Paris, with children

   I realize it is going to be a different kind of visit to the Musée d'Orsay when I see 2-year-old Teddy toddle over to the Rodin sculpture with one hand buried elbow-deep into the back of his diaper. 

"Look what your son is doing," Hannah says to J-P, in a voice implying that, at this particular moment, she is disavowing all claims to her second-born child.

"He has an itch,"  J-P offers in mild defense.
"Ugh. Boys are so disgusting."

If J-P wants to argue, his son is not helping the cause.  Teddy finishes his excavation and happily runs across the gallery floor to plant both hands against the base of the statue.

"I guess this is why they don't like you to touch the art?" I offer. 

Hannah just rolls her eyes and walks slowly after Teddy, who has already scampered on to the next gallery.  J-P follows pushing 4-year-old Sylvia in a stroller, as she happily sleeps her way past the impressionists well into the early part of the 20th Century symbolists. 

Ah yes, Paris: City of Lights, Fruit Roll Ups, and a Big Box of Huggies.  You know the Paris you see in movies, with Humphrey Bogart holding a glass of champagne and kissing Ingrid Bergman on the balcony over looking the Champs Élysées?  Yeah, this isn't it.

"The trick with having children in public," J-P tells me, "is to know when to leave just before they throw you out."   He says this after Teddy has spent some time climbing up and down the finger-like fur-covered couch at the entrance to the museum's Impressionists Wing.  The museum guard is just about to chase Teddy off the couch with a polite but firm "No shoes.  No shoes."  J-P closes his eyes, nods his head, and pushes the stroller toward the elevator.  "I guess our time is up."

      *      *      *
Hannah had issued the invitation to me a few weeks before Thanksgiving.  "We're going be in Paris at the end of the month.  Wanna come hang out with us?"  Having received very few invitations in my life to "come hang out with us in Paris," I wasn't about to decline this one.  But I had forgotten to look at the fine print:  "Come hang out with us."  Half of "us," as it turns out, was born after 2006. 

 This finally dawns on me a week or so after buying the plane ticket from Istanbul to Paris, when Hannah asks me for suggestions for a Parisian restaurant we can go to that is "child friendly."  Now why is she looking for a restaurant that is child-frien ... uh, oh.  Yes, I see now. "Child friendly."  As in "child care" and "child resistant" and "child labor" and "child-proof safety cap."  As in Guess Who's Coming to Dîner?

Honestly I'm not sure the Parisians are really familiar with the concept of a child-friendly restaurant.  In my visits to Paris, I do not recall having seen a Chuck E. Cheese's  (I may have missed it if it was re-branded as La Fromage de Charles E. or something).  The best I can come up with for "child friendly" is a place I remember in the center of Paris near Les Halles called Au Chien Qui Fume.   In English, that's "The Smoking Dog," or literally "The Dog who Smokes." 

  Showing my inexperience with children, I reason there is no child, in any culture, who wouldn't enjoy a restaurant with paintings on the walls of dogs with naked human bodies, smoking cigarettes.  Kids love dogs! Voila: Child friendly.  (J-P later asks if the name The Smoking Dog refers to a dog with a cigarette, or a dog on fire, both of which he finds disturbing.  "No, you are thinking of 'The Smoldering Dog,'" I tell him.  "That's across the street.")

As it turned out, a baby-sitter was located on this particular evening, so we did not have to inquire as to whether Au Chien Qui Fume offers a booster seat.   But I learn that you eat differently in Paris avec les enfants.  When you say "child-friendly," I think you are essentially looking for some place loud, that serves French Fries.  French fries you can throw on the floor.

I learn also that you travel around differently with children.  Distance is not necessarily measured in yards, meters, or metro stops, but instead in possible whining and/or tantrum episodes.  If one or more child is being carried by one or more adult, this also figures into the calculation.  The walk from the Musee d'Orsay to Rue Cler in the 7th Arondissement, for example, is a rather challenging 2.5 on the whining/tantrum risk scale.

Hence the tour of the palatial grounds at Versailles could not possibly be done on foot, but could in theory be attempted by golf cart.   I had been invited to join J-P, Hannah, Sylvia and Teddy at Versailles, along with their American friends now living in Paris Kate and Jim and their two kids: James, age 4, and Mary Martin, age 2.  A perfectly nice picnic is held in the garden just below the steps to one of Louis XIV's countless fountains.   The kids, apparently unimpressed by 18th Century opulence, ignore the fountains and enjoy rolling in the royal gravel.

About midway through the golf cart tour of the grounds, we reach a point that we believe is near the entrance to Marie Antoinette's Working Farm.  See, just down the road from a chateau that one of the Louis built for his mistress is a farm that Marie Antoinette apparently kept so she could go and watch how the other half lived.  I think.  I don't know, honestly.  For reasons that will become clear, we didn't get the audiotour.

In order to reach the alleged entrance to Marie Antoinette's Working Farm, we will have to dismount the golf carts and walk what under normal circumstances with normal adult humans would have taken about 10 minutes.  With two 4-year-olds and two 2-year-olds, it turns into the preschool version of the Bataan Death March, lasting a good half hour plus.  Sylvia is down out of the gate, tripping while running in the parking lot, and requires a carry from Dad the rest of the way.  James goes on strike about halfway there, announcing he wants to go home.  He sits down in the middle of the gravel road, refusing to go any farther.  It occurs to me that I could be been witnessing the birth of Occupy Versailles, but James eventually caves before the pepper spray comes out. 

Parents keep trying words of encouragement to keep childhood morale from deteriorating any further.  "Look up ahead, Mary Martin! See that!  We're almost there!" " Look, James! Sheep! Do you see the sheep?"   James has a look on his face that tells you immediately what he thinks you can do with your damn sheep.  

Finally it seems we have almost made it.  We had circumvented the walls of the village and can see what looks like a gate house at a small bridge up ahead.  The prize of Marie Antoinette's Working Farm will soon be ours.  But as we approach the gate, we can see something is wrong.  There is no ticket taker in the gate house.  The gate is sealed tight, with a small sign announcing in French that this particular entrance is closed for the season.  Please visit the farm by paying 8 Euro at the main entrance, around the other side, a good half mile away, the sign tells us. Merci, beaucoup!

"We are not walking back the way we came," Kate announces.  "I can tell you that much."

Jim looks over at the wall around the village, at the base of what appears to be a dried-up moat.

"How high to you think that wall is?" Jim asks.  "Six, seven feet?  If somebody gives me a boost up there, and somebody hands up the kids ..."

"Sounds good to me!"  Kate says, marching down into the moat bed with no further discussion.  "Come on, kids!  Wally World may be closed, but we're going in." 

I did not expect to come to Paris to participate in a re-enactment of "National Lampoon's Vacation."  But like the Griswold family, we have come this far, and we will not be deterred.  Minutes later five middle aged American lawyers grasp and grunt their way over the retaining wall into the compound of Marie Antoinette's Working Farm, handing up children like we're getting on the last chopper out of Saigon.   We're going over the wall, 8 Euro entrance fee and potential violation of international law be damned.

Far be it from me, the single guy with no kids, to ask if this is a good lesson for the children.  The point is, we need to cut through the farm to get back to the whine-free transportation of the golf carts.  Retreat is not an option.  And besides, we have Marie Antoinette's farm animals to see.  For the record, they pretty much look like everybody else's farm animals.  Except for the goat on the tree stump.  

Let them eat grain.

Hannah and J-P later keep apologizing to me profusely, as if they had unintentionally tortured me for two and half days.   Far from it; I had a great time.  The truth is, they have two beautiful kids who some day may or may not remember when Mom and Dad took them to Paris to play on fur-covered museum furniture and climb over 17th Century retaining walls.  Being there for that?  That's worth a flight in from Turkey any day.

I said what now?

I resigned myself early on to appearing idiotic while trying to speak Turkish.  I'm just now trying to come to terms with the dangers of being unintentionally profane.

The idiotic appeared almost immediately and returns on a daily (if not hourly) basis.  It's not too hard to accept, really.  This is not an easy language.  Not because it is particularly complex or illogical.  But more so because, to an english speaker, the words are just too damn much alike.  Yazmak is to write.  Yüzmek is to swim.  Yapmak is to do.  Yakmak is to light.  Now that you have that straight, would you like to conjugate those verbs?   Sooner rather than later, you will make an idiotic statment like this:

"Ben mektup arkadaşa yüzüyorum."
"You're doing what?"  Erendiz the Turkish teacher asks me.
"Um, mektup arkadaşa yüzüyorum?"
"You are swimming a letter to your friend?" he asks me sarcastically.  "This will take quite a bit of time, don't you think?"
    
Mm, yeah.  I'm swimming a letter to my friend.

Looking idiotic in Turkish class, however, is not a big deal.  "That's why you get paid the big money," I tell Erendiz.  "To listen to complete idiots like us mangle the Turkish language for four hours a day."   Like Erendiz, the restaurant people in Istanbul can be equally forgiving.  They are certainly no less amused.

"Çöp şiş, istiyorum,"  I confidently order from the waitress at the little restaurant around the corner. 
"Bu?"  she smiles and asks me.
"Çöp şiş?" I say again, repeating (or so I think) what I see written on the laminated menu next to a small photograph of what looks to be some kind of shish kabob.
"Çop şiş?" She asks again.
"Evet," I insist. "Çöp şiş."

What's wrong with these people?  It's written right there on the menu!  How can I possibly screw that up?

I figure it out on the way home, noticing the familiar word on a sign posted next to a vacant lot:  "Buraya çöp koymak yasaktır." (Putting garbage here is prohibited)

Çöp.  Çöp?

Ah, yes.  I see now. "Cop" (with a "C" instead of a "Ç" and an "o" instead an ö and pronouced Jawp) is a stick, or a baton, e.g., something a shish kabob would be cooked on, which is why this word appears on the menu.  "Çöp," on the other hand (that's with a "Ç" instead of a "C" and an "o" instead of an "ö" and pronounced Cheup), is the Turkish word for garbage.  That's right, my friends.  I was confidently proclaiming to my neighborhood waitress that for dinner, I would like her to please bring me their house specialty: the Garbage Kabob. 


Hey Ahmet, guess what the foreign guy out front wants you to cook for him?


I'm not denying it; mistakes were made.  I'm sure they continue to be made, with hilarious regularity.  None of this unexpected.  But I learned there are some words you have to be more careful with than others.

In Week One of my "Turkish for Foreigners" class, Erendiz introduces us to the words of frequency:  sometimes: bazen. never: hiç.  often: sık sık. 

Carla the Spaniard tries one of them out. "Sabahleyin sik sik kahve içiyorum," she says, trying to tell the class she often has coffee in the morning.  Erendiz winces and shakes his head. 

"No, don't ... don't say sik sik.  It's sık sık (suhk suhk)!  Not sik sik (sick sick)."
"Why?" Carla asks innocently. "What's sik sik?"
Erendiz won't tell us, but we find out later from a classmate's Turkish wife that while sık sık means "often," the nearly identical "sik sik" is the Turkish word for a particular male appendage, once repeated.

So, you know.  Don't say sik sik.  Unless you're into that kind of thing.  And whoever you are talking to is particularly hard of hearing.

Erendiz later tells us also about the dangerous proximity of the word bellowed by the junkmen in the street, hurdı! or scrap, and herif, which is the Turkish word for the English invective rhyming with "trucker."  Yes, that one (as "That mother herif just cut me off!")  Now I'm not sure if the junkmen hollering in the street are really looking for scrap, or just having a particularly bad morning.

Then there is the curious case of hayır vs. hıyar.  Hayır (prounced high - ur), is Turkish for "no," one of the most commonly spoken words in the entire language.  Hıyar (pronounced huh-yar) is ... look, there is no polite way to put this.  Hıyar is literally the Turkish word for "dickhead."  More or less our equivalent of calling someone an asshole.

It is also a cucumber.  And hayır, I'm not making that up.

Which I am reasonably sure had led to the following type of exchanges between me and Turkish waiters from the moment I arrived here.


Waiter:  (in Turkish) "Would you like anything else?"
Me:  "Dickhead, thank you, but I'm full."
Waiter: "No desert, anything?"
Me:  "Dickhead, really, there is dickhead possible way I could eat anything else.  Dickhead, just the check."

And so on. 

Clearly, my linguistic idiocy will continue.  At this point I'm just looking to limit the times I am in danger of being  punched in the face.

Heard it on the streets

The first time I heard the propane gas truck approach my apartment, I almost ran out into the street to buy a chocolate dream cone.  I was sure that the Mister Softee ice cream truck had driven across the Atlantic from Brooklyn all the way to Istanbul.

From my open window I could hear the tinny little 20-note tune coming out the loud speaker, followed by two sung words.  Then again.  And again.  What the hell are they singing?  "Ay-Gaz!"  Aye, gas?  The possibilities that ran through my mind were that the Turks had some serious issue concerning lactose intolerance, or that this was possibly the worst song for an ice cream truck ever recorded.

But no, as advertised, it was the Aygaz truck, its flat bed filled with propane gas tanks.  If your propane tank is empty, apparently you simply have to wait until you hear the Aygaz music, take the empty tank out to the street, and swap it for a filled one.  Not as exciting as ice cream, clearly, but much more efficient than hauling your empty tanks to the propane store.

Thanks to the magic of globalization, you could live pretty much like an American in Istanbul if you chose to.  You could go to Starbucks for your morning coffee; shop at The Gap in the afternoon; grab a Whopper at Burger King for lunch; and order Domino's Pizza to be delivered for dinner.  


No, make no mistake: Istanbul is a big, modern city in many ways resembling any in Western Europe or North America.  But they still do some things here the old fashioned way.  One of those ways is to just haul their goods around the neighborhood, and announce -- usually by bellowing but sometimes by broadcasting repetitive jingles about propane - that a particular product is available for purchase.

The melon man is one of my favorites, if for no other reason than he hauls his melons around in a horse or donkey-pulled wooden cart that could have been constructed sometime during the Ottoman Empire.  (My guess is that Domino's probably abandoned the donkey cart for its pizza delivery early on, as it likely shot the "30 minutes or less" promise completely to hell).

Also seen and heard recently on my block was the Knife-Sharpener, who walked around hunched over with his unicycle- sized sharpening wheel strapped to his back.  Then there are the hurdacı, or junkmen, who push large, flat-bed carts up the cobblestone street calling out "Hurdı!"  which roughly translates as "bring down whatever really heavy crap you want to throw out that the garbage men won't take." 

And of course, there is the Sock Man. "Çoraplar! Çoraplar!"  The morning I saw him, he was offering three colors:  black, blue, and for some unexplained reason, red.  Really? Do you mean to tell me, that I can simply open my window in the morning, and buy socks? Red socks?  This seems like a dream come true to me.  If the underwear man puts Başkürt street on his route, I may never do laundry again.


Take me home, Country Yollar

I've come to the conclusion that we Americans are way too concerned about looking stupid in public.  Not unintentionally acting stupid; we don't seem to have any problem with that.  No, I'm talking about the fear that, by simply having fun and showing it out in the open, people will roll their eyes at us and whisper to others that we are just so, you know: undignified.  As if by making an ass out of ourselves, we will just never, ever be elected student counsel class president as we always dreamed.

This first occurred to me several years ago, as I watched a table of a dozen or so large Austrian people outside of a Tyrolean ski lodge raise their beer mugs and belt out a perfectly horrendous rendition of "Take me Home, Country Roads."  It was the middle of the day. They were not drunk, but smiling and laughing and having fun and looking and sounding ... just so ridiculous.   This was a John Denver song, for God's sake, being sung in bad German/English (Genglish? Gerlish?) smack dab in the middle of lederhosen country.  Did they even know where West Virginia was, or why they would belong there? I was fascinated watching this, thinking I would even be embarrassed to have this song playing on my car radio with the window down, for the fear that someone might pull up along side and ridicule me.  But the Austrians laughed and clinked their glasses and sang at the top of their lungs, and and could have cared less what I thought about it.  You know: they were having fun.

I thought about this again last year, as I spent a week hanging out in some of the finer pubs of Ireland, from Dublin to Galway to Killarney to Cork and back again.  In almost every pub in the evening, there was a musician.  Usually one guy, with a guitar, and a pint of Guinness in front of him.  And he'd sing, and people would sing along, and clap, and stomp their feet, and dance.   After three or four pubs, you know all the songs.  And after three or four Kilkenneys and a shot of Jameson or two, I was singing and clapping and stomping my feet, too.  I'm sure I appeared about as dignified as an Austrian singing a John Denver song, but man! it was fun.

I rediscovered this yet again this week during my first visit to a Turkish music bar.  The crowd at La Fee (located on Fransiz Sokaği, or "French Street") was young and good looking, almost all under 30.  If any people would be concerned about appearances, it would be them.  As in Ireland, on stage was just a guy with a guitar, playing songs that everyone knew (well, every Turkish person knew, anyway).

In America, we treat live music in a bar as background noise, raising our voices to talk over it like it is a screaming baby on an airplane.   In Turkey - at this particular bar on this particular night, at least - the live music is a participatory sport.   People clap.  They pound the table.  They dance.  They sing along like no one is listening.  And if anyone thinks they look or sound stupid, they certainly don't seem to care. 

I have seen this, and I'm telling you, we really need to give it a try.  I know people who will not sing Happy Birthday in public because they are worried that others will not think they are not a good enough singer.  Try to keep in mind: it's Happy Birthday. Not the tryouts for American Idol.   Loosen up, make an ass out of yourself.  Turn up the car radio and dance in your seat at the stoplight.  Tell the next guy you see in a bar with a guitar (if you should ever happen upon one) to play John Cougar Mellencamp, and have everyone join in on the refrain of Jack and Diane.  And sing frickin'  Happy Birthday, for crying out loud.  Life is too short to not occasionally look stupid.

O, Brother Fish

Years ago when I was married, my now ex-wife dragged me to an amateur play, starring, written and directed by the husband of a friend of friend of a coworker (I think).   The play was put on in a barn somewhere outside of Pittsburgh.  The audience sat on haystacks, and the play lasted for what seemed like three and a half days.  I'm pretty sure we were in complete agreement that the play was auspiciously terrible.

If I remember correctly, the play was supposed to tell the story of early native Americans, and how they loved and respected nature.  As the play opens, the actors - portraying a hunting party - pantomime killing a deer.   One of the actors kneels over the ersatz deer, raises his head and arms to the sky, and belts out:  "O, BROTHER DEER!  WE ARE SORRY THAT WE MUST EAT YOU!!"  The deer, still dead and no longer accepting apologies, says nothing. 

This classic line became oft-repeated in the coming years, any time food arrived at the table in a restaurant looking less like food and more like something that until recently had been happily walking, swimming, or flying around.  I repeated it again this week, as I visited one of the countless seafood restaurants of the Balık Pasajı (Fish Passage), off of Istanbul's Istiklal Ceddesi (Independence Avenue).   When you order "Grilled Sea Bass,"  this is exactly what you get:  one sea bass, grilled.   Head, tail, fins, eyes, gaping mouth.   No one is going to fillet this for you, or make it look pretty.  You want grilled sea bass?  Here it is: Fwap!  One grilled sea bass. You want to eat?  Get to work.

"O, BROTHER FISH ...!"

I can report that Brother Sea Bass, God bless him, with a little salt and pepper and lemon juice, was quite tasty.  Like his kindred brother deer, however, he refused to accept my apology for eating him.  

He looked a little pissed, to be honest with you.

Turkish for Foreigners

Erendiz starts off the class looking something like the Sean Penn of Turkish language teachers. Dressed in a white t-shirt, leather vest, and motorcycle boots, he walks in and shuts the door behind him, stalking into the classroom like he’d just as soon punch someone in the face than conjugate a verb.

Surveying the beginner’s class in front of him, Erendiz gives off the vibe of someone who’s been through this before and is not particularly looking forward to doing it again. Like the drill sergeant in "An Officer and a Gentleman," you have the sense that he’s about to tell us that we are the saddest bunch of non-Turkish speaking rejects it has ever been his misfortune to see. At this point, no one present is in a position to argue.

There’s Manu, a shaggy haired Belgian web designer by way of Mauritius who was on his way back to Europe from Lebanon when he decided he’d stop off in Istanbul three days ago to see what all the fuss was about. He knows zero Turkish. Then Fardous, a nice Syrian woman who was teaching English in London and becoming increasingly distressed watching the civil unrest in her home country on satellite television. To distract herself, she told me, she came to Istanbul to live for a while. She knows zero Turkish.

Then there are the two Russian woman, Maria and Natalia. Maria is there because, she tells me, she was crazy enough to marry a Turkish man. She doesn’t seem particularly happy about it. Natalia is some sort of economist. She won’t say much more that. Rounding out the class is Christian, an Italian who also married a Turk; Cana, a German girl of Turkish decent who has come from Hamburg to live with her aunt; and yours truly, the American with the back story more dubious than the rest of them combined.

There we sit before Erendiz: A more poorly-dressed version of a United Colors of Benetton ad. Fortunately for me, everyone in the class speaks English to one degree or the other. Turkish? Mm, not so much. For all intents and purposes, not at all. He runs his fingers through his spiked hair, takes a deep breath as he rubs the razor-cut beard along his jawline, and lets the Turkish fly.

"Merhaba! Nasılsınız? Benım adım Erendiz.  Sizin adınız ne? Nereden geliyorsunuz? Ne iş yapıyorsunuz?"

As the multi syllabic words pour out, Manu seems to grow a bit terrified. Natalia looks around the room and appears like she just might possibly throw up. Maria crosses her arms across her chest and scowls in disgust.

"How are we to know this!" Maria finally blurts out. "This is beginner’s class! We don’t understand you! We do not speak Turkish!"

Erendiz finally drops the Sean Penn bit and cracks a smile. "I know," he tells her. "Trust me; this is my job. I’m going to teach you."

* * *
Welcome to Yabancı Dilim Türkçe No. 1, which roughly translates to the mildly insulting "Turkish for Foreigners." You have to expect a bit anxiety on the first day of any school, I have to think. Turkish from Scratch (as the course should be called) – taught by in the heart of Istanbul by a guy wearing a shark-tooth necklace – takes it up a notch.

We find out later that Erdeniz’s favorite movies are "Rocky," "Rambo II," and "The Terminator." His friends affectionately call him "Psycho." But like the smoking green liquid on the Turkish coffee serving tray, his act is mostly just for show. Erendiz turns out to be a patient and good-natured teacher, who apparently just enjoys screwing with the neophytes for a while before launching into the first few hours of intensive Turkish lessons. But this is not immediately apparent in the first hour.

The lesson continues. Erdeniz asks Maria the Russian where she lives in Istanbul. "Nerede Istanbul’da oturuyorsunuz, Maria?" After a three-second death stare, Maria again explodes.

"I cannot say this ... this ... oturye yo yo ye! It makes my brain to hurt!"

"Yes you can say it."

"No, I can not!"

"Yes you can."

Erdeniz seems unwaveringly confident that he can teach Turkish to anybody. But at this point I’m not so sure Maria isn’t on to something. It feels a bit like you’ve landed on another planet, and it will take years to crack the alien code.

Still, this just is the first week, and I’m determined to do this. I pay attention in class and do the homework. I go home each night and write out the vocabulary, inventing word games to associate the Turkish word with some absurd image in an attempt to memorize it. "Ok, the word for "high" is yüksek (youk-sec). Yuksek. Yuksek. Yuksek. Ok, if Bob Uecker (Youk) drank a lot of triple sec (sec), he would get high. Yuksek." "Pepper is karabiber.   Karabiber, karabiber. Ok, if Justin Beiber had a sister, her name would be Kara. And I would have to assume she would be peppery. Karabiber." "Ice is buz. Buz, buz, buz. If you eat ice too fast, you get one of those cold headaches, and it gives you a buzz." For hours I do this. Yes, it is stupid as hell. But you tell me a better way to try to memorize that Çarşamba is the day before Perşembe.

* * *

On the second day of class, I am tagged with the nickname of "Superman." Sorry, but I am simply reporting the facts. I think it as has something to do with my black-framed, Clark Kent-like glasses, and the fact that I have actually done the homework. It seems like pretty low bar, but I guess I’ll take it.

Erdeniz’s lessons continue. Students scratch their heads. Manu responds to questions with the startled stare of a cornered animal. Maria continues to rant about the injustices of the Turkish language.

But I’m keeping up with Erdeniz, and persisting on the vocabulary. Thirty new words to memorize. Then 50. Then 100. Some Turkish words you luck out on. You can pretty much figure out otel and taksi and radyo and televizyon. But good luck with refrigerator (buzdolabu), or orange (portakalrengi), or shoes (ayakkabılar) or computer (bilgisayar). 
Then there are the identical words that mean entirely different things.  Yüz means one hundred. It also means a person’s face.   Mısır is the country Egypt. It is also corn. Ocak is a stove. It is also the month of January.   Upon discovering this, I decide that we also should consider changing the name of one of our months to that of a kitchen appliance. I would be more than happy to celebrate my birthday on the 29^th of Salad Spinner, or fireworks on the 4^th of Toaster Oven. But I digress ...

* * *

The jig's up on the third day of class, when Erdeniz decides while teaching us numbers that it would be a good idea to go around the room and have everyone say in Turkish what year they were born. I know I am in serious trouble when the first birth year comes in around the mid 1980s, about the time I was driving a Pontiac Fiero and dancing to Scritti Politti. For a split second, I consider shaving 10 years off of my age, realizing everyone here, including Erdeniz, is at least 15 years my junior. But no, I suck it up and take it like an adam.

 "Bin, dokuz yüz, altmış bir."
 
A stunned silence hangs in the air. You can almost hear everyone in the entire room collectively thinking: "Did he say Nineteen Sixty One?" I am immediately convinced I have just lost the respect of the class, along with my cheaply earned but highly prized nickname. I try to comfort myself by recalling that, back on Krypton, Superman’s father was played by Marlon Brando. Maybe I could be Jor-El.

The Turkish keeps coming fast and furious. We progress from "Hello, my name is ..." to "What is this? This is a pen." to "There is water in the bottle." to "In general, I shave every morning before breakfast." While the over/under odds on one of the Russians dropping the class is running at around 2.5 days, everyone is hanging in there. Erdeniz actually seems to be enjoying this. And after just a few days, I’ll be damned if we aren’t learning some frickin’ Turkish.

* * *

Erdeniz begins the fourth day of class with an announcement.

"At the beginning each class, I appoint someone to be captain of the class," he says, "to be the leader and coordinate all social arrangements."

"Superman!" the class blurts out in unison.

Erdeniz points at me. "Yes, Superman. You are the captain." He adds that my new Italian friend, Christian, will be the second captain (in the event that, like the winner of a beauty pageant, in the next year I am for any reason unable to perform my duties).

"So I guess this means I’m no longer Superman," I say as way of my acceptance speech. "I guess this makes me Captain America."

"Yes!" Christian points and shouts. "You are Captain America! Ah, Steve Rogers! And me, I am Bucky Barnes!"

"OK, Captain," Erdeniz says, getting back to work. "Now, let’s hear you conjugate alışveriş yapmak. Positive and negative forms."

The struggles of the Benetton refugees continue for another day. But after the first week, score one point for the old American guy in the Clark Kent glasses.