My Time in Turkey

I recently came across an e-mail that I had written to my family when I arrived in Turkey in June of 2005. I have posted the e-mail which describes my first impressions below. Some of those impressions changed during the trip, but the sense of awe remained throughout.


You will notice that the spelling seems off; this is because I was using a Turkish keyboard and at the time I could not find the equivalent of a lowercase "i." Anyway, enjoy!


Hello from Turkey!!!

Well, I fýnally made ýt! My school, Yedýteppe Unýversýty, ýs rýght on the edge of the cýty on the Asýan sýde, about an hour away from the aýrport, so I got to see many thýngs on the way to the school. I notýced that, lýke most býg cýtýes, there are two types of areas. There ýs the rých areas, whých consýst of modern sky scrapers; beautýful and elaborate mosques; expensýve restaurants; and expensýve, European-style fashýon stores wýth advertýsements where the women are essentýally naked. Thýs sýde ýs secular, and they see Islam as a relýgýon rather than a lýfestyle, as most see Judaýsm and Chrýstýanýty ýn Amerýca. You hardly see women wearýng headcoverýngs ýn these areas, or men w/ scraggly beards.

There ýs also the poor sýde, wýth shacks and rundown buýldýngs everywhere. These areas tend to be more Islam orýented, wýth men havýýng unshaven faces and women ýn headcoverýngs {though rarely, even ýn these areas, wýll you see women ýn burkas, the full body coverýng}. In these areas Islam ýs not just somethýng you do on Frýday evenýngs ýn a mosque, but ýt dýctates most of theýr lýfe, as does Judaýsm for the Ultra-Orthodox ýn Amerýca. Though people are more relýgýous ýn these areas, that doesn't mean they are výolent or Islamýc fascýsts or antý-semýtes, just that the rules and tradýtýon of Islam play more of a role ýn theýr lýves.

One of the maýn reasons why the poorer areas may be more relýgýous and the rýcher areas are secular may be that the offýcýal polýcy of the country ýs to be secular. Thýs polýcy ýs mostly espoused ýn publýc buýldýngs (government admýnýstratýve buýldýngs, publýc unýversýtýes, etc.) where ýt ýs ýllegal for women to wear headcoverýngs. It ýs probably mostly the rých and growýng mýddle class that deal wýth the government and get educated ýn the publýc unýversýtýes, and are lýkely to be engraýned w/ the secular values anyway.

Anyway, the Unýversýty ýs on a beautýful campus that ýs only about 4 years old. The archýtectual desýgn on many of these buýldýngs ýs more elaboratel than any campus I've been to ýn the states, wýth rounded buýldýngs, huge skylýghts, and marble floors. The campus ýs very secularýzed, wýth most of the gýrls wearýng tanktops, lowcut jeans, and havýng dyed-blonde haýr. They're basýcally lýke a campus full of Chrýstýna Aguýlleras, just more tan. It aýn't so bad beýng me!

There ýs, however, somewhat of a language barrýer. Not many people speak Englýsh around here, and I don't really speak much Turkýsh yet (though I was proud of myself that I was able to say to someone ýn Turkýsh "Where ýs the Law Facýlýty," and they actually understood me. Unfortunately, I dýdn't understand the reply, and wandered around campus for an hour before I actually found ýt). But I'm pýckýng up random words here and there.

Anyway, your eyes are probably waterýng after readýng thýs letter, so I'll stop here for now. And I appologýze ýf there are a bunch of mýspellýng or ýf you can't read any of the words wýth the letter "ý" ýn ýt, as the keyboard ýs mýxed around a lýttle být and the letter "ý" on the keyboard has no dot above ýt. I have a phone ýn my room, so you can contact me, though I can't call out from that phone (and I don't have my cell phone). The number ýs: 90 [thýs ýs the country code] XXX-XXX-XXXX. I love you all, and I'll comunýcate wýth you soon.

Love,

Adam

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Happy Birthday Dad!

Once in each generation there is a man that strives for greatness. Herein lies the story of such a man, though his vision has yet to be realized. This is the tale of Jeffrey Herman Cordover.

In a small village called the Bronx of New York, Jeffrey was born to his parents Bernice and Abraham. Bernice wanted her son to grow big and strong and wise, and tried feeding him everything to help in his development. But Jeffrey was a finnicky eater, and all of Bernice's efforts seem to come in vain.

Bernice attempted to feed Jeffrey fruit, but he refused. Bernice tried vegetables, but Jeffrey would not eat one bite. Next she tried fish. This only enraged Jeffrey, who threw the fish out the window and angrily bellowed, "Fish, fish, tuchas kish!" (roughly translated as "no, I will not eat this fish").

Then an idea came to Bernice. You see, Jeffrey had always loved to learn about farm animals. Whenever Bernice told of her parents' life on the farm in the Old Country, his eyes would grow wide and his mind would fill with wonder. His curiosity was especially piqued when Bernice spoke of chickens and their magnificent creation: the egg.

So Bernice fed Jeffrey eggs, and he eagerly consumed them. He was happy, but Jeffrey was not satisfied. He vowed that one day he would have a farm of his own, and on that farm chickens would roam, and those chickens would lay the most fresh and glorious eggs, and Jeffrey would have fresh and glorious eggs to eat each and everyday.

As time passed by, Jeffrey grew big and strong and wise, just as his mother had wanted. He soon met a beautiful maiden name Judith Zelda Ollinger, and though she thought his dream odd, she grew dearly in love with Jeffrey. And they married.

But Jeffrey could not yet afford to finance his dream, and he now had a wife to think about. So he worked in whatever job he could find in the small village called the Bronx of New York. He endeavored as a bagboy at the local grocerie store. He made wire coat hangers in a factory. He worked as salesman of women's undergarments. But none of these jobs could earn him enough money to care for Judith and save for his dream.

So he and Judith packed their bags and moved to the faraway village of Boston. Jeffrey worked in several jobs, but was not satisfied at any of them. But he was satisfied with two bundles of joy that he and Judith begot: Marc and Marcy.

When Jeffrey got totally fed up with his job prospects, he shouted at his boss: "Gay cackin affin yamin!" (rough translation: I wish not to work here any more). To pursue his dreams and take care of his family, Jeffrey and the Cordover clan moved to the village of Miami.

At first he once again could only find a job selling women's undergarments. But then an opportunity of a lifetime came along. His brother, Howard, started an international goat emporium, and asked Jeffrey to join him. Though there were no chickens or eggs involved, Jeffrey jumped at the opportunity to work with beloved farm animals.

In time, Jeffrey took over the international goat emporium. Soon after, he and Judith produced a third child, and named him Adam. All were content. Well, maybe not all. Jeffrey had yet to realize his vision.

Twenty years passed by, all of the children were out of the house, and Jeffrey and Judith had earned enough savings to retire. Jeffrey intended to live the good life.

He and Judith scoured all over the country to find the best chicken-egg producing conditions. They finally settled on a plot of land in Weaverville, North Carolina. Once their house was built, all that was left was to erect a chicken coup and buy some chickens.

But alas, just as Jeffrey laid the coup cornerstone, he received some bad news: His plot of land was in an N.C.Z. And, as everyone knows, "N.C.Z." stands for "No Chicken Zone."

Though he briefly flirted with the idea of building a pond, getting some ducks, and feeding off their eggs, Judith vetoed that idea. Such a plan would have required the ducks to stay in their bathtub during the winter, and Judith would have none of that.

Jeffrey then did the only thing he could do: lobby the Weaverville Citizen's Council. Unfortunately, the Council has yet to take up the matter.

So you would think with all of these years passed by and still no fresh eggs, Jeffrey would feel dejected. Quite the opposite is true. As Jeffrey will tell you, "Ven der petzel shtait, de sechel gait" (rough translation: "One day, I will have fresh eggs").

To this day, if you enter the town of Weaverville, you will see Jeffrey Cordover. He is the one on the big orange tractor, keeping his land ready for the day he will be allowed to build his chicken coup.

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