compulsory military service here (all men without a psychological or physical impediment - such as homosexuality [seriously] - must accept the honour of serving his country for a period of time)? They had. The reason? - Turkish men are by nature so romantic and chivalrous, that having a woman in the line of fire - and in their proximity - would distract them (i.e. men) from their jobs. Should that happen, I have been told, the country would be overrun by its not insignificant number of enemies. How I manage to keep a straight face in class is an act of God.
