Not to pat my own back, but I really like the title of this post.  It sounds like an episode of Bones or CSI. But, this is not television, and I am not a natural redhead or a brilliant forensic anthropologist.  It is the life of Tash, and if the blond boy resembles any living person, it is due to the fact that his IS a living person.  If the bonfire sounds realistic…well…by golly…it is!

May 5th is the traditional day of Hıdrellez here in Turkey.  From the information I have acquired from my highly reliable sources, (that would be the downstairs neighbors) the word Hıdrellez comes from a blending of the names of the angels (some say prophets) Hızır and İlyas.  These two angels supposedly meet up once a year, on May 5th, and on that day, whatever you wish for has the fantastic possibility of coming true.

Part of the celebration involves bonfires made by true, hard-core wish makers. They make these bonfires in neighborhoods all over the country, and after the fire is going, the wish maker has to…drumroll…JUMP over the fire.  Some say he must jump 3 times.  Some say only once is necessary. One lady told me that because she was unable to jump, that just her desire to jump was enough.  Last year, our entire family was called out to see the traditional fire.  The neighborhood boys got a little rowdy and actually burned an armchair. BUT, it was quite entertaining…especially when the pants leg of one teenager caught fire!  And, in order not to waste a good bonfire, the kids brought out hotdogs to roast.

Yesterday, being May 5th, I should have had more foresight.  My children had been outside playing for a couple of hours while I was madly cleaning and packing for our move.  My husband came home and said, “I think the kids are starting a fire.”  WHAT???  I went in search of them and what did I find? The first scene in my eyesight as I rounded the corner was…THE BLOND BOY jumping over the BONFIRE.

As you guessed…the blond boy belongs to me.

Never a day without NEW THINGS!!

Tash

The flowers on the mountain behind our apartment building are in full, gorgeous array.  Red poppies, cheerful white daisies, and a host of weeds that are just as pretty and colorful.  We had such plentiful rain this season that the greenery is deep and thick in vivid shades of jade and emerald.  Summer is coming.  Sandals with pretty painted toenails are appearing. The bicycle shops are lining up their goods on the sidewalks waiting for the sales that will be made, no doubt, to parents who find their willpower taken captive by such tiny terrorists.

Generally, this is my favorite time of year.  I get all jittery just waiting for the day that I can go to the nursery to choose the lucky plants that will no doubt die a cruel, prolonged death on my balcony.  I get out to the bazaar at least once a week for fresh strawberries and veggies for salads.  I have a plastered on smile, that is real…not botox, on the day that my sandals come out of the closet.  And, I get quite a thrill at line-hanging my laundry on the balcony.

This year will be out last spring, at least for awhile, in this amazing place. My spring is filled with thoughts of finding jobs and housing in America, thinking of ways to help our children assimilate into their “home” culture, selling a house-full of furniture, and, of course, goodbyes.

Our Turkish friends like long goodbyes.  This has always held me in wonder.  I hate goodbyes. I pretend that it isn’t happening, and then just say it once, and move on.  I think, looking back on our life, that I can see how I have even avoided close friends and family when I knew that there was an inevitable goodbye in the future.

The overwhelming response that we received when informing our Turkish friends of our upcoming move, was something like, “Oh!  We must get together A LOT before you go!  We must visit as much as possible before you move!”  We will be moving in one month, and have already started this process of the long goodbye.  Turks love to express that deep emotion that we often force down into our depths.

How will I stand it, you ask?  I am purposing to love every minute of these goodbyes and to treasure them always.  I am determined to have my camera ready, so that I can make scrapbooks for our children, and us, to remember this place that has so shaped our characters and held captive our hearts.

Well, I have gone and gushed all over all of you!  I am sure there will be a few more sugary posts in the near future as my emotions take in the swoops and swirls of this roller coaster ride.  I beg you to ride with me, and help me as I say my long goodbyes, that I might remember always.

Tash

Today, I went with a fellow expatriate around town to run some errands.  We stopped at the dry cleaners and I was not at all surprised that “Big Brother” was there waiting for me.  We also went to a merchant that sold all types of fabric and specializes in making sofa covers.  ”Big Brother” was, again, there and serving us.  ”Big Brother” can be found at the local shop where I often stop hurriedly to by treats for my kids and bread for dinner.  This weekend, we are hoping to get away with some friends for a night out of town, and…you guessed it…”Big Brother” will be tagging along.

By this point, you might assume I am…delusional…cooky…mad as a hatter.  I might be a raving, maniacal conspiracy theorist that lives in fear of New World Order. Well, some of that is true…I was terrified the night of Y2K.  Nevertheless, I mostly just suffer with cultural confusion!

In Turkey, it is the cultural norm to address people by a familial title, such as aunt, uncle, big brother, or big sister. So, for instance, my children call our downstairs neighbor Nadire Teyze, meaning Aunt Nadire, even though she is obviously NOT our blood relative.  My friend, Gül, I address as Gül Abla, meaning “Sister Gül,” out of respect because she is my elder.  To all of the neighborhood children, I am “Tasha Teyze” or Aunt Tash.

My children have adopted this custom, and since the time we relocated overseas, have called most everyone, be they Turk or be they American, by aunt, uncle, brother and sister titles.  And, in turn, I am so rich in nieces and nephews across the globe that I could be the wife of Midas!  It is sometimes odd, especially at the beginning, to have everyone’s child calling you “Aunt.”  My children were quite confused for a couple of years about their “Aunt Debra,” and how she was their real aunt when others were not real aunts.  We finally got that sorted out over time!

So what do I think?  Even with the confusion, the sense of familiarity, of being more than a casual work or school acquaintance happens to be quite comforting.  I have come to the personal conclusion that being called “Aunt Tash” is a precious and lovely way of blending obvious respect with the intimacy that comes from time well spent together.

And, don’t forget the great thing about nieces and nephews.  You get their hugs, kisses, and charm…AND THEN you send them home to Mom and Dad!

It’s the best of both worlds!

Tash

O.k. friends.  Just to let you know upfront, you are not going to need to apply your rosy tint this morning, for I am going to make you all blush more than a new bride on her wedding day.  But, have no fear.  I mean to totally take a rather objective look at a very important rite of passage that actually takes it’s roots in ancient Judaism.

Recently, my daughter came to me and asked, “Mommy, what does sünnet mean?” Now, we are the Kohlmann family, thus nothing can be done easily, painlessly, emotionlessly, etc. etc.  My reply was, “Well, sünnet is the Turkish word for circumcision.” Annabelle then asked, “What is circumcision?”  I was really hoping that the logical second question would not follow the first!  I was actually shocked that she was still unclear on this issue being that we have attended so many ritual celebrations here.  My reply followed, “Well, remember how we have been to parties for little boys here and they get to wear a fancy outfit and ride around in the cool car?  What they do is perform a minor surgery to remove the top layer of skin on the boys—uh hum–wee wee.”  (This is a universally accepted scientific term.)

Did the issue end here with my daughter having a light-bulb type of expression on her face?  NO.  Remember, we are the Kohlmann family. That child promptly yelled for her twin brother, “Jaaaackk!!!!!!” and went running from the room. Then I hear, “Guess what they’re gonna do to YOU!!!!!???”  After which my son comes running to the kitchen with a pale, even pasty look on his face.  ”Mom!!!!”  I said, “Jack, it’s o.k.  You don’t have to worry, we already had this done to you when you were just born.”  Jack’s reply?  “WHAAATTT????!!!!!” I have never seen such a look of pure, horrified offense on that boy’s face.  After a couple of minutes of explaining that lots of men have had the same procedure, including all of his Turkish friends and Daddy, he put one hand to his forehead as if wiping sweat off of his face, and said, “Whew!!”  Two weeks later, I am still laughing.

“So,” you ask, “what is the tradition there?”  From what I have been able to learn from my friends, the typical Turkish boy is circumcised between the ages of 8 and 12.  It seems that it is not specifically required or commanded in the Koran, but is a general accepted tradition in Muslim countries.  When I first arrived here, I honestly was appalled to hear that it was done at such a late age.  However, after years of observance, I can now objectively look at the benefits that come in this culture.  The boy is treated like a prince for a couple of weeks during the procedure (and usually a numbing agent is used as well as pain meds), and during the celebration time.  And celebrate they do!  Most Turkish families worry about saving for the circumcision party much the same as a wedding.  The immediate family will wear formal attire, hire a photographer, rent a banquet hall, hire a DJ, and cake and drinks.  In our city, often the family will rent a classic, red Cheyy convertible and ride the boy around town, honking the horn with a procession of family following in cars behind. The boy will dress in formal costume, and at the end a ribbon is placed around his neck where all the guests can pin on gold or money.  The family gets a wad of cash, and the boy gets a very important ceremony that ushers his rite of passage into manhood.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not advocating boyhood circumcisions.  I am still thankful that this is over and done with for my son. But, I do wonder at the lack of a “rite of passage” celebration for our boys in American culture.  Robert Lewis speaks out on this topic in his book, “Raising a Modern Day Knight.” So, I have begun to think about how we are going to mark these times in our children’s lives. I would love to hear some feedback on this topic.

I must be done.  Time to tackle the day!

Tash

Yes, it’s true. Today when I answered the door, at the sound of my annoying doorbell, I got more than I bargained for. It wasn’t the postman. It wasn’t the water guy this time. It wasn’t the neighbor kids looking for Jack and Annabelle. But, in order to know, you are going to have to go back in time to Saturday afternoon with me.

My husband and I were out and about at the local bazaar when my cell phone chimed.  My friend, a mother of one of the children from Jack and Annabelle’s class, was calling to say that she and another friend wanted to come and visit on Monday.  These two friends were part of a tea group that I joined and wrote about in the post, Introducing the Gün (Goon).  I was thrilled that they would be coming.

So, on Monday, being that it was only a couple of gals coming that I knew well, I stayed in my sweat pants.  I did pick the clothes up off the floor and do the dishes in the sink.  I didn’t stay up all night dusting, cooking, placing flowers on the tables and choosing my attire for the next day, like a good hostess–including these two friends, might have. I made some pasta salad, and a small cake.  I do say SMALL. Miniature.  Teeny.  Paltry.  And I mean, not enough for 6 women.

Ah!  Yes, there you have it!  When I answered the door, I got more than I bargained for–not 2 ladies were standing on the other side, but SIX.  All of my tea group came that day!  Yet, we had a gloriously rich time of laughter, tea, food, tea, chatting, tea, and sharing Avon.  Oh, and tea.  I had to fill them with something!  Now, in our culture, when we “drop by,” (do we “drop by?”) we might stay around 30 minutes. My girlfriends stayed about 4 hours.  Long enough for some coffee after all that tea!

In light of this, I thought I would give some tips for being prepared for that drop in blessing.  I’ll admit, I have not always been able to see it as a “blessing.”  But this is something wonderful I have learned from my host country, and I have picked up some tricks along the way.

1.  Open your door! I have realized over the years that very often when I think it is “not a good time,” I really am not involved in anything that can’t be done later.  Now, those times do occur.  At that point, be gracious and be sure to give a better time and ask them to please come again.

2. “Never apologize!!” Let those words of Julia Child ring in your ears!  If it is messy…if the kids are half naked…if you have nothing but a glass of water to offer…if 3 phones are ringing…it is O.K!!  Do what you can to quickly gain control, and don’t even hesitate to ask for help from your guest.  Especially if it is a long time friend.  Just say, “Oh!  You are just in time!  I really needed some help!”

3.  Keep some tea, coffee, herbal tea bags and so forth on hand. It is my opinion that a conversation opens even greater over coffee!

4.  Rethink the order of your rooms. In 1950’s America, it was very common to have both the “living room,” and the family “den.”  It is still much this way in our host country.  After a couple of years, we adopted this plan, and it has served our family well.  We have a sitting room, where the TV, computer, and kids toys are allowed.  This keeps the kids, and thus the mess, out of the living room.  I focus on keeping this one room presentable.  And, I find that the kids don’t even want to be there…they much prefer the comfy room to hang out!  Of course, this isn’t the only way.  Just find what works for you!

We are by no means the perfect hosts.  I forget to refill tea cups.  I often don’t have food prepared.  I once sent a young man to the hospital after learning too late that he was allergic to chili powder.  BUT…we will keep trying…and I know you will as well.

O.k…I am off to sort my tea bags!

Tash

I have an embarrassing confession to make. (Well, it isn’t that bad, but if I begin with such a scandalous statement, more of you might read this post.) Before my family moved overseas, I had only been in ONE taxi (downtown Mexico City) and I am not sure I had EVER partaken in the modern, urban marvel that is the city bus. Oh sure, I had been on tour buses, (Europe, Canada…the kind that come with the built-in quirky tour guide.) but I had never run breathlessly to the curb, briefcase in tow, catching my ride by the skin of my teeth.

I grew up in south-central, rural Kentucky.  If you had not a car, pick-up truck, (or tractor for matter)—you had not a ride.   A Turkish friend recently asked me the English translation of “taksi durağı.”  I had to think.  My final answer was “taxi stand.”  At least that’s what they say in the movies!

So, when we found ourselves in the middle of a city of over four million people, we learned very quickly that public transportation was our new friend.  Our city has, what I believe is, great transportation.  We are fortunate enough to live at the end of the route for two buses.  The buses literally put us out at our back door and pick us up at the same place.  We have a “city card”  that we can load with money and scan as we board.  The same card works for the subway and for the ferries that take us from one side of the bay to the other.  The kids and I hop on several times a week and head out to adventurous destinations like the open bazaar, piano lessons, and of course, Starbucks.

Is it hard with children?  When they are small…definitely.  I cannot count how many times I thought I would lose one of my twins out the door.  I have had strangers grab their arms to help me hold them on crowded buses.  Many times I have thought I would be separated from them as the doors begin to close and I am looking at their shocked faces on the sidewalk.  But now that they are older, it’s a lot easier.

Is it dangerous?  I have never felt endangered riding the buses here. Actually, it is quite the opposite.  I find that there is much safety in the midst of many eyes.  I have had to give a few evil eyes to men that tried to stand too close.

On the upside, I appreciate not having to find or pay for parking when I get to my destination.  Usually, I end up getting a lot more exercise when I opt for public transportation.  I also love running into neighbors and having friendly conversations on the way home.  Our kids actually know a couple of the bus drivers by name now!

Overall, our experience has been positive with transportation here. So, now you have a country-turned urban girl’s opinion on public transportation.  It ain’t a pick-up truck…but it’s the next best thing!

P.S.  Geez. I actually used “ain’t” in the title of this post.  I hope Carol Perkins will forgive me.

Tash

I often get this question…”So, are you fluent?” And, with each time it’s asked, I do believe that God chips away just a tiny little chunk of whatever pride in my own abilities might remain. Because, you see, the truth is…I AM NOT FLUENT!!! There. I have told you all. I feel the pressure just being lifted off my shoulders as I type!

I had high expectations when we first packed our bags and moved to this country.  I remembered being around foreigners in public places in the States, listening to them babble in their native language and thinking…“HOW RUDE!  Aren’t they in America now?  Why aren’t they learning English?  They are probably just talking about us and don’t want us to hear!  How LONG have they been here anyway?” Yes, it’s horrible…the heat is creeping up my neck and into my face as I write!  Consequently, I decided that I would not be those people when we moved overseas.  Yet, we have been here 7 years and a guy at the market today commented about me, “You must be new here!”  Ahhh.

I also remember a family from Russia that lived two apartments down from my husband and I when we were still in school.  A neighbor had suggested that I go and spend some time with her.  She said that she seemed lonely and didn’t know very much English.  At the time, I was at home with my new twin babies, and I heard through the grapevine that she was just dying  to see them.  Guess what?  I was chicken.  I was too much of a coward to invite her over for a cup of tea because I didn’t know what we would talk about.

So, what have I learned on the other side of the fence? I have learned that people are people no matter what language they speak. I have learned that deep down, we all have similar goals and dreams for life.  A healthy family, a decent job, and friends we can count on.  I have learned that my own culture isn’t necessarily better, it is just different.

I would bet my left arm (or maybe my husband’s left arm!) that all of you come in regular contact with people from other culture’s during your week.  The waitress at your favorite Chinese dive.  The Hispanic kids in your class.  The doctor that you visit monthly and wonder at his strange accent.  Well, I know for a fact that those people wake up daily and brush their teeth just like you!  And I also know that they have families, and dreams and desires for their lives.  Here are some things that have helped me along the way to break the ice and start new friendships with those that are unique from me.

1. Invite them home! I have yet to hear of a single culture that does not drink coffee.  And, unfortunately, Americans have a reputation for not being very hospitable with foreigners.

2. If it is hard to communicate…use pictures. This is a standard first for new friends that we invite over.  I bring out wedding pictures, baby books, and pictures of extended family.  If you are invited to their home, ask to see pictures from their homeland and their family.  We all love to show off our loved ones!

3.  Show interest in their culture. Ask questions about special ceremonies like weddings, births and engagements.  You might be surprised to find yourself hooked on your friend’s stories like they were the latest episode of LOST.

4.  Be patient with language. How does the saying go…until you have walked a mile in his shoes? Moving around the world, learning to do EVERYTHING differently…evening buying milk…can be extremely stressful.  And, everyone has a unique aptitude for language learning.  Some people will always find it hard to have perfect grammar.  For some, grammar will come, but the accent will always sound like the guys singing “Deck the Halls” in the Chinese restaurant in A Christmas Story….”fa ra ra ra ra…”  I am afraid I fit this category in Turkish!  Sigh.

5.  Offer help. You could make a great friend by offering  to help with learning English, filling out a job application, or showing them how coupons work at the grocery store.  I must say that the friends I have made here in Turkey are very loyal and accepting.  You might find that too!

Well, friends…I hope these insights help.  Let’s stop being intimidated by differences.  Bridging that gulf is definitely something worth achieving.

Tash

Today was sort of unbelievable in the categories of sequence and content. I thought for best effect…I would give the play by play. I hope you really get a charge out of having an insider’s look!

8:00am-Breakfast and kid’s devotion

9:00am-Began homeschool work for the day…amazingly calm and enjoyable today!

10:45am-Began our journey to the American Consulate Representative. We needed documents notarized giving my mother permission to sell the property of my grandmother, who passed away two years ago. Evidently, being executrix isn’t enough to give her the right to sign official documents in our name. We have been jumping through hoops trying to figure out how to get this notarized and sent to her…and then we find out about the Consulate in our city!

11:15-park and begin to ask directions to this office. We were told it was beside the Gap store downtown. (GASP! YES! we have a Gap! NO we cannot afford to shop there because of the crazy tariffs!) My husband literally asks 6 different people about the Gap. BUT, I still argue my point that he wasn’t asking the people with the right profile. He kept asking gypsies where to find the Gap. I don’t know for sure…but I have a feeling an 18 year-old girl would be a more likely candidate for knowing about this particular topic.

12:00pm-found the Gap and the Consulate. Amazed by the steel elevator door that ONLY opens at the Consulate floor. (no other hallways or doors around) I was equally thrilled by the bullet proof glass and multiple digital locks. It was like being on the set of “24.” After some explanation, money paid, and stamps, we leave to find a cargo place to get it there soon.

3:00pm-home after cargo, lunch and a couple of other errands.

5:30pm-my children bring home to me gorgeous wild flowers that they have picked outside, and a HUGE turtle in a box. “No, you cannot keep the turtle and give it walks everyday. I don’t care if you already named it Littlefoot.”

5:35pm-I go outside to get back the ball from the bigger kids who refuse to give my son our ball back.  Bullies!  While I am there, we free the turtle from its box, and I notice the car of the repairmen that are coming to fix our hot water heater.

6:00pm-my bathroom is flooded with brown water and incredible, bone-like pieces of lime that had settled on the inside.  I was told it would be 150 Turkish Lira to have it repaired.  I only had 100 Turkish Lira in my wallet.  So, I call my husband to bring home some cash. His telephone is switched off, (mental note made to kill husband) so I go to borrow from my neighbor.  She graciously gives and all is well. In the middle of all of this, I have a son who is whining because I turned his turtle loose to the wild.  It is very hard to have two separate conversations going in two separate languages.  I was afraid I had told the repairmen that I set the hot water heater free to the wild. Or even worse, “Jack, don’t worry the turtle is happy inside the hot water heater.”

6:30pm-Hot water heater is finished, I am signing paperwork, and repairmen are trying to leave.  In the midst of this, my son feels it is a good time to confess that on the way downstairs with the big box and turtle, he fell, spilling the turtle to the ground and bruising up his elbow.  “You SEE!  I have to keep him cause now he has a knot on his neck cause I dropped him and I don’t even know where he is!“ Poor Littlefoot.

It is 7:48pm.  Homework left to finish and a bathroom that looks as if a huge mud ball exploded.  At least I can say, as I reflect on this day, that I set a turtle free!!!

Tash

That’s right dear ones. I GIVE UP. At six o’clock yesterday evening, I stood and stared at a piece of cake on my kitchen counter. I shook my head in amazement. I noticed the white china plate with the delicate flower design. I contemplated the sprinkles on top of the chocolate icing. And I put my fork into the springy, foamy mass. I was not the first pilgrim on this chocolate territory, I can count on my husband to be the first pioneer every time. NO. I am not dieting. (Not that I shouldn’t be!)  I had waged war on my host country’s hospitality. Guess who was the loser?  Yours truly.

Now I must explain.  In this culture, there is a delightful tradition of caring for neighbors by taking a plate of food.  It can be any food that you have made, although I most often get sweets and small finger-type foods.  I absolutely LOVE opening my door to a smiling face and a plate full of yumminess.  BUT, the OTHER half of the tradition, is that once these delicacies have been accepted, the plate eventually needs to be returned.  And…it mustn’t be returned…EMPTY.  I have fully participated in this lovely tradition, and can mostly keep up with my neighbors, except for the times that I turn around and have three plates from three different neighbors that need to be returned.  Then…I devote an afternoon to staying in and baking…and just go door to door with my offerings, usually accepting coffee along the way.

I have a good friend a couple of floors down.  She was here with her husband a couple of weeks ago, and her husband had made a pumpkin dessert for us.  I had the plate to return, and had baked banana muffins that evening, so I sent my daughter down with a plate of muffins for her.  A couple of minutes later, Annabelle had returned, and in her hands…another plate.  My friend had immediately taken the plate and filled it with a pastry that she had made that day. “What? She already filled it again?  What can I do now?  This means WAR!”  I sent my daughter and son back down with the plate and two bowls of chicken noodle soup that I had made that evening.  Of course, I could hear the laughter in the hall as her husband opened the door to accept the gift.  She was at my doorstep soon after, hugging me with tears in her eyes.  ”That was the soup you made for my father when he was dying.  It made me remember him.  We will stop the plates for tonight or we will continue all the way until morning!”  I love my neighbors!  Have I told you that before?

So, yesterday evening, the doorbell rang.  She had filled the plate with chocolate frosted cake that had a creamy center.  Thus I give up.  I will never win this war.   Maybe on our way to America…I can drop the plate as we are running with our suitcases to the car.  However, I have not a doubt that a couple of weeks later, it will return to me through my good friend, Mr. FedEx.  But, I will greet this courier with delight…and fond feelings for sweet neighbors.

Tash

I’ve been very busy, so blogging has taken the back burner. BUT…husband out of town=more time for “stuff.” You all have “stuff” too, I am sure of it. Write me and let me know how you let your creative juices flow. Also, you might notice that we changed the button for the RSS feed. This is because my mother, without her reading glasses, thought the tiny “R” was an “A” making the button say, “something questionable.” As phrased by her email.  LOL.

It seems like I mostly get comments on the posts that I write about my life in another culture. So, I have a lot more of what you love! It occurred to me on Monday, when I was drowning my worries in chai with my girlfriends that I have never told you about my “gün.” A gün is a very traditional custom in Turkey. It is a gathering of women for the purpose of chai drinking, gossiping, counseling, and caring. It is also a personal savings plan.

Yes, I said, “personal savings plan.” There are several different ways of employing this plan. Traditionally, the women would bring a piece of gold, namely a coin shaped piece, for the hostess of the party. The party rotates from home to home until every participant has had the chance to host. However, a lot of güns these days operate on a cash only basis. I have also heard of girls bringing grocery items. The idea is that you are setting aside a certain amount that will return to you. The hostess doesn’t “make” money, but saves. The group that I joined this year met every other week and decided to give 50 liras each to the hostess. We had 10 participants, so…a total of 500 liras came to each of us.

The local ladies really get into the preparation for the party. It is typically served at lunch time and the menu usually includes a couple of sweet items, like cake or puddings, and a couple of salty items, like salads and stuffed grape leaves. And don’t forget the chai!! Many cups of it! Sometimes Turkish coffee is served at the end of the afternoon.

Last week, we went out of town a little ways.  I offered to drive, and we were able to squeeze seven women and three children into a five passenger car.  Whew.  I will write another time all about my road experiences.  When we arrived, we were greeted into the sitting room. I noticed upon entrance a rifle beside the door. Who else noticed?  My 8 year old son. I said, “NO!” with my eyebrows, and he quickly obeyed.  However, the hostess said, “You can touch it.  There aren’t any bullets.” Oh boy.  All three kids ended up holding it, but when my son tried to look down the barrel, I jumped to my feet, along with some of the other ladies, and said, “O.k…that’s enough!”  This was a first for a ladies tea party.

I have benefitted so much from joining these ladies. It is fascinating to see them cry to each other, laugh with each other, and even provoke each other.  A lot of the time I am sitting in stunned silence, my eyeballs floating from all the chai, trying to catch some part of the conversations swirling like dervishes around my head. Often they stop, look directly at me and say, “Tash, why aren’t you talking? Are you o.k.?” My reply? “Oh, I am fine. I am only trying to understand all of your fast Turkish!”  Then I get lots of giggles and “canım benim!” (sort of like, “Bless Your Heart!”)  Yet, each time, I do get the platform to talk.  Usually I am answer questions about my home or how we do things in America.  My favorite question so far?  ”Do you eat bugs in America?  When we come to your house are you going to serve any?” I couldn’t resist. For the lady that asked, we had a door prize. You guessed it. A plastic cockroach. How did the afternoon end? Squealing girls. LOTS of squealing girls.  :)

Tash