Hello from Hawler

Time, brown-outs and very tetchy internet access have connived and conspired to render me uncharacteristically eerily silent these last few days, so I am going to take advantage of a few free moments, electricity, and a stolen usb-wifi stick to offer the briefest of glimpses into our first week (+2 days) in Hawler - or Erbil as the Kurds (it is their city after all) are wont to call it. So in no order or aforethought whatsoever, here are a few - and I mean a few snapshots of Life Among the Kurds.

1) Like any other (sort-of) modern city, Erbil runs on electricity - that marvellously magical (in my mind) undercurrent to civilization that keeps me warm when it's cold out, allows me to boil water for my tea, and read without straining my eyes unnecessarily. Here, the city is officially empowered between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. The corollary of this is that if you are the sort of person who likes to stay warm when it's cold out, boil water for your tea, and read without straining your eyes unnecessarily then you are shit out of luck - unless you either own your own generator or can tap into someone else's generator. Consequently it looks like Spider-Man has spun his way across Erbil and, in his wake, left a rainforest panoply of sinewy webs strung between every house, lamp-post, high wire and generator - and of course, along the streets and sidewalks. The city is one gargantuan electrical octopus. If you are fortunate to have access to a good generator, it will automatically kick in when the city power cuts out. The transition from city to private electricity is not a smooth one and is usually accompanied by a house-shaking clunking sound, a jolt, a black-out, a house-shaking clunking sound and a jolt when power is once again resumed. In any given night, there can be half a dozen of these electrical trade-offs. I suspect that Stephen King spent time in Iraq while researching the Green Mile.

2) Cars appear to have names. Not names like "Civic" or "Corolla", but additional names - perhaps like confirmation names, except rather than choosing a saint's name, something quite nonsensical is selected. These names are painted quite boldly along the sides or backs of the lucky vehicles in question, so that there's no doubt at all that an individual isn't just driving a Hyundai Tucson, but rather sitting proudly behind the wheel of a "Prado", "Deer", "Great Wall" or (the ever popular) "Obama". What we are unable to determine is whether this act of car-christening transpires at the actual car dealership or in someone's garage. I actually suspect the former.

3) Bathrooms here have a doorbell on the wall. They are not near places where a panic-button might come in handy, such as the bathtub (should one slip) or the toilet (should one be short of something absorbent). So in plain sight, but not easily accessed (unless you're standing in the doorway), is a very loud doorbell. Needless to say, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) finds great sport in ringing it for no apparent reason (for more Mr. This Cat's quirky anecdotes, read my upcoming memoir, Married to an Eight-Year Old).

4) Many ex-pats here have pets: presumably the standard fare being cats and dogs. I say presumably because I haven't actually seen any pet dogs (although I've seen dog food on selected shelves of larger grocery stores) and I have actually seen a cat (although I've seen neither cat food nor litter on any shelf of any grocery store). I asked our host - whose cat it is - what she does for kitty litter. Bulgur, she said. That would be bulgur, as in that Middle Eastern whole-grain: the cornerstone for pilaf, what make tabbouleh salads crunchy and thickens soups. Peeking into the designated kitty potty room (where the otherwise unused Turkish toilet ekes out a lonely, forgotten life), I saw a kitty litter tray piled high with bulgur wheat. And cat turds. In that instant I knew that I would never eat another bulgur-stuffed green pepper as long as I lived.

5) Firstly, let me preface this by saying that Kurds seem like incredibly nice people. Although I might change my opinion of them - or at least modify it in some way - 23 months & three weeks (less 2 days) from now, today I think they're lovely people. And coming from me, that's high praise indeed. All of the Kurds we've encountered thus far have tried to speak English with us, which is a good thing since we know zippo Kurdish and only a smattering of Arabic - Arabic being the language that Saddam Hussein forced the Kurds to learn in favour of - by which I mean by outlawing - their indigenous language. As a result, I tend to feel like a leading member of the revolutionary Ba'ath Party whenever I use Arabic, but it's either that or point and make incomprehensible grunts to store owners. (Thankfully, most restaurant menus are amazingly printed in English and Kurdish.) Now in spite of their grasp of English (however rudimentary) and keenness to use the language, Kurds haven't been able to come to terms with the word "goodbye". I don't know why this is, but whenever we take our leave of people - everyone from clerks to waiters to the AK-47-wielding guards at Our Place of Gainful Employment - we are sent on our way with a wave and a very chipper "hello."

I wonder if they are equally confused when we respond with goodbye? Perhaps in their minds, they're singing thinking I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello ... hello, hello ...

Not-So Turkish Delight - Part the Second

... The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer leaned forwards and snatched my passports from my hands - one of which was stamped with a valid exit stamp. Before I could say anything, a police officer had appeared at our sides. The police officer - i.e., Our New Security Officer - then conferred with The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer - a conversation augmented with wild gesticulations and punctuated by more phone calls. We looked at Our New Security Officer beseechingly.

"No problem," he told us, no problem being one of the five English phrases in his repertoire of Stock English Phrases. "Walk 50 metres, turn left. Go to Police Station." (... thus almost exhausting his full repertoire.)

"My passport," I insisted, motioning to the Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. Call me prudent old-fashioned, but I really don't like being physically separated by my passport for any length of time or distance.

"No problem," he told us.

Our fellow travellers in the snaky line behind us sniggered and craned their heads in our direction as we were sent away. Oh goodie! I thought. We get to be The Entertainment for the Great Unwashed - yet again.

We made our way to the Police Station - and by Police Station, I mean a counter in a corridor - handed Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad)'s passports to a Nice Young Officer and explained the situation. He looked at Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad)'s very empty new passport and his very cluttered old passport with his very valid Turkish entry visa. "What's the problem?" he asked, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer at Booth #8 is a pinhead," I responded thought to myself. He scribbled something on Mr. This Cat's boarding pass and handed it back to us. "No problem," he advised us.

We wound our way back to Our Security Officer, who looked at Mr. This Cat's new & improved & approved boarding pass and, with a look of unbridled triumph said, "No problem!"

Relieved, we returned directly to Booth #8 - now less entertaining to our fellow passengers since we were allowed to jump the queue - and handed the passports and the new & improved & approved boarding pass to The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. He thumbed through both passports and looked suspiciously at the boarding pass, but after once again keying in every number listed on both passports (including his father's phone number, I think), he gave Mr. This Cat an especially filthy look and picked up the phone. People in the line behind us began to grumble and shift from one collective foot to the other. I prayed that the Angry Villagers they had no access to torches and pitchforks.

This isn't exactly a field day for us!!! I shrieked (inside my head).

At this point, a feeble little light went off in our otherwise poorly lit and very empty brains. Suspecting that the problem might lie with Mr. This Cat's cancelled residence/work permit (which might be somehow confusing our security friends at the airport), Mr. This Cat presented the booklet to The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. He picked up the phone again. Before we could say anything, Our New Security Officer had reappeared at our sides. He then conferred with The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer - a conversation augmented with wild gesticulations and punctuated by more phone calls. The sighs of exasperation emanating from the heaving mob of increasingly cranky fellow travellers behind us increased in volume. Subtle, they were not. We looked at Our New Security Officer beseechingly.

"No problem," he told us, no problem being one of the five English phrases in his repertoire of stock English phrases. "Walk 50 metres, turn left. Go to Police Station. Photocopy." (... his repertoire of English phrases now fully exhausted.)

"My passport," I insisted, motioning to the Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. Call me prudent old-fashioned, but I really don't like being physically separated by my passport for any length of time or distance.

"No problem," he told us and huzzah! - handed my passports and boarding pass to me.

The Angry Villagers, brandishing their torches and pitchforksOur fellow travellers in the snaky line behind us sniggered and craned their heads in our direction as we were sent away. Oh goodie! I thought. We get to be The Entertainment for the Great Unwashed - yet again.

We made our way to the Police Station/Counter in a Corridor, and handed Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad)'s passports to a Different Nice Young Officer and explained the situation again. He looked at his very empty new passport and his very cluttered old passport with his very valid Turkish entry visa and the new & improved & approved boarding pass and the cancelled residence/work permit. "What's the problem?" he asked, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He picked up the phone and made a phone call. He drew lines across pages of Mr. This Cat's (already) cancelled residence/work permit and, handing it back to us, said "Photocopy these three pages," he said.

We have to photocopy them? Is this not a Police Station/Counter in a Corridor? Is it not equipped with a photocopier? (It isn't.)

"Where?" we asked.

"Walk 50 metres, turn right," he said. "No problem."

Why is everything 50 metres away in this airport? Fifty metres will bring us back to Passport Control. Is this the only double-digit number airport employees know? (It is.)

We walked 50-ish metres and found ourselves at a shoe repair. Seriously? I asked Mr. This Cat. The cobbler looked at us and we looked at the cobbler. There were no shoes in our hands. Everyone was confused.

"Photocopy?" we asked, hoping that we would not be instructed to walk another 50 metres (which in all fairness, might only be 15 metres). He pointed to a bookshop about 10 metres way. Ahhh, that makes sense.

We walked the additional 10 metres to the bookshop and had Mr. This Cat's cancelled residence/work visa photocopies. We returned to the Police Station/Counter in a Corridor and handed the paperwork to The Different Nice Young Officer. He scribbled this and that, and returned everything (sans photocopies) to us.

"No problem," he said.

We wound our way back to Our New Security Officer, who looked at Mr. This Cat's new & improved & approved boarding pass (which had not changed since our last visit) and, with a look of unbridled triumph said, "No problem!" Perhaps he had received a phone call from The Different Nice Young Officer because he motioned us through a side-exit and poof! - we bypassed both the Angry Villagers (now brandishing torches and pitchforks) and Booth #8, without ever having to wish The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer a pleasant day.

Huzzah!

The entire procedure took 45 minutes - a length of time that might have been considerably shortened if one person had said something along the lines of: we have a cancelled residence/work visa on file for Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad). May we see it sir? Interesting how we had no problems entering Turkey just 2 weeks earlier. In any case, unlike our colleague, we did not almost miss our flight because our airport taxi service had insisted that we leave 5 hours before our flight. Suddenly, this seemed like a wise move - but for different reasons than those anticipated by the taxi company.

We made our way to the boarding gate and boarded a bus which would take us past herds of exotic planes whose names were hitherto unknown to us (who's ever heard of Havaş or Sabena Airlines?). I suppose our section of the airport was reserved for those planes which time and the International Air Transport Association forgot.

Our flight to Kurdistan - or Northern Iraq, as Turks prefer to call it - was unremarkable save for the laudable efforts of the flight attendants to ensure that tea was served at breakneck speed. This, by the way, would include serving tea while descending to Erbil. This naturally meant that there was no inclination time to check and enforce those pesky little safety measures which so often get in the way of making and serving tea. I could mention the gentlemen who chose to stand and chat in aisles as the plane taxied to our runways or the cellphones which were never turned off, but I prefer the elderly shepherd (I swear I heard bleating coming from the aircraft hold) who sat next to Mr. This Cat. Not only did he choose not to wear his seatbelt at any point before, during, or after the flight but, rather than keeping his tray in an upright position during take-off, took a nap on it instead. Perhaps he was just waiting for his tea.

Welcome to Kurdistan, baby - or rather, Northern Iraq.

Not-So Turkish Delight - Part the First

Mr. This Cat's Abroad & I are blighted with a particularly nasty strain of travel-karma which ensures that our taking leave of a country is always more vexing than arriving. I don't know quite why this should be the case - apart from the fact that it makes our ingresses (innies) far far more pleasurable than our egresses (outies), and of the two, I suppose that's the way things should be.

Case in point: on Friday we left Turkey for Iraq, our groovy new home for the next 2 years. This past week, as we fussed and obsessed over last-minute minutiae and agonized over the bankruptcy-inducing overage charges facing us (or rather facing our Prodigious Amount of Very Heavy Luggage) at the Atlas Jet check-in counter, we realized that the one detail we had overlooked was how to actually get to the airport - which lies about an hour or so from Izmit. And although there is one which links Izmit to Istanbul's smaller airport, Mr. This Cat was convinced that there was no airport shuttle bus from Izmit to Atatürk International - Turkey's largest airport. That just doesn't make sense, I told him.

"That just doesn't make sense," I told him.
"Then find one," he countered - a little peevishly in my opinion.

And in spite of all of my pshaw's to the contrary and tippy-tapping online, he would prove to be correct. So after unsuccessfully dropping hints to car-owning friends colleagues, after rejecting the idea of schlepping a total of 4 suitcases (all 4 of which exceeded the maximum baggage allowance twofold) and 2 knapsacks onto a bus and a subway, we bit the bullet and ordered a private airport taxi. At only 27 times the price of a bus (I did the calculations), we arranged to be picked up and whisked away to the Airport Without a Shuttle Service with our Prodigious Amount of Very Heavy Luggage.

At the ungodly hour of 6 a.m. - the taxi company insisted on picking us up 3 hours before we were required to be at the check-in counter - and as the Man in the Minaret reminded us in no uncertain terms about the greatness of God, we locked the door to our flat, loaded the van, and sped off into inky darkness to the Airport Without a Shuttle Service. Arriving there in record time (the sun was just dawning) we passed through the first security gate at the main door - amazingly not setting off the metal detector's beeps & whistles in doing so - and were greeted by smiling friendly faces. Good morning! they chirruped. Have a nice flight. Wow, I thought. We have so nixed our particularly nasty strain of travel-karma!

We hauled our Prodigious Amount of Very Heavy Luggage over to an unpersonned unmanned baggage scale. As a loving helpmate, I tried not to react too noticeably or draw too much attention to Mr. This Cat's newly-formed hernia as he hefted each bag on top of the scale. We anticipated each of the four to weigh in somewhere between 27-32 kilos and - sweet mother of god! - combined (combined!) they added up to a scant 37 kilograms over our allowance. Given Atlas Jet's overage policy, that added up to a negligible $189 fine. Huzzah!

Since we were at the airport 3 1/2 hours early, we sat and drank coffee and giggled at our good fortune. The only fly in the ointment was the possibility that Atlas Jet would count my purse - which in truth is an oversized, overstuffed courier bag - as a 2nd carry-on item which, depending on the airline, is becoming a travel no-no. Can you fit it into your knapsack? the Check-In Wench might ask. Christ, no. I'd have to check it. This could be very very icky. Try to hide it behind the counter, suggested Mr. This Cat. Good plan, I replied.

Mr. This Cat peered over to the check-in counter and saw that Atlas Jet had opened up early. We sped over as quickly as our Prodigious Amount of Very Heavy Luggage would allow and approached the Check-In Wench. Quite graciously, she neither rolled her eyes in disbelief (Milan) or tisk-tisked in disapproval (Casablanca) as Mr. This Cat further aggravated his newly-formed hernia hefting our suitcases onto the scales. We smiled a watery we're-really-sorry-smile and prayed she'd take pity on us. We're not travelling to Erbil as tourists, Mr. This Cat told her. We're moving there. Like tourists go to Iraq, I thought. Like that made a difference with the Check-In Wenches in Italy and Morocco.

I will charge you for only 20 kilos, she announced. Huzzah! I cried inside my head. Then, while Mr. This Cat paid our overage fee, I waited for both him and it - waited for the how many pieces of carry-on luggage do you have? bolt from God. The can you fit it into your knapsack? clap of thunder. But there wasn't one. Moments later, Mr. This Cat handed her his receipt and she handed us our boarding passes. Huzzah! I cried - this time out loud. We have so nixed our particularly nasty strain of travel-karma!

Now as there is absolutely nothing to do in the general waiting area at the Airport Without a Shuttle Service, we decided to pass through security and kill the rest of the morning looking in vain for Spanish sherry at Duty Free. We joined the line for Passport Control and tried not to be too galled every time a passenger ducked under the cordons and cut to the front of the line. This was Turkey after all.

I approached Booth #8 where scowled a rather Nasty-Looking Customs Officer, who was either having a truly awful day or just came out of his mother's womb that way. I refused to allow his refusal to smile and his oily comb-over to dampen my high spirits, but I did anticipate that my two passports would do little to raise his. Two passports? you ask. Yes, two passports. It seems that one can only enter Iraq with a passport valid for at least 6 months (ours were at 6 months plus 2 days). As there is no Canadian Embassy in Iraq, we would be in dire straits in 6 months plus 3 days ... so Mr. This Cat and I applied for and received new passports just four days prior to our flight. Naturally, the now-valid passport had nary a stamp in it, while the invalidated one had my Turkish visa. I pushed both towards him.

The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer thumbed through both passports - I tried explaining the situation but abandoned all hope of communicating with him when it became apparent that he spoke no English - but after keying in every number listed on both passports (including my mother's phone number, I think), he stamped by passport. Huzzah! We have so nixed our particularly nasty strain of travel-karma!

Mr. This Cat did the same. But allow me to further muddy the narrative waters a tidge. When a friend of ours and fellow teacher made his escape completed his contract at our Place of Questionably Gainful Employment, he found that his work (and hence residence) visa had been terminated by said shithole institution. Of course, he didn't know about this petty piece of underhanded business until he was trying to pass through Passport Control at the Airport Without a Shuttle Service. Detained for over 45 minutes, he almost missed his flight but did ultimately manage to talk his way out of it. Knowing that our Place of Questionably Gainful Employment would undoubtedly do the same to Mr. This Cat's visa - of course, I didn't have a work visa - he sagaciously bought a tourist visa when we returned to Turkey from Spain at Christmas. That'd show them, we thought.

The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer thumbed through both passports - Mr. This Cat tried explaining the situation but abandoned all hope of communicating with him when it became apparent that he still spoke no English - but after keying in every number listed on both passports (including his father's phone number, I think), he gave Mr. This Cat an especially filthy look and picked up the phone.

That would be the last time he made eye contact with us.

The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer leaned forwards and snatched my passports from my hands - one of which was stamped with a valid exit stamp. Before I could say anything, a police officer had appeared at our sides.

To be continued ...

A Travel Update Brought to You by Atlas Jet

Atlas Jet - ever heard of it? No? - well, neither had we until we started looking for flights to Erbil. Erbil - ever heard of it? No? - well, neither had we until we started looking for new jobs.

Which brings me to the reason for today's micro-blog. Tomorrow morning, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) & I fly out (on an Atlas Jet) to northern Iraq to begin our brand spanking new jobs (in Erbil). My understanding is that we may not have an internet connection immediately, so if I am woefully & inordinately absent for the next wee bit, please - all 4 of you who read this blog - check back regularly. Assume that:

a) we arrived safely (represented by an image of Atlas Jet plane in the air)
b) we have not been abducted
c) we have not fallen victim to Self Incendiaries in Combustible Cars
d) I have not been cocooned inside of a burqa for all of eternity.

So take care - wish us luck - and pray that someone else in Izmit will take over my duties of feeding the city's strays.

Ciao babies!

Taking a Leak

When I first left home, my father made certain that I was capable of doing a few things that every independent young woman should know; among which were how to make a decent French omelette and how to unclog a toilet (perhaps - even back then - he anticipated my blessed union with Mr This Cat's (Not) Abroad). Truth be told, my plumbing skills pretty much ended with that lesson, although I am pretty handy with a plunger (and an omelette pan).

So, on Saturday night, walking in the door after a full day in Istanbul, we were perplexed to hear water running from the bathroom and seeing water spurting out of the wall from where the bathtub tap is attached to the tiles. Think Niagara Falls: not the Horseshoe Falls but the Bridal Veil Falls. We were not a little disconcerted. It seemed evident - even to our untrained eyes - that a plunger would be of no service to us here.

We did the only thing we knew how to do (for I had sensed that there would be no call to prepare a French omelette) and turned the water off. Huzzah! - but no, no, the Bridal Veil continued to pour. That's odd, we thought.

As we rummaged about for the phone number of our Landlady's English-Speaking Daughter (The LESD), our doorbell (which annoyingly sounds like cartoon birds chirruping) chirruped. Waiting at the door was our upstairs neighbour Leyla, the only person in our building with a smattering of English - and I use the word smattering most generously. It seemed that in our absence, the Bridal Veil Falls had been cascading into the apartment below us and our downstairs neighbours had enlisted her service as a translator, being the only person in our building with a smattering of English.

Leyla brought Mr This Cat downstairs to assess the damage because, in her mind, this would be not only be a constructive use of his time, but would somehow solve the problem of our Cascading Bathtub Tap. It turns out that one of our downstairs neighbours (a recluse, for we had never ever seen her before) is a young woman with two very distinguishing characteristics: 1) she is due to give birth in three days, and 2) she has a speaking disability of some sort. It would seem that the impending parturition (she is due tomorrow) had rendered her completely unable to deal with the dripping from her ceiling, as she was convinced our bathtub would come crashing down upon her. In addition, although she couldn't speak, she could - and forgive me for being uncharitable - bark, not unlike a sea lion - and at a significant volume. She pointed at the ceiling in great desperation, and barked at Mr. This Cat.

Unable to stop the water from entering her home - and unable to make her understand that - he came back upstairs and called The LESD. From our apartment, we could hear the Barking Woman barking. How is it we've never heard her before? I asked.

An hour or so later, The LESD arrived with her boyfriend in tow. They looked at the situation (aka the Bridal Veil Falls) and shook their heads. Is the water off? they asked. It is, we assured them. The LESD flopped down heavily into a chair. The timing for our leak wasn't good, she advised us. Her father had had a heart attack last week and she had had a car accident that morning. I refrained from reminding her that bad things often come in threes and that a leaking bathtub was in no way part of our Master Plan to make her life any more miserable than it already was.

The doorbell chirruped, and Leyla walked in. With her was her 10-year old son who sported two large X-marks-the-spot band-aids on the side of his head (a treasure map for brain pirates?) and a pair of woman's shoes three sizes too big for him. She went to assess the situation (unchanged, water still flowing) and he shuffled in as best he could and stared dumbly at us.

The doorbell chirruped and in walked the Barking Woman, her 7-year old daughter, and her parents. We had never met - nor seen - them before, but they all shuffled in, barely deigning to acknowledge us, and headed to the bathroom. Barking Woman barked. Her daughter stayed in the foyer and gawked at us: clearly the first green-skinned three-eyed antennaed creatures Anglophones she had ever seen. Not wishing to traumatizing the child any further, I refrained from shouting "boo" at her. Ten minutes later they left. Leyla went upstairs and returned with her husband - a man I had hitherto assumed was her father - but who (she claimed) was a "professional" (her words) in all things domestic (not her words). He and The LESD's boyfriend began to disassemble the bathroom wall.

The LESD and Leyla cracked open a fresh package of cigarettes and lit up. Thanks for requesting permission to smoke in my home, I said (to Mr This Cat), and ran to the kitchen to fetch a tea glass saucer for an ashtray. No mind, for they had already inaugurated the bathroom sink as an ashtray. Well, why not?

The doorbell chirruped and more neighbours - hitherto unknown to us and whose apartments were quite untouched by the events of the evening - traipsed in. They had the courtesy to nod to us, and went in to the bathroom. The doorbell chirruped again, and the Barking Woman, her parents, and her traumatized child walked into our home. I gave Mr This Cat a what-the-fuck look which only intensified as, moments later, we saw The LESD giving all of our neighbours a tour of our apartment.

There were now over 13 people in our apartment engaged in all manner of activities.

Meanwhile, Leyla's husband had discovered the source of the Bridal Veil Falls: water from the upper Great Lakes something was broken. He showed it to us: some metal thingy which he couldn't replace because, although he's a "professional" in all things domestic, he's not a plumber. The LESD popped her head into the bathroom and announced that she had made contact with a plumber but he couldn't come that evening because he was drunk. Well, to be fair, it was now 11:00 on a Saturday night and being drunk suddenly seemed like an enviable state to be in. Leyla's husband reassembled the bathtub taps as well as he could and advised us that the water would be running all night (the Environment groaned) because when the tap was turned on (although the water was turned off), the water didn't pour into the apartment below. Go figure.

It was now about midnight and - in my mind - time for everyone to leave. I think that none too secretly, all of my neighbours were miffed that I hadn't offered them tea but since the only running water in my apartment was coming our of a wall tile, tea drinking was not on the agenda. I could, however, have offered them a French omelette. Of course, offering tea is de rigueur in Turkey - we are even offered tea at the money exchange bureau in town - and I was clearly letting the home team down. (I am a bad host.)

The LESD advised us that the drunk plumber would be by at 10 a.m. to fix the problem, and that she and her boyfriend would be there to translate. At 10:45 the next morning, the (sober) plumber arrived with Leyla's husband, surveyed the situation, tinkered about, and popped out for a part (probably the metal thingy). Around 11:15 the LESD and her boyfriend were at the door. The plumber returned shortly and ta-dahhhhhh, the leak was fixed. We all smiled, shook hands, and went our separate ways - mine being to the bathroom to pee.

Mr This Cat and I are hoping/planning/expecting to leave this apartment by the end of the week. Good thing, he said. Why, I asked. The woman downstairs is due this week, he reminded me. Can you imagine having a newborn baby in the bedroom below ours? True, I thought. We'd all go barking mad.

Sacred Grounds

The observant reader will note that I have been conspicuously absent these last few weeks, and I realize now that I did not - as I had intended to do - post my intention of being conspicuously absent when I had the opportunity to do so. Such a silly bint I am. In any case, rest assured that I am back from a rather lengthy vacation - or what some might callously term a rather lengthy period of unemployment - and am raring to go.

So it is 2010, and what better way to kick off the New Year (albeit a month late) than to ponder the past with an eye to the future. Confused? Don't be.

Shortly before Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I left for our rather lengthy period of unemployment vacation, I was shanghaied into a Girls Only Afternoon with a select group of students at the house of Habibe, a very sweet but rather thick (if I am to be honest) student of very limited linguistic (i.e., English) abilities. It was to be a raucous afternoon of eating jarringly sweet sweets, drinking jarringly sweet tea, removing of head scarves (I left mine at home), marathon smiling, and gossipping with dictionaries-in-hand - all set against the throbbing soundtrack of continuous Turkish music videos emanating from the television in the corner of the living room. And it was.

I must confess that the highlight of the day was the tour of her flat where pride of place went to her bedroom. In it were four framed studio photographs (about 2' x 5') of her engagement and marriage, all questionably tastefully hung around the room with one huge mirror skilfully positioned across from the bed which ricocheted the images about the room ad infinitum. It gave me the heebie-jeebies - probably (but not necessarily) because I have taught both her and her husband and did not want to dwell on their pre- or post-marital coital relations. You look beautiful, I enthused rather feebly because beautiful she was not. As we all left the shrine bedroom, one of my students grabbed my arm, and leaning into me whispered, Photoshop! We nodded to each other knowingly. I would later give that student an A+.

At the end of all this girlish mayhem - and if you're looking for a pillow fight in our baby dolls, read no further prurient reader - Habibe offered to read our futures. And because this is Turkey, divination - which I'm sure the Prophet (pbuh) frowns upon most sternly if the Qur'anic expression 'an abomination of Satan' means anything - divination doesn't come in the form of interpreting the flight patterns of birds, the livers of sheep, rods, palms, cards, the stars, soil patterns, gems, fire, runes, numbers, tea leaves, dreams, gazing into crystal balls and my favourite: interpreting the sounds emitted by stomachs (much favoured by Mr. This Cat).

No, because this is Turkey, it is fortune telling by coffee grounds - Turkish coffee naturally, no just-add-boiling-water Nescafé will do.

There was much squealing of delight when Habibe made her offer to read our futures. Off she went to brew, boil & skim the coffee which, it turns out, she likes to sweeten with about 4 tablespoons of sugar per cup (sugar is added during the cooking stage) and which I prefer to drink decidedly unsweetened. (This would be an excellent opportunity for Mr. This Cat to say that I don't need extra sugar because I am already sweet enough.)

I fretted: would the addition of unwanted sugar have an unsavoury impact on my future? Would the reading be unduly sugar-coated and therefore inaccurate? Would my future not include Mr. This Cat waiting for me to join him at the Ah Pub downtown?

Smiling - which wasn't so difficult as I had been smiling nonstop for the last 3 hours - I sipped my coffee (from one side of the cup only, otherwise the reading would be compromised) in a dainty porcelain cup, and tried to hide my discomfort as I felt the fillings melt in my mouth and discreetly scanned the room for a syringe of insulin. As directed, I turned the cup several times counter-clockwise (surely the Prophet was scowling up in heaven during all of this), made a wish (which I shall not share with you but feel free to pick up a copy of my book), and handed the cup back to Habibe to interpret the shapes of the dregs left behind. And because this is Turkey, and this is Turkish coffee, there was a prodigious showing of dregs.

Habibe carefully inspected the grounds. Since, apart from the two of us, the girls in the room were unmarried young things, Habibe dutifully foresaw in their cups mysterious men and marriage proposals and at least two white horses (read into that what you will) - which was followed by more squeals of delight. When she came to mine, she identified a giant fish or possibly a horse (she had given up using her Turkish-to-English dictionary by this point) and told me that I was about to set off on a vacation with palm trees. Which probably would've blown my socks off had I not told her on several occasions that Mr. This Cat and I would soon be enjoying a rather lengthy period of unemployment vacation in Spain. She also found evidence of a man with a very large backside. He, she knowingly assured me, would provide invaluable assistance to me in the future.

She then covered my cup with the saucer, flipped it over, and turned her professional eye to the saucer. There were no dregs! Everything had adhered to the cup. This is excellent! she squealed in delight. Why this was excellent she was unable to expound upon as Habibe was on the cusp of failing elementary English for the second time.

So there you have it: Turkish tasseography (or tasseomancy or even tassology) at its most suspect finest. Perhaps it's a sign of our uncertain times that more and more coffee houses in Turkey are employing the services of professional demitasse diviners. Am I a believer? I'm not sure that I put much (and by 'much' I mean 'any') faith in what the swill and sludge remains in my coffee cup have to say about my future, but I do own up to carrying about a much wrinkled and crinkled faded fortune from a fortune cookie secreted in the inner sanctum of my wallet.

And as for the man with the very large backside? Dear reader, if you think that you might be he, kindly identify yourself.